The Duet after Christine
Prologue
A solitary gaze fell upon her. Though she never looked back, she was aware of him and was happy. He looked on her with love and regret and most of all longing to what he couldn't have. Things had ended so harshly and quickly that he hadn't thought of anything since the day it happened. The day that Christine died.
Viscount Raoul de Chagny stood in silence at the grave of his beloved Christine only now realising the true pain of heartbreak and for the first time hearing the melody which so haunted and captivated Christine. Was it just his imagination? Well it must have been Madame Giry's services to the Opera ghost finished the day he and Christine escaped the murderer's lair, he died long ago, didn't he?
These questions haunted Raoul as did the death of his wife but no one was more affected than masked shadow that stood in silent tears outside the Daeé family crypt. A single rose was laid there that day and all Christine's visitors would believe it came from Raoul, yet it was not for them that he returned everyday to mourn, it was for himself and for her.
It had been 29 years and 6 months his music had ended. His possessions within his lair in the Opéra Garnier (under the same management) were being sold off in auctions to the wealthy, enchanted and daring. Piece by piece his artistic genius and mystery was being sold to the highest bidder. Items that were his only companions for so very long. Had he any will left, he might have stolen them from the two gentlemen currently laughing with his work fetching sinful prices. However he was now left without strength and without home. Not even music caressed his wounds as no voice could ever live up to the duets he and Christine shared.
He continued to think this as he wondered the city of Paris that night. It was a beautiful city at night. Encased in blackness with gothic charm and romance unlike the day time in which fashion and insolent youth culture were paraded without care or appreciation. Hooded and masked he lurked in the shadows or the architecture and was silent with the city, there was nothing in the way of distraction until, in the distance a voice. Undistinguishable as to who it was or what they were singing. Was it even a song? It mattered not because for the first time in years Erik began to sing again, under his breath, without defined melody or lyrics, he sang.