Author's Note: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or anything that relates to it (such as the characters, items, places, names, etc.) All I own are the CDs, the book, and the movies. :P You do not have to read it, I will not force or beg you to. If you do not like it, you don't have to read it. Enjoy!
Dedication: This is dedicated to Erik, the Angel of Music. I felt so bad for him and I thought the ending of Andrew Lloyd Webber's film "The Phantom of the Opera" starring Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum, wasn't complete without an appearance by the Phantom. After all, he had left a red rose with a ring at Christine's grave. And a friend gave me this idea. This is also dedicated to my sisters: Sayko and Yuna. Sayko, thanks for RPGing with me and Yuna for introducing me The Phantom of the Opera. I love you guys. My family, because without them I would lost - I love you. My friends, they're a part of my family. And to all you readers, because without you, I would probably not be on this site right now.
Author's Second Note: The part where Christine leaves Erik to go with Raoul in Don Juan Triumphant
Paris, 1870
He watched her leave. He felt the ring which she had given back feel warm against his cold skin. He felt lost as he watched her leave with her lover. And as she began singing with him, the Angel wished it was he who she was singing for:
Say you'll share with me
One love, one lifetime
He wished she sang longer as her lover sang back:
Say the word and I will follow you
I would say the word, Christine. He thought bitterly and stared straight into his beloved Christine's brown eyes.
Share each day with me
Each night, each moment
The boat turned a corner and his love was gone forever from his sight. He clung onto some hope that she would come back, running to him. She never did. He turned his eyes from the lake and looked down at the ring in his palm. He felt a tear trickle down from his right deformed eye. Couldn't she see? Couldn't she see that he would kill for her? Die for her?
No. All she saw was a man with a distorted face.
He breathed in and began singing softly:
Save me from my solitude
Say you'll share each day
With me
Each night, each moment...
He couldn't sing that song. It was not his, it was hers. His hand which held the ring formed into a fist and he looked up to the mirrors that he kept. It's over, he thought. It's over. He paced towards the mirror and lifted a candlestick and made for the mirrors, stopping in front of them as he sang with bitterness and anger:
It's over now!
The music of the night...!
He broke every mirror. He did not want to see himself or remind himself that she had left him because of the distortion. That was why she left him... right? He didn't care what the answer was. He broke all the mirrors and the last one he broke, his hidden secret passageway was opened.
He looked back to where his beloved had disappeared. He clung to that hope still. Would she come back and kiss him? Sing to him that she was here to stay?
No.
He looked away in pain and walked into the passageway and into darkness, dropping the candlestick but holding onto the ring that had been - for a short while - Christine's.
Paris, 1919
The Vicmote de Chagny gently laid the music box in front of his beloved's grave. He straighten up as best as he could since his legs as well as his body weren't as strong as forty years ago. He looked at Christine's picture and the words beneath it. She had passed away too soon.
How could life be cruel? He had prayed that the Angel would release her. And when he had, he felt overjoyed - he and Christine could spend a lifetime together. But her lifetime had come to it's end too soon. He choked back a sob. As he turned his face away in pain, his eyes fell on what was besides his wife's grave. His weary blue eyes slightly widen.
A red rose with a black ribbon.
He knew what it meant. Christine had received countless roses like these during her years at the Opera Populaire before the fire. The Vicmote lifted his face and searched the cemetery for the Angel. He saw a swirl of a black coat next to a statue. He held his breath. He had come. He had come to deliver the rose to his beloved... their beloved. The old man looked down at the rose. Something glittered in the sun.
It was a ring. A silver ring with a beautiful dark jewel. The Vicmote knew he could tell the police of this and they would immediately hunt down the murderous Angel, but he did not do that.
Instead, he lifted his eyes and said softly, "Erik, I'm sorry." He knew this pained the Angel that the death of his beloved Christine was too much. It must have taken him a lot of courage for him to come and lay one last rose for her.
It was a while before the Vicmote left, and he left with a heavy heart as he did when he visited his love. But, this time, his heart was heavier.
The Angel stepped away from the statue that he had hid himself behind when the Vicmote left. He had heard his apology. And the Angel felt the burden on his heart grow heavier. He slowly walked over to Christine's grave. He knelt down in front of her grave and read the words beneath her beautiful picture. She was married once, she had children who probably had children. The Angel felt tears threatened his eyes.
He stared down at the papier-mâché music box. His music box. He whined it up and played it. He smiled, the music was still as beautiful as he last heard forty years ago. When he last heard it, he had sung the lyrics to the masquerade and told Christine for the first time that he loved her. And that was when she gave him back her wedding ring that he had given her. That was when she refused him.
He could still remember the hope in his heart reflected in his eyes looking up at her. And the disappointment as well as the heartbreak when she slipped the wedding band off her finger. Oh, how he loved her! And how that Vicmote stole her from him. But then, the Angel let his hatred for the Vicmote die. It wasn't his fault that he had fallen in love with a beautiful woman as Christine.
The Angel pulled out a violin from the insides of his cloak. He had not played in forty years. He rest the bottom of violin on his shoulder and rested his chin on it. Christine had loved the violin, her father had played it. He opened his mouth and breathed in slowly. He had not sing in a long time, forty years to be exact.
No one would listen
No one, but her
Heard as the outcast hears
He slowly played the violin as he sang, letting a soft sweet but sad tune escape.
Shame into solitude
Shunned by the multitude
I learned to listen
In the dark, my heart heard music
I long to teach the world
Rise up and reach the world
No one would listen
I alone could hear the music
And at last
A voice in the gloom
Seem to cry "I hear you,
"I hear your fears, your torment,
And your tears"
She saw my loneliness
Shed in my emptiness
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears
He stopped playing the violin and let it rest on the other side of Christine's grave. He made a sobbing sound but no tears fell down from his eyes. He leaned down and laid himself in front of his beloved's grave. Before he slipped into the cold darkness for the last time, he sang the last words:
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears