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Chapter Text

When Christine is seven, her scarf flies out to sea. Papa cries out when the wind almost takes her too, but Christine is already racing to shore by then. She misses the scarf by just that much. And then a child’s voice- no older than her- rings out from the beach: “I’ll get it!”

There’s a boy running towards her, his hair swept by sun, a bright blue bow around his collar, and eyes the color of sea. He’s the most beautiful, heroic boy she’s ever seen. And just when he reaches the sea, another boy bounces up behind him, as frantic as a dog.

The handsome boy stumbles, landing face first in the sand. But it’s nothing to the other child. He hops right over the fallen body and dunks into the sea. 

“Stop looking so happy, Raoul!” a woman calls.

“Yes, dear- you’ll get a sunburn that way, nasty things!” another woman follows.

Christine turns, met with the sight of two severe women under an umbrella. She blinks. No, she’s looking at one woman with two heads. Or rather, two women who share one body. 

“Oh, hello dear,” the woman on the right says.

“Hello,” Christine says back because it’s all she can say.

And then Raoul is back, crawling to shore like a clumsy crab, splashing water all over the handsome lad he knocked down. The scarf is in his mouth, clamped by sharp white teeth. His hair is fair as well, more like the color of bleach than sand. When he sees Christine, he grins from ear to ear, and a slobbering mess, he lunges towards her.

Christine laughs when Raoul drops the scarf at her feet. But when he turns to Papa with that terrible grin, wet with salt and pale as ash, Gustave screams.

Raoul de Chagny becomes a fixture in Christine’s life after that, as does his governess and his governess, Gertrude and Gertrand. “They’re very nice ladies,” Raoul once tells Christine, “and if we’re going to be friends, you have to be nice to them too.”

Why wouldn’t Christine be nice to his governess(es)? She happily agrees, and for the rest of that summer- and the summer after- and the summer after , Christine spends her days chasing Raoul down the beach and making him play fetch with a stick. Papa doesn’t like Raoul as much as her, but Raoul doesn’t notice, not even when Papa goes pale every time Raoul screams, “Hello Monsieur!” at his face.

Christine doesn’t have many dolls so she grooms Raoul instead. He’s actually quite pretty if one can get past… everything else. But Raoul would interrupt with, “Can you make me look like a vampire?” or, “I like how ill this makes me look.”

The older Christine gets, the harder it becomes to tell whether or not Raoul is serious. She meets other boys and girls when she’s apart from Raoul and nobody acts the way he does. But every time she convinces herself Raoul shouldn’t be her friend, she falls for his odd charm all over again.

Raoul loves tales of goblins and dolls, especially goblins. Christine likes a good horror story too, but Raoul doesn’t seem to understand what “horror” means. He tells her that Bluebeard is his favorite bedtime story and that he hopes to die the same way as Marie Antoinette, preferably as painfully and agonizingly as possible. At that, Christine only says, “Whatever makes you happy, Raoul.”

But as strange as he is, Raoul is kind. He doesn’t judge Christine for her raggedy clothes or her little Swedish accent. He likes her just for being her, and the older she gets, the more Christine understands how rare that really is.

Raoul’s brother, Philippe, is not very fond of her though. He is a tall, handsome man, as pale as Raoul, with a waxed mustache and a serious countenance. Philippe always calls her a “perfectly beautiful girl,” but he says it as if she’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. When she asks Raoul what that means, he tells her sadly, “Philippe thinks you’re perfect and beautiful. But I love you all the same.”

Christine has no idea what that means. She does, however, learn that the de Chagnys have some odd blood in them. Philippe, Raoul, and their sisters are not too close with the de Chagnys, but they are thick as blood with their mother’s family: the Addams clan. Christine doesn’t know much about them, other than the fact that they’re an odd line of aristocracy, but judging from the portrait book Raoul once showed her, they are every bit as strange as Raoul and Philippe.

And then one day Raoul tells her he’s going to join the navy. 

“I might die at sea or be abducted by pirates and tortured to death,” he says, much too happily, “you might never see me again.”

Then he hugs her goodbye, and livid, Christine shoves him away. “How can you say such things, Raoul!? I don’t want you to die!”

“Why not?”

Aghast, she says, “Because I love you!” And then bursting into tears (of anger, honestly), Christine runs off. When he tries to chase her, she throws sand in his face and disappears.

That is the last she sees of Raoul de Chagny, and it stings like an open wound. Raoul is not there when Papa dies and he is not there when she mourns. He is not there when she feels like a stranger in the Valerius home. He is not there when she passes her days like a tired ghost. He is not there when she sings again. And he is not there when she hears the angel of music call from heaven above. 

Until Christine sees Raoul again. He is not hard to spot among the crowds of the Opera Garnier. She would recognize him anywhere- that coiff of bleach hair, the pallid skin, the too-sharp grin, and (now) a thin waxed mustache. Even in that mass of faces, she can see Raoul’s eyes upon her, not unlike a wolf (a very clumsy wolf).

There’s nothing she wants more than to meet those eyes and fly into his arms after almost six years apart. But the angel of music is very strict, and his rules are clear-- she cannot dally with mortal men. But does Raoul count as a mortal man? She’s never been sure.

Her worries are for naught. Because Raoul springs into her dressing room after her debut, a bouquet of roses in his mouth. 

“MMMmooy--seee-istine!” he tries to say.

“What?”

He spits the flowers out, and plucking petals from his tongue, says again, “I’m the little boy that rescued your scarf from the sea, Christine! Oh, how I’ve longed for this day!”

Christine almost jumps for joy, but the moment’s ruined when she remembers the angel’s words. She wants to tell Raoul she’s sorry for what she said all those years ago, to tell him that she loves him, to tell him that she’s happy he survived the navy. Instead, she says, every word a pinprick to her tongue, “But Monsieur, I don’t know you!”

“Ah, forgive me!” Raoul says, “I’m Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny! Does that ring a bell, Lotte?”

Christine steels her heart. “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I truly do not know what you’re talking about. I never knew a Raoul.”

He frowns, a somber understanding dawning upon him. “I must have hurt you very badly back then, Christine, for you to rebuff me so. I’ve had much time to think about it in the navy and I now see myself for the idiotic boy I was. All I cared about was having fun.”

“Monsieur-”

“If you choose to forgive me, I will be at the bistro tonight.”

Raoul leaves without another word, though Christine hears him sniffling. She doesn’t have dinner with Raoul, but she does slip him a note at the bistro. The next day, Raoul pens her a letter promising to leave her be but if the angel permits, he’s glad to admire her from afar. In fact, he’d gladly die if the angel damned him for daring to gaze upon her.

Christine had expected Raoul to be more resistant to the idea. Then again, it is Raoul. And that night, she learns the angel of music is no angel at all.

On the rooftop, Christine removes her domino and vows to tell Raoul everything. She hopes he won’t judge her- it’s the last thing she needs. But Raoul solemnly swears and says. “Lotte, I swear on my brother’s life, but only if you have the heart to hear what I’m about to say.”

“What is it, Raoul?”

“I have always found you the most earthly, acceptable, and beautiful girl in my life. You are healthy and radiant. But I love you more than life itself. Please don’t be angry.”

Christine furrows her brow. “Why- all right. Can I speak now?”

Raoul nods, relieved that Christine has taken no issue. Then Christine tells him everything about those two torturous weeks underground and the face of the man that kidnapped her. She speaks of her horror and dread (she does not mention the betrayal because the man named Erik inspires too much pity and anger from her already), and how she’s spent the past days fearing for Raoul’s life. And yet Raoul doesn’t utter a single word.

She knows Raoul is no knight in shining armor. He’s more akin to the knight in shining armor’s foreign fifth cousin (twice removed). But she expects some vow of protection or word of concern from him, at the very least!

“Raoul, why are you so silent?” she asks, baffled.

There are tears gathering in Raoul’s eyes.

“Perhaps you have the heart to hear what I had to say. But I do not have the strength to hear you compare me to this other man.”

If Christine could jump out of her skin, she would have then. “At what point did I- Raoul, what!?”

“If I knew this is what it would take to strike fear in your heart, then I would have done the same! Why didn’t you tell me, Christine? You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Her cheeks turn red, blood boiling underneath. “Did you not hear a thing I said? At no point did I compare you to Erik! What reason have I to? You have brought me nothing but safety and comfort, and he’s done the opposite- I would never compare you two!”

Raoul weeps. Loudly. “Is that truly what you think of me, Christine? Is Erik that much better than me?”

She wipes his tears, unsure if she should cry or laugh because knowing Raoul, he means exactly what he says. “Raoul, he looks and smells of death. Do you not remember what I said about his parchment skin? His sunken eyes?”

Raoul pulls away and wails, “Stop it, Christine! How can I possibly compete with a man like that!? It’s not my fault I was born with a nose!”

“Raoul, he terrifies me! What part of that don’t you understand!?”

“Stop rubbing it in, please Christine! If you want me no longer, just say so!”

“You are putting words in my mouth! Perhaps striking fear in other people’s hearts is how your family expresses love, but it’s not what I want! I find Erik’s actions very repulsive- and no, I do not mean that in a good way. Please, use your brain, Raoul!”

Raoul is a heartbroken, snivelling mess by then. And he is not a beautiful crier. The vicomte falls to his knees and for a moment, Christine’s terrified that Raoul’s also going to kiss the hem of her skirt. Instead, he stays huddled before her.

“Forgive me, Christine! But all my life, I’ve thought so well of myself. But it had never even occurred to me to live underground! And here’s this man- already blessed with the face of a cadaver- living beneath our feet for decades. I am truly nothing next to him.”

Christine hears every word leave Raoul’s mouth. She knows and understands each word, but strung together, she truly understands nothing. But Raoul has always been like this. As she watches him wipe the snot from his lip, Christine hears herself speak- the voice is hers but she has no idea how any of her sentences make sense:

“Raoul, it’s true that you look nothing like Erik. You are an ordinary, handsome man who lives above ground and I doubt you will  ever be like him. But it is you I love. I love you, no matter how normal or handsome the world thinks you.”

And then, apparently to prove that love is blind, Christine kisses Raoul, his tears staining her flushed cheeks. The last time they kissed, they were children and Raoul had been hiding a worm in his mouth. Now she’s sure there are no worms and she doesn’t care if a bit of snot gets on her face. Because the truth is that even had Raoul looked like Erik, even had Raoul somehow managed to start living underground, Christine would still love him.

Then Raoul says, breathless, “Christine, I love you. Will you marry me? I don’t care what my brother says.”

“Yes, yes,” she says.

Raoul grins, looking something like a goblin in a boy’s body, and he stands, taking Christine with him as he spins her by the waist. Their laughter echoes through the rooftop, drowning out another man’s sobs.

When Raoul parts with Christine that night, he feels terribly lovesick. But just as he sneaks back into the Opera’s halls, a hand- cold, bony, and angry- clamps around his mouth. The sweet scent of chloroform enters his nostrils, and Raoul sees two yellow eyes before he fades into a swirl of sweet dreams.

Philippe always said chloroform was the stuff lullabies were made on.

Chapter Text

The boy drools in his sleep. When Erik- or rather, the angel of music- first heard of Christine’s beloved “Raoul,” he’d imagined a heroic young man with the face of a cherub or a Greek god, or some mix of the two. The boy should have been a porcelain doll with chiseled features, the soft and beautiful opposite of whatever Erik himself was. Instead, the vicomte drools, leaving a small stain on Erik’s cloak.

The opera ghost is not a generous fellow nor is he forgiving. And after spending years in the catacombs, he’s gotten quite used to doing whatever he wants. And now this boy thinks he can stop him? If not for him, Christine would be the ghost’s bride. If not for men like this boy, Erik’s life would be so very different. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

At first, he’d thought the vicomte ill. There’s an unsightly pallor to the boy’s complexion, bordering on grey, and something strange about his eyes (like a mad dog). In a bizarre way, Raoul de Chagny would be a lovely youth if he was not so unsightly at the same time. That angers Erik even more. Why is he still less than a pitiful, sickly boy? That wretched face, of course. 

The young man even had the audacity to mock poor, unhappy Erik. “How can I compete with a man like that?” “I am truly nothing next to him” And so on with the sarcasm- it makes the ghost’s blood boil. Men who live above ground have no right to mock those who do not. 

Thoroughly heartbroken by Christine’s words- and that terrible kiss between her and de Chagny- Erik vowed to take his vengeance. He would have left to do it on his own. But the vicomte’s mockery was simply too much to bear. So in a fit of impulse, he attacked the boy with a whiff of the Mazandaran scent. Once the vicomte was as limp as a rag doll, he took him in his arms and carried him off. 

If Christine wished to save him, she can figure it out herself. In the meantime, Erik intends to make her boy suffer.

Raoul has a lovely nightmare. He dreams he is Orpheus playing a love song for his lost mate. Then the nymphs attack him for playing too loud and tear him apart limb from limb. They toss him into the river, where he becomes food for fish. It’s one of the best dreams he’s had in a very long time. But all good things come to an end.

When Raoul wakes up, his head is a little groggy, a numbness on his tongue. He sits up with a yawn and scratches the back of his head. He squints.  

“Hello?” he says, the word echoing back.

Last he checked, it was night. He had proposed to Christine and they were lovestruck on the rooftop. Then he’d left, promising to keep their engagement secret until they found a way to escape Erik. Or had he dreamt up all that too? Was there even a man named Erik? And had he existed, would Christine really give up a man like for Raoul?

But now it’s  clearly noon and the sun is high overhead. In fact, he’s not even in Paris, let alone the opera house. He’s sitting in some sort of desert and the heat is unbearable. Raoul throws off his jacket and begins trekking through. Perhaps he’d gotten drunk the night before and traveled to some foreign wasteland. In any case, he needs to find civilization and write to Christine. And Philippe. Or perhaps his sister or Uncle- Then he bumps into a sheet of glass- the rattle just enough for him to see himself. 

“A mirror?” he mutters.

“Yes, indeed!” a silky voice booms from above.

Raoul searches the desert (room?) but finds no one. At least he’s not alone.

“Monsieur, to whom am I speaking to? Do I know you?”

“Oh, you shall, young man! For I am the man you mocked.”

The voice cackles, and Raoul laughs along. 

“Why are you laughing?” it demands. “Do you want to die so badly?”

“You sounded so friendly with me, I thought we knew each other!”

The voice stops speaking, and just as Raoul wonders what he said to offend, it responds, simmering with hate, “Oh, we are well-acquainted but we’ve never met. I am Erik. And you, M. Le Vicomte, are in my domain.”

Erik! So he is real! Then that means Raoul did not imagine last night’s events. As Raoul processes each word, the voice- Erik- speaks on, “Tell me, boy, is it hot in there?”

“Oh, quite!”

“You are in no ordinary desert. You stand in a room of mirrors and mirage. And there is no escape except death! Many a poor trespasser has died by that noose over there!”

Raoul sees the noose on the iron tree. His eyes light up. “Is that a punjab? I’ve always wanted one, but Philippe would never-”

“Silence! I’ve had enough of you. I’ll rather enjoy seeing you slowly burn to death in the torture chamber.”

“Torture chamber?”

“Scared now, eh? Yes! The torture chamber, an exact-”

“You have a torture chamber!?” Raoul cries, a grin spreading across his mouth. “I’ve never had the fortune of being tortured. It really is very immersive.”

“You’ll die in there!” Erik shouts.

Raoul wanders from wall to wall, knocking into mirrors and groping his way across fake sand. 

“I never knew you could create a desert with mirrors,” he says in awe, “this is truly genius.”

Before the excitement overwhelms him, he frowns. Again, tears prick at his eyes. Raoul wipes his nose.

“Cry all you want, boy, it won’t save you!”

“You really are a very learned man, aren’t you?” Raoul says to himself, “so very cultured. A whole torture chamber. She’s giving up so much to be with me, all of this could be hers.”

“Are you mocking Erik!? I’m not afraid to flood the chamber.”

Raoul has never felt so woefully inadequate in his life. Erik’s built all this underground and he couldn’t even piece together a spiked chair. And yet Christine insists she wants Raoul. It doesn’t make sense. Even Raoul would marry Erik over Raoul.

Then the noose catches his eye again. “Is that real catgut?”

“Yes.” Then apparently catching himself, Erik says, “I have no reason to answer to you!”

Raoul reluctantly praises his rival again. “Amazing!”

Erik watches from the window, jaw slack as the vicomte frolicks- frolicks - in the torture chamber, less a victim of torture and more of a child dancing in a candy store. As he waits for the boy to die, Erik mechanically answers all of Raoul’s questions, hoping that this is only a side effect of the heat on the vicomte’s brain. No one in their right mind can possibly enjoy this. Erik would know. Erik hasn’t been in his right mind for decades. 

“How long did it take you to build this?” Raoul asks.

“Two weeks.” Why does he answer?

“How many mirrors are there?”

“Ten.” Why is he still answering?

“How many people have died in here?”

“I don’t know, two?” Why does he answer!?

“Ah, is that a skull I see!? How long has it been here? It’s the size of my head!”

“How should I know!? You’re going to die anyway, so be quiet!”

Erik’s about to release the promised flood when a pair of hands dig into the back of his jacket and whirl him around. Jade eyes narrow at him, the Persian sopping wet in front, having no doubt fallen into the lake like the a panicked fool. He should count himself lucky that the siren was occupied. 

“Villain!” the Daroga cries, “what have you done with the vicomte!?”

Erik sneers behind his mask. “See for yourself!”

He points at the window behind. Blanching, the Daroga shoves him aside and rushes to get a clearer view. At the bottom, Raoul sits by the iron tree, playing with the noose in his hands. 

“Monsieur, help is on the way!” the Persian yells.

Raoul looks up, trying to figure out where the new voice is. “Oh, hello there! Are you a friend of Erik’s?”

“I’m no friend of that fiend!” 

“You’re too late, Daroga,” the ghost taunts, “it’s already fried his brain to a crisp. It won’t be long before the young man dies!”

Raoul inspects the mirrors once more, twisting the noose with his fingers into different knots. 

“And even should he get out, he’ll never survive all the other traps!” Erik laughs.

“There are more traps!?” Raoul gasps, “please, I must see!”

“Since human decency doesn’t appeal to you,” the Persian says to Erik, casting Raoul an odd glance, “perhaps logic will. Do you truly think that girl will want you if you kill her lover?”

“She will have no choice!”

“She’ll hate you, Erik, hate you to her dying breath!”

“I don’t care!”

“Ow, my tongue!” Raoul hisses.

Both men look down again, met with the image of Raoul nursing his blistering tongue, having stuck it against the false oasis. 

“Don’t move, Monsieur!” the Daroga orders, “you will only bring further harm to yourself!”

“Erik, you really are very talented,” Raoul says, ignoring the warning completely, “I could have sworn that was moving water. If only I had a fraction of such genius.”

Erik falls silent, an important realization dawning on him. Perhaps there are other ways to kill the boy, more subtle ways that would not place the blame upon himself. And was Raoul de Chagny really so irritating a man?

“She’ll hate me,” he says, “she will hate me to her dying breath if I kill her lover.”

“That’s what I just said,” the Daroga tells him.

“Don’t move, boy!” he orders, “you will only bring further harm to yourself! I’m coming-”

“That’s also what I just said!” The Persian rattles Erik by the collar. “Am I to believe you’re about to spare this boy because he stroked your ego!? Just when I thought you couldn’t possibly be more-”

“Why are you doing this, Daroga? Can’t you see that de Chagny is about to die?”

“Because of you!”

Erik slips away from the Persian’s rambling. The Daroga still cursing behind him, they head into the torture chamber and find Raoul asleep, having finally fainted under the artificial sun, his cheeks burnt red. There’s a smile on his face.

Raoul wakes up, his eyes bleary, and feeling rather weak. He’s lying on a chaise longue, head propped up by soft cushions and a silk quilt draped across his torso. The air is damp and cool, and there’s a hand pressing a cold towel to his face. His nose stings.

“M. le Vicomte! You’re awake!” a voice says.

It’s the other man, Erik’s not-friend. And Raoul’s vaguely surprised to recognize him as the Persian. The man leaves the towel on his forehead and gives Raoul a glass of water. The vicomte eagerly drinks. As fascinating as the torture chamber was, it did leave him rather parched. And he could not die yet. He’s sure Christine wouldn’t take kindly to that, no matter how much fun it would be to die in a torture chamber.

“How do you feel?” the Persian asks, “can you speak?”

Raoul nods. “Much better. Thank you.”

And behind the Persian, he sees the back of a man clad in black, that frame so thin the clothes hang off him like a rake. His head’s turned away, but Raoul can see thin black hair spreading across the skull. 

“Erik, give us some more water,” the Persian says, with no small distaste.

He gives Raoul’s glass to that man- who must no doubt be Erik.

“Wait,” the vicomte says, asking for his favorite bedtime treat,  “may I have some milk with brandy and a dash of cyanide?”

“Of course,” the Persian tells him before his eyes go wide, “what-”

Erik takes the glass. “Coming right up!” 

“No, you wretch!” the Persian cries, “don’t give him that!”

Erik’s voice really does sound quite nice. How boring. Raoul supposes nobody can be perfect, even Erik. It makes him feel a little better about himself and his face with a nose.

“Here you go, milk with brandy.”

Erik speaks to him, but Raoul doesn’t hear. He looks directly into the man’s face, and it’s exactly as Christine described, and somehow worse. It’s parchment skin stretched over a skull of veins, nothing but a dark pit where the nose should be. Sunken yellow eyes bore into him like stars in the dark and that mouth is little more than lopsided lines. 

“Scared you at last, did I?” the man says, lips curling back in a sneer, “even a brave young boy like you can’t stand this sight-”

Raoul touches a sallow cheek, gaping. And Erik freezes under his touch, mid-sneer and unsure how to proceed. It’s very rude of Raoul- he knows- but he can’t help tracing the whole length of Erik’s brow, rushing his fingers over each vein and patch of odd skin.

“Let go of me,” Erik hisses.

“You’re fantastic,” Raoul says, between a gasp and squeak, completely breathless.

No wonder Christine could not stop thinking about this man. It’s terrible of him, Raoul knows, especially after he’s just declared his love to Christine. But he can’t help it- Raoul is weak at the knees, absolutely stricken by the sight before him. If not for his devotion to Christine, he would have taken Erik in his hands then and there, and- the brandy spills, glass shattering on carpet.

“Monsieur!” the Persian says, “stop-”

Raoul’s moved just an inch too close, startling Erik into dropping that glass. And in that little gap of time, Raoul starts too, lips accidentally pressing against Erik’s brow. 

Then Erik emits a low, painful moan. He’s sobbing at Raoul’s feet, much to the confusion of the Persian, and Raoul immediately says, “Forgive me! I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to impose!”

Oh, what a terrible guest he’s been! Erik allowed him to see the torture chamber, let his not-friend nurse him back to health, and even made him a glass of brandy with cynanide. Raoul should have thanked him and been on his way. But he’s always been so impulsive! What kind of gentleman would do this, and a betrothed one as well? Woe! Woe!

“Not- not even my own mother could kiss me,” Erik bawls, “no human could look upon me without disgust!”

Because Erik’s crying so hard, Raoul feels more guilty and cries along. 

“And here you are, crying with poor, unhappy Erik!” the man says, “after all I’ve done to you and yet-”

“Forgive poor Raoul!” Raoul says, unsure when or why he called himself Raoul.

“Oh, Raoul!” Erik sobs.

“Erik!” Raoul sobs.

“Raoul!”

“Erik!”

“Raoul!” That voice is not Erik’s.

Three heads- Erik, Raoul, and the baffled Persian- turn to the newcomer. Christine.

To say Christine is angry would be an understatement. She’s furious. And she has had enough. Enough of the lies. Enough of the threats. Enough of some madman telling her what she can do and think. She has tried to be his friend, she has tried to pity when she could no longer find sympathy, she has tried to do all she could to avoid more death and pain. But that villain tried to hurt Raoul and enough was enough.

She has no plan in her head. All she knows is that Philippe was wandering the opera house, searching for his brother, and when she found out Raoul never went home, there was only one explanation- Erik.

She goes to the house by the lake- as she’s been forced to, so many times before- determined to stop Erik once and for all. She prays Raoul is still alive, for she fears what she would do if he’d died. Killed by her maestro’s hand.

Christine finds Erik in the parlor, squatting by a figure on the chaise longue. And the Persian of all people is beside them. She’s about to call Erik’s name when she sees who the third man is-

“Raoul!” she cries.

They turn towards her. And she flies right past the other two men. Holding back tears, she drops by Raoul’s side.

“Christine!” he says in delight.

She presses his hands with her own. “Raoul! Are you all right!?”

“I’m-”

She touches his sunburnt face, and anger again ignited, turns to Erik (also kneeling on the ground). He’s unmasked but that face does nothing to intimidate her.

“What did you do to him?” she demands.

“What did Erik do to him?” the weepy ghost repeats, as if coming back to his senses, “he- he put Christine’s young man in the torture chamber- he-”

Christine slaps him. Then she breaks into tears.

“I should not feel guilty for hitting you!” she says, “why, Erik, do you do this!? Why can’t you just let me hate you?”

“Christine-”

“Don’t say my name! You have no right. I have had enough, Erik! How dare you, how dare you!”

Stunned, Erik touches the mark on his cheek, a rapidly growing pink. 

“Christine, I-”

“Let me speak!” She clenches her fists, digging them into the carpeted floor. “You never let me speak! You deceive me, hurt me, threaten me- and still think you have the right to my trust? I once thought of you as my ‘poor, unhappy Erik’ but you’re nothing more than a bully and a coward!”

“Mademoiselle,” the Persian says, coming to her side, as if afraid Erik would attack.

But Raoul’s on his feet and he’s stopped the Persian. “Let her speak, not-friend!”

“Erik, you have a choice,” she says, still shedding tears of rage, “end all this now or die with my blood on your hands. If you ever try to kill in my name again, I shall die cursing your name. I belong to no man, least of all you!”

“But the boy-” Erik mumbles, near speechless from Christine’s onslaught.

“I love him! I choose to love him! And nothing you do can change that.”

Christine feels Raoul dab away at her tears. He holds her close, but she does not return his embrace, choosing instead to glare daggers at Erik. The man stares back, unsure what to say, the tears frozen upon his face.

“So make your choice,” she says.

Erik gulps. “Christine- I- I see now. You love him no matter what, no matter how… strange or unbecoming he is. You will always love him over Erik. And Erik- I- have been so cruel towards you.”

He laughs. “So cruel and yet I called it love! I know nothing at all. All my life, I’ve known nothing at all.”

And looks at Raoul.

“And after all this cruelty, you were still able to show such mercy. Mercy wasted upon me.”

Crying, he says, “Christine, stop crying. I know you love the boy. And I know he loves you. Here-”

He slips a ring from his pocket and places it in her hand, Christine recoiling at his touch. “-Take this if you wish. It will be my wedding gift to you and him. You’re free to go and never return.”

Then sobbing, he tells them, “I’m sorry.”

Seeing him sob makes Christine sob as well. Still holding her, Raoul also cries. The Persian fumbles with a handkerchief, as if unsure who to give it to. Instead, he puts it back into his pocket and says, “M. le Vicomte, Mlle. Daae, follow me.”

Before Erik changes his mind, is the Persian’s hidden statement. Christine nods, and she stands, taking Raoul with her. She will keep her husband-to-be safe, and as strange as it feels to leave Erik sobbing on the ground, she’s relieved that the nightmare is over. Now she knows at least, that she never wanted Raoul to protect her-- she wanted to protect Raoul.

They follow the Persian to the threshold, and just as Christine’s foot leaves the door, Raoul leaves her grip.

“Raoul! What are you doing?” she gasps.

Raoul marches straight to Erik, and then squatting before the bawling man, takes his hands in his own.

“Erik,” Raoul tells him, “come to our wedding. I would be most happy to have you there.”

Christine has refrained from cursing all her life. There, she lets loose a string of Swedish expletives, the likes of which only Raoul could inspire within her. Later, she will try to change Raoul’s mind with a plethora of reasons. And much later, when he’s relented, she will change her own mind because by then, she’s realized that she would not have her Raoul any other way. 

But now, she curses while Raoul and Erik weep into each other’s arms. Behind her, the Persian throws his arms into the air, thoroughly defeated by the day’s events. 

Chapter Text

The de Chagnys do not come to the wedding. In fact, the only actual de Chagnys present are Raoul, Philippe, and his sisters- Aimee, Charlotte, Isabelle, Marie, Marie, and Marie. It makes Christine the slightest bit angry (only the slightest, or so she says) that they do not show. Raoul had so hoped that they would, that for at least one day, they’d put aside their disdain for him and be the family he hoped they were. 

Christine still remembers the way Raoul’s face had fallen when his uncles and aunts and cousins responded to the invitation, a resounding NO in their letters. Raoul is like a puppy, she’s come to understand, ever enthusiastic and sometimes overbearing but only because he’s so eager to share. And it did break her heart to see him so disappointed.

“There will be so many other guests,” she told him, “we won’t even notice.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose,” he’d agreed, “and we’ll have each other! That’s all that matters!”

She’d smiled and kissed him then.

But she had no idea how true that statement was. They have their wedding on the beach, a memento to their first meeting. She’d imagined sea shells and parasols and whatever else a wedding by the sea would entail. 

Instead, Philippe has managed to purchase an abandoned pirate ship, said to be cursed by a witch from two centuries past. He’s hired men to dismantle and rebuild it piece by piece on their chosen beach. Lovely decor, he’d called it, only the best for his brother and Christine (he was still not keen on calling her “sister”). There was also something about making the guests hunt and kill their own food.

And on the day of the wedding, no other de Chagnys show. But the Addams clan files in one by one, a never-ending lineup of people dressed for a funeral. They are all as pale as Raoul and as ghoulish to behold, as bizarre and misshapen as the family album had promised. And their gifts pile up-- skulls, dynamite, medieval maces, witches' brooms, great uncle Edgar’s skeleton, a mundane looking knife that Christine has no desire to know more about, and even more.

Christine’s own guests have brought champagne, wine glasses and china plates. Halfway through introductions, Mama Valerius fainted and needed to be resuscitated by Marie, Marie, and Marie. Sorelli and the others stay huddled in a corner despite Christine’s best reassurances that they’re surrounded by friends.

And as soon as she calls the others, “harmless,” Philippe jumps to his feet and cries, “It is time for the bridal duel!”

“The what?” Christine asks.

“No need to worry, dear,” Aimee tells her, “you just sit and enjoy yourself.”

Philippe saunters to the top of the ship and clears his throat. “As you all know, it’s custom for the bride and groom to engage in a duel to little death.”

“Little what!?” Mama cries, nearly collapsing in Marie and Marie’s arms again.

“Little death!” Philippe repeats. “We call it ‘little death’ because it gives each party the thrill of dying but does not, in fact, kill them. But seeing as our bride-to-be is not familiar with this custom, we shall not force her.”

There’s a note of disdain in that last line but Christine is too busy trying to wrap her head around the concept to notice.

“So I, the best man,” Philippe says, “will stand in her place and challenge the groom!”

With a swish, he draws a rapier and points its tip at Raoul. “Come, brother!”

Christine’s about to stop Raoul from taking part in this insanity when Aimee grabs her wrist. “No, dear! It’s bad luck to interact with the groom now!”

“He’s being challenged to a duel to the death!” Christine cries, “he could be hurt or worse or-”

“It’s only ‘little death,’” Aimee says, “Raoul will be fine!”

Raoul climbs up to the poop deck, shouting, “Watch me, Christine!” 

Someone hands Raoul a weapon, and as the family cheers, the brothers de Chagny engage in their duel. And Philippe shows Raoul zero mercy, to Christine’s horror. For his part, Raoul has never looked prouder, and as their blades clash and clash again, Christine wants to shout for them to stop. She almost screams when Philippe’s sword nicks the hair on Raoul’s head.

“Oh I remember my little death,” Charlotte sighs behind Christine, “my dear Vincent- his guts all spilled out. Two hundred stitches!”

“That’s terrible!” Christine says.

“Thank you!”

A noise like shears tearing through cloth almost rips out Christine’s heart. Her legs move. She’s halfway to the ship, when Philippe drops his sword, a cut across the bridge of his nose. Grinning, he pulls Raoul into a hug.

“Our winner!” he says, “my brother!”

Applause thunders through the crowd. From Raoul’s crowd at least. Christine’s guests are less enthusiastic. 

When Raoul climbs back to shore, Christine’s relieved to see no wounds on him, though she does panic at the little spot of blood on his cheek, no doubt a poke from Philippe’s blade. But before she can get to him, the Addams surge around him and lift him atop their shoulders.

And then, in the midst of all that attention, Raoul’s eyes nearly pop out. He leaps from the crowd and rushes away. Two old women step into view- no, the heads of two women on one body. 

“Gertrand!” he cries, “Gertrude! You made it!”

Raoul’s governesses hug him tightly, showering him with kisses as if he was a babe again. “Oh! Raoul dear, we’re so proud of you!”

“Yes, our little Raoul all grown up!”

And once the shock of that terrible duel has passed, Christine laughs. She suddenly remembers the summers by the sea, her father trying and failing to make small talk with Gertrand and Gertrude. She’s missed them too, she realizes, and she’s all too happy to exchange kisses once they turn from Raoul.

But just when she’s sure anything that can happen has already taken place, Raoul hops to his feet again.

“You, you!” he says, “you came! You came!”

Christine turns. And almost falls back again. She’d nearly forgotten who else Raoul had invited.

The Persian shakes Raoul’s hand, awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers in his other. And beside him is a figure Christine cannot forget, even if she wanted to. Erik. Suddenly much less intimidating in the daylight. Even with his black hat and mask, he looks no different than the rest of Raoul’s relatives-- in fact, for a moment Christine actually wonders if this was another Addams instead.

“I am sorry we’re late,” the Persian says, casting Erik an accusing look.

But those yellow eyes do not meet his. They’re staring at Christine and as the memories of their last meeting return, she knows there’s no point in avoiding the elephant in the room. Once Raoul’s done clapping Erik on the back and for lack of better word, drooling over his arrival, Christine takes his place.

“Hello Erik,” she says behind her veil.

He freezes. And Christine almost pities him. Almost.

“Hello,” he says at last, “I- I hope you’re in good spirits today.”

“I am,” she replies, “I am to marry the man I love.”

He says nothing. And then, slowly says, “Christine. I- I am sorry for what I’ve done. Thank you for having me here.”

“You are here on Raoul’s account. Not mine.” And then to make sure he understands, she says, “I still have not forgiven you and you’ve no right to demand it from me. But for my husband’s sake, I will allow amends. I will allow you another chance but if you do anything to ruin our happiness, to hurt Raoul, Erik, I will never forgive you.”

She doesn’t care if it sounds cold. If anything, she thinks she’s allowed him too much mercy  already. But her gut says Erik will not dare cause trouble anymore.

“I understand,” he says, rather forlorn.

Christine nods curtly and walks away. It feels good.

The priest had only agreed to oversee the wedding because it was a de Chagny affair. Had he known it had anything to do with the Addamses, he would never have agreed. Christine knows this information because the priest tells her himself, right before she and Raoul exchange wedding vows. 

Then they kiss, and it’s the happiest she’s ever been. She can taste the wax on Raoul’s mustache, smell the mint in his breath, feel the sunlight and sand on his too-pale face. Her goblin of a boy. Her delightfully odd Raoul.

And she loves his family, every single one of them just by virtue of sharing his blood.

During the reception, she sits by Raoul while he slurps crab meat directly from the shell. Mama Valerius holds her hand, trying her best to appear happy. Gertrude and Gertrand pour their table wine. And once Raoul’s done with his crab, Philippe stands, holding a spoon to his glass.

“I would like to make a toast to the new couple!” he says.

The guests cheer.

Philippe levels the volume with a gesture of his hand. “Raoul is my darling brother. Why, I had no idea Maman would ever conceive again! Then Raoul came along. He was the baby of our family, more than a brother to me- he is my son, my friend, my life.”

Then he looks to Christine. “Now, I only wish the best for Raoul and if the best involves a woman like Christine, then who am I to stand between them? Christine, you are- forgive me for saying so, but it’s what we all think- an absolutely lovely girl, mundane and normal and not at all de Chagny nor Addams material.”

There’s a collective gasp in the crowd, though Christine’s unsure if she should be insulted, so she only lets Raoul squeeze her hand. 

“However,” Philippe finishes, “you make my brother happy and for that, I thank you. For that alone, you are an Addams at heart!”

“Hear, hear!” Raoul cries.

The tables break into applause and Christine blushes. Once Philippe sits down, another figure rises from the next table over. 

Oh no, Christine thinks.

Erik holds not a glass of wine, but an entire bottle- emptied. Beside him, the Persian tries in vain to pull him back down.

“Don’t do this, you wretch!” she hears the Persian say, “Erik, stop-”

“I have a toast to make!” Erik says, ripping off his mask to prove his point.

Aimee swoons, though Christine hopes that’s not the case.

“Christine,” Erik goes on, tears running freely down his face, “I love you. I loved you! You were the only good part of Erik’s life and he ruined it- I am but a dog at your feet, unworthy of your grace!”

If you’re so unworthy, then please sit down! Christine wants to say. She grits her teeth.

“I should never have pretended to be something I was not! There is nothing I regret more than betraying your trust! But the Vicomte de Chagny- he has brought you happiness I could never provide- I see how much he loves and you him, and it brings me so much joy but pains me so!”

“Erik, please sit down,” the Persian mumbles.

Erik yanks free from the Persian’s grip. “I had once planned to abduct you from the stage, knowing full well the Vicomte would come to your rescue! I would have kept him in the torture chamber and threatened you with a scorpion and grasshopper- turn the scorpion and marry me! Turn the grasshopper and send him- and the rest of the Opera- to the grave! How terrible of me, how dreadfully wrong!”

“Why would you say that!?” the Persian says, “Why!?”

“The Vicomte is a much worther man than I! A truly kind young man who will cherish you as you deserve!” 

And sobbing, he adds, “Raoul, I love you!”

“I love you too!” Raoul says, moved to tears by that mess of a speech.

When Erik finally sits down, Christine’s so mortified she can no longer speak. The guests are silent for a good moment. And then, someone- perhaps Aunt Margaret- says, dumbfounded, “Christine, you gave up that for Raoul?”

“You must truly love Raoul,” Aimee says.

“To Christine!” Uncle Hugo, or whoever it is, chirps, “to the bride and the sacrifices she made! A weaker woman could never!”

Philippe raises his glass. “Hear, hear!” 

And then, everyone toasts to the bride and groom. It’s all so ridiculous that Christine can no longer find it in her to be mad at Erik. She only laughs along, moved by Raoul- her husband’s cheer.

The reception lasts well past sunset and into the night. Christine is waltzing with Raoul by the sea when she sees Aimee and Aunt Margaret approach Erik from the corner of her eye. He’s still at the table with the Persian, perhaps having finally realized what a fool he made of himself.

“Were you the living corpse?” Aunt Margaret asks him, as giddy as a schoolgirl, “I’ve collected all your memorabilia.”

“Memorabilia?” Erik repeats.

“Oh yes, the flyers! I wanted to come to your shows but I was always a step too late. I followed you all the way to Russia once, but you were gone by then. I wanted to marry you, you know, as a girl.”

“Ah, but Aunt Margaret is married now,” Aimee says, “I- however- have no such concerns. Erik- Erik, is it?”

Christine doesn’t catch what Erik says, but she does hear the Persian cough, having choked on a comment. And as the night draws on, the fawning crowd around Erik grows, until he’s neck deep in papers, addresses and names and telegram requests from… suitors, apparently.

“Leave him alone!” Raoul calls to the crowd. “Control yourselves!”

And then turning back to Christine, he asks, “Say, where would you like to go for our honeymoon? I was thinking of some tombs!”

Christine giggles. “Wherever you go, I will go too.”

“Ah, but Lotte, I would go anywhere to see you smile.”

She yelps when he dips her, and then he grins again before catching her mouth in a kiss. Christine shoves her hands into his hair and pushes him into the water. She tastes his mouth again, heart as light as sea breeze.

This is the man she will spend the rest of her life with. And she does not mind it one bit. As far as they’re both concerned, this is better than happily ever after.