Christine had been wanted before, of course, desired by The Phantom in much the same way that the man who had been both flesh-and-blood and ghostly-shade had wanted coins as gold as Meg’s hair or a particularly beautiful songbird in a iron cage.
That’s what I am, she remembered thinking in mute horror as he forcefully dragged her down the tunnels underneath the Opera Populaire for what she feared would be the last time, a songbird, nothing more than a trifle, something to be owned, and now, that I’ve rejected him so publicly, something to be killed.
Yes, Christine Daaé had been wanted, desired, but she never been adored in the same way her mother had been adored by her father, she had never been loved in the way she’d always been promised she would be as a child, and she was certain she never would be, because who would love her, the mistress to a monster, a chorus girl who once had not a cent to her name, a penniless state that she would returned to as a diva unwillingly slingshotted into ill fame and notoriety that would grant her to never grace the stage again, a—
“Dearest, Christine, who ever has said such things to you?”
Christine blinked, broken out of her tirade, suddenly realigned with the world around her.
She was abruptly aware again of the falling snow, the trees encircling her, and Raoul on his knees in front of her, her gloved-hands gently (he was always gentle with her) held in his own.
Raoul, who had golden-brown hair and a clean-shaven face and gray eyes that steadied Christine whenever she looked in them.
Raoul, who still limped when he walked, the bones in his leg destined to never fully heal after The Phantom had broken them in their final confrontation.
Raoul, who had chased her red scarf into the sea as a child.
Raoul, who had chosen mercy every time she’d asked it of him.
Raoul, who had taken Christine and Meg and their mother in to his house by the sea with not a second thought.
Raoul, who was looking up at her with concern, not for her wonderings — which she’d had since she’d been a child — but for the words that had pouring from her lips unbidden when he’d sunk to his knees proposing marriage.
“Most everyone,” Christine admitted to the night air annd the falling snow, almost unable to look Raoul in the eyes, “most everyone has told me such things. Except Madame Giry”—she had never been allowed to call the older woman mother, a cane snapping against the back of her knees whenever she’d tried to do so until Christine had learned simply not to try in that particular regard—“and Meg and you. You have never doubted me.”
“And I never shall.” A knight kneeling at the feet of his queen, swearing fealty and undying loyalty — undeserved loyalty.
A knight kneeling at the feet of his lady-love, unaware that she was the true beast that had struck him down, that had broke his bones and his brother’s back and his familia ties, not the dragon guarding her tower that he had slain to rescue her.
“Oh, Raoul!” Christine cried suddenly, dropping down on her knees beside him — red skirts pooling around her like blood — and throwing her arms around him with such loving ferocity that she nearly destabilized them both. “I know you shall never doubt or scorn me! I know!”
The cold air stung her skin where the tears sparkled on her cheeks like morning dew.
“I know this! Deep down to my bones, I know this! But I simply cannot marry you, Raoul! I cannot!” She took a shuttering breath, inhaling the dark, rich scent of snow and pine needles and the soap Raoul used, and buried her head in the crook of his neck, lips brushing against the collar of his wool coat when she spoke next. “I cannot. I do not deserve to. Not yet.”
Raoul murmured, holding her gently (he was always gentle with her), fingers softly pulling through her hair.
“Christine.” He said, voice soft as the snow caught in her hair or the silk ribbon bound around the slender, swan-like curve of her throat. “Christine.”
“Raoul.” A prayer offered to God (not to the angels, not anymore).
“Christine.” A prayer answered.
“I cannot accept your marriage proposal, Raoul. I wish to, but I can’t. Not yet.”
“Than I shall ask you tomorrow, and I shall ask you on all the tomorrows until you can.”
Tomorrow. More precious to her than gold or silver or pearls, more precious to her than even her voice or the memories of her father. Tomorrow. The future. Her future. Something she’d never thought she would had.
There was nothing more to say.
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