((Hi, guys! This is my first Phantom fanfic, so it might not be that great, but I have been so in love with the film and book, I figured I'd give it a go. I hope ya'll enjoy it and tell me what you think!))
Tale of the Phantom of the Opera
"No! No!" she cried, tossing her head wildly to the side. "Oh God, please no!"
"Christine! Christine!" Raoul bellowed, shaking his wife. "Christine, wake up!"
Pallid eyelids fluttered open as she gasped and sat erect, crystalline eyes staring widely into nothing in particular. Beside her, Raoul sat holding out his arms, palms outstretched to catch her if she fell from sitting. Her chest rose and fell haphazardly as her breath stilled on her lips and fanned into the small bedroom in quiet heaves. "Christine, what is it?" Raoul questioned, eyes searching madly for some sort of explanation to her outburst.
"It was he," she uttered in a voice quieter than a whisper, more to the starkness of the night than to her husband.
"Who? Who, Christine? Who is he?" he questioned feverishly beside her.
"My angel of music," she whispered.
"That damned demon," he hissed, throwing the blankets off of his legs to release him from the bed. He stood up and paced around the room as if he expected the madman to show up—he wouldn't put it past him to do so—and hurried to the window, peering out, searching for the two eyes he anticipated to appear.
"Oh Raoul, I'm frightened!" Christine suddenly cried, scrambling out of the covers and arriving at his side.
"There's no need to be frightened," Raoul replied rather definitely, drawing his attention away from the window and to his woman beside him. He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder, drawing her into his torso. "I'm here, nothing can harm you."
"He plagues my dreams, Raoul. He sings to me in my dreams." She buried her face in his nightshirt.
"It has been nearly half a year, can you not forget that monster?"
"No, I cannot! Oh, my angel of music!" she cried woefully.
Raoul led his shaking wife back to their bed and sat her down on the satin sheets. He sat beside her, cradling her and hushing her sobs. After her mewling had subsided, she laid a head on his shoulder while he comfortingly rubbed her back. Suddenly, she spoke up:
"Raoul, you know what I must do?" she asked, raising her head as if she had a sudden epiphany.
"What is it?"
"I must go see him."
"Are you mad?" Raoul exclaimed, rising to his feet in the heat of the moment. He stared down wildly at her, brows knitting themselves together. "You just woke from a nightmare crying out that you were frightened and now you had some crazy idea to go see him? My dear Christine, know I love you, but also know you have gone insane!"
"No, Raoul!" she retorted eagerly, standing to meet him. "I must put this angel to rest for once and for all! If I do so, then I shall be relieved of him in my dreams!"
"Even if you seek to 'put him to rest', you haven't got even the slightest clue of where he's living! He disappeared, Christine. He might even be dead!"
She shook her head, eyes twinkling with a sort of hidden knowledge. "I know where to search."
She entered the old Opera House, carefully trekking along the fractured marble which had once been so marvelous and unmatched by any other building in Paris. Bits of the arched ceiling had fallen and shattered into millions of mosaic pieces, columns were pushed askew by the bowing support or had toppled over completely. Raoul had begged her—forbade her to go into the decrepit Opera for fear that it would completely collapse on top of her, but she was unwavering and refused to be swayed from her mission. She was determined to find her angel of music.
She strode carefully over the debris that had fallen in her path, yet was sure to keep a reasonable pace. After compromising with Raoul, she had given her word she'd emerge from the building within an hour and a half regardless of having met her angel or not. If she wished to find him and discuss the matters which she intended to, she'd have to do it in a timely fashion.
She made her way to the grand staircase, wisely choosing the far right side of the steps that hadn't caved in. Her hand trailed up the railing, holding onto it for support incase a stair crumbled under the weight of her foot. She recalled the many memories of watching the petite ballerinas carefully descend the steps in their pink satin pointe shoes, the vocalists carrying their hooped skirts while the stage crew worriedly followed after, arms outstretched in case they were to fall, the managers racing up and down, stopping on a landing to bicker every once and awhile about their differing opinions; the overall bustle of the opera house.
She stopped at the landing of the steps, pausing to wipe a tear that hadn't materialized. She'd give anything to go back to the glory days of the Opera and to relive those moments that were once so precious to her. Although her prime in the Opera had only been about three months prior, it seemed to have taken place years ago.
After a few minutes of stumbling through the poorly illuminated hallway, she came across a door and stopped before it. Her hand lingered on the brass doorknob before she pushed it open. The door, charred and weakened by the fire was easy to disturb and pivoted on its hinges, rapping against the wall as she entered before breaking free of its top notch and hanging limply by its middle.
Her dressing room was as scorched as the rest of the opera was, yet somehow more kempt. The charred furniture was left where it resided, yet it appeared as if the flames were extinguished before they were able to do too much damage. The curtains were left mostly untouched, save for the few bits of singed material near the end. Her dresses hung meticulously over her changing screen as if they had been drawn away from the fire and then replaced once the flames had died down. Everything about her room seemed almost preserved, yet the only thing she cared about was the mirror.
She cautiously walked over to it and stretched out a hand. It was the first place she had saw her angel and she still held the mirror in high regards. Slim fingers gingerly trailed along the exterior of the glass, feeling for a disturbance in the uniformity. Finding the seam, she slid the glass aside and crept through the passage.
As she stepped through the portal, the faint glimmer of light beckoned her down further. After a few cautious steps, her hand found a torch propped upon the wall and grabbed for it to light her descent. With the torch in tote, she submerged into the deepest bowels of the Opera.
After long, winding passages, she found herself before the Palias Garnier, a sole boat docked at its shore. She discarded her torch on one of the wall mounts near the water before carefully gathering her dress and stumbling into the boat. After she disembarked from the shore, it was a lonely voyage, as she never made the trip without him; yet she needed to see him. She needed to see her angel for one last time.
He thought he heard something stirring outside his lire, the slosh of a boat chopping along waves. No, it was impossible. No one had visited the opera house since it had been caught in the fire. He was simply imagining it.
But then he saw it: a heart-breaking sight that made his world grow dim and frightened him into thinking that it would shortly collapse in on itself. A woman—no, an angel—was crossing the reserve atop one of his gondolas. Her pace was pallid; yet shining with some sort of unblemished beauty envied by woman and yearned for by men. Dark ringlets of chocolate framed her fair face and cascaded down petite shoulders like a waterfall to end at her torso. And those eyes. He had seen them before. He had loved them before.
As she made her way onto the shore, he drew back. The mere sight of her turned him into a spineless, trembling man at his wit's end. He clutched madly at his mask, for fear if it had gone askew and would frighten her away once again. She proceeded toward him with slow, deliberate steps as if she didn't want to startle a wild animal.
"Erik," she spoke softly, drawing near. Her eyes searched for something within him, a faint glimmer of something he couldn't quite comprehend.
"I have allowed your freedom," he reminded her, his tone sounding harsher than he intended. "You need not return." Slowly, his madness was returning and he felt himself beginning to be tossed along in the tides.
"I have something I must confess, " she pressed.
"Have you not done enough harm, woman?" he suddenly bellowed.
But she was not deterred. Instead, she continued to advance:
"Erik, I've fought with Raoul all night to be able to come—"
The mention of his rival's name sent him in a frenzy. He lunged at her, causing her to instinctively back up. "Why must you fight with him? To visit a madman you have grown to despise?" He tugged at his mask wildly. "Oh how you despise me! Perhaps it would have turned out differently if I were beautiful! Curse the day curious fingers caused you to pry off my mask!" His hands grabbed for her wrists, jerking them roughly to his face. "Do you wish to see it again? The monster?"
Christine had begun to weep. As he released her from his grasp and turned on his heels, he learned it was not from fear, but some other unknown sensation for she reached out and grabbed his cloak. A pitiful smile formed on her lips as if she were forcing them to obey.
"Erik, you'll frighten the child," she murmured in a voice barely above a whisper.
"Child? Of that man?" he demanded, twisting toward her. "Do you come to mock me?" he all but hissed.
She shook her head and her curls fell forward, licking at the tears that were staining her cheeks. "Erik, you remember the day I had left before my marriage," she said, a quivering smile revealing more details than her words could ever portray. "When we laid for the last night together—actually together."
A cry emerged from his lips—a cry of emotions unknown even to him. He stretched out a shaky hand to grasp at her dress before a spastic movement caught him and he jerked back. "Curse the day!" he moaned, "That a child will have to bare what I bore. The devil's son!"
He was trembling now, a tide of emotions washing over him. Christine went to his side and affectionately held him in her petite arms. She was sure to make a wonderful mother.
"Erik, the child will be beautiful," she assured, running a hang through his hair.
"It will be hideous! There will be no hiding the fact that it came from a monster!"
"Erik," she spoke dauntlessly, an unexpected strength coming from her as she held him steady in her arms. "They will be beautiful because they are your child."
And with that, they wept together; tears of joy, remorse, and a thousand other feelings they couldn't put into perception. Christine's angel of music held her for the last time and they made do with the best parting they could manage. Slim fingers slid his mask away as he wept and they kissed; a passionate kiss they knew was sure to be the last, an embrace that kissed away all regrets and pain they ever had to endure. And the only thing that mattered for a while was the fact that he loved her, and she loved him.
She left an hour later in a carriage with her husband knowing that she had left behind her one true love. Yet she vowed to take their child back to him, to allow them to hear the angel of music and perhaps one day, restore the art of the Operas in Paris. With a name as prominent as de Chagny, their child would be sure to make it far in life and not be scorned by society as their illegitimate father had been. And perhaps, they'd be able to retell the tale of the Phantom of the Opera and the world would listen with enthusiastic ears.