Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera
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They are happy.
With all his heart, Raoul knows this. He breathes in this knowledge, basks in its warmth. The crisp, chilly air of the northern lands is still new to him but Christine remembers it well from her childhood. It comforts her, he can see, and that is all he can ask for.
They have gone, gone, gone far away from the politics and restrictions that would have held them firmly apart in Paris. He misses it, sometimes, the city, his sisters and brother – but one look at the life that has returned to his fiancée's eyes is enough to quell any and all homesickness. Christine is gaining back the weight she lost under those frightening days with the Phantom; her cheeks become rosy again and her cheerful voice fills their little cottage. It does not sting that he can no longer travel unencumbered as he'd used to, nor does he mind undertaking the fine challenge that is learning the language of the land they now live in.
Christine is enough. She is more than enough.
It is a long time – too long, he thinks – before he receives word of his brother's fate. A terrible flood of 'what if's and 'should have's fills his mind and nearly sweeps him away. It is his fault, he knows.
Philippe. Brother, father-figure, mentor, beloved friend…
Raoul buries his head in his hands, his lips forming the soundless words over and over.
I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
There is grief and there is guilt, but Christine is also there and she comforts him in this time of sorrow. She is with him in the darkest moments of the night when the guilt has risen almost above his head and he feels as if he is drowning in a sea of his own emotion; she lies beside him in the rosy hours of the morning when his mind is numb from grief. Her words, her lips, her near-constant presence are a soothing balm to his soul and he leans on her, just as she had leaned on him during those early days together.
Weeks pass and slowly, the hurt fades. It never really goes away but time does soften the pain. And no matter how far she may be, Christine is there, always.
Always.
Raoul's hands tremble as he holds the little bundle in his arms. He is terrified and overjoyed and exhilarated and exhausted.
…Well, not as exhausted as his wife. Christine lies on their bed, peacefully asleep after the previous night's labor. She had screamed for hours and just when Raoul was it his wit's end, everything became silent.
Then, there came a baby's cry.
"You have a boy," he'd heard the midwife proclaim proudly to Christine.
They name him Gustave, after Christine's father. But Christine promises that the next one will be Raoul's to name – as long as it isn't something too ridiculous.
The next one.
Just the thought of it makes Raoul feel a bit lightheaded. He is already so very anxious on how to raise this one, and Christine was already thinking of 'the next one'? Well, he isn't the one giving birth…
Little voices and the pattering of tiny feet soon become a familiar sound.
In the end, moving into a bigger place is a wiser decision than either Raoul or Christine could have anticipated; at an almost alarming rate, one child soon becomes three and then four and now Christine expects a fifth addition to their ever-growing household.
Motherhood has brought on a slight roundness to Christine that Raoul finds completely endearing and his children are all hyperactive, curious and good, if somewhat mischievous. Gustave takes after his father the most in looks and even a bit in personality; he is a rather boisterous child and Raoul is delighted to find that even now, the boy's interest is captivated by the sea. Philippa and Clara have seemingly made a sort of silent agreement to follow Gustave wherever he goes and copy everything he says or does, something that irritates the eldest to no end. Henry, however, has a quieter soul and prefers the company of his mother. Raoul has a bit more difficulty understanding his currently youngest son, but he tries. Henry has been gifted with the same quality of singing that Christine does; she teaches him now, how to hone his gift and although sometimes it doesn't really sit right with Raoul – he knows who those teachings first came from – he does not begrudge his son the lessons that can only help him.
Raoul is blessed, far more than he could ever have hoped for. He loves his wife and children more and more and more each passing day and sometimes, when he looks on his family, he feels that his chest can burst with pride and joy.
Still, as something apparently breakable shatters into pieces somewhere upstairs, he can't help but pray a silent, guilty little prayer that there will not be a sixth child.
Their skin is wrinkled and sagging, their hair have long ago turned white. Age weighs down on them and makes moving so much more difficult than it used to be. Christine's eyes have grown weak and she is frail and forgetful.
But Raoul looks on her now and he sees, still, his wife as he had all those years ago. He sees her vibrant and alive and precious and oh, how he loves her! The love he had for her as a youth no longer compares to what he holds for her now. She is his wife, the mother of his children, grandmother to his grandchildren, his comforter, his best friend.
He holds her hand, lying beside her, unable to stop the falling tears as Christine's eyes close for the very last time and his wife becomes perfectly, painfully still.
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Author's Note: So, this is my first (and probably last) fanfic of Phantom of the Opera! Thanks for reading and I apologize for any mistakes that might have slipped through the editing process. I hope you enjoyed this fic and, please, feel free to type out your thoughts of it in the box below!