Liam Roberts is an (author) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-04-13 20:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae, raoul de chagny |
Who: Raoul and Christine
What: A rendezvous
Where: A cemetery in Paris
When: Recently!
Warnings/Rating: Do I have to warn for Raoul?
Liam knew that by crossing he was admitting that he owned a key once more. It seemed a foolish thing to attempt to continue hide; no one was fooled, not Sam in particular, so why continue to make the effort? It just drained energy and wore on his already ruffled and worn edges. So Liam crossed without pomp or circumstance, the door closing behind him and dissolving into the Parisian world that Raoul belonged to and was so familiar with. A deep breath was drawn in, the air warm and comforting in ways he could not put words to. It was as though he had never left, a thought he wholeheartedly embraced after the fear he had felt at the prospect of never returning to Paris, Liam’s threats and thoughts still quite real in his own mind. Not that he would allow that, no. Liam may have thought himself strong, but he did not have the strength to go up against the wits and stubbornness of the Vicomte de Chagny.
It would have been nice to take a moment to enjoy his return, but the memory of the conversation Liam had held with his Christine came back in an echo. Time was limited and every minute was important with all that had happened, so Raoul wasted no further time in calling for a carriage to take him from his estate to the cemetery where Christine’s father was interred. The ride was longer than he had the patience for, the carriage bumping along the road, nearly jarring him from his seat, the world sweeping by in a blur of colours and shapes that he couldn’t focus on. No, his thoughts were drawn to Christine, to this conversation, for it would be an important one he knew, especially after all that had happened. Perhaps, finally, he could rid their lives of the ghost forever. There were possibilities in New York, Raoul knew, and a new beginning could be exactly what they needed in order to be happy.
The carriage came to a stop outside the gates of the cemetery, and Raoul stepped down, bidding the driver to wait nearby for his return. No one denied the young vicomte his desires, so Raoul was able to step away with confidence as he passed through the gates of the cemetery, taking the familiar route to where Christine Daae’s father slept his very last sleep.
Christine had agreed to meet Raoul at the cemetery, despite the fact that their last meeting there had not gone well. But with her limited time in Paris, she did not want to go without seeing her père’s tomb, especially if she might not be returning for a time.
She was dressed in gray, a prim victorian dress that covered from collar to ankle, and she had a rich, black cape overtop. She was dressed as she had never been able to dress before Raoul’s reappearance in her life. As a chorus girl, she had clothing for dancing and for performances, but money for additional things was scarce. Her father had left nothing behind for her, nothing beyond the security of this place she could learn to sing, her Angel of Music, and his memory. Even his large tomb was paid for long before, with money that had belonged to her mère. But she did not care about these riches, these material things. Her interest in Raoul was based largely in the safety he brought, oui, but this was only normal in her world. It was not like this in Las Vegas, she knew, but that was not her life, no matter how the girl - Samantha - felt about this. She could own nothing of her own, and she could not even sing and be entirely decent in this society. Non, Raoul was handsome, rich, titled, and she cared for him greatly. Chorus girls dreamed of men like the Vicomte, but they did not get them; she had.
She knew he would come, Raoul, if the man in Las Vegas - Liam - allowed it, and it was still spring, the ground not yet covered with frost and snow, and so she arrived early, wanting the time to speak with her père alone. She knelt before his grave, and she folded her hands in her lap. The hood of her cape covered her dark brown hair, and the carriage waited outside the cemetery, far away and out of sight. “What would you have me do?” she asked the quiet marble, the man who was no longer there to answer. This time, there was no Angel who replied, and she was left alone with her own thoughts, with no answers. She waited.
The journey through the cemetery did not take him long, the greening grass beneath his feet, the trees which wore buds to welcome spring his companions during the journey. None too soon, the familiar sight of the tomb came into view, and it was then that his steps quieted, polished leather shoes stepping lightly, his overcoat, thick wool, heavy and grey, settling about his calves as he stilled. Her question drifted to him, caused lips to purse in a sort of defiance that he was becoming more and more familiar with as the days and weeks trickled by. Even now, there was indecision. Even now, she could not decide on her own.
“I can leave you to your prayers, if you would prefer,” Raoul said after the minutes had ticked by, making his presence known by word though he kept still, standing vigil some ways behind her. The grey and black suited her well, just the hint of brown curl peeking out from beneath the hood which cast shadows over her features, hiding her from his sight.
She did not hear him approach, too lost in her thoughts and prayers, and she started slightly when she heard his voice. She had no fear of the dead, not here, not with her father, but her tension had been high in recent months, and it was not only to do with the situation that had happened beneath the Opera House all those months ago. “Non,” she said, standing with the grace born with music, movements that mimicked melody and harmony with limbs and sway.
She turned away from her father’s tomb, and she looked at him. He was her Raoul, and yet he was not. She was his Christine, and yet she was not. It was a bittersweet realization, one made as she stood there before him. He was so handsome, as he had always been. So sure in his convictions, so willing to brave the world. He was born to it, you see, to wealth and privilege, with royal blood in his veins. She knew none of his certainty, and so they had ended up here, spurned forth by her indecisions and his decisive action in her stead.
Their meeting beneath the Opera House recently, the one before the fire, had not gone well, and she tried not to allow her anger to get the better of this encounter as well. “You should not have done it, Raoul,” she said, voice soft, even as she voiced her opinion.
Concerning their current situation, Raoul had a lot of opinions, and only a handful of them were swayed and softened in the light of Christine’s presence in front of him. Privileged though he might be, Raoul was not one to sit back and simply let the world happen around him. He had been taught, even as a small child, that one had to fight for what one wanted, that it did not come on a silver platter. Yes, their position would make that fight easier, with less obstacles, but that did not mean that he was allowed to live a life of laziness and gluttony. As such, Raoul was a man of action. He preferred to do, not wait. “No,” he said softly as he looked upon her, his voice just as soft as her own, though with a solid edge that left no room for doubt in how he felt.
“I needed to do that. You may not agree with me, but I did what needed to be done, Christine. It’s painful, I understand that, and I wish to spare you that sort of pain, unhappiness, but some things cannot be helped. This was one of those things.” Raoul stepped forward towards her, then, gloved hands extended towards her, palms facing the sky above. “I don’t ask for forgiveness, nor understanding. But please, know that I did not do it without thinking.”
She knew what he would say. It was the reason she found the man on the journal difficult to accept, with his lying. Raoul would do this thing, attempt to burn Erik out of his home, out of Paris, but he would not pretend he had not done it. Be it wrong, or be it right, Raoul would stand by his choice. Her opinion would not sway him, as her opinion had never done. She had argued loudly and long once, about being used as bait for an Opera Ghost and, in the end, she had given in, as all did when Raoul spoke. He was the type of man people listened to, and even her fear and tears had not been enough to convince him to turn his back on things he deemed necessary. Therefore, when she spoke, it was not with any intention of swaying him; she knew better.
“I know why you did it, Raoul,” she said, taking his hands when he extended them. She did. She knew it was to protect her, to protect their future, to protect all of Paris (in his mind). She understood all of these things, but she shook her head all the same, the hood of the cloak falling back and leaving dark curls kissed by the moonlight. “But you have only made things worse. He would not have come for us before, for you. You kicked him when he was down, and you took everything he had. He will not forgive this slight.”
Raoul curled his fingers around hers, gazing down at her face, into those dark eyes he had adored since they were both young and full of hopes and dreams, a world without darkness for either of them. But where there was light, darkness also existed, and he could only hope to limit its effect on his fiance. “I left him his life, did I not?” Raoul countered, speaking quietly. “I ensured that he would not be on this side when it happened, for I am not a murderer, Christine. I merely want him to move on, as he should have so many months ago. Paris... it is not a city he belongs in.” To him, it was as generous as he could be in sparing the Phantom’s life. Had he intended bodily harm, it would have happened, one way or another, and the wrath of the ghost did not frighten him, not when they lived where he did not.
“I don’t expect him to forgive me, Christine. I don’t want forgiveness from him. I simply expect him to learn that he is not wanted here any longer.” Raoul paused after a moment, lifting one of Christine’s hands to press his lips along the ridge of her knuckles, eyes closing for a brief moment. “Why do you still defend him? Why are you still so quick to step up and speak for him? I wonder, sometimes, you realise.” He lowered their joined hands, his expression shadowed and full of somber thoughts.
“It was his home first, Raoul,” she said of Raoul’s desire for Erik to move. Perhaps there was too much compassion in her, or perhaps she still associated her Angel with her father, but she did not believe he should be forced to leave on their account. She was not so gullible to believe Erik to be a good man, and she understood that he had controlled her for years, that he had taken advantage of the trust she had so willingly given, but he was like a warm memory to her in so many ways, and she still wished him no ill, even knowing he had murdered. “He would not pursue us outside the Opera House. Why take everything that was his? He cannot fit in with the world as we can,” she added, voice soft and genteel, no dominance or ire in the words.
She watched his perfect lips press to her knuckles, and she could not help but smile at him, her knight, her savior, rescuer of scarves and teller of stories. The distraction kept her from thinking too long on his question, as she might otherwise have done, and she sighed a teenager’s sigh, young and wistful, hopeful as only a girl could be. “Because I do not believe we should be cruel to him. He is the one left with nothing, Raoul. You have everything, and he is alone.”
“It may very well have been his home first, but that initial claim does not last forever.” Raoul let out a long breath, his posture deflating somewhat. “The Opera House will reopen again, Christine, and what would we do then? Let him terrorize the cast once more? Bully the owners into paying him a monthly wage? Shall we let him again try to kill one of the opera’s patrons?” His warm brown eyes narrowed for a moment, his lips pressed into a line that was straight and narrow. “I can’t let this go on, I can’t chance a repeat of the events from the prior months.” Releasing her hands, Raoul stepped away, moving over towards her father’s headstone, gloved fingers running along the top in a ghost-like caress. “I am trying to protect our futures, Christine, for it is important to me. Our life together is important to me.” He turned towards her, something sad in his expression.
Her hands dropped slowly, and she watched him turn away and run his hand atop her father’s gravestone. He had always liked Raoul, her father, and the memory of their time by the water made her smile. They were only children then, and her father had kept them up well past the time it was proper telling them frightening tales. Even as a child, she had liked those stories more than she should. Perhaps it explained her future, that fascination with the dark stories from the North.
He had a point, she knew, about the extortion, the demands on the Opera House owners to pay a wage, but she seldom thought of those things, and she did not question why. She could not even say, with certainty, that Erik would not find some other chorus girl in future and repeat the past, if given the chance, and so she was silent when Raoul posed his questions. “Our future is important to me too,” she assured instead, staying where she was as she made the claim. “I do not want that future to begin with the destruction of another person.”
He wanted to dispute her comments, her opinion on the matter, but he could find no argument that would be sound when all was said and done. Everything that came to mind was full of jealousy, a need to claim and show his ownership, but Christine was not a thing to be owned, and he knew as much. “I won’t do anything more to harm him, then, but I will not hesitate to defend myself if he feels the need to seek revenge for the fire.” Raoul held his chin high at that, unashamed even now. “But perhaps we ought to leave. If he wants Paris so badly, then let him have it. There’s an entire world we could go to, with no opera ghosts, no darkness following us.”
“I will-” she began. I will speak to him. I will ensure he calls off any attempt at revenge. I will fix this. But it all went unsaid, because she knew he would not like to hear it, even if she knew it was the safest way, the best way to handle what he had done. She did not tell him of her offer, the one to let Erik stay in the her home, because she would stay away from Paris if Erik agreed, and she would not visit this side of the door until matters were settled. It was, she felt, the right offer. They had wronged him, the Opera Ghost, and she could not help but thinking so. Also, she did not want to leave Paris, but she she did not argue on this count. Once they were wed, she would go wherever her husband led. Even now, he paid for her home and her living, and she was beholden to him. It was as it should be, for a woman to cleave to her husband and respect his wishes in all things - no matter what Samantha believed. “We can go wherever you like, Raoul,” she agreed, taking a step forward and placing a gloved hand on the back of his arm.
Her acceptance took him by surprise, for he had been expecting some measure of refusal, reluctance, or at least hesitation. So when her hand came to rest on his arm, he didn’t respond for a moment, trying to gauge the moment and what it meant. But eventually, his hand came up to cover hers, his touch light. “Then we’ll make plans to leave. Not immediately, but this year. But first...” Raoul trailed off and angled his body towards her slightly, his other hand coming to circle around her narrow waist. “The wedding. I would not leave this town without you as my wife, Christine.”
She moved easily when he slid his hand around her waist, willingly stepping into the gentle tug and pull of him. They had done nothing to prepare for the wedding yet, nothing at all since they had ended up as this strange version of themselves. “We must make preparations,” she said, her face lighting up for a moment, an unworried ray of light that was soon dampened once more. “Shall we be here long enough, Raoul? Perhaps this is all temporary, this life,” she suggested, because it might be. They might cease one day, leaving only the ones in Las Vegas behind.
Raoul didn’t respond at first, just soaking in her light, the expression that had come over her face for that brief moment, the look that had made all of this worthwhile. “I’m not going to think about how long we’ll be or not be. I’ll live as though we’ve forever and nothing even a moment less.” A smile came across his face then, all warmth and richness as he spun her in a slow circle, his grip on her sure and unyielding. “You’ll need to have your wedding dress made. A date set, the church notified. It’ll be a grand affair that’s read about in all the newspapers, I promise you.” The shadow of the ghost forgotten, Raoul pushed forward towards the world they were making for themselves.
It was the spinning that made her forget everything that was wrong with their world. Gone was the door, the uncertainty, the offer she had made to allow Erik to live in her home, the prospect of being away from here for a very long time. All of it was gone, and there was only that moment where she was a girl, and he was rich and titled and handsome. It was every chorus girl’s dream, and why should she want more? She smiled down on him, her beloved music forgotten for a heartbeat, during which she yearned (and was) like every other girl her age. She laughed, and with the laughter came a second of forgetting the cruel things Raoul had done. A dress, it sounded so romantic, and a wedding that everyone would see. In many ways, and in that moment, she was only a girl, and she wanted what every other girl wanted. “Really Raoul? Truly?” she asked.
“Would I ever lie to you, Christine?” Raoul asked as he gazed up towards her, his own smile as warm as the spring sun, a certain life in his eyes that came to notice when talking of Christine. Their union would be the buzz of Paris, he was sure. The infamous soprano, Christine Daae, marrying the Vicomte de Chagny? Young girls would dream of such things, and men would look upon him with envy. “Your happiness is what I live for. I promise you that.” Coming to a slow stop, he let her feet settle back against the ground, though his hands stayed about her waist, not as willing to relinquish his hold on her.
She smiled, and for a moment there was only the girl in the tip of her lips. When reality settled back in, expression did not change. There would be no wedding, she knew, as she had promised not to return to this side of the door for Erik’s benefit, but right now she could pretend. She could pretend he was the knight of her dreams, the prince of her future, the man she had always thought him to be, the boy her father had trusted so. “I believe you, Raoul,” because she did, to a certain extent. He would see her happy, if he could, so long as it did not go against his own moral convictions. “Give me a few moments with my father?,” she asked him, a squeeze of fingers to his arm and a pretty songbird’s smile for him.
If Raoul thought that there was anything amiss, his expression did not reveal anything. Instead he loosed his arms from around her waist, capturing her hand for a moment to press his lips to the back of her gloved hand, the smile never straying far from his lips. “Of course. There is a carriage waiting at the entrance to the cemetery. I’ll wait for you there.” Releasing her hand, Raoul lifted his own to brush gloved fingers over the soft plane of her cheek, something truly gentle and loving in that caress. “I do love you, Christine. With everything that I am.” And with those words, Raoul stepped away, soon disappearing in the shadows of the cemetery to return to the carriage and wait for his future bride to join him.