Author's note: The characters Christine, Raoul, and Erik within this haunting and beautiful tale are not owned by me, but will be created and formed in different ways than perhaps you have seen them. They are not my characters, yet I make them my own, so please bear with me as you will see many changes within them that I have decided to make for the sake of my story. As for the rest of the characters, they are all my own.
As for the title of the story, Renovatio is Latin for a renewal, a restoration, and a re-birth.
This tale takes place 7 years after Christine performed and belonged to the Opera Populaire. The strange affair of the "Phantom" had never happened…for there had been no Phantom within the Opera House. (Do not fret, there IS still an Erik). Christine has been married to Raoul for 7 years, and the identical twins are both 7 years old.
As for Erik, he will be radically different from anything you have ever read; I am choosing for him to have been formed in the outside world, a world where he never hid from his deformity, yet brandishes it like a weapon, and wears it proudly (this will be seen in chapters to come.)
As for the song Christine sings, it is not owned by me, but by Steven Sondheim (best known from Sweeney Todd, but I prefer the version sang by Barbara Streisand, as it correlates best with Christine's voice.) The song is called "Not while I'm around."
Enough from me. Please enjoy the beginning of this lustrous and romantic adventure.
The Birthmark
The parlor was dimly lit, the light of several candles dispersed about the room standing in clusters, wax dripping down their towers like teardrops falling. The flickers interlaced with the stuffy air, whispering, marking intricate shadows across the walls that were covered in ornately framed paintings. In one corner of the room, a dark mahogany table stood alone amongst the shelves of books and paintings; a devil's table, filled with carved glass decanters, elegant and quiet; huddled together like ladies waiting under a rooftop for a storm to pass through.
He stood in front of her, an unusual gleam within his eyes, stranger and more distant than she'd ever seen them before. He was changing – no, he had been changing…she just hadn't brought herself to admit the truth of it until it spilled over; spilling onto her, into her…to a place where she could not deny it anymore.
"Raoul," she spoke softly, trying to untangle her thoughts as they hissed from her insides, a horde of snakes that wove and bit, mocking her, terrifying her...
"This cannot happen. You cannot agree to this…this is our child! Our little angel…" her voice broke, teetering upon the brink of tears. No, she thought furiously. I will not cry anymore…I've cried too many a night to this infestation within my heart, this sick disease that he puts upon our lives…no more. Who has he become…? Why is he different from the man I knew, so many years ago…?
Her thoughts were infringed upon by Raoul's tense voice, shattering her inner stream of consciousness; a rock flung through an fragile glass window.
"Christine, I've tried reasoning with them, I have! There's nothing more I can say, nothing more I can do! And although I love her, with all of my heart – this you must understand – it must be so. I will send her somewhere where she will be safe, away from the eye of the public – the De Chagny family will not allow for her to represent us…in any sort of negative way. They…they refuse to allow her to take the De Chagny name."
"They refuse? As if it is any business of theirs, disowning a child that does not even belong to them!" Christine cried out before her mind could stop the words from flowing, her voice on the verge of a scream. A dangerous swirl of waters was building up within her; it wouldn't be much longer until the thoughts released themselves from the dam she had built up for years…until her mind completely unraveled, until she succumbed to the insatiable itch to run to the nearest rooftop and fling herself off…You can escape from this! One step, just one…that's all it would take…she shook her head, veering her mind back to the heated argument that rose and spread like a forest fire, destroying everything in its earthen path.
"It is a birthmark, Raoul! On her face, yes, but she is beautiful, nonetheless! If they can't see that…then what kind of people are they? Monsters! That's what kind! And they have absolutely no right to tell us what to do with our children!"
"But they do, Christine," he cut in. "And that's something you don't seem to quite understand." Raoul strode to the corner of the room, picking up a glass carefully in his hands. He poured rich amber liquid from a perfectly crafted decanter into the glass. As he took a deep drink, he barely winced as the whiskey, the venom slid down his throat. There he stood, rooted to the spot, gripping his glass…staring blankly out of the floor length window. The night was seeping into the horizon, pulling shadows over the mansion, hiding itself from God's eyes that reached from above.
Desperation knitted itself into her skin, as she felt her words meant nothing to him. He stood as if unfazed by anything that came spouting from her lips, and again, she was silently reminded that she still played the role, the role of silence, of submission…a role she had followed obediently for seven years.
"You listen to them!" she spat suddenly, gripping the back of the armchair that she stood behind; her posture curling forward like a prowling beast. "You let them fill your head with things of this world that do not matter! What will the public think? What will become of the De Chagny bloodline if this thing is to be seen? Is that it now? You agree with them? You would cast out your own daughter, you would let your parents' words infect you like…like poison?" Christine was in tears now. Her resentment was overflowing, raging inside of her, outside of her, now…she stared at him, he who seemed unaffected by any of her words; and her nails dug even deeper into the armchair's plush surface.
Raoul finally turned to half face her; a frown cast upon his face. "These are matters you do not understand Christine. I will not shout at you, nor do I understand your reason to speak to me in such a way. You knew, when we were married…you knew what you were marrying into! How else can I explain it? What more do you want me to say? That I should cast out my own mother and father's orders? I could be…disowned! Is that what you want?! And…and what if I told you I…agree with them?"
Christine let go of the armchair, defeated, her hands hanging limp at her sides. She averted her eyes from his figure, choosing her next words quite carefully. "You…you agree?"
Raoul turned around to face her, taking another sip from his glass. "Christine, this gives me headaches as we go around and around, arguing like children! For God's sake, you act as if I do not love her. I am trying to protect her, properly, as a father should! Do you want her to be mocked? To be known as the De Chagny's freak? Born with half a purple face? I will not stand for it! I will not. And that is precisely why I agree with my mother and father. They mean well. They want to protect her, just as I do, and as you should as well. Put your heart aside Christine; this is what we must do for Lillian's protection."
"They mean well? They don't even know her! So that's it then…you'd send her away…" she whimpered, tears falling like dribbles of blood down her pale face; the face of a broken doll, thrown away into the depths of a dank and cold attic. "You'd send her away, and then what? What would become of her? She needs me…I am her mother! And you think this is what a father should do? No…my father would have never given me up. Even with a birthmark such as hers. He would have kept me closer, and loved me and…" her voice faded off as she silently began to sob.
Raoul sighed, frustrated with her incessant whirlwind of emotion. "I understand your feelings. Really Christine, I do. But your father was not a Vicomte, he was not royalty by any means…I say this wishing not to offend you…I am trying to do what is best…and I'm terribly tired of arguing." He finished the rest of his glass and set it carefully onto the lonely wooden table in the corner. "I'm so very tired of arguing about this. She will be sent away; not far, we can still visit her from time to time, everything will be alright…you must trust me, Christine."
Christine stared down at the intricately woven carpet beneath her feet. For a moment, she was back at the Opera Populaire; standing before her father's grave, crying in the snow with frozen droplets of ice in her hair…for a moment, she was without Raoul, before he had ever come and swept her off of her feet, promising her a life as the Vicomtesse De Chagny…and she had agreed; yet within this agreement, she had lost something precious, something that could not be bought; she had lost her identity. The music had left years ago, and the dancing was suppressed, only to be utilized strictly at parties; at gatherings where the men smoked cigars and spoke of money, and the women gathered only to gossip – usually, about her…a lowborn chorus girl marrying a Vicomte…did he feel pity for her? Or did she seduce him into a marriage by bedding him? What could a Vicomte want with a ballet rat…a Prima Donna with a short-lived career? The words stung her even now, as she remembered overhearing them. Her face flushed with embarrassment, humiliation, and an emptiness that seemed to grow larger by the waking second.
She only sang to herself now, at night, when no one was around to hear….and sometimes to the twins, when they begged… And the voice Raoul had once loved now seemed to be an ordinary and useless tool; a fragment to which he always swept to the side, back into Christine's heart where it stayed locked; a nightingale tethered in a cage.
She looked up at last, finally meeting his prodding gaze. His eyes were weary and cold; hardened, glinting without any emotion, without empathy or understanding. He had taken on new and prestigious roles in his life, ones in which she could not play a part. She knew her part very well; for it was the part unspoken, the role to which no words or singing were assigned; a script that life itself seemed to curl around her wrists like chains.
She was required to follow him around at events, tight lipped and smiling; she was made to hide her old self away, to toss it into the depths – and Raoul did not seem to mind. He never had noted the change within her; in fact, it seemed to please him greatly, her silence…yet she felt she had been bleeding on the inside for years, longing to sing, to be swept into his arms…but the memories were never enough, and the kisses were short and terse; it was never enough, it was never enough…
"I will go with her," she spoke finally, her voice sounding more resilient than the way she felt inside. "I will go with her."
Raoul raised his light brown eyebrows in perfect arches. "You will do no such thing. Your place is here, by my side, as the Vicomtesse…Christine, you do not intend to leave me for this? This is folly. I will not hear another word of it. We shall talk in the morning. I am spent."
Christine felt herself nod, slipping back into the quiet chains of her role. She had lost her voice; her singing…for the nightingale had drowned, long ago, and her music seemed lost to the wind, impossible to trace down or to find again. "I shall stay up a bit longer," she replied, almost a whisper; he moved past her without a word, exiting the parlor.
Christine gathered herself for a moment, pushing the feelings of indescribable sadness down; forcing them deep enough where they would not again rear their disgusting heads. She moved slowly to the table in the corner, pouring a glass of amber liquid, just as he had. She drank deeply from the glass, and it stung her insides; but then came the release, the plateau of settled numbness. She left the empty glass on the table, crossing the room in a dreamlike state; and thus began the path down the carpeted corridor toward the twin's bedroom.
The door was cracked slightly at the end of the landing, and she could hear musical laughter seeping from the inside. A small smile touched the corners of her lips, and she stepped deftly over to the stream of light that lit the blackness of the corridor, a pillar of golden hue in her darkly and poorly etched world.
The bedroom was sizeable and brightly lit with two glass lamps. The twins sat together on a rich maroon rug that covered a large expanse of the wooded floor. They were holding their dolls; two matching rag dolls with yellow spun yarn hair, each dressed exactly the same. And there they sat, perfectly alike in every way; light brown curls that poured down their backs, and each with a set of identical hazel eyes. They would be mirrors of the other, if not for Lillian's face; for the deep purple birthmark that covered the entire right side of her porcelain skin, brimming across the ridge of her nose. Her hazel eyes shone almost golden, one glinting more brightly than the other, surrounded by the purplish hue of her skin.
"Maman!" They shouted gleefully, in unison, abandoning their dolls on the carpet as they rushed into their mother's welcoming arms. "We are playing a game," announced Marie, the twin with the unmarred face. "Our dolls are both princesses, and they are journeying to a far off place…a castle in a distant land!"
"Oh, how lovely, my darlings," Christine murmured against their hair. "You are both my heart, for I, too, dream of this castle!"
The twins laughed, hugging her even tighter. "Maman, we need a song…a song for the princesses! A song to give them the courage to travel," Lillian exclaimed, looking up at Christine with wide and wondrous eyes. "Will you sing?"
"Oh yes, will you? Oh please maman! It's been days since we have heard any of your melodies," Marie chimed in. They stood back from their mother, a young and beautiful queen in their eyes, crowned with chestnut curls that were twisted into an ornate bun at the nape of her neck. Everything about her was perfect to them; especially her melodious and elusive songs that only came at night.
Christine laughed, although it felt strained in her throat. She let the numbness of the whiskey pass through her, washing away the conversation that sat rotting away in the recesses of her mind. "Yes, my loves, I shall, but only for you."
The twins scrambled into their large four-poster bed and under a thick quilt, tucking their dolls beside them as they nestled into the pillows. "We're ready!" Marie sang, and there they lay, snuggled against each other; two hearts beating as one. Christine's heart wailed, but her face did not betray the depths of her spirit, of the fear that grew prickling and hot against her flesh.
She perched on the edge of the soft and lustrous bed, leaning close to her girls where they lay snug in their bed, propping herself up onto her elbows. She closed her eyes, and she was back there again, on the stage of her beloved Opera Populaire. The stage lights were scalding against her cheeks, and the words of a thousands stories welled up inside her soul, ready to be unleashed upon the world…
"Nothing's gonna harm you,
Not while I'm around…
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir!
Not while I'm around…
Demons are prowling everywhere,
Nowadays…
I'll send them howling, I don't care, I've got ways…
No one's gonna hurt you,
No one's gonna dare…
Others can desert you,
Not to worry, whistle I'll be there!
Demons will charm you with their smile, for a while,
But in time…
Nothing can harm you,
Not while I'm around…
Being close and being clever,
Ain't like being true!
I don't need to, I would never
Hide a thing from you,
Like some…!
No one's gonna hurt you!
No one's gonna dare!
Others can desert you, not to worry,
Whistle I'll be there!
Demons will charm you with a smile,
For awhile, but in time…
Nothing can harm you,
Not while I'm…around…"
She held the last note gently until it faded into the soft breeze that swirled in from the window. Christine opened her eyes; the twins were sound asleep, their arms curled around their dolls; identical dolls…for identical girls, Christine thought. Raoul's words sat hunched in the back of her mind, a prowling monster out of a nightmare, waiting to break the bars on its cage. A birthmark is nothing…she is still identical to me, she thought, shoving the words of the nights' argument to the back of her mind. Yet, the words she had sung stayed flowing within her veins; a river of melancholy, rushing wretchedness that seemed never ending…yet, she could not shake the sudden feeling of hope, of strength that the song had brought her. There would be a way. She would do anything. She could not send this child, her Lillian away, to anywhere…and if she was forced to, then she would bring Marie and go wherever Lillian went. I will not separate my girls. Nor will I let ridiculous aristocracy tear me from my daughters. The words of her song seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, and Christine felt another surge of courage, of strange power. The melody had given her a memory of her old self; yes, to feel energy and wind coursing through her vocal cords again…it had reminded her of herself, of a woman she had hidden away, so very long ago…
Not while I'm around…
Christine kissed both of them softly on their foreheads before turning down the lamps, thrusting the room into complete and total darkness. The open window's curtains rustled with a tender breeze, and the only light now was the lantern of the moon, a brilliant and distant star. Christine stared out for a moment, losing herself in the night sky, dreaming of the woman who used to sing, who belted out her soul to thousands of people… she could almost hear the applause ringing in her ears, deafening, blocking out the hysteric circles of thoughts for simply a moment…
"Demons will charm you with their smile, for a while,
But in time…
Nothing can harm you,
Not while I'm around…" she sang out into the night air; to no one, and the breeze greeted her face warmly. She smiled a gentle smile, taking one glance back at the sleeping twins, and she quietly latched the window, cutting off the night air; the window that screamed out, beckoning her, even then…yet before she latched the window, she could almost hear a bird of sorts, perhaps a nightingale, singing kindly in the distance, a reply to her hidden and ragged pain.
"Nothing can harm you! Not while I'm…
Around…"