Christine Daaè had not been seen the entire day. That within itself was a rarity. Even when there were no rehearsals she seemed to make her way to the stage, lingering about as she could and practicing when she wished. She'd tell the young ballet girls stories of an Angel of Music and darker stories from the North. On and on she would find reason to make it to the opera house's main rooms at least once a day, whether their be rehearsals or not.
Today there was no Christine Daaè to be seen and there were rehearsals, seeing as the opening night would be in less than a week. She had the lead role and yet she was not there. Andre and Firmin were running about, demanding of everyone where she'd last been seen. They raved that the Phantom had abducted her again and at last Madame Giry quieted them.
"Monsieurs," she said in her very strained-patience way. "Christine has never missed a rehearsal without a proper excuse. She will give you one, I assure you."
"I'll hold you to that, Madame!" Firmin roared in irritation, storming off to his office with Andre following closely behind.
Erik stepped from the shadows, mismatched eyes following his two managers. "They should learn to stay in that office," he grumbled.
Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. Surely he knew what today was… Why would he be standing here, as if he were waiting for his new wife's rehearsal to commence? "Surely you know what today is," she voiced.
"Is it different?"
"It's been twelve years today," the ballet mistress said simply.
Erik seemed to pale several shades. "My word," he breathed. "She… never told me… I didn't know when exactly..."
"You, the all-knowing Phantom of the Opera?" Madame Giry questioned, answering his unasked question of why she would not tell him.
He nodded his understanding and with a swirl of his cape was gone into the shadows.
Christine sat huddled before the candles. One burned lowly and its light caught the single tear that fell down her face. She ran her hand along the violin that rested in her lap, caressing it lovingly and a sob broke free. Twelve years? Could it have been that long yet? It seemed like yesterday and she felt not a day older than the lost child of seven.
A small sound of a door sliding caught the girl's attention and she saw Erik slipping through one of the many secret entrances. He was silent as he knelt down at her side, eyes unusually calm. A smile, though it still held a tinge of sadness, crept to the young diva's lips. "Erik," she murmured simply, that one name sounding as if it had lifted part of the burden from her.
"Would you like to go to the graveyard today?" Erik asked quietly, his voice the most reverent that she'd ever heard it in a place of prayer.
"I thought… that I might go this evening."
"It'll be frigid by then," her husband pointed out.
It was true. The days were pleasant enough, but the evenings and nights had turned unbearably chilly for this time of year. She turned her eyes upward to where he was kneeling. "Will you come with me?"
"If you wish me to."
She leaned against him, head resting on his now rigid shoulder. It had only been a few weeks since their wedding and the sudden touch still caught him off his guard. She nestled closer to him. "Yes, if you would," she murmured as she sought out his hand to hold her own.
Erik turned to look at the girl that sat next to him. She'd grown so much in the last year and a half, but at times he was reminded she was still only a lost and frightened child with need of guidance. Was that why she had gone with Raoul? Security? Perhaps, but now she found it with him and that was what mattered. With him she found what she needed and wanted. It was his hand in which she held, no matter how cold to the touch.
"Come, my dear," he whispered and helped her up. "Let's get your cloak and be off."
Something past through her eyes, a recognition of something and she gasped. "Oh Erik! Rehearsal!"
"It doesn't matter," he assured her. "I'll take care of it. Come."
The snow was falling even by the time they made their way to the graveyard. Christine felt Erik tighten his arm around her shoulder and wrap his cloak around her as well. She leaned into his embrace, taking in his scent and his feel.
"I meant to say good-bye then," she whispered, her voice distant.
"When, my dear?"
"When I came here last. Is it horrible that I've been unable to return here since you and Raoul fought? I thought I'd always see that image… Raoul bleeding, you on the ground… It was horrible." She turned her eyes up to him and an almost tired smile tugged at her pretty lips. "But you're here with me now. You give me the strength to come back… to try… I don't even know what for, but you give me what I need, Erik. Thank you."
He was speechless a moment. How odd that balance between girl-child and woman was with Christine. One moment she seemed on the verge of a near breakdown and the next she became mature, collected, and ready to take anything the world threw at her. "No," he whispered, voice barely audible. "It is you, my dear… You that gives me the strength."
They reached Christine's father's grave and she laid the flows in which she'd been carrying on the steps, her long curls dancing along her face in the wind. "Too many years, fighting back tears," she murmured as she knelt before the grave. She felt her husband standing only a few feet away, as if unsure whether it was his place or not to come next to her as he had in the chapel. She turned and reached her hand out, beckoning him. He came instantly, falling into the light, powdery snow next to her and she grasped his hands. "Do I have to say good-bye?" she asked suddenly.
"No," he breathed. "Continue on, yes, but saying 'good-bye' seems to be forgetting."
She nodded her understanding and leaned into his embrace. "I think he would have loved you, Erik, had he lived. He would have said… that you were Little Lotte's Angel of Music."
Erik held her close and kissed the top of her head. He heard her sigh of contentment as the sat like that, holding each other. Time healed all pains, sooner or later, if one would let it. Christine would heal now that she had found her will to try.
In sleep he sang to me… in dreams he came. That voice which calls to me and speaks my name…Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her father promised to send her the Angel of Music. Her father promised her. Her father promised her….
A/N: This was meant to be a drabble. See how that went, eh? Lol! Oh well, it turned out longer than a typical drabble, but it is what it is. Once again, I just got my PotO DVD and I was watching the graveyard scene and where she's in the carriage and I thought of this. I saw a DVD once of Sarah Brightman live in Los Vegas (I think it was… or maybe it was LA…) Anyway, she was singing the part of "Little Lotte…" in this really high pitched (is that the correct musical term?) mono-toned voice. It was creepy, to say the least, but kinda cool. Then she breaks into "Wishing you were somehow hear again". Anyway, I think I like it spoken better. But ah well. Please R&R
TS