A/N: None of these characters belong to me, but if ALW is willing to negotiate I'm sure we can work things out… this is just a little ditty that would not leave me alone so I had to write it. I hope you enjoy it! This was completely edited and re-worked, so on with the show!
Thanks so much to: aries-chica56andStar3for being my first original reviewers! And Doomed Delight for being the first to review this new version.
JIC: (I am NOT in anyway, shape or form a RC shipper! I love Erik)
'A collectors piece indeed… every detail exactly as she said… she often spoke of you my friend… your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead… will you still play, when all the rest of us are dead?'
"Monsieur? Is everything alright?" My nurse asked me. Always an intuitive soul she was.
"Yes, everything is fine Marie. Come, we must go now. We must visit Christine."
As she was turning me around in my wheelchair, I thought I saw a flicker of a cape out of the corner of my eye, but no, it couldn't be I reasoned. I must have been imagining things. You begin to see everything and nothing in old age.
We arrived at Perros in the late afternoon of a particularly nasty day. The ground was covered with dirty snow as it usually was at this time of year. We made our way to my dear Christine's tomb and I placed the music box on top of it. I know she would have wanted it. I looked over to the side of the grave and I noticed the most beautiful red rose I had ever seen in my life, ornamented with a black ribbon. I gasped and looked around for any sign of movement. I may be old, but I am not yet senile. This time I knew I was not seeing things when I saw a man watching me from afar. They were the same haunted eyes I could never forget. We looked at each other then, but there was no more rage, no more contempt on either of our parts. We were now simply two men grieving for the loss of our most treasured love. He nodded to me and with a swish of his cape, he was gone. I stirred out of my musings when I felt Marie turn me towards the gates. As I looked back into the dusk, I could not help but remember of what became of my love, my Christine…
…We arrived at the shore across the lake and as we were making our escape, she stopped and begged me to go back and stop the mob. I was horrified that she was asking me to risk my life for the man who had just tried to kill me but I think it was then that I began to understand that she had cared for the Phantom greatly. She urged me to hurry, to please help him.
I managed to get to the other side seconds before the mob entered the Phantom's lair. I told them he had let us go and had abandoned it, taking everything of value with him. By some act of God, they believed me. I guess being a Vicomte did have its advantages. A few angry men still wanted to ransack his home, "Revenge for Buquet and Piangi" they claimed, and while I had the mind to do some damage myself, I thought of Christine's pleas for mercy. For her, I stopped them and directed them back to the surface.
I noticed that little Meg Giry lingered behind with her mother and she bent down to pick up a tattered piece of cloth. His mask. I assume she asked Madame Giry why the Phantom would leave his mask behind because at that precise moment, we locked eyes and she responded that if the Phantom saw it fit, he would return for what was his. After that declaration, I always looked behind me, waiting for him to strike and take Christine from me again. It wasn't until much later that I realized that he didn't have to take her from me. She was never mine to begin with.
After that ordeal, Christine was never the same again. For the first few months, not a word was spoken about her trials with the Phantom. She would laugh like always, she looked happy, but the twinkle her eyes always held was gone. I knew she loved me, in her own way, but her eyes showed none of the passion I had seen in them during her days at the opera... the days when she sang with him.
We were married soon thereafter. On our wedding night, she brought up the subject of the infamous Phantom of the Opera. She asked me if he had ever been caught. I told her that as far as I knew he was still alive. She gave a little sigh of relief and quickly laughed to cover it up. But I knew. She asked me to share my thoughts on the whole situation with her, about what had occurred. I told her I thought his genius had turned to madness. She started to sob, told me that everything was her fault. I tried to comfort her as best I could, but she would have none of it. Every time she managed to control herself, she lost herself in the same breath. She cried herself to sleep that night as I watched over her in a silent vigil.
Her state only got progressively worse after that. She never broke down in front of me again but she would lock herself in our room for hours at a time. Her tormented sobs could be heard throughout the entire house. I tried to talk to her but she refused to speak to me. One day I realized that she had locked herself in our room since very early in the morning and it was already past midnight. I started to bang on the door in desperation. When I could hear nothing, I pressed my ear against the door, hoping beyond hope to hear something. Anything. Anything to assure me that she was still in this world. I heard her pick up her skirts and walk up to the door. She told me that she wished to be alone and for no one to disturb her. She came out three days later.
She took up her singing once again, but only for her private enjoyment. She vowed she would never sing for the Opera again, not on its stage at least. She became a vocal instructor to the delight of Monsieur Reyer. Monsieur's Firmin and Andre decided that performing Carmen would somehow purge the ghost of the Phantom of the Opera. Christine auditioned hopefuls for the parts of Carmen and Micaela, finally selecting a young girl of merely 18 and another of 17 to be under her tutelage. She devoted most of the waking hours to the production; under her direction it became one of the best received operas of the year.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened until several months later, when Carmen was approaching its closing date. Apparently, one of the members of the corps de ballet mentioned that they had seen the Opera Ghost in his full regalia watching the performance from Box 5. Christine fainted and Meg called for me frantically. I took her back home and she slept until the next morning. Everyday from then on, she would go into the guest room and stay in there for an hour, thus beginning what she called her "Rituals of Peace." Curiosity got the better of me one day and despite her wishes to not go near the room when she occupied it, I stood outside and listened. I could hear her having an animated conversation with someone, but with whom? I barged in and saw her on the bed talking to the floor-length mirror. I must have looked like a gaping fool for she hurriedly shooed me out of the room and told me to wait for her outside. She closed the door and I strained to hear her mutter a sincere apology. She came out and very calmly asked me never to invade her privacy again. She walked past me swiftly but I still caught her hushed words…
"Forgive me, my Angel. It shan't happen again I promise you."
You can imagine how alarmed I was by the phrase. I rushed after her and asked her to repeat what she had just spoken. She just looked at me, smiled, and said, "Oh Raoul, sweet Raoul, you would never understand. Just love me, that is all I ask of you." I stared at her and told her that I would always love her, no matter what. She just giggled and continued on her way.
Later that week she resumed her post at the Opera. Once Carmen was over she took it upon herself to investigate different operas and came across one in particular that she liked. Aida it was called. The managers loved her idea and she proceeded to make it a grand success. Everything seemed to be going well on the surface, she was happy with her work and everyone loved her… It was only when she thought she was alone that she would mutter nonsense under her breath.
One day, I heard her whispers become louder and louder until she was shrieking about hearing voices in her head. Her screams were deafened only by the sounds of breaking glass. I found her crouched in the corner shaking violently, telling herself that she had reached the point of no return. I vaguely remembered the song as a part of the Phantom's opera Don Juan Triumphant, so I took her into my arms and held her. I quickly looked around and noticed that she had broken every mirror in the room with her bare fists. I cleaned her cuts and asked her if she would like to take a walk in the park. She looked at me with not an ounce of her former despair and told me that she would like that. We were the picture of the perfect couple, at least we were until we reached a statue of an angel. She started pointing at it, claiming that she saw shadows moving around it, mocking her. She buried her face on my shoulder and begged me to take her back home. She went without incident for another month.
We were visiting my brother and his family when little Colette, our niece, ran up to Christine and hugged her. Christine lifted her up, placed her on her lap, and told her that the Angel of Music still sang songs in her head. The wine glass I held shattered. Everyone looked at me and to calm myself down, I began to laugh. I told Christine that it was a very funny joke but that I feared little Colette would not understand it. Christine looked at me as if I were a child who needed scolding and told me that Erik would not be pleased to hear me speak of him as a joke. She told me that children understood more than they appeared to. She turned back to Colette and started to sing about someone who sang in her sleep and came to her in her dreams. Her voice got lower, until it was barely a whisper, but I heard her clearly when she said that the Phantom of the Opera was there, inside her mind. I quickly excused myself amidst the inquiring faces and headed for the library. I poured myself a glass of brandy to soothe my jumbled nerves. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, I returned to Christine. The rest of the evening went by with no more incidents or mentions of the Phantom, or Erik. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony that it took me so long to even learn my rival's name.
On the carriage ride back home, I felt Christine take my hand and I turned to look at her. She explained to me that Erik's ghost was visiting her and that it was to his ghost that she devoted her mornings to. She then told me that she had been having horrific dreams of his demise and that she felt guilty for being the cause of it. She told me she heard a plethora of voices condemning her inside her mind. I began to weep for my sweet and innocent Christine. She hugged me with all her might as she tried to comfort me. I told her that I was sorry I was not able to drive her nightmares away. She looked at me, clearly puzzled by my words. She then began to laugh merrily and said, "Don't you know that I love you Raoul?" She looked at me a little more closely and asked me why I was crying. "Did you hurt yourself my love?" she asked me concerned.
"No, no my darling, everything is fine. Everything is fine." I told her. Yes, Christine de Chagny loved me, but she also loved him.
Normalcy reigned in my household for a few years after that event, with the exception of Christine's daily visits with "Erik," which would continue for the rest of her days.
On her 23rd birthday, she told me she was with child. I was elated of course and I made sure that her pregnancy went smoothly. She got bigger by the second, but she looked so happy. She would often sit on the balcony overlooking the gardens, singing, reading, or just talking to our child. It was one morning while I was observing her undetected, that I heard her tell the baby that his birth would be celebrated because the Angel of Music would appear and bless him with the talents he had possessed. I shuddered at the thought, but for Christine's sake, slipped away without a sound.
She gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She named him Erik to my great surprise and dismay. Perhaps I should not have been so surprised. I said nothing of my discomfort. I did not want to lessen the happiness that only Little Erik had managed to produce again. Christine threw herself into preparations for the baptism. She spent countless hours overseeing that every detail was cared for. I don't even remember her putting so much of herself into our wedding. During the ceremony, Christine began to look around widely, demanding for her Angel show himself, to be a part of HIS child's life. Her pleas tore my heart to pieces in the most fowl way and now, as I think back, if it was indeed him in the shadows, I imagine it hurt him as much as it hurt me. The guests created an uproar of gossip, claiming that my wife had been more perturbed by the events at the opera house that anyone had realized. I quickly quenched those rumors by stating that she had been taking medicine for an illness, laudanum. Christine was sedated. When she awoke, she had no recollection of her outburst.
Little Erik grew fast, and just as she had said that day on the balcony, he was blessed with unique talents. By the time he was five, he had already mastered the grand piano and was learning the violin. Christine carried on as usual, working at the Opera House, until she contracted a mysterious illness that left her weak and without a voice for weeks. Singing began to tire her immensely, and the quality of her voice had lost its majesty. Christine was very upset at first. She grew restless and soon found that only her son managed to distract her from her thoughts. She devoted herself to little Erik entirely after that. She was a loving but firm mother. It was only on a seldom occasion that I heard murmurings among the household staff that the Vicomtess had suffered a relapse and had locked herself in her room while I was away. Thank heavens Little Erik seemed to be in tune with his mother, for he never asked questions about her behavior…
… Our life was good. We were happy. Little Erik grew up to be a fine gentleman and is now one of the Opera House's greatest patrons. It seemed that soon after Christine's final departure from the Opera Populaire, interest in its productions dwindled drastically. Little Erik is a part of the Renovation Project, meant to restore the Opera to its former grandeur.
Christine was 40 when her coughing fits began. The coughs grew to be so violent that they would leave her greatly debilitated and with frequent dizzy spells. Doctors from around the continent were consulted, but not one of them could tell me what was wrong with her. Most importantly, no one could tell me how to help her. Christine had always been thin and pale, but her illness soon began to consume her to the point where she could no longer get up from her bed. A strange man knocked on my door one morning asking to see her. He said he was an old friend of hers from the Opera.. Against my better judgment, I let him in. He said his name was Nadir.
He walked to where Christine lay and took her hand in his. "I heard your call Mademoiselle Daae, I am here." She stirred from her slumber at his words and her eyes began to shine brightly before finally spilling over with her tears. "Oh Nadir!" she cried. Nadir implored me with his eyes to give them a minute so I quietly left the room. I very much doubt Christine even realized I had been in there in the first place.
Nadir left shortly after and Christine seemed to get a little better. A few days later, when I suppose she felt strong enough, she told me she wanted to make one last trip to the Opera. She wanted to say goodbye. I balked at first. I knew what she meant. How could I let her go down there again especially in her condition? She gave me a soulful, begging gaze and I had no choice but to relent. How could I refuse her? I told her that I wanted to go with her. "No," she said, "I must do this on my own." We compromised; I would accompany her to her old dressing room and wait for her until she returned. Thankfully the young soprano occupying the dressing room had grown up watching Christine teach and was in great awe of her. The girl didn't even falter when Christine asked her if she could spend the afternoon reminiscing. "Of course Madame, it would be my honor. You will find that everything is still in its proper place, not a thing was changed, at least not by me," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. Before we could question her about her meaning, she had already sprinted down the hall and out of our sight.
We walked inside and I locked the door. Christine made her way to the mirror, and seeing that everything was in order, bid me farewell. I sat there, alone, thinking, reflecting on my whole life. I think a part of me knew Christine would not be with me for much longer, and it seems she knew too. She finally returned, much, much later, with an incredibly peaceful expression on her face. She grabbed my hands and hugged me with all her might.
"Thank you, for always supporting me, even when you did not understand what was going on in my head… even when I did not know what was going on in my head." She laughed bitterly, walking away from me a bit before turning to me again. "You must have realized how… how distorted my thoughts could be. I… I was going mad Raoul and I didn't know why. You must have realized how insane some of the things I said and did were." She sighed wearily and brushed some stray locks out of her face. "I am sorry. You didn't deserve the life I gave you. Little Erik didn't deserve the life I gave him. I just didn't know what was wrong with me! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She broke off sobbing and I grabbed her into a fierce embrace and told her that she was wrong; that I loved her and that that was all that mattered. "I know," she said, "I know. I love you."
She began to cough violently and she sustained herself on the divan while I handed her my handkerchief. She stopped, looked at me gratefully, and promptly fainted. I rushed at her side and picked her up, not before noticing that her blood had smeared the handkerchief. I hurried back home and called the doctor. Fearing the worst, I called Little Erik as well. The doctor arrived and Little Erik arrived shortly thereafter, but by that time, Christine had developed an incredibly high fever and was thrashing on her bed. The doctor tended to her quickly, but by the look on his face, he didn't give us much hope.
Suddenly, I heard the door knock. I swung the door open and there stood Nadir, along with a hooded figure. I felt more than saw intense, penetrating eyes boring into my very soul and I felt an immense anger begin to boil in my veins. It was only Christine's wails of anguish that quenched my anger. "Please monsieur, he means no harm," Nadir told me. I looked at the Phantom, Erik, who now pleaded with ME to be with Christine.
"I know I have no right to ask this of you, but please, let me be with her until she passes. I… felt her call out for me." I clenched my fists at that, but I took a deep breath and nodded reluctantly. "Hurry," I heard myself say, "She doesn't have much time."
When I went back to Christine, I saw my son beside the weeping man, offering him a little comfort. "How did you know my mother," I heard him ask. "I… I was her voice instructor for a very long time," he eventually responded. Little Erik seemed satisfied with his answer and went back to his vigil. Christine's moans grew in intensity and soon became ear splitting. Erik took her hand in his and began to sing for her.
"Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…"
By the end of the song I was openly weeping, for my love, for her life, and even if I hadn't realized it then, for the Phantom, for Erik. I cried because I knew that I had done many things wrong in my life and because I had failed Christine. I cried because I imagined that Erik felt the same way. I grabbed a chair for myself and sat on Christine's other side. I picked up her other hand and rested my head on top of it. I heard Little Erik ask Erik his name. He gasped quietly, "You are her Angel of Music then! You are the reason she named me Erik." I looked up and saw Erik looking at me and I nodded.
It was many hours later when her fever broke. By that time, Madame and Meg Giry had received word of Christine's condition and were crowded in her room along with the doctor, Nadir, Erik, Little Erik, and myself. She awoke the next morning. She scanned the room and rested her gaze on every one of us, silently comforting us, silently leaving her mark of us all. She held up the hand that lay entwined with Erik's to her lips and kissed it, and did the same to mine. She kissed Little Erik on the forehead. "I am so glad that you are all here. So glad. Always remember that I love you all. Always." She gaze us a brilliant smile to remember her by and she closed her eyes for one last time.
Rain wouldn't stop falling on the day of her funeral. It was almost as if the heavens knew and shared our suffering. There were many people in attendance, family, friends, her pupils from the Opera House. When her casket was lowered… I wanted to crawl in there and die with her. It was the most heart-wrenching moment of my life.
It took me a great many months before I could bring myself to live again. Little Erik met and fell in love with the young soprano Christine and I had met shortly before her death. They were married and now have a precious little girl named Chantal, who seems to have inherited her grandmother's gifts…
…It was the thought of my grandchild that interrupted my memories. I turned around once more to bid my final farewell to my love. As I reached the gates, I heard a faint melody from long ago…
"Masquerade, paper faces on parade… Masquerade hide your face so the world will never find you"
A/N: I keep thinking of making this into a series, like having two more installments telling Christine's side and Erik's side of the story... opinions?