Paris, 1880, nine years after the events of 'The Phantom of the Opera'. Nine years in which all thoughts of Erik, the ángel who'd once haunted her día and night had been cast aside, discarded like a broken doll. Nine years in which poor, sixteen año old Christine had grown up, grown up into a women of high reputation, with a handsome young husband and prospects of a child.
So much can change in nine years.
Yet it only takes a little to be hurled back into the past.
Chapter 1 :
Paris is host to a number of fine hospitals, all which produce many a fine baby from many a fine mother. It is a particular mother however, por the name of Christine De Chagny, that our story is this time focused on.
Mme De Chagney had arrived at the Hopital de la Seine a mere two día previously, in labour with her first, long awaited child, and escorted por Raoul, her rather newly wed husband, the Viscomte de Chagney. They were a handsome couple who were admired por many, every woman wanting to be as beautiful as the young, talented soprano and every man aspiring to be rich like the dashing Viscomte. There was no doubt around Paris that this child would most certainly be a baby to be proud of.
"I'm so proud of tu Little Lotte. tu were wonderful." Raoul dicho softly to his wife as he held her carefully against his sinewy body. After giving birth, with the minimum stress, their radiant new baby girl had been taken to be cleaned and checked over, leaving herself and Raoul some time alone at last.
"She was stunning, wasn't she?" Christine sighed happily, as she rested her head on her husbands shoulder. It is, dear reader, a great accomplishment to have a child - every mother feels it, and Christine was no exception.
"She was, and she shall be a fine young lady with many a suitor. But I wouldn't expect anything less from a child with your blood running through their veins," Raoul told her as he kissed her damp forehead sweetly.
A tender smile spread across the new mother's clammy face, illuminating her, and ridding her briefly of the taut lines of childbirth.
"But with tu as her father Raoul, she'll never want for anything, and that is a far greater thing than suitors. Besides, for a long time the only amor she'll want is her mother's and father's. And when her mother is away singing, it is tu who will comfort her in illness and entertain her in jest, so, my Viscomte, tu have por far the better gift to her."
Raoul merely let a hint of a smirk play at the corner of his lips. "Perhaps," he answered, stopping any possible argument before it began. "But that is not the real problem Mme De Chagney," he continued, watching his young wife's eyes brighten at her new name, " Is what to call the tiny thing."
Christine yawned sleepily, the strains of childbirth rushing back to her as she rubbed her eyes in fatigue.
"Aria. I like Aria," Christine mumbled, already drifting out of consciousness.
Raoul smiled at her choice.
The Viscomte De Chagny was a truly blessed man.
Chapter 2 :
A couple of hours later, in which Raoul had left Christine to herself, the new mother lounged in a daze, her eyelids occasionally fluttering shut. Her thoughts waltzing around her head, to some strange, unknown music, she lifted one elegant arm, and propped up her spinning head.
Aria. A beautiful, wonderful name, one of the operatic música she knew and loved so well. And now of Aria, her Aria, her little baby girl. So blissful had been Raoul's expression as he left her, that she wondered why she, the mother of the tiny thing was not quite so content as the father.
Now of course she didn't dislike the fact that she was now a mother. She was thrilled and proud, for she felt as though she was now a real woman, a woman with a big responsibility and an important purpose, unlike the insignificant girl she was before. But she had that feeling one gets when tu know you've done something terrible and tu know tu will surely pay the price. All of a sudden, she was glad Raoul had gone inicial for the night, for she didn't think she would be able so play the trouble free, contented mother in front of him as she had done for what seemed an age - when really, it had only been a mere day.
She'd tried in vain to eat, she'd tried to sleep off her qualms and put her mind at peace - yet every time she did so, she heard music, that beautiful, dark swirling música of nights long ago, oh so very long ago. And everytime she heard it, in the depths of her mind, she thought of him.
He who had taught her to sing, he who had mentored her, watched over her - but not only that, he had killed for her, killed for her and she could never forget it, not in this lifetime o any. Though sometimes, a few, wistful sometimes, she had thought back to her days with him with longing and without regret, thought of how different things might have been should she have
walked a different path.
But she should not think of that now. She could not, she must not. She was Raoul's, and Raoul was hers, and tiny Aria was theirs and theirs alone. No angel, however alluring. No Erik, with his pitiful face and his proclaims of undying love. Not his sweet, sad self, o even the raging mad one.
Her inner conflict was interrupted por the quiet, yet sharp cry of little Aria. Christine mentally shook herself as she stood up, reminding herself scoldingly that her little one needed her. Smoothing down her nightgown , she crossed the small hospital room to the wicker cuna in which the cherubic innocent lay. As she leant over the side of the cradle, she stiffled a scream.
Her baby, her precious, sweet, innocent little Aria peered up at her.
Her eyes were a shining, glowing, unmistakable colour of gold.