Look With Your Heart

Am I To Risk My Life, To Win The Chance To Live?

          

A/N: Helllllooooo friends! I know this is ANOTHER phantom fanfiction but I go so up-and-down with my writing, so elements will be similar and some different. I'm trying to find my feet with a plot so you'll just have to roll with me, it's going to be a long one! <3

The curtains danced as autumn's briskness intruded on the master bedroom, the breeze snuffing the candles lit atop the bedside table. It was Christine Daaé's first autumn living in the de Changy manor, though she had been there since the fire destroyed the Salle le Peletier, in the previous March. The wooden floor boards, which roared and cackled with every tip toe, encouraged goose bumps to spread over her weathered frame, chilling her to the bone, as she slunk carefully from the bed to her vanity. A gentle knocking at the door confirmed that it was time for Christine to begin the day – the same dull routine she had succumbed to, living in the manor.

"Come in," Christine cooed, and just as she had suspected, her maid, Clémence, met her side. As Raoul de Changy escorted Mademoiselle Daaé to her bed and bathroom quarters upon first arrival, he had also insisted that he hire a maiden to wait on her. His argument was that it would reduce Christine's stress and provide her young, female company – and despite Christine's objection, he went ahead and before sundown that same day, he introduced Clémence to their household.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle. I trust you slept well?"

"Oh, fine, I suppose. The chill is frightful, but the falling leaves are beautiful. Have you heard from the Vicomte this morning, Clémence?"

"It is quite pretty, isn't it... He simply asked that you meet him for breakfast as usual. Oh! And these dresses – he had them ordered for you. He's asked you try each on to ensure their proper fit."

Clémence referred to a wooden chest by the door. Christine was unsure when that had arrived, but she made no effort to protest. As the two continued conversation, Clémence worked on Christine's endless mop of ringlets, taming them with gentle brushes.

"Any other news this morning? Your family – how are they?"

"No, Mademoiselle – "

"Christine, please."

"Christine... No other news this morning. My family are just fine, nothing out of the ordinary... There we are!" Placing the comb back down on the vanity, Clémence gestured to a portrait stuck to the mirror, "You look just like her, you know. Beautiful, as always, and radiant like the summer sun."

Christine blushed and immediately stood from the vanity, moving quickly towards the dressing screens in the corner of her luxuriously large bedroom. The thought of her own mother made her heart stir, and Clémence never usually noted their resemblance. She had never met her (well, not to her memory), since she had died in child birth, but her father spoke of her as if she were the Queen. Christine wondered if anyone would ever think of her quite that fondly.

Quickly meeting Christine's side with a burgundy gown Raoul had sent, Clémence began dressing her, layer by layer until everything sat perfectly aligned. The bodice, embroidered with golden patterns sat firm, though comfortable, and the skirt? Well, it was large and over-the-top, which was, of course, to be expected. Once Christine was dressed and appropriately made up, Clémence excused herself from Christine's room, pausing in the doorway, "The Vicomte de Changy will await your presence in the dining hall at 08:30 a.m. sharp, mademoiselle." And with that, Clémence closed the door behind her and left Christine alone with her thoughts for company. Pacing the floor, Christine pondered her tolerance for another of Raoul's pompous lectures. Whether she could stand another, "stand up taller", "stop asking for the Girys", "hush your voice", "stop your tears"

The date was September 19th, 1876, and though insignificant to most, it stood out in Christine's mind. The date was the 31st birthday of the infamous Opera Ghost, who often lingered in Christine's thoughts. Quietly making her way to the dining room, a maid rushed to pull out her usual seat and place a napkin in her lap. Glancing up, she noticed Raoul's absence, and cursed herself for the gratitude that warmed her heart. Though, as it would seem, her luck dwindled instantly as the angry Vicomte stormed into the room, slamming fist on the table. There was always something to complain about, and always a problem to nitpick, and, to no one's surprise, always the burn of alcohol to sting the air.

"It is 8:31, Daaé, where do you think you've been this morning?!" Spitting his meaningless, drunken words out at Christine, Raoul paced the floor. This was not necessarily a bad day. Actually, it was normal. Good, even. Bad incurred a beating, and while it was common, it was what Christine was accustomed to. Her body was consistently riddled with bruises, burns, and occasionally gashes. Normal involved the odd slap, but the venom ran through the Vicomte's words. This simple breakfast-berating was tolerable. If it meant she left the table unharmed, Christine would take the yelling in a heartbeat, but she knew better than to hope for that, because just as she had, she felt a hot sting melt into her cheek. Bringing her own hand to hold her face, a tear threatened to escape, and she breathed heavily, her chest now feeling the constriction of the corsets. Raoul continued to yell, but the words were all a blur in Christine's mind. She was not just physically broken, but she was heartbroken, and her fiery spirit had ceased to uplift her for many months now. Excusing herself from the table, Christine ran down the hallway and up the stairwell, locking the bedroom door behind her. Clémence was inside already, tending to her laundry, and awaited Christine with open arms. Since Raoul had cut off Christine's contact with the Girys, Clémence became Christine's best (and only) friend. She had confided in Clémence the story of the Opera Ghost, and Clémence had shared some of her darkest moments. She had been there on the 10th anniversary of her father's death, and she had been there every day and every night, ready with a warm cloth and first aid to repair the damage Raoul had caused. And now, with hot tears staining her cheeks, Christine confided in Clémence once more. She was running away.