299She cried out in the night to change the tragedy of their past
and entered a world beyond anything imagined -
held within it, the key to her darkest prayer...
.
A/N: I give you another E-C PotO historical fantasy sequel to the movie, inspired by D.G.'s Outlander and other time travel historicals I've read, like those of K.M. Moning (None of these in public domain, so while some aspects might be similar, I tried not to follow closely). This tale is riddled with my own twists and turns and lore (some factual, some my own ideas). I decided NOT to go with Scotland or the issues either of the above authors chose – mainly for my story plot to make sense. I needed this close to Paris. With research, I found the perfect place for a story of this nature…Not sure how to classify this tale, except, like all my stories it has a little of everything (angst, drama, romance, mystery, suspense, humor, etc) and is still, as always, strongly PotO. And (big surprise lol), I don't own the characters of Phantom of the Opera, but originals are mine. ;-) That said, this story, (like all my stories) IS protected by copyright. Rated M for all the usual reasons (mainly adult situations, graphic sex and some violence) …
And now...
I
Brittany lay by the sea, an iridescent jewel cloaked in ancient magic with tales of enchantment woven into its fiber. It was here that Brocéliande stood, the mythical forest where Arthur from legend received his magical sword. In the silence of the centuries, it was said that the misty air oft stirred with the echoes of Faeries that once made these lands their home. And on this night following Midsummer's eve, one could almost hear a stirring in the air…
Christine Daaé felt far from enchanted. Indeed, she wished to be anywhere but here and only one place in particular.
Without warning, the forest floor threatened to rise up and smother her in its mossy green shroud. She staggered beneath the pull of the shifting sod. Raoul grabbed hold of her arm as she felt her legs give way.
"Christine! My dear, be careful. The ground is so uneven here, I would not wish you to take a fall." He looked at her white face and tightly drawn lips. "Perhaps we should return."
She managed to curb the swoon he misjudged as a stumble and gather the tattered remnants of her necessary detachment as she stared hard at the remains of a burned out crofter's cottage beneath a low overhang of trees. Set off by itself, it was the only ruin of an ancient civilization in the vicinity, though she'd been told more ruins were scattered throughout Brittany.
"Are they sure it's him?" Her words came at last, stilted and cold.
He shot her a curious look. "The messenger told me they found a body of a man beneath the Opera House, in the lake. Who else could it be? All the gendarmes and cast members are accounted for."
Who else indeed?
"But are they sure?"
"He can no longer harm or haunt us, Christine." A triumphant ring to his words, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny slipped his hand through her arm, turning her around, again urging her along the twisting path. Mistaking her dedication to know for the fear of being found. "At last, we can do as we've long wanted, and live our lives in complete freedom. Once you are well rested and have taken a bit more time to put this unfortunate incident behind you, we will discuss wedding plans…"
She walked woodenly beside him as he prattled merrily on about the life he planned for them. He spoke as if it was an easy thing to strip away a decade of her existence, and seal it away, as if in a tomb…a tomb. Oh, God. She could scarcely believe that in these last days her Angel had found his own watery grave.
"Perhaps we should hold the ceremony in the church here, by the sea. Would you like that Lotte?"
They had reached the clearing and its expanse of manicured land so different from the wild forest. An ancient chateau from the middle ages that looked more like a gingerbread castle of stone, with three round turrets and silver cone roofs, sprawled on the hill before them. He had told her, when they left the Opera House that fated night that she would want for nothing. He had told her, when he arranged for this trip to his cousin's chateau that the respite in Brittany, a half day's ride from Paris, would do her good. He had told her she would soon forget…
The stream of platitudes rose up and threatened to choke her with their falseness, the sudden need to take back some of her too readily yielded control rising strongly within.
"Raoul, I never said I would marry you."
"At the Opera House…"
"So much has changed since that night. We agreed, then, that we wouldn't speak of such things. Not yet."
She had given Erik her engagement ring. When Raoul found out, he'd been furious.
A week ago exactly, in the lair's bedchamber hours before her fight with Raoul, her Maestro had coldly ordered her to strip off all her clothing from the Don Juan Opera.
Horrified, she had gaped at him. "Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh – Angel?"
She spat the endearment in derision, heart pounding at his nearness so soon after their fiery embrace onstage, startled at the realization that she ached for his kiss, for the heat of his hard, lean body against hers…stunned by the knowledge that her accusation to him would not be unwanted. She had viciously shaken her head to dislodge such salacious thoughts. She, Christine Daaé, her papa's good girl, could never desire a murderer…
Her fallen angel had stared at her with narrowed eyes, a riveting mix of blue and silver, and shoved a dress of white satin and lace into her hands. A wedding dress.
"I am no angel, only a man."
"Men have names," she retorted in frosty tones.
"I am Erik."
"I don't understand, Christine." Raoul's voice brought her back to the present. "At the Bal Masque, you were glowing over our secret engagement. Now, when we have the opportunity to move forward without fear of his reprisal, you hold back. What has changed?"
What has changed? What has changed?!
A better question: how had it come to this?
She felt on the verge of hysteria, unable to deal with such obtuse questions, not so soon after learning –
"Please, Raoul. I'm exhausted. Let us return to the chateau. I told you, I need time."
She moved ahead, giving him no choice but to walk with her or linger behind. He grabbed her arm and turned her swiftly to face him. Before she could question, his lips covered hers. It was a kiss that bordered on possession yet wavered at the fringes of decorum. As if he wished to make her his but worried his impulsive act might offend her.
She wished that it did offend if not excite, wished to feel at least a spark of the fire she'd felt only once before in her life, wished to feel something instead of this emptiness that ran so deep inside her soul ….
He broke the kiss as swiftly as he'd begun it, his dark blue eyes forlorn at her lack of response. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, looking up at the chateau, once again in control.
"Then," he said with resigned determination on his handsome face. "I will wait."
It had all been so simple once. She had been a singer in Paris, whose talent was honed by her gifted Maestro. Weekly lessons ensued, but never once did she see his face or any part of him for that matter. A Vicomte's interest soon excited schoolgirl fantasies of chivalrous knights on powerful white steeds. Erik's passionate jealousy brought him forth. Raoul's arrogant possessiveness warned him away – and in the middle of the violent contest for her heart, was a girl, innocent and untouched by love. Or so she'd thought.
One night, one kiss taught her otherwise. Taught her, too, that life was unfair and contained no expected happy endings. In the span of twelve hours, she aged one decade. An aria and a fire had stolen her naiveté. A masked Phantom had stolen her innocence - not in deed but in her soul, and that was twice as devastating. To yearn for that which she'd only had the briefest taste was a new kind of hell. Had she given herself to him, freely and without reserve, as he had wanted, perhaps this burning ache he ignited would no longer persist at the worst of times, when she thought only of him while alone in her bed. No other man had set such a fire within her, and she feared no other man ever could.
x
Upon entering the Chateau Martinique, Raoul's cousin Vincent apologized for his sister's absence, making the excuse that she was lying abed with a headache. Christine had cause to doubt his words after her welcome reception six nights ago. Her host and hostess had been polite, distantly so, the frost of disapproval that chilled each word to the former darling diva apparently obvious only to her. Raoul seemed to think his family would open their arms wide in time, but she knew they would prefer to kick her thespian derriere out the door and down the castle steps.
Weary of it all, Christine expressed her desire to pen a letter to Meg, and the men politely quit her company and went off to whatever exclusive entertainments they indulged in.
Once in her chamber room, she moved pen over paper but felt restless, blocking words that sought to flood her mind while unable to concentrate on writing the mundane. She had spent the past five days exploring this wing of the castle, each mounted weapon, each book and tapestry, and had no desire to wander its drafty halls again. Had no desire to haunt any of the one hundred and twenty eight chambers that composed the gloomy castle, no desire to speak to anyone.
Staring out the window of her turret room, she again felt the burning need for fresh air and no walls and pulled the bell for the maid.
"I should like to take my meal in my room tonight," she instructed once the girl arrived. "Please tell the Vicomte I'm indisposed and will speak with him in the morning."
"Of course, milady."
"No. Not milady. Just Christine."
The maid gave her an odd look when Christine reached for her cloak, and she explained, "It's so lovely out, I thought I might take a walk to clear my head."
"Not alone, surely?"
"I'll stay close to the castle." She fastened the frog clasp beneath her throat. "And I shall be back in time for supper."
The girl looked undecided. "Beware of the Fae, miss. it's the time of the solstice, you know."
"The Fae…? Oh, you mean the faeries." Christine smiled at such simple charm. She had shared similar stories with Meg when they were children. This girl still looked like a child herself, with plump rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. Young enough to be influenced by otherworldly tales. "But why should one beware? I thought they were supposed to be sweet and gentle creatures, lovely and elegant."
"Lovely they are, miss, but wicked as sin. They love to create mischief and grief for all mankind."
"Well then, I shall be sure to steer clear of them."
Minutes later on the path leading away from the manicured gardens, (she distinctly heard the murmur of voices within the flowery bower and avoided continuing in that direction), the sad smile at the little maid's whimsy slowly died on her lips.
She, too, once believed in fairy tales, one in particular about an Angel of Music.
Her childhood had been filled with the fantasy brought to life, until she learned only months ago that such dreams had all been a well-fabricated myth. She had been intensely heartbroken, quietly furious and, an impish part of her whispered to taunt her, blessedly relieved to learn her Angel was only a man…
Erik - why?
Christine…why?
He had asked a similar question that terrible night.
So many questions seeking answers stirred within her heart. Questions that could now never be answered. That she could never answer for him. And yet, she refused to believe what must be true. He could not be dead. It must be some mistake, a vagrant who wandered in, hoping to find shelter…
Below the opera house, inside watery passages no one knew but him?
"Why do you cry, mademoiselle?"
The soft tinkle of a child's voice startled Christine from what had become a frequent venture into her past -
Strip it away and seal it up? Never!
A slender girl, no more than ten, sat on a grassy patch shaded by the low-hanging branches of tall trees. Eyes of icy blue regarded her curiously from a delicate face. A wreath of pink flowers had been woven into her silvery-fair hair, and she wore a dress to match. Like as not from yesterday's festival that Christine had invented a headache not to attend, and the child belonged to one of the villagers.
"I'm not crying." Surreptitiously Christine brushed the moisture from her lashes. "What are you doing out here alone?"
"Oh, I'm used to being alone." The girl gave her a gamin grin. "You walk as if you seek something. Are you lost?"
That question bore more credence than Christine was willing to give it.
"I thought to take an evening stroll."
"To the village? If so, you're walking away from it."
"Not that far. I don't plan to stray from the castle grounds."
"The castle…?" Something flickered within the child's eyes and she looked beyond Christine to the distant edifice. Christine turned, surprised to see she had wandered quite far.
"You live there?" The girl frowned.
"I'm only visiting with a friend, to see his family."
"The Marquis de Chagny."
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Raoul, that is the Vicomte, my friend, is his cousin. I am Christine. Christine Daaé. And you are?"
"I am called Lillith." The girl looked at her intently, as if pondering something. "I have heard that name, Christine Daaé …"
Heavens. Had the disaster of that final night in Paris reached clear to the shores of Brittany?
The girl shrugged, seeming suddenly indifferent, and Christine was grateful she did not pursue her thoughts. Lillith resumed weaving a chain of flowers she held in the lap of her skirt and Christine walked away.
"If you seek a place of interest to visit," the child said after her, "You should look beyond that rise to the north. When the sun sets on the vale below, it is a sight to behold. You should not leave Brittany without having seen it, at least once."
Christine looked to where the girl pointed, noting it was within reasonable walking distance, noting also the golden ball of the sun had dropped lower to the earth.
"Perhaps, if I had a lamp to guide me back," Christine mulled over the idea, "in case it grows too dark to find my way back to the chateau. Another time."
"You can use mine." Lillith smiled brightly and produced a small lantern from behind her. It's tiny flame burned low within the glass.
Christine looked at her, taken aback. "I can't take your lantern. Won't you need it for your return home?"
"I live close and know the forest well. Go on," she urged. "You can bring it back to me on the morrow's evening. I'll be here waiting."
Such a strange child, but endearing. And Christine, not yet ready to return to the gloomy fortress of the stuffy chateau and the forced politeness of her hosts or the impatient urgings of Raoul, took the proffered lamp with quiet gratitude.
The child's laughter, like tinkling bells, followed her down the path. She heard Lillith sing a few lines of a little ditty in a foreign tongue, her voice inherently beautiful and as crystalline as her own. She looked over her shoulder in curiosity. The area now lay empty, and Christine assumed that Lillith was scampering home through the trees before darkness could set in.
An enchanting voice…and she hoped Lillith's talent did not bring her the despair that Christine had known with just such a voice.
x
The distance was further than she had measured with her eyes. When finally she climbed her way to the top of the knoll, Christine was weary, but the child had been right. It was worth every step to see.
A shaft of dying sunlight broke through low-hanging clouds, a pink-golden slice hitting a swathe through the stones below. She blinked. Rows and rows of stones, standing stones, went on for as far as the eye could see, like granite soldiers that had fallen into line in the ranks of an unseen general. Too well aligned to be a traditional cemetery, these white megaliths seemed to bear no marks on them, and curious she moved down the gentle slope until she stood within their towering rows of blank faces. Most stood above her head, while others came to the level of her chest, yet all fascinated. For what purpose were these odd stones put here? What could they mean? Did they mark the place of the dead?
The scene made her think of the stone monuments in the legendary cemetery of Paris and her visits there when life confounded and she sought answers. Most recently her visit had led her there concerning her fears about Erik, about herself and Erik…
What do you want, Christine Daaé?
The question swept into her mind, and words she had tried so hard to block out crowded into her thoughts as she walked among the ancient pillars of stone.
What did she want? A chance to start over again! Not in a new life, but in the old.
She wanted the impossible. Erik had been reported found. Dead. No longer alive and so vibrant, his very presence commanding… Life was unjust. The very moment she'd finally come to understand what beat in the deepest chambers of her heart, all hope was seized from her.
But what if he wasn't dead? Mistakes could be made in the darkness, and it was so very dark down there...
She cursed every one of her own mistakes, wishing to go back and mend what she'd destroyed, what they'd destroyed. She remembered the distant mob, their fierce cries of vengeance to kill the monster, the bleak resignation that clouded his eyes before he gave the chilling order that had shattered her floundering resolve…
He was dead. There was no hope for it.
In the deep cloak of twilight, she dully noted a sparse trail of pale pink petals in the grass and without conscious thought of doing so, followed them into the fringes of forest. How odd. A tablet of circular stone lay upon two thicker stones, forming a table. Other stones stood around that in the semblance of a circle. Here the grass was trodden, as if many feet had recently passed over the blades, and the same petals covered the area. A place of ritual perhaps? Lifting her lantern in the green darkness, she moved closer to investigate – then tripped, feeling as if her ankle had been seized.
With a little cry she went down, the lantern falling from her hand. She heard the shatter of glass, her palm instantaneously hitting broken shards, and she winced at the fiery sting. With no source of light, she could barely see and lifted her hand to find a dark stain of blood there. Her eyes went to the grass, but she could see no reason for her clumsy fall. Certainly no pixie crouched with evil intent, and here the ground was not uneven.
WHAT DO YOU WANT, CHRISTINE DAAÉ?
She clapped her hands over her ears – "Stop it! Stop it!" – and could no longer hold back the words that had haunted for days, nor the tears that she had so desperately held inside. They now rained down her face.
"I want to feel alive again!" she cried out piteously to the irritating voice that seemed to resound, and not only inside her mind. "I want the chance to start over and regain all I've lost! To go back and understand and mend all I've broken. I want – I want Erik!"
A sudden wind gusted around her, whipping the fallen petals to fly and twirl high above her head. The most inhuman noise grated on her eardrums, the deepest whine and bellow as if the very earth was coming undone. Frightened, she crawled swiftly to the moss-covered table of rock, thinking to burrow underneath. Foreign symbols were engraved on its surface, symbols oddly familiar...
Time seemed to stand still. Eerily she felt outside of herself, aware of nothing but those symbols, drawn to them as if compelled. The brush of her hand against the engravings made a red smear on the stone and beneath her they glowed.
A bolt of lightning crashed in the periphery of trees, then another, and another, the circle of ritual flashing with an unholy blue-white light. She cried out and made herself as small as possible in the minute space beneath the table, trying not to become the sacrifice, as chunks of hail fell in torrents from the sky.
Her head felt as if it would split open from the ever increasing pressure in the air. Her heart pounded so fast she could scarcely breathe. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, clapping her hands over her ears – and felt everything tilt in a sickening dark whirl, felt it a trial to force herself to keep breathing, each breath sucked away before she could master it to inhale. Felt as if her body was being torn apart, flesh from bone…
And then Christine Daaé collapsed to the icy ground and felt nothing.
xXx
A/N: I'm still not sure about the title...it fits what I have in mind, but if I come up with something better, it will change, so be forewarned. Cover is also a temp until I make my own E/C manip for this story. :)
