3Looks like I managed to pull something out of the air for Halloween this year after all. E/C R/C. Pretty dark. Don't say you weren't warned...
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It was a fitting day for a funeral.
Thick clouds hung low in the overcast sky, blocking any attempts of the sun's ray to break through the dreary fall morning. The air itself hung heavy with moisture, a thick threat to release its waters if it felt even the slightest urge to weep. All in all, rain seemed inevitable to all involved and many supposed the angels themselves would let down a torrent of tears before the rites were given and done.
After all, it seemed it would be only natural when one of their own came home.
Christine Daae, celebrated success of the Paris Opera, VIscountess De Chagney, beloved wife, diva, and friend, was dead.
An untimely passing to be sure- the result of an unfortunate carriage accident on a rainy night. It seemed nature itself had suddenly turned against the young soprano and decided to call in the debt that all pay for the privilege to live.
She had been alone in the carriage that night, much to the relief of the DeChagny family. To lose one was tragedy enough. To have lost both husband and wife would have been grave.
No pun intended, of course.
Raoul, Vicomte de Chagney stood silent as the priest delivered the last rites over his wife's coffin. Her face flitted across his find- Lips tipped up slightly, smiling, calm, serene- forever fixed in that manner to kingdom come.
Holy water and incense assaulted his senses and he closed his eyes to stem the sting of tears. Why Christine…..why?...
Still, when his eyes opened again, the steely resolve returned and he allowed his mind to drift away from the mausoleum, away from the cemetery, away from his worst nightmare come true. He allowed himself to feel every conflicting emotion that had brought him to this moment.
Shock and betrayal
Disbelief and denial.
Acknowledgement and acceptance.
As the priest droned on, Raoul shifted his weight, attempting to appear as he believed he ought to: every ounce of a grieving widower. Surrounded by family and friends, the whispered words of care had come from every side.
She was a good wife to you, even in the short time you had together.
Christine was the best friend I could have asked for. I can hardly believe she's gone.
A star has fallen too soon, my dear. We will pray for her soul and for your grief.
He knew they meant well; comfort, encouragement and the whole lot. But they didn't know…
No one knew.
Not how his heart had seized when she left for the Opera wearing a ring that wasn't his.
Not how difficult it had been to pen his name after being so sure he was no longer a threat
And certainly not how his blood turned to ice in his veins when he received a reply, penned in the elegant script of his nightmares:
It seems we have a situation on our hands, Vicome. The next move is yours. Choose carefully: it seems either way, it is you who will bear the loss…
He remembered nearly dropping the papers before noticing the other enclosures, a personification of a choice made before and which seemed to be made again.
A flicker of movement drew Raoul from his thoughts and his attention to a column a hall away. A flash of midnight disappeared out of the corner of his gaze and the Vicomte shifted his attentions back to where his wife's coffin was being lifted into the wall. He watched in silence as the wall was sealed and lingered as each of the mourners paid their respects until only he remained.
With a deep sigh, he moved forward, pressing a palm to the cool marble and finally allowed a few tears to fall. A shuddering breath followed before he pulled himself together, stepping back and allowing his eyes to trace her name as memories flashed by of words spoken and a night he had hoped to never relive
Christine, forgive me…
I did it all for you, and all for nothing
We had such hopes
And now those hopes are shattered
The choice had needed to be made again, but this time, it had been his to make. He had chosen this road the moment he sent the reply, even as his heart broke in two over what was to come.
But she had never really been his, had she? Even after he had given her his heart, his home and his name. She always returned to him.
But not again. That, at least, had been guaranteed.
And strangely enough, that alone was enough to bring him peace.
Raoul laid the rose he held before her crypt, glancing up to the lovely portrait he had commissioned on the stone. "Good-bye, Little Lotte. We could have been happy, I think." Lifting his eyes to the heavens, the Vicome let a bitter chuckle escape his lips. "But I suppose we'll never know, will we? Maybe in another life..." A final exhale. "Rest well, Christine. For what it was worth, I did love you."
Raoul allowed his eyes to canvas the expansive crypt once more before he turned to leave, but his steps were stopped short as his gaze fell across the mausoleum where a pair of golden eyes watched him intently. The vicome hesitated only a moment, his eyes flying to Christine's portrait and back again, only to find the voyeur absent.
He's there. He's always there.
Christine's words ricocheted through his mind as Raoul cleared his throat, straightened his top hat and stepped back out into the rain.
Now we all must pay for the sins which were yours
In another part of the mausoleum, two golden eyes watched in silence as the Vicomte bid a final farewell to his Vicomtess and left her to her rest.
When solace seemed to be safe, the cloaked figure stepped forward and made his way until he stood at her feet as he always had.
As he always would, had he been given the chance.
Long, spindly figures reached forward to trace the name etched into the stone. "Oh, Christine. What a life we could have had…"
The whisper echoed through the silence and he bowed his head in reverence. "Our fate was always held in your hands, my love." He mused, his finger looking through the "s". "Why did it have to end this way?"
Perhaps no one was more surprised to see the Vicomtes missive than he- a strongly worded threat to "leave my wife and I alone, damn you. Haven't you stolen enough from us?!"
But that was impossible- She had sworn to him that previous afternoon as she lay tangled and sated in his arms. She loved him alone, wanted him alone…
Until she failed to come the next day and the next…
The third day brought an announcement of a wedding three days past : "Renowned opera star Christine Daae weds Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny in lavish ceremony!"
The paper, like what remained of his heart, crumbled in his grasp before it was thrown down and discarded. IIn that moment, he picked up the vicomte's letter and penned a reply, offering a choice for a second time and enclosing two old friends for a visit.
Only one would return to him.
Weeks seemed like months as the charade continued. Truely, she must have thought him a fool if she did not believe he still kept up with news of his rival, though she never arrived with a band of gold on her hand, only the ring he had given back to her when she returned the first time, begging him to teach her, to love her again. She wanted his music to be his muse…
She had led him to believe she, at last, wanted him.
After the announcement in L'Epoque and the vicome's missive, however, he knew otherwise. She would never be fully his.
When the boy's reply had arrived some six weeks later, he had accepted the package from the Daroga with a pounding heart which only increased as the twine fell away. When it was opened, the course had been set and all of their fates once again became irreversibly intertwined.
Both of them, it seemed, refused to be a part of her games any longer.
At the present moment, Erik found his eyes drawn to her portrait as his own tears began to fall. His malformed lips tilted up as he remembered the sweetness of her smile, the scent of roses in her hair and the gratitude on her face when he had offered her his carriage home only the week prior. "I once gave you the chance to choose your fate, Angel. But you forced my hand...and now you have only yourself to blame"
Releasing the rose he held in his left hand to fall at the foot of her crypt, he leaned his forehead against the marble, ignoring the scrape of marble on porcelain. "I would have moved heaven and earth to make you happy." he rasped. "You were everything."
He rested a moment longer, while reaching a hand into his coat, fisting around an object. As his fingers made contact with the metal, he recalled how his heart had shattered as he composed words that had sealed her fate: So, will she end her days with me or do you send her to her grave?
"As much as it pains me, my dear girl, I am a man of my word, however loose it may be perceived. But never fear, I shall leave your bearer of your fate to see you to your rest." From within his coat, Eriik withdrew a fist, opening his fingers to reveal the Vicomte's answer. Staring down at it a moment, he mused. "How crooked all of our paths have been to come to the inevitable point. Ah, well. That is the point of inevitability after all, isn't it, my love? Ironic, isn't it?"
He rose then, unfurling to his long length and set the metal grasshopper next to the rose. "Adieu, my love. I am sorry it had to be this way. I will write you a funeral mass fit for an angel, a final ode to my incomparable muse. That's something, isn't it?"
Drawing his cloak tighter around him, the Phantom of Opera lifted his gaze, only to have it collide with the blue eyes of the Vicomte de Chagny, silently observing him from across the cemetery. Both men froze, then Raoul dipped his head slightly, before turning away.
Erik swallowed hard, lowering his chin in acknowledgement and somehow, he knew he would never see the boy again. Turning back, he glanced up to Christine's crypt again, the smell of incense now mixed thickly with the rain-heavy air as he made his way to the waiting carriage, repaired and returned only the previous day.
Oh Christine, surely you must have guessed….for either way you chose, you could not win.