Too Dark to Even Try (Beneath a Moonless Sky fanfic)

I Shan't Sing Again

Disclaimer: I do not own POTO, but I love it.

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So sorry it's a short chapter: the purpose of this chapter is to understand what Christine is thinking and dealing with. The next chapter will be like this too, but for Erik.

The evening sunlight watered out from the open window, spilling in puddles of golden, shimmering hues.

Christine paced her sun bathed floor, her face set hard and determined as she stared at an invisible mark in the distance.

Her mind was turning---the right way, the wrong way, the upside down world she found herself fallen into.

The night she had seen him, seen her Angel, Christine had felt something wake inside her. This something told her to find him, to go to him.

To touch him.

Christine stopped pacing and her eyes fluttered closed a moment.

To touch him, to really touch him---

She had kissed him, yes, and at that very moment it was enough, more than. She felt as though her soul would burst, her heart bleed from it's torn seems. But after...

Christine began to feel a gnawing inside her stomach, an itch for something that she could not relieve. It drove her to dispair, maddening and lust filled. An ache for his lips against hers, a need to hear his music, a want to sing for him.

A hunger, she realized. A hunger for him.

Christine needed to find him. She needed to.

Now she knew where he was, it would be easy to go to him---but what would he do?

When she had seen him, his expression showed clear loathing and disgust.

If Christine showed up at his door, would he send her away as he did before? Would he embrace her as he once did, and sing for her in his gentle angelic tone? Or would he scream and shove her away?

All of this was driving Christine completely mad! But she could think of little else that brought her thoughts from the what ifs.

A nock at her door broke the spell.

"Mademoiselle?" Called a muffled voice.

"C--come in," Christine stuttered, remembering her manors.

Annette, her ladies maid, briskly walked in and sunk down into a curtsy.

"Mademoiselle, I have come to help you change for dinner," said the girl, eyeing Christine's attire.

Christine looked down at her own dress, a brown, horrid little frock she had slipped on. She had not gone out for breakfast, lunch, not tea so no one had seen it.

Christine turned her eyes back to Annette.

"I am not going to dinner," she said softly.

Annette's eyes widened.

"Not going to dinner? But you will go hungry---"

"Tell the Vilcomte I am sorry, and that I am feeling a little unwell," Christine cut in chrisply.

The maid bit her tongue, and nodded.

"Shall I bring your dinner up here, mademoiselle?" Annette asked, seemly kind.

"No, I do not feel if I can eat. But thank you, Annette." Christine gave her a small smile, and waited for Annette to return down stairs. 

When she didn't, Christine realized Annette was waiting to be dismissed.

"You are dismissed," she said with a false feeling creep up into her.

Annette curtsied and left quickly, shutting the door with a soft click.

Christine placed a cold hand on her forehead, her temples pounding. She had no desire to see the Vilcomtess---after the dinner party, Christine was still surprised she had not broken the engagement between her son and Christine.

Those terrible thoughts started up again, swirling and steaming, possessing Christine's mind.

Did she love him? Did she love her Angel?

Christine had always believed herself to be in love with Raoul, her first love.

Perhaps, she didn't know what love was. Perhaps, she didn't know the difference between love and lust.

Yes! Lust! That horrible word that meant only fake love.

She didn't not love her Angel, no. It was merely lust, lust for his delicious seduction, dark melodies, and beautiful deceptions.

Christine loved Raoul, she would marry Raoul. He was kind, beautiful, and so very good. His heart was pure and whole, he was gentle and he loved her.

But then why did Christine ache in her heart?

Why did she feel shattered?

She should feel elated---her wedding  was in only a month!

But all Christine felt was despair.

Oh how she wished to be rid of these horrible thoughts! But, alas, she was a prisoner to her own mind, unable to speak a word of what she felt.

Then, it came to her. Christine remembered what had always cleared her thoughts and given her strength.

Singing.

And so, Christine cleared her throat, and for the first time since the terrible accident, she sang.

She allured an aria, a beautiful small melody. But the sound wasn't her voice. It was someone elses, someone Christine did not know.

Or rather, it was her voice. But something had changed in it, something had turned it into something unrecognizable.

It was empty, as if she had nothing to sing for. No life in her voice, no muse in her sounds. It sounded...dead.

This terrified Christine, as it would have anyone.

What had happened?

She stopped singing, and rapped a hand around her throat.

Shaking, she took a deep breath in a poor attempt to stop the fear before it overtook her.

Then Christine understood. She had only ever sung for her Angel. First, to make him proud, which turned to a want to sing, which had transformed her Angel into her muse. And she was his muse, he had said so himself.

And now he was gone...or at least...Christine tried to forget him---for only a few moments---and she could not sing!

She collapsed on her canopy bed, still shaking.

"I shan't sing again..." She vowed to herself.

For her voice belonged to her soul, and her soul belonged to her mind. Her mind belonged to her Angel...

Why must she always forget that she belonged to him, and only to him?