Disclaimer: Oh, how I wished that I owned Erik. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. . .Leroux beat me to it! Claudette is mine, as are the original characters mentioned in the prologue. Author's Note: The mystery of Christine's illness is revealed in this installment. I promise, this is not 'Moulin Rouge' rewritten with POTO characters. *. . .* indicates thoughts. Anyway, enjoy! Feedback: Please! ~ "Come live with me/ And be my love/ And we will some new pleasures prove/ Of golden sands, and crystal brooks/ With silken lines, and silver hooks."~ John Donne; 'The Bait' Chapter 1~ The Memory of You In anonymity, I found solace; the type of peace that escapes us in the hectic bustle of our everyday lives. Outside the crowd, I was Christine Daae; stricken opera singer. Within the crowd's embrace, however, I was no one and everyone - my identity was irrelevant. It felt good to get away, once in a while. Still, many questions lay in the back of my head, demanding my attention. As I walked along the Seine, growing damp from the rain, my thoughts turned away from my world, away from the light. My thoughts turned to the darkness. To Erik. . . *Maybe it had been a blessing that he had made me leave him. It was hard enough to see me leave, watching me fade away to a shadow of my former self would probably have killed him. Of course, he's endured a lot worse than this. If Erik had consumption, he would probably fight it off with his Punjab lasso. I sincerely doubt that there is a force in this world that can stop Erik and his Punjab lasso, although, many have died trying. Consumption. . .such an ugly word; such an ugly thing. My voice is slowly going to leave me, using it will bring me increasing pain. My voice, Erik's creation, was all that had held me together since I had left him. When I sang, I could almost feel him beside me, guiding me - loving me. I missed him. . .I loved him. . .and without my voice, I would lose him forever. Sometimes, when I sang, the temptation to leave everything behind and run back to the lake was almost unbearable. Now, the last vestige of him in my life is out of reach. But, Erik doesn't need *this*. Music permeates every facet of his life, it was - it is - part of our bond. With my voice gone, I doubt he would love me, and even if he did, we would lose something that we had shared together, something we both cherished. I couldn't bear to do that to him, I love him too much. Then there is Raoul, my friend, basically my brother; the man I do not wish to marry. I am engaged to him because I have nowhere else to turn; because without Erik, I shall never find true love anyway. In Raoul I had a friend, a confidant, someone to take care of me and provide for me. Now, despite the fact he cherishes me, I don't know if he can accept me. We are polar opposites now, Raoul and I; he is vibrantly alive, and I am dying. In my heart, I know he'll honor our engagement to the last, but I'm not sure if I can allow him to waste his youth and love on me. He deserves better than what I have left to give him; he deserves someone who can make him happy and bear his children. I can't be that for him; not anymore.* I stopped when I reached a small inn; the sort of place that radiates a cozy, protective feeling. I pulled my soaked cloak around me as I walked in, realizing how foolish I'd been to walk through the pouring rain in my condition. I looked around, and I smiled; there was a warm fire burning in a brick hearth and several children were playing before it on the wooden floor. A large, matronly woman spotted me, and immediately hustled over to me. "My child," she said tenderly, "what has happened to you? You're absolutely soaked! Come, sit by the fire, and I'll get you some soup." I nodded, and she led me to the fire, and brought a chair over for me so I could sit. Soon thereafter, she returned with a large bowl of onion soup and a colorful quilt. Wrapping me in the quilt, and handing me the soup, she asked, "Who are you child?" "Christine," I said faintly, my hands beginning to tremble, "I'm Christine." "Such fine clothes," she said with a shake of her head as she removed my soaked cloak, "such wonderful posture. You are clearly a lady of bearing, and yet, you turn up on my doorstep looking like a wet cat! You look ill; is there someone I can call for, surely, you have a family who misses you." I sat silently for a long moment, and finally, defeated, I whispered, "I have no one, Madame. There is no one to call for." "I see," she said, pulling up a chair to sit beside me, "then we'll have to be your family. I'm Claudette, and those," she said with a sweeping gesture towards the children, "are my little ones, Philippe and Suzette." "It's a pleasure to met you, Claudette," I said genuinely. "You have such a lovely speaking voice, dear," Claudette said warmly, with a bright smile, "it's like a bell; truly an angel's voice." My teeth clenched against the irony, and I whispered, "So I have often been told." "I would imagine," Claudette said dreamily. Suddenly, I felt as if my lungs were collapsing, and I reached for my handkerchief. I placed it quickly to my mouth, and I began to cough. Crimson blood met ivory lace. Claudette's eyes grew wide as she watched my distress. When finally I began to breathe normally again, she placed a hand on my arm, and said, "Mon Dieu, Christine." "I am sorry I've troubled you," I said hastily, standing to leave even though my legs felt like jelly beneath me. "You aren't going anywhere!" Claudette commanded, "Especially not out into that rain! Come, I will prepare a room upstairs for you, and you can rest." "I don't wish to become a burden, you've already been so kind to me, and. . ." "Nonsense," she interrupted, placing an arm around my shoulders, "I will not allow you to go out there and grow more ill. You must remain here and rest." "If you insist, Madame," I said, leaning against her for support. "I do," she said, walking me towards my room, and the sanctity of a warm bed. To be continued. . . |
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