I'm not overly happy with this fic. I started writing it aaaages ago, then forgot about it. But I just finished the video to it, so I thought that I'd better actually finish the fic as well. I had originally planned for it to be a much longer, more indepth story, but I got impatient. Sorry. Hope you like it anyway. The video can be found at: http : // www. youtube. com/ watch?v=2 _ v9BXJOLDg
The woods outside speed by as the carriage hurtled along at a quick pace. It was a grey morning in August, and there was the smell of rain on the brisk wind. Inside the carriage, sheltered from the cold, Christine Daee sat alone, her mind twirling.
For the first time in two years, she was returning.
Two years since her voice and spirit had soared; since she had left with Raoul… since she had left Erik alone.
She was going back to the Opera House.
She ignored the whisper of 'going home' in her mind.
The reason for her return was still clutched painfully in her fist. A small newspaper article, dated from the day before. She glanced down at it with worried eyes.
Paris Opera House to be Opened Once More
Despite the terrible condition that the Opera House was left in after the infamous Chandelier Fire just over two years ago, it is rumoured that the building will soon be open for business once more. Monsieur Debonte, a wealthy Paris born actor, bought the Opera at the end of last year, and began reconstruction not long after. When asked, Debonte declined an interview, saying that he wished to wait for the grand Re-Opening, which is planned for the first of November. Our sources say that the opening date had originally been the first of September, but due to mysterious mishaps during reconstruction, the date had to be put back. These unexplained happenings have spurred rumours amongst the old staff of the Opera house (some of who are returning to their former positions). They believe that the Opera Ghost may very well still occupy the building. Paris awaits the 1st with anticipation, though whether it is for the return of their beloved Opera or the promise of the Phantom that once haunted those halls that causes the excitement, this journalist cannot say.
She hadn't told Raoul that she was leaving. He would have probably come over for tea, as he usually did on Sundays, to find the house empty.
She wasn't going back.
She knew as the carriage stopped outside the Opera House that she could never go back to Raoul.
This was her home. This was where she belonged.
And the one she belonged with was still inside. She just knew it.
It was different to how she remembered. The Opera was practically deserted, from what she could tell from the small balcony above the stage. It was so different to how it used to be – crowded, full of life and laughter. She could see a small group of men up in the theatre, but Christine couldn't see what it was they were doing until a yell went up from one of them, and all of a sudden, something was being lifted up into place.
The Chandelier.
Christine turned and hurried away, down into the backstage corridors of the theatre. She didn't even realise it, but her feet had taken her straight to her old room. The door creaked as she opened it, and she nearly sneezed from the assault of dust in the air.
No one had been in here for a very long time.
No one had been out, either.
Christine moved through the room, her hand resting fleetingly on the chair, and other things that had once been so familiar to her. Something caught her eye – the only splash of colour in the otherwise aged room.
A single red rose tied with a black ribbon was resting on her vanity table.
A trembling hand reached out to pick it up.
It hadn't taken Christine long to make up her mind.
She had to see if he was still there.
She had begun making her way down the passage, her memory of been lead down there by her masked angel clouding over the sight she saw before her.
It was dark, and cold. The candles were gone from the brackets, and cobwebs assaulted her at every possible chance.
She didn't mind.
She had been waiting for this for years now. She wasn't going back.
He had to still be there.
He was. She could hear him. Could hear his music.
It was lilting, and sorrowful, lacking all the passion and promise that it had once held – but it was there, and that was promise enough for Christine.
She began running through the passageway, finally reaching the edge of the lake. She could see him, sitting at his organ, his fingers delicately pressing against the keys.
She stared for a moment, just taking in the reality that he was here.
He must have felt her eyes on him, for he turned around suddenly.
As she rode across the lake in the small dinghy he kept, Christine's mind was flooded with images of him taking her into his arms, of his love; of them before everything had changed.
As she reached the shore, he was slowly moving towards her, questioning disbelief on his face as she stared at him.
"Christine? Is that my Christine?" he asked, stretching out a tentative hand, not daring to believe it wasn't another cruel dream.
She stood, and took it, her hand solid and reassuring against his.
Christine had a feeling that everything was going to be just as it was.
As it should always have been.
Erik was dumbfounded, and could not speak.
All he had been able to think of, for two years…
"You left..." He managed to say, before turning and making his way back up to the organ, refusing to look at her.
Christine stared after him, thinking quickly.
Her home, her love, her family and friends – was she willing to give up her life, for the masked angel before her?
And then she realised: currently, she had none of those things. And neither did Erik.
Because she was hishome, his love, his family, his one friend – She was his entire life...
Yes. She was willing. More than.
Christine walked silently up behind Erik, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Yes. I left."
She placed the rose from her dressing room into his hands.
"But I came back."
And she placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed him.