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Chapter Text

Being lonely was something Christine Daae was fully accustomed to. Being married, she realized very early on, doesn't diminish ones want for self comfort, and with isolation, came lonesomeness. There was always a feeling of a shadow that was filled with self loathing, pity, and despair that followed her, refusing to release its grasp on her. Words, spoken or sung, could only carry someone so far before the inevitable fall appeared. She sat at a cafe in the city, chin on hand, lost in thought. Paris was so loud but Christine found that she didn’t care to listen.

She was not unhappy, certainly, far from it. Most days she found herself full of the life she had wanted since she was a little girl. A loving husband- so, so loving, even if she knew he did not love her in the way he claimed- who did his best to take time out of his busy schedule to make time for her. She had wonderful clothing, although having wonderful dresses and gowns were not something she needed to have to be happy in a marriage. For all of her instantiates that she did not ever want to marry: it was quite pleasant at times. The weighty vows that hung over her that tie her to Raoul were a constant reminder of the devotion she consented to. Raoul was always so kind, taking her for outings in the country side, teaching her new things- such as ship sailing- which she found dimly dull and dubiously useful for herself- although she would never tell him. By all means they looked like an ideal couple. And for that, she was pleased to her very core.

She was a young lady in her mid twenties, but she didn’t have any children. Christine had rallied against Raoul in that one matter, refusing to budge. He had wanted them, saying it would bring them closer together and strengthen their love. She had laughed loudly at that. She would not want to live to see the day she was with child. She had no interest in being a Mother, not really. Her own mother had died when she was young. Her guardian- Mama Valerius- had died in the last year as well. Her Mama had given her a curious look when Christine broke the news- perhaps a bit manically- that she was engaged to marry the vicomte de Changy.

And what of your angel, dearest? Her Mama had asked her slowly, confusion very clear, and if it was due to her declining health or to let the question steep into Christine- she did not know. She did not blame the poor woman- the last time she had talked about her feelings on the subject of marriage was with her, and it not the most pleasant of conversations. She had been so very angry at Raoul. If she loved Erik or not, if she wanted to be married or not, that was her own choice!

It had been the very first time the mention of Erik had been spoken aloud since the night she left him. Christine had grinned a smile so wide it hurt her face. What a silly thing to ask about, mama!

Christine remembered the conversation she had with her mama and Raoul about the topic of marriage. Raoul’s tears and claims about her innocence. Mama’s stern opinions. She remembered the anger and fear she felt at Raoul. She remembered feeling conflicted, and she remembered most of all the pity and sadness she felt. She remembered the solemn vow of doing whatever she would do to not let Erik leave her life. Erik’s ring burned her finger then, and it burns on her finger now.

Ah, his ring. The most splendid thing she had ever seen. It was a simple golden band. She wore it on her left ring finger ever since he gave it back to her, telling her with shaky hands around hers that when he dies- and he will die, very soon- that if she would do him the greatest favor in the world and bury him with the ring. That had taken her breath away. How dare he give her up like that, after everything he had put her though. She, at the time, was terrified at what he was doing, terrified at being thrown away. She had just agreed to be Erik’s wife- his living, breathing, bride.

At one time, if he had tried to court her in a less violent way, she would’ve found herself fully agreeing to his proposal.

That was something she tends to contemplate the most. She finds herself, at any choice she makes, thinking of her old Angel of Music. It could be what she wanted to eat for breakfast, or if she wanted to go on a holiday, or what her feelings were on a particular matter. Christine would toy with her wedding ring- Erik’s ring- as she would fall into such a deep thought so often it tended to perplex Raoul. His very own ring to her sat on her right hand, dainty and beautiful. Untouched, in the way the other ring was. Christine would only break out of her own thoughts at the feeling of Raoul staring at her fingers spinning Erik’s ring around and around. She would notice, and then put her hands in her lap, or behind her back, clasping them together so that she may not have the want to toy with the band.

Roughly three weeks after making her narrow escape, she had been contacted by a familiarly unfamiliar man.

(“Mlle. Daae.” He said, dipping his head in a small curtsy.

“I’m sorry- do I know you, monsieur?” She had asked him, her eyes as wide as saucers. The man in the strange hat had only tilted his head at her, staring at her strangely. His green eyes glowed like jade, and it reminded her of Erik’s glowing golden yellow eyes.

“It would be most unfortunate, yet understandable, if you did not know me. I believe we had a mutual acquaintance.” His eyes never left her, waiting for her reaction.

“Oh,” Christine said softly, before murmuring something to a maid behind her as she closed the door behind her. Raoul was home, and the servants at the door looked about ready to scurry away to find him. She did not want to speak to Raoul about this, though. At least not yet. “Yes. I remember you now. You were there that night.”

A quick smile. “Yes.”

“What has happened of him.” She dared to ask, her heart pounding.

“He is dead, madam.” The Persian had said plainly. Christine had to sturdy herself on the house, for she knew there was a very real possibility that she would faint. Her wedding ring glimmered in the pale moonlight, and for one ungodly moment, she felt blinding rage at the man for dying, and for forcing her to give away his ring. Damn it. It was too soon.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt gentle hands at her side. It wasn’t Raoul, but the Persian. He smiled sadly, knowingly, and it made her cry even more. She found herself saying: “I don’t want to see him.”

The man nodded, once. “I thought you would say that. I know he has caused you great pain, and for that I am sorry.”

Looking at him through teary eyes, Christine shook her head. “No, that is not what I was meaning. I promised him that when he dies I will return to him this wedding ring.” at that, she raised her hand for the detective to inspect. “I do not want to let it go.”

Unexplained emotion flickered on his face. “He is long gone, my dear, but I am sure Erik would understand. It’s an odd thing, loving him for who he is. Keep the ring. I’m almost positive that if he knew this, he would want you to keep it.”)

Oh, Erik. Her sad, dead, Erik. As much as Raoul had her heart, and did so very much- Erik held her mind. Perhaps her very soul. He continued to haunt her morning til night, and it all seemed rather comforting now, knowing he is no longer breathing. She had an inkling of a thought, at the end of that night, as Raoul whisked her away from him, that she had perhaps chose wrong. Raoul told her that she was silly. He had made her want to kill herself. He kidnapped her (although, he did it so that she would not kill herself, but it was hard to think about that). He threatened to kill so many people if she rejected him. He hurt her, grabbing keys and bags out of her hands. She knew he hurt her. That did not mean she wishes things turned out different.

Life with Raoul gave her the security she always wanted. They often laughed over memories of that summer with her Papa. Raoul confessed that there were many reasons why he loved her, his little lotte, and the biggest one of all was because he knew that she was the one person on earth who he could love in every single way. That she was not like other women. That he had only loved her, and the thought of loving any other woman seemed repulsive. When she had asked what he meant, he had only laughed and said Lotte, you are my wife, yet you are like my sister, and my closest friend tucked into one person.

She imagines the life she could’ve had with Erik. Nothing in that house was hers. Well. Except for all of it. It was her home, she was assured. All of Erik’s things belonged to her, should she want them. She didn’t want them, thought. She had been shaking like a trembling lamb the moment he took her though the secret passageways. She was so terrified, but she knew deep in her heart that this man wouldn't hurt her. She was so sure that she would’ve been sad for all days to come, and any floating happiness would be because Erik would use The Voice on her. That was another issue entirely. Just what was The Voice. How did it make her feel those things towards him. He was ugly, and cruel, and he seldom cared about her real opinions. But. But.

She had loved him. It was not so clear, back then, but every time she closes her eyes, the love she has for him was burned into her eyelids, and she saw it. A physical manifestation of the two of them, and the strings that wove them together. She saw his face. His horrible ugly damaged face. She tasted the salty skin of his forehead. She remembered how she gasped when he kissed her forehead, and how they both cried on each other. She had lifted her head slightly, selfishly wanting his kiss after every thing that had happened. She heard his voice- for his voice and The Voice were one and the same- calling her name gently. No one ever speaks her name like he does. She still loves him. She doesn't think there wont be a day where she wont love him. She misses him terribly.

She does not, as regrettable as it is, listen to music anymore. She cannot listen to music around Raoul and the de Changy family without bursting into tears. The only times she allows herself to succumb to music is when she is alone, so that she may sing to her Erik, and she will sing arias that Erik had written and composed for her alone.

Christine often wonders why she still feels this way. He had terrified her with his trap doors, with the chandelier, and with his random bursts of malice towards her (before realizing what he has done, and then throwing him to her feet, crying big fat tears down his terrible face, which gave her so much whiplash of pity and adoration for this sick poor man). Although he terrified her in so many ways- she was not scared of him. That was something she had admitted to Raoul, and by doing so, she was admitting it to herself at the very same time. She didn’t even know at that time that she was not scared of him. Of course she wasn’t. It was almost an absurd thought.

Unsure what startled her out of her deep thoughts, she sat up in her chair. On the road beside her traffic roared. Carriages pulled by horses, and the very few automobiles that honked annoyingly. She scanned the traffic unhurriedly, wondering what caused her attention to drift. Her eye’s caught on one of the shops- for she saw a man, tall and skinny, his face not visible to her- step inside. That hardly seemed to matter. She knew that shape in her very soul, didn’t she? Heart in her throat, she squinted through her glasses to see more clearly. She is sure she had gone mad.

“Fate links thee to me forever and a day,” she muttered, twisting her wedding band anxiously, because she knew who she had just seen. Taking a look at the small watch on her wrist, she realized there was a man she needed to speak to.

Doroga, she thought wildly, for that was the only name she knew The Persian by. You have lied to me.

Chapter Text

By the time she got home, it was midday, and the servants of the de Changy household were darting all around the house, inside and out. Christine regularly refuses the oversight of the staff, but when she yearns to venture off into her own little world, and when Raoul is rather strict, she will grumble but ultimate not protest at the prospect of one guard that stays a number of feet away from her. She is the viscountess, after all.

A small smile laid on her lips as she nodded her hellos to the family staff once she got out of her carriage. Unlike her original plans- if they could even be called plans- of wanting to make a grand entrance to meet the daroga, she felt a sense of profound reason come over her, and realized that she would need to go home to perhaps have a drink of tea as she calmed her thoughts, and to talk to her husband about what she had seen that afternoon. She had no beginning of an idea of where the daroga even lived! 

Walking swiftly up the stairs she fled for her room. Her personal quarters at the de Changy residence were unlike her other rooms. The room at her Mama’s house that filled her with instant comfort, or the Louis-Philippe room that she frequented often, holding fond memories of voice lessons and nights reading by the fire, which Erik had so lovingly crafted for her. This room, although she had tried hard to make it lively, was somewhat plain. Beautiful, to be sure, but lacking in the spirit of Christine Daae. Try as she might, she still yet had to charm the room to her liking.

There were lush green curtains that hung heavily over the grand windows. Her bed was rather large, even with her not living in the Master bedroom. Raoul had explained that even though they were husband and wife, it would be improper to see her so naked in her sleep clothes every night. Frustrating, to be sure, but it would be the best to sleep separately. They had not yet fully consummated their marriage. She had very little clothes to begin with, but she now has closets filled with the finest dresses Paris had to offer. She had a little stand that held poorly scribbled sheet music. Christine didn’t have the memory Erik did, so it was so unfortunate that his music was lost to time. She had hastily drawn notes and chords as she had remembered singing them, but even then, it could never compare, and it never felt complete.

Christine wanted to change and retire to the parlor, where she knew Raoul would be.

“Put a kettle of tea on, would you?” Christine had asked one of the staff the moment she found herself back downstairs. The cook had nodded, and Christine almost waltzed away to another room.

“Darling?” Christine called out.

“Ah, Lotte! I am in here, my love.” She heard a masculine voice call out to her. Following her husbands voice, she found him sat at the head of the dining table. He had a plethora of papers scattered around him, and a pencil polished away behind his ear. Raoul had recently cut his hair, so his bright blond curls were simply atop his head-messily distinguished, and Christine thought he had never looked so handsome.

His lips quirked upward in amusement when he saw her, his mustache following, and he leaned up from his seat to greet his wife with a kiss to the side of her mouth. “How was your outing, dear?” He asked, settling back into his work.

Christine took the seat to his left. “It was excellent. I ordered a coffee and a scone, and it was quite delicious.”

“That’s wonderful, Lotte.” Raoul had said lovingly. “I must accompany you sometime.”

“Yes,” Christine agreed easily, and she pulled her thin gloves off of her hands gently. “You will never guess who I saw.”

“Oh,” Raoul grumbled, looking at her flatly. “Do not tell me you have ran into Sorelli once more, dear.” He quieted for a moment before dramatically looking around, as of the ballerina was hiding around the corner, causing Christine to burst into giggles. “She is not here now, is she? Good god, Christine!”

“No, Raoul.” Christine said in amusement, putting a hand over his. Raoul took it easily, rubbing his thumb over her smooth skin. “I saw our Erik!”

This is it, Christine thought with a wave of anticipation. Christine had not even begun to process the implications of her words, she had not let herself fall into the dark abyss that were the feelings in her heart. There will be another time and place for that. She looked at him curiously. Raoul’s face went slack, and his eyes were cold. He let go of her hand. “You dare speak that monsters name in my own house?”

“I saw him at the shops by the cafe,” Christine calmly explained, a smile still on her face. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I could.” I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t know what is going on, and I’m too scared to ask, but I need to know your thoughts. Do not think I have gone crazy.

Raoul was staring at her with his big blue eyes that she loved so much. He was shaking his head slightly, and it looked like he wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he thought her. “That man is dead, Christine. He has been dead for months. Everyone in Paris knows it.”

Newfound anger spiked her heart. She knew that! Of course she knew it- she knew it like she knew that the sun would rise every morning, and how it would set every evening. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the man she saw. He was Erik. Simply, plainly, he had to be! Christine didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but she could not shake the gut feeling. It was instantaneous, and she saw that dreadfully skinny man in his suit walking into the shop, and it was as though she was transported to a year ago, when she was living with Erik, when they were playing the tentative game of house, of trying to gain a friendship between each other, and trying to pretend that he was almost normal, and that she was not in love with him just as he was with her. She could almost smell him. The sandalwood of his cologne that tried and mostly failed to hide the scent of death and rot and sewer and of and the nagchampa incense that she had grown to be so fond of that he had lit almost every time she was down there in his home. She could smell it when she saw that man, it engulfed her senses, and she smelt it now, although she knew it was silly, because she was safe at home with her adoring husband.

“Christine,” Raoul said again, much more gently this time. He looked at her like he may burst into tears, and it was all her fault.

“I-” she stammered, eyes growing wide with her own unshed tears. Imagine it from his point of view. “I know I sound mad. Raoul, I swear on my father that it was him. I saw him with my own eyes. I could smell him. The Daroga must have- well he must have lied!”

Raoul’s eyebrows shot to his hair, and he leaned into his seat a bit, as if they were sharing secrets. “The Daroga!”

Christine nodded quickly, moving to be closer to him as well. The tea was ready, and one of the staff was walking into the room to set it up. “You know when the Daroga let me know Erik was de-.” Christine paused, because she was stammering, and it was embarrassing, and so she took a steadying breath. “When the Daroga let us know that Erik had passed on.” She tried again, and Raoul nodded, but his eyes shifted to her hands before returning to her face, and she looked down at her own hands and inhaled sharply when she saw that she was twisting Erik’s ring.

“Okay,” Raoul voiced at last. “Christine, my Lotte, you are in a state of shock. I daresay you are in grief. That man is dead, and you seeing him alive- and in public no less!- is a ridiculous notion. We can only thank god he is dead and buried, for he was a menace to you for so long, he even demands to haunt you in the afterlife. He is a selfish killer, not caring about anyone but himself.” And Christine had never seen Raoul look so angry, even when he was trapped with the Persian in one of Erik’s traps, and Christine could not think of that now, or else she would panic, but Raoul continued: “I thank god every day he is dead, and that you are not, because we both know you would have done something so terribly horrid I cannot even speak it aloud if you spent another second with that man- and that you are safe in my arms and under my watchful eye.”

“Raoul,” Christine choked out, taken aback. Why must he always think her a liar? The staff looked at her curiously, but was waved off by a stern looking Raoul.

“You were his victim of obsession, my dearest girl.” Gently, ever so gently, Raoul took both of her hands in his own, and he brought them to his mouth, kissing her. “He did not know how to love, he did not know how to be a man. He has killed, and if he were still alive, we know that something terrible would have happened by now. The Persian invited you to see his remains, darling.” He shook his head sadly. “Why would he do that if the ghost were not dead?”

“How can you kill a ghost?” Christine asked, tears streaming down her face. Shock and hatred and love filled her. “He will never leave me alone. Perhaps that is something I deserve, but I swear to you that I saw him, husband. Must I have to prove it to you?”

Raoul regarded her coolly, squeezing her hands. “You cannot kill a ghost, my love. Truthfully I must say that only god knows if that man were ever truly alive to begin with.”

Christine opened her mouth, but she could find no words. She mused his words in her head, and it did nothing to calm her. Only god knows if that man were ever truly alive to begin with. Was he ever really alive. She felt herself light of breath.

“I think- I think I must retire for the night.” She muttered, looking at a spot of the table with clouded eyes. She felt Raoul’s concern bleeding off of him, and before he could speak, she sat up. “I will be in my room, dear.” Christine kissed his cheek, and before Raoul could even know it, she had gripped her hands out of his grasp, and she had stormed off.

“Is the Viscountess well?” She heard a servant quietly ask her husband.

“Quite. Do not worry about her, she is a silly little thing.” Christine gasped, and with that, she increased her speed to get to her bedroom.

Only god knows if that man were ever truly alive to begin with.

Christine locked the door behind her, and she took off her glasses, rubbing harshly at her eyes. Her hair was tied up by beautiful silk ribbons, and she undid them, letting her golden brown curls flow down her back. She scratched her head, finding pleasure at the release of tension.

Only god knows if that man were ever truly alive to begin with.

She let herself fall onto her bed. Sighing heavily, she let her mind drift to the many different answers of the question. Was Erik ever truly alive? Christine would like to think so, but it was very truthfully hard to tell at times. She had never really seen him eat, but she had heard his stomach grumble, so she knew he had to eat. She knew he slept because she had once crept around the house, looking for exits, and she had stumbled across what could be called his room. There was a coffin, and it had made her queasy at the sight. She had later found out that he slept there, when he absolutely had to sleep, and she had to hold back tears.

He was very cold, all of the time, and he never seemed to notice it. That was something that Dead people had. He would put on the fire for Christine, and he would lay out a blanket for her without her asking for one, and he would go along his days and nights as normal. But, there were times where she would find him shivering, and when she had asked if he wanted a blanket, he would smile under that grim horrible mask, and tell her that her Erik is perfectly fine. She had seen his hands a few times. A rather fond memory she had of him was when she had once held onto his hands, and she had massaged each one of his poorly circulated fingers. The tips of his hands were dark, almost black, and she knew that there was barely any blood flow. It was, to say the least, disturbing, but she felt compelled to help him. Christine did not like seeing her beloved Maestro in such pain. She never took no as a valid response, and she would pick up his hands, one at a time, to massage his hands back to life even with his protests of his own vanity. That he would seep his evil into her, and how very sorry he was that she felt the silly need to touch him.

Only when he flexed his fingers to a smug Christine, looking up at her with wonder and love and adoration in his devilish eyes, Christine would feel rather frightened. The thrill of nursing him back to health abandoned her, and dread quickly filled her mind. He was so happy, and she felt like she wanted to run away. It was so much, so so much, she didn’t think she could handle it. Her heart felt like it was ripped out of her chest, and she was watching someone- her Father, her Mama, Raoul, and even Erik, who flashed briefly in her mind- beat it to a pulp with hammers, until all that was left was the bloody remains of her beloved organ.

No person should look at her like that. It was not right, and it was scary, and she wanted to rip off his mask again and claw at his face like she did the very first time she saw all of him. She wanted to cry, and she wanted Erik to see just how pained he made her. He was so good. She wished that he wasn’t, she wished that his soul was as horrible as his face, because it would make hating him easier.

She had to give him a smile, then. It was one of the hardest things to muster up, but she did it. She said that if he needed it, she would help him with his hands once more, for they were his greatest tools, and with tools, you must keep them sharp and in great condition. He had only nodded in whimsy, and excused himself to his music room.

Christine was exhausted. She missed her daddy, and she missed her mama. And with a sadness so deep, she missed her Angel. The weighty choice that she had once made had never left her feeling like this. Christine needed to breathe, but it was so hard with all of these thoughts mulling around her mind, and she felt too light headed. With a sob that ripped out of her, she breathed to the memory of guidance that Erik had given her, a breathing technique she had once followed religiously. Her pillow was damp with tears, and Christine’s throat yearned for water. She ignored her dehydration, because going to get water would mean that she would have to face the staff, or god forbid- Raoul. She could not look at him, she thinks, meanly. She could not stand to be around him, right now.

Only god knows if that man were ever truly alive to begin with.

What does it mean for someone to be alive. Well, they would be breathing. Erik would claim that he was death. But how can death incarnate be a breathing man of many passions? Could death write music like Erik? Could he compost symphonies and operas like Erik? Would he cry at Christine’s feet, demanding her apologies for his actions. Would he kiss her feet and forehead so lovingly, so hesitantly, with his tears mingling with hers? Would Death long for her? Death had taken her beloved parents, Death had taken her brother in law, Phillip de Changy, and her other parental figures. Death had taken a hold of her, and he had gripped his desperate claws into her, refusing to let go, demanding to follow her around.

Christine Daae knows intimately just what Death feels like, for there had been people killed in her own honor, and she felt that too, and it was nothing like the man who paraded himself in Death’s mask. No, Christine concluded. Erik was alive, he was always truly alive when he was with her, and he breathed his life into Christine. Death could not love her like Erik did.

Chapter Text

Making a plan was, as Christine feared, much harder than she had once thought.

After wallowing in absolute despair for the better part of an hour, staring numbly up at her ceiling, she thought to herself- what do I do now? Dare she try to find where the Doroga lived? What would she do then, when they were face to face? She is certain that she would not get the full truth out of that man, that he would want to protect his friend at great costs. All of these questions were piling in her head, but she came to a full stop when she thought: do I even want to see him again?

Yes. No? Christine groaned unhappily. She turned on her bed to lay on her side, and she stared at the setting sun through a window. If she saw him- because not seeing that man, should he be alive, would leave her feeling sick to the end of her days- what would she even say to him? She is a married woman, it would be most improper to meet up with…. An old flame? Her ex fiancé? Someone who rattled her to her core, and who swept her up in his cloud of dark mystique?

A knock at her door startled her. As she brought herself up, fishing around her bed to find her glasses, she saw Raoul enter the room silently. Christine evaded looking into his eyes, but she saw that he was frowning.

“Dear,” he said, voice shaky. “Please don’t be cross with me. I love you so, and it hurts me to see you in so much pain.”

“What gives me pain,” Christine said, her voice cracking from its unuse, “is that you do not ever believe in me when I tell you something. You did not believe in the opera ghost, you did not believe me capable of my own feelings-”

“Now,” Raoul said, holding a hand out. “Hold on there a moment-”

“-and you do not believe Erik to be alive again! I know him better than anyone, I’d reckon. Why would I lie to you. Why would I lie about this. Do you think I-” And Christine then choked back a sob, and Raoul rushed to her side, and he held her closely to his chest.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “He does not deserve your tears.”

“Stop,” Christine croaked, “talking about him like that.”

She heard Raoul scoff, but he only held onto her a bit more tightly. “You are my wife.” Raoul said tightly. “I am allowed to speak ill of the misfortunes that had been forced upon you.”

“It wasn’t all bad.” Christine replied, frightening herself with the truth she already knew. “It wasn’t all bad at all.”

Raoul clicked his tongue. Christine knew she should hold her opinions, when she was talking about him, but if Raoul is right, and Christine was going mad from grief- what could she do about it? Christine knew she wasn’t sane the moment she realized she wanted to stay with Erik. She knew she was mad when she felt anguished at the thought that she was no longer under the phantoms spell, and that he had no more hold over her life.

“I wish to speak to the Daroga,” she said at last, disrupting the hard silence that lay between the two of them. She untangled herself from Raoul, who seemed rather shocked at the loss of contact. “I know you still speak to him.”

“Christine de Changy,” Raoul said all too sharply. Christine suppressed a flinch at the disagreeable use of her married name, but she raised her chin in defiance nonetheless. “I have not spoken a word to that man since the awful night I was almost killed by-” Raoul’s lips thinned- an ugly, displeasing thing- then said, with great emotion: “your lover!”

Christine laughed in shock. The refusal to show herself crying in front of him overtook the part of her that wanted to fall into his arms and beg forgiveness. She had nothing to be sorry for. Leaning forward, her eyes cold, Christine whispered. “That is what you think?”

Her husband stared at her, refusing to yield. His body language was stiff, stiff as a board. When he spoke, it was cruel, and so unlike the man Christine once fell in love with all those years ago. “It is what I know.”

“You know absolutely nothing, Raoul de Changy. How dare you. You have been nothing but cruel and hateful the moment we came into each others lives again!”

“Cruel?” Raoul looked at her incredulously. “You think me cruel? After the horrors you have went through, you think me on a level lower than him?”

Blinking harshly, Christine couldn’t believe her mind. “I have never said you were cruel to me. You have changed from how I had perceived you from our youth, it is true. That is something I shall not deny.” Moving away from the bed, and the man laying there, she crossed her room to stand at her window. Hugging herself tightly, she spoke. “You have not been cruel to me, Raoul.” Christine repeated. “You have been cruel towards Erik.”

Christine didn’t have to look behind her- she didn’t have to open her eyes at all, for they were closed- to see the way Raoul was looking at her. He probably was crying, her mind mused. He probably didn’t know what to say. He was never the most articulate.

“What,” Raoul said at last, “do you want from me. I have given you my love. I have given you my life- my entire life force belongs to you, you know! I have loved you since we were mere children.”

Shuddering, Christine wanted to say nothing. Instead, she spoke. “If only it were that simple.”

“It is!” Raoul explained, jumping to his feet. “Lotte, look at me- look at me, Christine.” The girl refused to turn around, so in a pleading voice, Raoul spoke into her ear. “I saved your life. I saved your life from an evil, monstrous man who would've killed you. You had begged me, no matter what you thought at the time, to save you. To be your lifeline when you were sinking in darkness.” Raoul came behind her, and Christine could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Let me be your lifeline again. Let me bring you up from whatever darkness you find yourself in now.”

“I cannot,” she whispered sadly, “talk of this anymore, Raoul.”

“I am here with you,” Raoul murmured, bringing his hands to her waist, holding her gently. It felt like heaven. “I am here, yet you refuse yourself again, all for the misplaced pity you have for a dead man.”

“He will never leave me alone,” Christine said, but it was not sad, or hallow. It was not a question, and it was not ruled in fear. It was a statement she, and only she, knew the truth of.

“Then I shall protect you again, my love. I will never stop.” Squeezing her hips, he brought his hands around her waist, holding her, cradling her in his embrace. Christine let her head drop onto his shoulder.

“What if I do not wish it.” The question burned in her throat.

“You cannot mean that.” Raoul said, rooted behind her.

“I saw him, Raoul.”

“My dear Lotte. You are tired. You are tired and he is dead and I do not know what else you would want me to do.”

Christine turned, then. When asked about it later, Raoul would say that he had never seen a more decided face in his entire life. He would say that her blue eyes shone grey, and that she had looked as if she had seen a hundred battles. As if she had fought in them herself.

“I wish to speak to the Daroga.”

Raoul’s lips thinned. “I do not know where to begin with that.”

Christine shook her head. “Do not play with me, Raoul. I know you do.”

Realizing that his empty words meant nothing to her, Raoul must have decided to give in. Sighing, he brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing thoroughly. “We have spoke over letters only once. It was right after we got married. He had only asked how we were fairing, and I of course told him all was well. He had never even sent a reply back. I really cannot help you, my darling girl.”

“I believe you, dear.” Christine said, nodding gravely.

Raoul’s eyes softened, and he enveloped her in a hug once again. “My girl- my beautiful, darling girl. You know how much I love you.”

Christine clenched her eyes shut, because if she didn’t, she knew tears would once again fall down her face. “I do.”

Raoul looked at her, really looked at her, and nodded. He kissed her, a slow and gentle thing. He had a real, whole face, and the dread in her stomach should not exist. She should not close her eyes and imagine sunken in cheeks, lips almost nonexistent, and teared pink flesh. She felt the prickle of Raoul’s mustache, his mouth hot against hers, and she longed for cold, smooth skin. Tears fell against her own will, and she knew that Raoul would not cry with her, and mix his tears with her own, for he knew nothing of the chaos and the plans that brewed inside her mind, and it would not touch him the same way it did her.

“I love you,” she said softly as they broke apart.

“Yes,” Raoul breathed. “Yes, I know you do.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Golden light peeked into Christine’s bedroom the very next morning. Living a strict life in the ballet- and then an even stricter life under the tutelage of one Opera Ghost as the Diva of the Palais Opera- gave Christine a structure that could not be budged. Once she had, for the third time in her life, and the second time to her Raoul, consented her hand in marriage, and she had begun living a new life as the viscountess, a wife to naval officer the Vicomte de Changy, things had changed significantly. Her sleep routine had changed considerably, and it was a pleasant change until it wasn't.

Not only was she in mourning- mourning for the girl she had used to be, mourning for the man Erik could’ve been-, she was sprung so suddenly into high society, and it was clear as day that Christine could not keep up. Christine had always been a god fearing, sensible woman, someone who demanded that she must be the mistress of her own life. She had no qualms with eyes on her, for she had been a diva in her own right! She enjoyed eyes on her, she enjoyed putting on a show, and she, even if she wasn’t the best at acting, felt that slipping into a role that was like her, but not her at all (something she had constructed during her stays with Erik, she thinks, or perhaps she had constructed it even earlier: when her father had passed, and she had to face the world as a woman) was something that was comfortable and easy and something that she was far too willing to throw herself into.

The change: sleeping later into the morning then she was used to, staying up far past when she was comfortable. She had talked to Raoul about these things, but he had simply shrugged, and cracked a smile, and told her that she must be comfortable now, because his title from Vicomte was changing. That had caused Christine to blink, and she had squinted her eyes at her husband, because she could not see the poor man without her glasses, and because she could not understand why his- their- titles would be changing.

“We do not currently have a Comte de Changy,” Raoul had told her that day. “Since Phillipe’s murder- I have legally been declared the Comte.” He had shrugged, then said: “That is just the way matters are, my darling. If it were my choice, I would still be in the navy.”

He had excused her, then, with a kiss on the cheek, and that was the last time Christine had seen him that night.

Phillipe de Changy was someone that Christine, for the most part, didn’t particularly care about. He was Sorelli’s lover, that was known by most, it was never a secret. Sorelli was one of the dearest friends that Christine had, if she counted Meg Giry and the little Jammes girl as friends as well. Erik had told her, that very night she had agreed to be his living wife, with the Persian and Raoul both asleep on chairs in the living room. He had come up to her, as if he didn’t want to spook her, and told her in a voice (not The Voice) that landed somewhere between her Angel of music, and when he first brought her down into the fifth cellar. It was soft, and velvety, and when he told her that the Comte was dead, but it was not his doing, Christine gave him one surprised glance, a soft nod, and she had gone back to her book, leaving Erik standing beside her, his cold, vile hand so close to where she sat. At the time, she was so far past being repulsed, she didn’t even care that he was so close.

Looking through her window with sleepy eyes, she could only think how peculiar a thought!

Oh, how she missed him.

She got up, bare feet touching cold wooden floor. She shivered at the contact, and it fell into a yawn. The sun was, from where Christine could see, high in the sky. Her bedside clock told her that it was 10:34. She had to hold back a grumble. Of course she was still so tired. She had absolutely zero discipline. Christine, a voice in her head encouraged. Do the best with what you have. You know your body better than any silly man. Do not let, and her mind, which sounded awfully like Erik, said this next word with such intensity it was almost as if he were there with her, society, get in the way of your music. Your body is a temple, and your voice is an instrument. Take good care of yourself.

“Okay,” Christine croaked, speaking aloud for the first time since she woke.

What would Erik think, if he saw her right now. Would he be proud of her? The thought of him having pride in her, even now, sent immediate tears to her eyes. Oh, it was too early to cry! Hadn’t she cried enough? Still overtaking her thoughts were Erik’s sly smile, how he would playfully bow to her after her warm ups, and how when they would lock eyes, she would turn her head sharply due to the overwhelming adoration that were so pronounced in his every look. Christine was so caught up, then, in the feeling of being a prisoner, of angering him, that she never took advantage of everything else.

You did though, Erik’s voice whispered through her ears. You made me the happiest man alive. No emperor received a finer gift.

“I didn’t do anything,” Christine sobbed into her hands. How could she make him so happy, so alive, when she kept looking at him like he would kill her. It was, to be certain, the opposite of the truth. Christine was the one who had killed him. She knew this, and even if she had not made peace with it, she knew it!

When she saw him again, she will tell him how sorry she was. She will tell him that she loves him. She wants so badly to tell him that she loves him! Raoul would never let her see him, he would never entertain the idea of them having another- relationship? She did not know how to define who they were to each other. They had a kinship. He knew her soul, and she wished to know his, even if what she saw scared her. She knew she was a married woman. Would she entertain the knowledge that Erik desired her as a husband desired a wife? She felt sick at the thought, of what she might do. Perhaps Erik could coach her, again, as he once did. Christine, with the little money she had, but with the name that was now attached to her own, could find him an apartment near by. They could……

She was breathing heavily, big fat tears streaming down her face, the feeling of her knotted hair against her neck irritating her, when she heard a knock at her door.

“My lady,” a female voice called through her door. “Is anything the matter?”

Taking a shaky breath, she closed her eyes.

Breathe, girl!

Breathe she did. Gathering herself, she replied. “Thank you, but no, I am quite well.”

“If you insist,” the staff replied back curtly, and Christine could hear her footsteps as she left her door.

Christine sighed. She walked into the bathroom, used the toilette, washed her face and arms with a washcloth, and fixed her unruly hair. What would she do today? Perhaps work on her needle and thread. She is firm in her decision to meet with the Daroga. She needs to see him. If…. If Erik wasn't alive, if she was… crumbling? She would like to speak to the man, and she would like to learn all of the secrets Erik refused to tell her. Could, never tell her.

Brushing her hair was a task that Christine had always loved. Today, it was only something that grated on her nerves. Her hair was one of her most beloved features about her. It was the only thing, she thinks, besides her voice, that makes her attractive. Erik had once murmured to her how he thought of her hair as fallen sunshine. She had let him close to her, and her eyes were wide as he took a lock of her curls with shaky fingers, and had simply held it in his hands. “Thank you, child,” he had whispered to her, as if in a trance, and Erik’s unmasked half of his face, the handsome- and he was, objectively, his one sunken cheek looked Gothic, and mysterious, and his eyes were not as devilish as she had once thought they were, when he had his mask off- part, was all that she could see. She hadn’t minded at the time, wonder and overcame fear of the unknown, and she had, vigilantly, vowed to give him the pleasures of human friendship.

Looking herself in the mirror, Christine patted her puffy cheeks. Her blue eyes looked glassy, and they were bloodshot with tears. And her mind was screaming, in regards to giving Erik friendship that was up to her standards: How badly she messed even that up.

She must put on a happy face, for she had work to do. With, or without, Raoul’s help.