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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Black Angels

Chapter 2: What Warms the Heart Still Haunts the Soul

There was no doubt that she was the most beautiful child in the world. All parents look upon their children and think the same thing, it is impossible to look upon the life that you have created and not see perfection in their eyes. All of those months of carrying what could only be described as a burden, feeling nothing but sickness, discomfort, and pain, can only result in a feeling so euphoric that no words could do justice to it. It was simply indescribable. They had named her Madeline. Madeline Antoinette De Changy. Christine had always loved that name, and she felt that her child should carry a middle name that would honor her surrogate mother and guardian, Madame Giry.

Christine held the child to her, rocking her back and forth as she slept. Her hair was so thin and soft to the touch, but the colour of it frightened her. Her own hair was a deep rich chestnut with tight ringlets that cascaded down her back and fell to her waist. She was by no means a vain woman, but she often smiled sweetly and proudly when people would marvel at her hair, commenting on its thickness and dark chocolate hue that matched her wise yet innocent eyes. Sometimes her husband would exclaim that it looked breathtakingly enchanting spread across their silk beige pillows. For a man, Raoul was quite knowledgeable in regards to shading and colours. He always took notice of how beautiful her pale skin looked against the scarlet silk bed sheets that she selected. He remarked that at first he thought the deep red would make their boudoir look like a bordello, but when he saw the hurt in her eyes he relented quickly, and was rather pleased that he did. The sensuous colouring made her look even more ravishing. He had the entire room coloured in red and beige, hoping that she would find it most appealing, and she did.

Raoul’s hair was a dark shade of blonde, giving him a boyish look that she often found charming. Her husband was a handsome man, he looked as though he had stepped right out of the pages of a fairy tale, his complexion was perfect, his hair silky, and his eyes a soulful shade of blue. His impeccable appearance gave him an air of confidence and refinery, but he was still humble. He carried himself well not because he was vain, bur rather because he was happy. He still had a childish energy in his step, a constant excitement in his wide smile. His face held no secrets. If he was in pain, his frown would materialize almost immediately. There were no stormy depths in his eyes that spoke of darkness or hidden desires. His touch was always affectionate, never bruising or passionate, but light and sensuous. When they made love their lips never parted except for when he decided to place chaste kisses to her nose or cheek, being careful to never leave marks upon her porcelain skin. How she sometimes wished for something more.

This child had not her hair, eyes, or skin, nor did she have Raoul’s. When Christine looked down at her beautiful child, sleeping soundly against her chest, she noticed many things that frightened her. Madeline had darker skin, a deep golden hue. She looked as though the sun had tanned her sensitive flesh, leaving it a glowing bronze. Her hair was a soft ash brown, thin and very straight, but so soft to the touch. Like cashmere beneath her fingertips. She knew that it was still too early to know the true colour of Madeline’s eyes, but when they were open she saw the irises begin to radiate that indescribable colour. That colour that often changed depending on the owners mood. Sometimes they were a striking green, others a stormy blue. Raoul would often hold the child and remark that her eye colour baffled him so. He would stare into her eyes intently, trying to give the colour a name, but he never could. He had once said that he could not remember his father, but was sure that his eyes were similar. Christine had hoped and prayed that he was right.

After she had given birth to Madeline on the 8th of August 1874, she felt that she would truly die. She kept envisioning her child being born with two faces, she dreamt about it every night. In all of her dreams she was lying in a sterile white room with no furniture or people. A faceless woman stood between her spread thighs, coaching her roughly as she desperately tried to pass the child through her body. The woman wore a white mask, hiding her face from Christine. Christine was sure that the woman was hiding her face because she the devil, and this room was hell. In hell she was alone, long forsaken by the two men who brought her such torment and happiness. Both had left her in disgust, leaving her alone to wonder the world in darkness. All of the friendly faces that greeted her were gone, the rich opulence of Paris replaced by a barren landscape with a blood red sky radiating scorching heat that slowed her steps and made her breath ragged as sweat poured down her face. Her clothing was always ripped and dirty, her skin rubbed raw from the heat, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she maneuvered her pregnant form one hell to another. These dreams always frightened her to the point of tears, and they only started occurring as she neared her delivery.

The dreams always ended with the birth of her child, a creature neither male nor female. It had yellow skin, no nose, nor mouth, but grotesquely large eyes. The eyes were orange, the pupils large enough for her to see her reflection in them clearly. When she would stare into those eyes she would see her face begin to twist and distort, and she could never look away. The child would always continue looking upon her with hatred, screaming at her that she was a monster, a harlot, a demon. She would always run from the hideous infant, tripping over her long black skirts as she tore wildly through a dark tunnel. She could not see, but she knew where she was, she had no need of light. She could hear the sinister accusations of her forsaken offspring as she ran blindly, seeking the end of the tunnel, looking for the man who she knew would be standing there, waiting to pull her from the darkness and hold her in his arms once more.

She never knew who the man she sought was. Her dream never ended. She would awaken, sweating, crying, and choking on sobs. Raoul her would hold her to his chest, whispering soft comforts in her ear, telling her that her pregnancy is probably just scaring her, but promising her that in the end everything would be wonderful, beautiful, and perfect. Yet sometimes his voice seemed far away, as though he was simply saying what he believed she wanted to hear without truly meaning it. It was only at these late hours of the night did she sense melancholy in her husband. She could feel it in his embrace, but she doubted that even he knew that it had manifested itself in his youthful body.

When Madeline was born after an excruciating day and a half of labor, Raoul picked the child up reverently and caressed her tiny face. Tears fell from his eyes onto the child’s golden skin, and he passed the baby to his wife. As she reached out her arms to grasp her daughter, she was struck by a pain so deep that she began to weep bitterly. Her physical pain had left her, the tearing sensation replaced by a dull throbbing, but her heart broke with a ferocity that made her feel like retching. Her daughter was beautiful in ever way. Her entire family was beautiful, but it all an illusion. A horrible, horrible lie. She held her child as she wept. Raoul stroked her hair, his tears falling down and soaking through her tangled tresses as he pressed soft kisses to her forehead. The doctor seemed a mere ghost, flitting about the room and packing away his instruments, his voice nothing more than a faint buzz in the background reverberating off of this sterile walls. The midwife spoke to her softly, but she ignored her.

She was so shocked by the beauty and perfection of her child, but she could not look upon the face of the infant without seeing him. He was in her tiny hands and feet, in her skin, in her hair, in her eyes. Those eyes. Her baby had a sculpted face that was so strong, not demure like hers or pretty like Raoul’s. She knew that perhaps she was seeing things that only her mind could conjure up, but that offered her no comfort.

Holding her newborn daughter to her now she looked upon the startling beauty of her features and felt tears begin to cloud her vision. She stood up and went to the window, her bare feet felt cool on the mahogany floors. She opened the pane of glass and let the breeze brush against her flesh, her nightgown fluttered in the wind, pressing itself against the front of her body. The wind lifted her heavy curls and blew them off of her neck. She looked out and saw the streets nearly empty, night having brought the crowds home long ago. The moon was so large this night, so bright and beautiful in the dark blue sky. Some clouds were still visible, moving across the sky, casting shadows upon the cobblestones below, shading the windows of the houses that surrounded her. What a beautiful city in which to raise a child.

“Oh Madeline, you have no idea what this life has in store for you.” She spoke mostly to herself.

“This world offers so much, and yet so little. You’ll often be tempted to stare at the moon as I am now and mourn your mistakes, but it will do nothing to free your mind or your calm your spirits. Please, please, never make the decisions that I made.” Her breath caught in her throat once more as she felt her body grow weak. She went inside and sat upon the lavender chaise lounge. Raoul had picked it out for the child’s room; he said that lavender suited his daughter more than fuchsia or pink. He said that she was far too elegant for such a thoughtless colour. Raoul thought his daughter a queen, deserving of richness and splendor, and Christine felt the same. She settled back against the seat, and let out a sigh.

“Guilt is always felt in the heart, not in the mind.” She whispered softly into Madeline’s tiny ear. Every part of her daughter’s body was so tiny and precious. Her body, mind, and soul were untouched by the cruelties of the world. She did not know pain, rejection, guilt, suffering, or hostility. She knew only love, safety, and devotion. Would her child ever grow to know her father? She pushed the thought from her mind, she did not want to think about such things yet, she had all night to dream about them.
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Black Angels