Silence.
How he loved the sound of that word.
He drew in a deep breath, sighing it out as he exhaled.
ISilence/I.
It was the only sound heard in the darkness beneath the Paris Opera, and it echoed numerous times, gradually dying to a whisper before fading in the eternal night of the sewers. He relished the silence.
But silence was meant to be broken, and so he picked up his violin and began to play, removing the encumbering mask that protected him from the world before he did so. His shadow's-figure stood out against pale light streaming fitfully in from some unknown source far above; and as he played, he closed his eyes- against its brightness, perhaps? Or was he just sinking farther into his song, his solitude? The second choice was more likely.
As he drew the bow across his violin's strings, playing the only song he still could, he grew increasingly lost in the lullaby, and began to recall his previous life- before he was forever scarred. He had only wanted to be left alone, had only wished for Miss Christine Dubois's career to further, and so lost all of the money had recieved from the Paris Opera. His last hope was for someone to publish his concerto, which was probably now under somebody else's name . . .
He stopped abruptly, after hitting a screeching cracked note that reverberated angrily around his home beneath the Opera. They had the nerve to steal his music! HIS concerto! The one thing he had loved as much as Christine . . .
"Christine! . . ."
After the cracked note had stopped echoing, his voice took its place in the darkness; in that one word, those two syllables, hung all the sorrow in the world . . .
He had, by now, removed his violin from under his chin, and at the thought of Christine put it back there again, beginning to play once more.
He had just been a poor violinist for the Paris Opera, gentle, reserved, harmless. But all that had changed in one night, the same one in which his face had been etched with acid! . .
There had been no escape from that.
That was why he now wore a mask, and the long black cloak lined with red, both of which had been stolen from the Opera's costume storage. Biancarolli had learned never to remove his mask, that's what they recieved for trying to expose his horribly disfigured face to the world!
He would never be the same again, and he realized this as his song ended and he put the violin back in its place on top of his piano, next to a saber he kept there for Lord-knew-what reason. Now that he was different from the other human beings, now that he had commited three murders, he would never be accepted into their world again. Brushing the gray hair that curled over his forhead quickly away to the side, he remembered how life had been before. Oh, how he longed for that life, though it might have seemed horrid then! . . .
He now picked up his mask from where it lay on his piano, next to where the violin and the saber now rested. Erique Claudin, the Phantom of the Paris Opera, put it on his face.

* * *

The night was one of solitude for young Christine Dubois, as the Paris Opera was currently closed; the murders of the diva Biancarolli and her maid were still fresh on everyone's mind. There was constant questioning as to who could have commited such an act, apparently bare-handed (as no murder weapon was found), although Anatole Garron believed that in chasing a man dressed in black and wearing a sky blue mask he was pursuing the murderer. It didn't matter anymore, though, not now; he had gotten away, as Anatole had been knocked from the catwalks far above the stage and was too busy saving his own life to pursue the mysterious, black-clad man further.
But further on that subject: Raoul D'Aubert, a quite distinguished policeman who had graduated from the military academy, believed that all of this tied in with the recent disappearance of a once-violinist at the opera, who had strangled a music publisher, had powerful acid thrown on his face, and then vanished to who-knew-where. Her other lover- besides Anatole- had ordered the closing of the Opera until all of this was solved.
She sighed, moving over to the piano in the parlor, and began to play a gentle accompaniment as she lifted up her bell-like voice to sing.
"Hear those bells, ringing soft and low . . ."

* * *

The Paris Opera's lead singer for their new opera, a girl whose head was much too large for her own good and seemed to have a language problem when speaking, was pulling off her role beautifully, if not haughtily. Her voice rang out across the great building, and everyone applauded it; she was doing wonderful.
All of a sudden, she let loose a shrill, horrifying scream as something went awry. The chandelier, the massive, ornate chandelier that hung like a magnificently gigantic gem from the ceiling of the Opera, had been cut loose from its chain!
It fell quickly, landing with a deafening crash in the midst of the audience and throwing everything into turmoil. People screamed, people fled, everywhere were human beings trying to escape! Christine was backstage, wandering in a confused manner throughout all of the panic, trying to found Raoul, or Anatole, or both- it didn't matter! She just wanted one of them at her side now, to guide her throughout the fray.
Quite suddenly, someone appeared behind her, saying her name tentatively- as though almost frightened to.
"Miss Dubois?"
She turned around to find an old man, wearing one of the dancer's robed costumes- complete with sky blue mask- who stood behind her, the once-rising star of the opera.
"Are you with the police? Will you help me?"
He only nodded his graying head in reply, taking her blue-white gloved hand in his slender one and leading her away from all the confusion.
It wasn't long before they reached a grated gate in the stone wall of the backstage area, which led to goodness-knew-where. Christine apparently was showing an expression of fear, for the graying man said, "I won't harm you. I've always watched over you, and I always will."
That voice was strikingly, mockingly familiar . . .
He reached his other slender hand around and put it tentatively about her waist, so that he could pick up a dim lantern in the one originally her hand, first using it to open the gate. He led her through, into the silence of the sewers that wandered almost aimlessly beneath the Paris Opera.
It didn't take long before the fear set in. The older man was obviously not one of the policemen who had been posted throughout the whole of the Opera to help find the murderer and assure the protection of the singers. Perhaps . . .
She let out a scream, and he quickly set down the lantern and covered her mouth with his hand in one swift movement un-befitting of his age and arthritic condition. He assured her once again that he would not harm her, after removing his hand and noticing the look of fear in her young eyes. The strange man picked up the lantern again and began leading her even further down into the depths of the sewers, while she kept turning to glance behind, in any futile hope that either Raoul or Anatole would be there, or both, but just SOMEONE to save her from this madman!
For it was quite obvious that he had gone a bit off in the head after living down there, with the way he spoke of her still singing, but only for him, and how he had always cared for her, ever since the first moment he saw her singing onstage. Throughout all of this, Christine began to realize why the man was so familiar to her: he was Erique Claudin, the concert violinist, the murderer of the music publisher, and the man who had disappeared into the French night. THAT was why she had recognized him; he had the same tone of voice as he had the night he had been speaking to her in the hallway, before he was dismissed from the Opera, and the evening before he vanished. That same note of a melancholy love which ached within his heart was expressed in his soft, almost timid at times voice.
It was almost too much for her when they reached the underground lake, and she turned abrutply away; but he was there again, drawing her back to him, saying, "Didn't you know we had a lake? Look upon your lake, Christine." He led her gently around it, along the crumbling walls of the Parisian sewers, until they reached his home underground.
And, by now, Raoul and Anatole had noticed the rising soprano's disappearance.

* * *

"My concerto!"
The older man, whom she had by now recognized as Erique Claudin, perked up as he heard the sounds of a piano concerto beginning in the Opera house above him. He threw off the dancer's cloak, revealing the black dress suit he had been wearing underneath, and helped her up a few steps to sit in an ornately carved wooden chair before taking a seat at his piano and beginning to play. He said only two words- "Sing, Christine!"- and she did, not even singing true words, but just vocalizing to the tune of the lullaby that she knew so well.
Neither of them knew that Raoul and Anatole were coming for Christine, guided by the sound of Erique's playing and her singing.
Christine Dubois began to gather up her courage, and rose quietly from her chair to where the madman was playing his piano, almost lost in his song. She reached out to pull his mask away...
But he turned and caught her, and she began singing again. She waited until he seemed lost once more . . .
And then she reached out and ripped the stolen costume-piece away from his face.

* * *

The music had stopped, and Raoul and Anatole were now lost without its guidance. They searched down one passage, but wound up where they had started; or were they in truth in some other place completely? Curse the life of the person who had designed the sewers; they were such a labyrinth! One could easily become lost in there without hope of ever returning to the surface world . . .
They chose another passage, first Raoul leading, then Anatole; but they only furthered their predicament by wandering farther away from where they wanted to go, which was to Christine. WHY had the music stopped? Had Christine done something, perhaps? . . .
This thought that Christine might be in danger only made them run faster through their cursed maze.

* * *

The piano-playing stopped abruptly, and Christine stepped back in horror, dropping the mask as she did so. She almost ran backward down the steps, until she was pressed against the back wall; and she covered her face in her hands.
She wished she hadn't unmasked poor Erique now. Half of his face had been distorted by the acid, and the eye on that side was obviously unseeing as it peeked out from beneath the folds of raw-looking flesh, which were colored an inflammatory red. They twisted in an eccentric spiral from a central point, looking almost as if they were done by some crazed artist; and the swirls of raw flesh that looked almost as if Erique's muscle tissue had been exposed to the world circled out from around his eye, down the right half of his face.
He was breathing heavily, denoting a mix of emotions that Christine could not even began to place. The Phantom of the Opera didn't move, aside from the rising and falling of his chest; it was as if the fact that his face had been exposed to the world turned him into some kind of silent sentinel. Those green-brown eyes peering out from under a head of graying brown hair said nothing to her, except- perhaps- "Why, Christine? Why?"
She finally drew her hands away from her face, and saw that Erique had still not moved. She bit her lip, summoning her courage once more, and began to walk towards him.
He didn't move, and she picked up the mask from off the floor and offered it to him. He didn't seem to notice; she put it on the piano, next to his violin and . . . a saber?
Erique Claudin finally voiced the question he had been silently asking Christine.
"Why, Christine? Why?"
His voice was choked with some unknown emotion, a halfway mix between sorrow and something else.
A choked sob caught in her own throat as she searched for a reason why.
"I had to know . . ."
She could tell Erique couldn't stand the not of sadness in her throat as she spoke that tentative sentence. He gathered his own courage and did something he'd never had the bravery to do before- he touched Christine on the face. She flinched at the coldness of his hand, and, for a broad mix of different reasons, began to quietly cry.
He couldn't stand to see her weep, either, and so he brought his other slender hand around and brushed away the tears from her young, rosy-cheeked face. She was so beautiful . . .
Erique looked away, rather picking up his violin now and beginning to play what he still could: his lullaby. Christine furrowed her brow in recognition of the melody, beginning to sing without the knowledge of what she was doing.

"Hear those bells, ringing
Soft and low,
Bringing peace to the
Twilight glow!
Calling to everyone,
Night has begun!
End now your weary toil,
Day's work is done . . .
Hear them ring, while they
Lull, and I
Drift and dream to their
Lullaby . . ."

The violin playing stopped along with her voice, and Erique layed the violin back down in its place on the piano, picking up the mask in its stead. He turned around, put it back on his disfigured face, and sighed.

* * *

They were back on the trail now, after a brief interlude of roaming desperately throughout the sewers of Paris. Christine's voice echoed wonderfully off of the many stone walls, and that in part helped to guide them; the other source of aid were the undertones of a violin playing along with the soprano's song, the notes drawn out by the once-concert-violinist, Erique Claudin. The policeman and the baritone began to run now; they were almost there, they could almost save Christine . . .
They had arrived now, because they had found the wooden door set in the wall that led to Erique's home.

* * *

The heavy silence following Erique's sigh was broken quite rudely by Raoul and Anatole bursting through the door. The Phantom of the Opera whipped around with a strange grace un-befitting of his age and arthritic condition, picking up the saber the moment he realized who had now entered his abode beneath Paris. Raoul in turn drew a service pistol, saying in his typical policeman's fashion, "Don't move!"
He didn't. He only stood there, saber in hand as his chest heaved up and down with his breathing, waiting for the moment to strike. It would come, it would come . . .
Inspector Raoul D'Aubert didn't move, either. His hand remained out, the service pistol held in it threateningly, and he watched.
The first one to make a motion was Christine, who stepped in between the two and called for peace, for them to put down their weapons. Strangely enough, Erique was the first to comply, putting his saber back in its place on the piano, alongside his violin. Following was Raoul, who slowly put the pistol back in its holster. Thus was the first step towards calm.
The next one to move was Anatole, who stepped away from his place near the door, and placed himself beside the young Christine. Through all of this, only a heavy silence prevailed.
That pervasive, heavy silence . . .
Christine flashed a small smile, saying, "Good." Nothing more.
She left her new-found position alongside Anatole to stand before Erique, who still had said nothing. The soprano said only two words- "May I?"- and understood his answer when Erique turned his face away. He was once more his old tentative self, too timid to admit his apparent love for the girl whose career he had helped to further.
"Poor Erique . . ."
Christine Dubois reached up a gloved hand to touch the sky blue mask that covered the scars so symbolic of the violinist's life. She lightly ran a finger along its edge before curving it and its partners around and gently pulling the stolen costume-piece from the other's face.

* * *

Epilogue- two years later . . .

The sky was an ashen gray that day, as if joining the other in mourning for the one deceased; soon, its tears would start falling from the heavens in the form of rain, and they all knew it.
Tears had already begun to stream down her face as she watched the ground in silence. She, who had chosen her career as a soprano over her two lovers, was the only one present in the small cemetery in her home village; it was almost as if no-one else even cared. Christine Dubois didn't know if they did, and quite frankly didn't care about their feelings herself. Today was a day of mourning.
Two years earlier, to the day, Erique Claudin had died.
She didn't want to think of HOW he died, but just reflected on the fact that he did, and wouldn't be coming back- he, the concert violinist who had played his last piece for her, with his acid-scarred face bared to the rest of the world. She had sung along, not knowing any particular words but rather vocalizing to the obviously-not-impromptu melody that Erique had both composed and played for her, the soprano. She could still remember the melancholy whispering notes that he had drawn out of his old violin, the one he had played in the orchestra of the Paris Opera before he had been dismissed. Despite the fact that he was slowly losing the movement of the fingers in his left hand, he had pulled off his final piece beautifully; and, after that- almost in fullfillment of his dream since he first saw her- Christine Dubois had kissed him.
Without his mask on, but of course.
And life, for him, had been fulfilled.
The tears fell down her face and to the ground more openly now, and she reached up a slender hand to brush them away. After doing so, she bent down, placing her burden on the earth of the grave, at the foot of the stone headstone in the shape of a cross.
The now-famous soprano turned and walked away.
And the single rose, every bit of it symbolic in one way, was increasingly covered with droplets of water as heaven released its tears.