Chapter Text
In the mythical land of Paris, France, one could ascertain the social rank of a young lady by the size of her wig. When the recently orphaned Christine Daaé, aged seventeen years old, first arrived in France at the invitation of the family of her childhood sweetheart, the Vicomte de Chagny, her wig was a pitiful thing that held far too much resemblance to natural hair. But by the time Christine was twenty years old—and Raoul de Chagny, her now fiancé, was returning from his five year expedition to disprove the existence of the “North Pole”—her wig was nearly two feet tall, powdered a stark white, and always elaborately decorated.
No one could say for certain what, exactly, had caused the change in Mlle Daaé, though of course this did nothing to stop them from speculating. All anyone knew was that she had come to the Opera Populaire as timid little mouse, and she had somehow transformed into the loveliest of songbirds. When asked about this strange transformation, she would merely laugh and glance upwards, her peach painted lips curling into a sly, secretive smile, and say only that she had been visited by a “an angel”. She would say no more on the topic.
In truth, Christine Daaé had been visited by something.
She had been at the Opera Populaire for nearly half a year when it had happened. She had been in her dressing room, crying, as was often the case on afternoons when rehearsals for shows were finished. She’d never felt so alone in the world—her papa was gone, and though Raoul had offered to marry her, he wouldn’t be back for several years yet. His family was kind enough, but rather distant, and she knew she wasn’t their first choice for their youngest son.
It was in the midst of those tragic tears that she first heard the beautiful voice that enchanted her. She could see no source for it, but all the same it comforted and cheered her. She was in awe of it, and stopped crying. Though it disappeared, it came back the next day, and the next, and finally Christine tried to talk to whoever the voice belonged to.
The voice said that it belonged to an angel—the Angel of Music. Christine and the apparent angel talked to each other, and the angel promised to give her singing lessons if it would keep her from ever crying again.
It was in this manner that Christine improved her voice immensely. Three months passed, and she confessed that she wished she could see the angel, and the angel obliged.
Christine adored her angel. She’d never seen one before, though she’d heard many stories about people who had. Erik—the name of her angel—wasn’t quite what she thought an angel would be, but that mattered little to her. Erik was kind to her, and she was kind to Erik, and that was all that mattered.
Christine was nearly beside herself with joy when she finally went to the train station to see Raoul for the first time since she’d been in France. She smiled and shaded her eyes from the brightness of the twin suns as she scanned the platforms for her love. People were hustling and bustling about everywhere, rushing for trains, searching for taxis, trying to purchase tickets. The mix of voices and train whistles and the rustle of horses’s wings and their heavy hooves on the cobblestone all formed a sort of song, and she found herself beginning to hum.
A man’s voice joined her in the same tune, humming along to whatever she made up.
She dropped her hand from above her eyes and beamed, glancing upwards.
Soon enough she caught sight of Raoul and ran to meet him, careful not to upset her wig.
“Raoul, Raoul!”
“Little Lotte!”
They embraced and laughed and then hailed a taxi pulled by one of the flying horses, catching up on the ride back to the city.
Raoul was wildly happy to see her, and anxious to hear everything that had happened in her life. The only thing that bothered him was every so often he heard some sort of odd noise, almost like someone was disapproving of something. He brushed it off as the driver, perhaps.
“You look like you’ve done so well for yourself,” Raoul said, eyeing her huge wig.
It was decorated with little flowers here and there, and a tiny parasol at the top. Somewhere between the top and middle was a face staring down at him, porcelain, with hollow eye sockets and a stern expression. It made him feel a little weird, but he never really did understand fashion, and if his Christine thought it was becoming, then it was the best damn wig he’d ever seen, creepy face and all.
Christine merely giggled.
“Oh Raoul, you don’t know the half of it!”
They arrived at her apartment, where she promised to tell him more, away from the prying ears that might be listening in the taxi.
“My brother says you’ve become quite a star at the opera,” he said as she locked her door behind them.
“I have,” she answered solemnly.
“You’ve made such a name for yourself, and so quickly!”
“Raoul,” she said seriously. “Do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“I have been visited by the Angel of Music.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said and nodded. “He lives here with me, now. He’s always with me. Would you like to meet him?”
An angel! Raoul could barely believe it. He’d never seen one. To think, his Christine, with her own angel! Of course he wanted to meet him.
“I would! Truly!” he said eagerly.
Christine smiled lovingly at him and took him by the hand, leading him to her bedroom where she stood in front of her vanity. Once there, she reached up to carefully remove her wig—something she could do in front of Raoul because they were already engaged. She gently placed the wig on her vanity table, and all of a sudden the porcelain face began to move, as though there were something in her wig.
Raoul’s brow furrowed.
“This,” Christine told him, “is Erik.”