Chapter Text
Masquerade…
Hide your face, so the world will never find you…
Christine Daaé was dreaming again.
In her dream, flames rose, burning and crackling, accompanied by the melody of a music box. Within the cheerful dance tune spread an unspeakable loneliness and sorrow. The little monkey brought its palms together—clap, clap…
“Hu!”
Christine awoke with a start. Cold sweat drenched her back, soaking through the silk of her nightdress. She gasped for breath, wiping her brow. When she had steadied herself, she gazed into her open palm.
…Perhaps it was simply because the night was too warm.
She rose to her feet, barefoot upon the plush carpet, and went to the window to throw it open. Midnight had arrived. The yawning darkness beyond the window seemed ready to devour her whole. A cool breeze touched Christine’s hair, brushed across her beautiful eyes, and swept over her slightly pale lips.
Her heart pounded. A hidden, yet undeniable ache stirred within her.
This was not the first time Christine thought of him. In truth, through all these years, such memories had come often. Though the music no longer echoed in her mind at night, that man had begun to appear in her dreams.
Strangely, Christine had always believed her deepest memory of him would be bound to terror—of seizing, and of darkness. Yet in every blackened dream, he was nothing more than a wounded beast, bedraggled and forlorn, huddled beside that monkey of the music box, cloaked in desolation.
And so Christine could not restrain herself from recalling that ring she had returned so resolutely, the wedding gown cast aside only to be lifted again, the kiss, and those eyes—
…those eyes hidden beneath the mask.
The night air chilled her; she might well fall ill by tomorrow. Yet on such nights, when thought drifted and restraint slipped, desire was always given its indulgence.
Christine parted her lips. From chest to throat, the sound welled up, trembling as it broke forth.
Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor…
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender…
Halfway through, her breath caught. Yes—she could clearly feel the hoarseness of her voice, its cracks, its shortness of breath. That was inevitable. After all, she had not sung for so very long.
As Madame de Chagny, she had no need to sing. More precisely, she ought not to sing. The dignified Madame de Chagny had once been a mere songstress, a fact that both she and her husband strove to fade from memory—a truth that would shame the family.
Time had left few traces upon Christine’s form. She still possessed enviable beauty and an elegant bearing, just as she had when she was the radiant young prima donna. Yet more keenly than anyone, she felt the past slipping away, memories falling into dust—impossible to retrieve.
Even if, on such a restless night, she gave in to impulse and sang alone once more—what could she hope to grasp?
…What was it she wished to grasp?
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar…
And you’ll live as you’ve never lived before…