Author's Note: Before I say anything else, I guess I should say that if you absolutely hate Raoul, you will probably hate this fic. Although I do not like Raoul with Christine, I do actually like his character. He is a good man with good intentions who, I believe, truly loves Christine. While he does tend to get in the way of the fan-favored pairing of ErikxChristine, if his only crime is trying to remove a rival in the name of love, then we can't really blame him for anything that Erik isn't also guilty of. That said, this short story IS an ExC fic...it just features Raoul heavily. If you do not approve of treating Raoul like a respectable human being and prefer drunk-wife-beating Raoul, this story is probably not for you. I don't ask you to agree with me, I just ask that you respect my personal take on his moral character and please leave only considerate reviews. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera and all of its characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Joel Schumacher - NOT me!

Fires of the Heart

Erik shoved his way through the crowd, thankful for the cover of darkness and the panicked chaos that resulted from the fire. He wasn't paying attention to where 'he was going, and to be honest, he didn't really care anymore. If he was lucky, everyone would just assume he was another victim trying to escape the flames. If he was even luckier the genedarmes would find him and put an end to his misery. He half-wished he had remained within his lair, a fox trapped within its den—if he had, he would have been long dead by now. But there was something in his stubborn nature that would not allow him to give up so easily, and so he had chosen to run—away from the police, away from the Opera House, and far, far away from Christine. He had no idea where he'd go or how he'd live, but he'd managed to do it before, and he supposed that he could learn to do it again.

But right now he couldn't think about the future. Right now he couldn't think of much of anything, for the moment he stopped running, he knew the tears would start to fall. In the mean time, he was trying desperately to focus on something else—anything else—the regularity of his heavy breathing, the pad of his shoes against the street, feel of the night wind on his naked face. But for some reason he could not get her out of his mind. Her name echoed down the streets, carried on the smoke-tinged breeze above the din of the crowd. With every step he took away from the burning inferno that was the Opera House, the voice inside his head grew louder and louder…until at last he collided with someone and realized, with a start, that the voice was not within his head and—even worse—that the owner of the voice was none other than the Vicomte de Chagny! But Christine was nowhere to be found….

Within seconds, Erik had grabbed the young vicomte by the arm and pulled him down a darkened side alley, covering his mouth before the man could emit a surprised yelp. The moment he was certain they were alone, Erik released his grip.

"You!" Raoul hissed. "What did you do with her?"

"I let her go with you," Erik growled, "which was apparently a mistake, seeing as it has been all of five minutes and you've already managed to lose her!"

"I didn't lose her, you dolt! I got her out safely, but the moment the carriage arrived, she fled and ran back inside."

Erik laughed darkly, despite the fact that his stomach was in knots. Christine is still inside? "So she'd rather die in the flames than spend the rest of her life with you? I'd say that's even a worse rejection than I received!"

Raoul was incensed. "She wasn't running away from me! She was going back to look for…" he faltered. "She was looking for something."

Erik frowned. What could possibly be so important to her that she would risk her life by going back into a burning building for it? "Her father's portrait?" he guessed.

Raoul smacked his forehead. For a man who was supposed to be a genius, the Opera Ghost was painfully slow to catch on. He had hoped he wouldn't have to come right out and say it. "No, you idiot! You! She was looking for you!"

Erik was taken aback. "Me? Why on earth would she come back for me?"

The vicomte rolled his eyes. "Why do you think she came back?" He turned to look the former Phantom in the eyes. "You gave her choice….She chose you."

Erik felt his throat close up. If the vicomte had not been watching, he would have cried for joy right then and there. "But…but I thought…"

Raoul's eyes softened. "She chose to save me. But she chose to stay with you."

Erik could do nothing but nod numbly. "Perhaps she saved us both," he whispered. But suddenly the realization of the situation hit him, and he snapped back to attention. "When did you last see her? Which entrance did she use?"

Raoul shook his head. "I lost sight of her in the crowd. I don't know which way she went. That was nearly half an hour ago."

Erik was irate. "Why didn't you go in after her?"

"I've been trying," the vicomte huffed, "but it's rather difficult to push your way in when everyone else is trying to get out."

Erik paused for a moment, as if in thought, before turning and racing toward the back of the alley.

Raoul ran after him. "Wait! Where are you going?"

"A back entrance," he called back over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Raoul sighed irritably but followed in hot pursuit. As he rounded the bend he glanced left and right but caught no sign of the infamous Opera Ghost.

"Up here, de Chagny," Erik called from the top of the roof. Hopefully, the noise of the crowd and the crackling flames would drown out his voice before anyone else could hear. If the genedarmes saw him now, he would be right in their line of fire.

"What the—How did you even get up there?"

Wordlessly, Erik tossed over a length of rope—quite possibly the same rope that had been around the vicomte's neck not long before. Raoul hesitated, rubbing the raw skin around his throat. He had no desire to find himself dangling from the roof of the disintegrating Opera House, but for now, it seemed, the Opera Ghost and he had formed a temporary alliance, and he wasn't about to lose what very well might be his only chance at saving Christine. Taking a deep breath, he latched onto the rope and shimmied his way up the side of the burning building.

Upon reaching the top, he was surprised to find an outstretched hand waiting to pull him up. He took it gratefully.

"Are you absolutely certain that this is the best way in?" he puffed, somewhat out of breath.

"And what would you propose, de Chagny? It's not as though I could simply waltz in through the front door! Besides, you forget with whom you are speaking. I know this opera house better than anyone." He hesitated. "If she's still alive, we'll find her." If she's still alive…

Before Raoul could comment, Erik had turned away to face one of the many angelic figures that guarded the place. He ran his fingers over the statue, almost lovingly.

"With all due respect, monsieur, we don't have time for you to be admiring the architecture," the vicomte grumbled.

Erik didn't even bother to dignify the comment with a response. He simply lifted a switch and watched his companion's eyes widen as a trapdoor opened not three feet away. He smirked. "You were saying, de Chagny?"

Raoul stepped up to the edge of the trapdoor, peering down into the darkness. There appeared to be a flight of stairs beneath the opening that hadn't been used in quite some time. It seemed safe enough…but then again, so had the stairs that led him into the watery death-trap. He hesitated.

"Afraid of the dark, are we?"

Raoul jumped, unaware that Erik had moved from his position by the statue and was currently standing behind him. Erik grabbed his shoulder and turned the vicomte so that they were face to face.

"One way or another, I will save Christine. It's my fault she's in there, and I'm going to get her out—with or without you! Now, kindly either get in there or get out of my way!"

Erik shoved the other man to the side and leapt into the darkness below.

The vicomte's eyes hardened. "Believe it or not, Monseiur Opera Ghost, I love her as much as you do—even if she does not feel the same—and I will not let her die on my account, for we are both to blame. I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

The Phantom glared up from the bottom. "Alright," he sighed, "but you had better not slow me down. Because I'm not waiting for you."

With a quick nod of understanding, Raoul followed suit, the trapdoor banging closed behind him. There was no turning back now.

As they ran down the stairs, they quickly found that the smoke was so thick they could barely breathe, and the heat was nearly unbearable. Raoul attempted to charge into the fire, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Not that way!" Erik yelled. "The flames are too high. There's another entrance to the theater down this hall. Come on!"

Raoul quickly lost count of the twists and turns they made as they stumbled their way through the smoke and found that he was suddenly quite thankful for having the Opera Ghost as his guide. The genedarmes wouldn't have dared to go to such lengths to rescue an humble singer—diva or not!—and on his own he would most definitely have ended up lost or dead…or both. It was strange, he noted, that only a few hours ago they had been literally at each other's throats and now they were behaving almost like brothers—estranged brothers, perhaps, but brothers nonetheless—having put their differences aside to save the one woman who was the center of both of their worlds. He shook his head. Tonight he had witnessed firsthand the power of love, and had come to the conclusion that love can make a man do many strange things—even kill—even forgive. He only hoped that they weren't too late.

Rounding one last corner, they burst into the theater in a location Raoul immediately recognized as box five. Thankfully, the position afforded them a rather nice view of the entire theater—a circumstance that he felt certain was not merely coincidence. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago, he had been watching the climactic scene of the Ghost's opera from this very spot! His eyes quickly scanned the area, looking for anything out of place. At first glance, there was nothing, but then he looked again.

"There!" He pointed to the far edge of the stage where Christine was trapped between a wall of flames and the scaffolding that had been used in the production of Don Juan Triumphant. "Christine! Christine!"

"Raoul?" she coughed. She had to squint to see through the smoke, feeling certain that the orange haze must be playing tricks on her mind, for there standing beside her beloved childhood friend was… Her eyes widened. "Angel?"

Erik immediately leapt over the railing, agile as a cat, and ran toward the stage. Raoul was quick to mimic the move—though his attempt was, admittedly, a bit less graceful.

Christine looked up nervously. The flames were pressing her further and further against the wall of wooden stairs. She knew that to climb the stairs would only prolong the inevitable, but there was nowhere else to go. She backed up a few steps, watching in horror as fiery orange tongues devoured the area where she had been standing less than a minute before.

"Go back!" she cried. There were tears streaming down her face. She was terrified, but she could not bear to watch both the men she loved—one as a brother, one as something more—die for what she had already accepted to be a lost cause. "Go back while you still can!"

Raoul ran to the center of the stage until he was just below the place where Don Juan and Aminta had begun their sensual display. He was convinced now that it had not been entirely an act on either Christine's part or the Phantom's—but he could worry about that later. Christine was near the top of the stairs now, trying to get as far away from the fire as possible. If she hurried, she could make it to the centerpiece before the other side of the scaffolding—already engulfed in flames—gave way. He held open his arms.

"Christine, JUMP!"

At that very moment, there was a horrible groan as a rafter from the ceiling—likely pulled loose by the falling of the chandelier—fell through, crushing the bottom half of the stairway on their side of the stage. Christine screamed. There was a momentary break in the flames, the heavy wooden beam forming a temporary bridge between the stage and the scaffolding, and Erik took the opportunity to run to Christine. But the flames closed as quickly as they had parted, and he found that he, too, was now trapped on the stairwell.

Raoul shifted uncomfortably under the stifling heat. The flames were closing in on him as well, as the beam—now on fire itself—had almost completely blocked his way off of the stage. And the other side of the scaffolding wouldn't hold up much longer. He looked up desperately.

"Christine, jump, NOW! We can still make it if you hurry!"

"No, Raoul! There's not enough time! You have to go NOW!"

As if to prove her point, another rafter suddenly gave way, sealing off his last chance of escape. If he didn't go now, there would be no other way out.

"Raoul, please!" she begged.

It was already beginning to burn. In the time it would have taken her to wade her way out to the center of the rather unsteady scaffolding, it would already be too late. Reluctantly, he hopped over the beam and leapt off of the stage. He stood, watching helplessly as his final hope of reaching her literally went up in smoke. There were tears in his boyish blue eyes.

"Christine…Christine, I love you."

She smiled sadly. "I know, Raoul. I know. I'm sorry that I could not return the affections that you deserve," her voice was breaking, "but you will always remain in my heart as my dearest friend."

"And you in mine." He felt the first of what was soon to be many wet tracks slip down his cheek. He looked to Erik. "Monsieur, I—"

Whatever words might have been running through his mind were quieted with one glance from his former rival. They spoke no words aloud, but Christine got the impression that they had come to a sort of silent understanding. Erik gave a nod of approval, and Raoul returned the gesture.

"Go, Raoul!" Christine cried. "Go NOW!"

He turned to leave but dared one final glance over his shoulder. "I'll come back for you," he called. "Both of you!"

But all three of them knew that this would be their final goodbye. By the time that the fire brigade arrived, there wouldn't be anyone left to save.

Christine watched forlornly as his white shirt disappeared beyond a veil of smoke. At least one of them would make it out alive. The fire was climbing ever higher, and they had been all but pushed to the center of the platform that overlooked the stage. They were back where they had started—no longer a dashing Don Juan and amorous Aminta but instead a fallen angel and a fearful little girl.

"Angel," she whispered, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist, "Angel, I'm scared."

"I know. Oh, Christine!" Her name was like a reverent prayer upon his lips. "Christine, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

She shook her head sadly, bringing a gentle hand up to cup his marred cheek. "Don't be. If not for all of this, I might never have realized where my heart truly lies. Oh, Angel, I—"

"Erik," he corrected her.

Two perfectly shaped eyebrows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"My name…" He looked down, ashamed that he had not revealed his true identity sooner. "My real name is Erik."

"It's a lovely name." Christine smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It suits you."

She started to say something else, but before she could finish, a part of the left stairwell gave way, causing the entire structure to shudder and nearly knocking Christine off her feet, but Erik reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her into a fierce embrace. She was close now—closer than she'd been only moments before, closer than she'd been in Don Juan—and yet she did not pull away. She could smell the fabric of his shirt—mold and musk and something else she couldn't quite place. It was a raw, earthy smell of dampness and darkness that now seemed worlds away. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine being back in the lair, resting in the swan bed with a soft blanket draped over her shoulders and the peaceful sound of Erik's lullaby still lingering in the air. And suddenly she noticed that—despite the heat of the flames—the material against her cheek was wet and there were wet tracks in her hair, and she realized that they both were crying.

"You know," she struggled to find her voice, "when I was a child, I often longed for the day when I would meet my Angel of Music." She pulled back just enough so that she could look up into his eyes. "Now I have found him, and he is even better than I dreamed he'd be." She watched as Erik's expression went from being one of utter disbelief to one of complete adoration and ardor. She faltered. "But I never imagined that our story would end like this."

"Neither did I." Erik brushed back a stray curl from her face—her absolutely perfect porcelain face that was staring up at his own monstrous features with more love than he had known his whole life—and knew that if died this very moment, he could now say that he had truly lived. He dared to bring his lips just a little closer to her ear. "But at least we can end it together. I have you now, willingly—something I could hardly dare to hope—and now that you are in my arms, I promise that I will never let you go."

Christine could not hold back her tears. "I love you, Erik."

And somehow their lips found one another and they were suddenly wrapped up in a kiss—a kiss not of pity or of compulsion but of forgiveness and love and passion. Even as the world around them was falling apart—the air thick with ashes, the flames licking at their feet—their lives were finally coming together. And for a moment, nothing else in the world mattered. Not even the splintering wood beneath their feet. Not even the falling cinders that singed their skin. Not even the final moan of the left section of scaffolding as it gave way and crumbled into ashes.

Having reached the door, Raoul turned just in time to see the platform collapse, burying the lovers and their secrets in a heap of rubble, and watched the flaming curtain fall.

Nearly two weeks after the fire, the gossip surrounding the Paris Opera House and the masked murderer had finally died down. The Opera Ghost was dead, and Parisians could once again sleep soundly at night. The Phantom was old news.

The death of the young soprano, however, had come as a bit of a shock, and many mourned her passing, though none so much as the Vicomte de Chagny who had reportedly seen her and her disfigured lover come to a rather grisly end. In fact, some news reports claimed that the bodies had been entirely consumed by the fire. Some shook their heads and wagged their tongues—why the girl had chosen such an unsightly fiend over the handsome vicomte was beyond them, and they rather thought she deserved her fate. Others sighed at the poetic tragedy of it all—a forbidden romance destined for doom; they were Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde. If anything, their deaths had been the greatest living opera the world had ever known, a tribute to their love. Still others grieved in silence at the loss of such great talent; regardless of her personal life, Christine Daaé had made her mark in the world of opera, and she would be sorely missed.

But Raoul took in all of this—the well-meaning condolences as well as a few rather rude remarks—with a sort of quiet detachment. He had not been the same since the night of the accident. His eyes had lost their youthful spark, replaced with the tired indifference of a man who has lost everything. He knew he had been losing her to the ghost for quite some time—the way she'd clung to him on stage, the way she'd kissed him in the dungeons—though her lips proclaimed her love for him alone, there was no question what her heart and body wanted. Yes, he'd been losing her for quite some time. Perhaps he never even had her to begin with.

The Phantom had been her confidant during her time of need, her friend when she was alone, her angel when she needed comfort. And where had he been all of this time? Delivering speeches? Hosting parties? Entertaining guests? He had all but forgotten about his childhood sweetheart until the night he heard her sing. If she had remained a chorus girl, would he have even noticed her, he wondered? In fact, before her grand debut, he might have very well walked by her without so much as a smile. He groaned. There was so much he needed to say—so much he needed to tell her! But he had missed the opportunity and now would have to be content with confiding his words to a polished stone in the cemetery.

He had paid for the monument himself, knowing all too well that the opera managers wouldn't and the Girys couldn't afford to. It was a nice statue carved out of pink granite—a little child grasping the hand of an angel. If the child resembled a much younger Christine and the angel just so happened to look like a handsomer version of the Opera Ghost, it could have been a coincidence. If people whispered, what did it matter? Let them speculate what they would. The vicomte knew now that there was more to the famous masked man than met the eye, and if Christine had loved him as he now knew she did, the least he could do was offer a tribute to the man who had watched over her when he had not—a man he barely knew yet who had had a most profound impact on his life.

Who was this man who had captured Christine's heart and won her love despite his face, despite his crimes, despite everything that should have driven her away? Indeed, Raoul knew that he had only scratched the surface in the brief glimpse he'd been given into the Phantom's life. He didn't even know the man's name! What he did know, however, was that he had loved Christine enough to die for her, and that love—however misguided it might have been—was enough to earn his respect. He wondered whether they might have lived happily without him, if he had never darkened the doors of the opera house. Would the Opera Ghost have killed? Would there have been a fire at all? For all his good-intentioned meddling, Raoul had failed to notice that he wanted the infamous Phantom dead for more reasons than one—not all of which were unselfish. And in that respect he was no better than the Opera Ghost.

But now all he wanted was Christine alive and happy. And whether she was happy in his arms or happy in the arms of another, he would have gladly accepted her decision…if only she had been alive to make it. That her death was at least partially his fault was enough to drive him mad with grief, but there was nothing to be done now, for all the apologies in the world could not bring her back. At the very least, he hoped that in death she would find the love that life had denied her in being cut short, a fragile flower picked before it had the chance to bloom. That she was in the arms of the angels, he had no doubt, but if one particular angel wasn't there, heaven's light wouldn't glow quite as bright to her. The Opera Ghost had made his peace with vicomte before his untimely death; he could only hope and pray for Christine's sake that the man had made his peace with God as well.

Stepping out of the carriage into the crisp winter air, Raoul nodded his thanks to the coachman and instructed him to return within an hour or two. He watched them leave with a mixture of unease and regret, and for a brief moment, he considered running after them on the pretense that he had just remembered an appointment or forgotten some invaluable item at home. But he stopped. If Christine had been brave enough to face her own death, then he would force himself to be brave enough to accept it. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the wrought iron gates and, after a moment's hesitation, walked into the cemetery.

The last time he had been here, he'd ridden in on a white horse—the knight in shining armor come to rescue his fair maiden from the demon's deadly claws. But this time he could see things as they were—as they had always been. There had never been a damsel in distress nor a villain that needed defeating—just two confused characters who hadn't really known how to love one another and a well-meaning prince who didn't know how to leave well enough alone. The last time he had been here, he had been looking for a fight. This time, he came searching for peace.

Approaching the pink granite monument, he suddenly found that all the words he'd planned to say had run dry and he had to swallow back the lump in his throat that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He had seen the statue before, of course, but seeing it here was different. The artist had done a remarkable job, and the child—with her short curls and her pudgy cheeks and her angelic smile—looked for all the world like the little girl he'd first met by the sea. Indeed, she was so realistic that he kept waiting for her little scarf to blow away in the breeze, for her little hands to clap, for her little bubbling voice to laugh or sing—even as a child he knew she'd someday be a star. But the little girl he knew had grown up; the little girl he knew was gone; and this little girl, he knew, would never sing. . Covering her face with the palm of his hand, he leaned his head against the statue and finally allowed himself to weep for the girl that he had loved and woman that he had lost. The flowers he'd been carrying slipped silently to the ground.

Brushing away the tears that still clouded his eyes, he knelt to gather the bouquet, but when he moved to place the flowers near the foot of the gravestone, he noticed that someone had already beaten him to it. There, lying in the freshly fallen snow, was a single red rose with a white ribbon—a ribbon that he felt certain he'd seen before on a soggy wedding dress in the cellars of the opera. His heart skipped a beat. There was only one person who would have left such a token, and there was only one person who would have been wearing that dress. And both of them were supposed to be dead.

Taking the flower gingerly between his fingers, he slowly stood, glancing around for any sign that he was not alone. There were no tracks, of course—the freshly fallen snow had seen to that well enough, ensuring that the mysterious mourners would never be found…just as the heap of ashes and a rather unsteady roof had seen to it that the trapdoor beneath the stage would remain undetected, forgotten along with the rest of Don Juan Triumphant in the panic of the fire. It was a secret that the Phantom would spend the remainder of his life trying to protect, and it was a secret that Raoul would take to the grave. Smiling, he replaced the rose in its original position and turned to leave.

"Well done, Opera Ghost," he whispered. "Well done."

Okay, just to clarify things for anyone who didn't quite understand the ending, Erik & Christine are BOTH alive and well. When the platform they were on collapsed, they fell through the trapdoor that Erik used during the performance of Don Juan Triumphant to take Christine to his lair after she exposed his face. Raoul was so worked up about the fire (and the fact that their "death" looked so convincing!) that he completely forgot about the trapdoor. Erik & Christine are counting on the audience to have forgotten as well in the panic that ensued and allow Raoul to believe that they are dead long enough to get a strong alibi going. I should mention, however, that Erik & Christine did NOT have this entire thing planned out from the beginning. It was just sort of a last-minute decision on Erik's part that saved them.