And so the story continues. Gonna be a slow burn. Brace yourselves, lovelies.

Raoul's death had been terribly unexpected. His brother had been terribly kind.

However, Christine had a nagging guilt that grew worse as time wore on, a guilt for not realising that Raoul was terribly unwell. Looking back on it, it was all terribly obvious. Christine had failed in her one, singular duty to Raoul; being a wife. She hadn't bared him any children, in fact in their three years of marriage, Raoul had barely managed to touch her.

Her singing career had indeed taken off and she was a fast rising star across Europe. But she liked to think she had managed to stay humble. Not quite humble enough, it seemed, to have registered that Raoul's expedition had taken its toll.

That expedition to the North Pole which Raoul had mentioned about going on when they first established their romantic relations in the opera house finally came to pass. Off he went in the summer period which suited Christine down to the ground with all her rehearsals and performances being at their busiest. She'd bid him farewell and he had held her so tight before he kissed her most passionately and left.

He came home a little more than a month later with a tiny wheeze of cough which he played down as a cold. Change of temperature and all that.

Christine's concern waned over time and soon she forgot. But the hellish cough never went away until that fateful evening when Raoul collapsed outside her dressing room. When she opened the door to the sudden thud, she found not only Raoul but an old, familiar face; The Persian. Aghast, perplexed, surprised and terrified, she, Raoul and the Persian whose name came to her as Nadir for the first time, rushed to the nearest hospital.

They had called upon Raoul's brother to meet them there and rush the man did, beating them to it.

Christine, upon learning of Raoul's condition, had yelled involuntarily at him, demanding why he had not told her about his problem. His response,

"I didn't want to worry you. Your music was far too important."

Simple and not at all meant unkindly but it had knifed Christine's heart into a thousand pieces and she became the villain of her own story.

As he lay dying, she apologised a thousand times over and all he told her to do was go back to Paris and sing his favourite aria to a thousand spectators and get the applause she deserved for it.

She nodded fervently and watched him take his last, rattling breath through misty eyes.

Philip, Raoul's brother assured her many a time that she was not to blame. He made all the arrangements for them all to bundle off to Paris to put this thing to rest. He did through red, puffy eyes and an aching heart.

Christine put all of her coming performances on hold.

Amidst the manic period of grief and loss, organisation of legal documents and panic stricken over an aria she didn't know, a solid figure stood by as the watchman. Monsieur Kahn. Despite the bond that had grown between Philip and herself over Raoul's death, Nadir had become a shining light in the dark, a rock on which to stand, an immovable force that would not be swayed by the madness of mourning.

"Monsieur, will you be accompanying us then?" Christine asked as she reached for a bag hidden away above a cupboard.

The Persian nodded with a certainty that made her weary, reaching over her to retrieve the object of her desire.

"Nothing in the world will stop me, Mademoiselle. But I will be making my own way."

"You say that so determinedly…"

"I have reasons."

It was then she realised the magnitude behind Raoul's request. She was going to the place where it all began. She was off to put it all to rest for Nadir's agreement to accompany them to Paris could mean only one thing…

The Phantom of the Opera was still a very real fable. She stopped packing and had a quiet fear settle inside of her. She had gazed at him a long while before concluding without thinking, as if to brush aside common sense,

"I'll be needing some help with my rehearsals anyway."

Nadir had hardly blinked and yet his demeanour certainly was taken aback. Christine shut her eyes and willed her words to come back into her mouth but no such luck. Instead they hung there like a fog that hid the path.

"I won't repeat those words to him, Madam." he had assured her kindly as if having read her thoughts, "I'll leave you now, then. I'll be heading this evening. You will be leaving…"

"In three days tomorrow."

"I shall be awaiting your arrival. You know where I'll be staying, send a telegram when you have arrived." He bowed, "A very fine evening to you, Madam."

He began to leave but not before Christine called upon him abruptly,

"Is this my fault? Could I have stopped this?"

He had looked upon her with so much pity she almost did cry;

"Not with a thousand suns."

Then he had left.

Christine hardly slept that night. They set out at dawn towards the harbour, Philip sitting close by her side, a protective arm around her shoulders. Before long, their journey had begun.

OOOOooooOOOOOoooooOO

Their arrival in Paris was no more momentous than the rising of the sun; apparent, expected and nothing new. To Philip, at least. To Christine, upon seeing the flat of the city with its tiny, cobbled roads that had continuously been barricaded over the course of time and the hill that was La Butte Monmatre overlooking it all in the distance, she felt as if she were entering an entirely different world.

De Chagny was a well-known and respected noble name but Christine Daae, the wife of De Chagny was a separate entity. No one cared if a De Chagny died for no one knew what a De Chagny looked like.

No one cared if a Daae died either but her reputation as one of the greats, with her face on many a poster and art work, would send a ripple through the troubled waters of society. She'd be missed, if only for a time. But no one would know Raoul's name.

She was saddened by this revelation more than words could express and the sadness brought a terrible silence upon her. Philip tried to speak to her, to talk to her about their plans but she barely heard him and he gave up.

Somewhere in the distance she heard him say,

"You wouldn't notice if the world split down the middle at this very moment, would you?"

Then he sighed and sat back, removing his arm from about her shoulders unaware of how entirely aware she was that her world, at the very least, had done just that.

Further into the bowls of the city their little carriage trundled, the cobbled stoned streets making the ride uncomfortably bumpy.

"This damned carriage!" Philip snapped as he knocked his head on the window, "I can't wait to be out of it, I'm about to go mad!"

"We're almost there." Christine soothed him absently, gazing out at the great work of architecture looming ahead, "There it is."

Philip swivelled in his seat to lay his green eyes on the works of Charles Garnier. The Opera House was just as beautiful as they had all remembered it. A towering marble arch with stairs that connected the common to the grand where the enormous double-doors stood locked and shut, just waiting to be opened to the public once more.

Christine had to smile – home. She would be meeting the Opera House's new manager that very evening to discuss the proceedings of the night she was to sing.

She saw a poster of herself plastered to one of the walls. The sight made her feel ill. The feeling of home disappeared. Long gone were the days of walking in unknown, yet very welcome as family. Now were the days of walking in as royalty and the common stamped out or ignored.

"Well," Philip started, his mood lightening, "I can't say I don't greatly anticipate seeing what has become of that place. I wonder what the new manager has done to the inside…"

"Mmm….probably not much."

"Oh, I disagree!" Philip retorted excitedly, craning his head to keep his eyes on the Opera House, "New managers must always make their mark!"

"I would agree were it any other building, my dear Philip."

Philip turned back curiously,

"Whatever do you mean?"

Christine forced a smile of reassurance.

"It's not important. The stories are long over."

"The Opera Ghost!" Philip turned to her fully, enlightenment etched in every corner of his face, "A fable – now more than ever, surely."

"It's no fable." Christine tried to explain, "Three years ago you rescued Raoul and I – "

"From the Rue Scribe, I remember and that's all. Whatever event occurred, neither you nor Raoul ever spoke about it. Tremendously curious. I'm not simple, Christine, I just thought it best not to ask. Unless you'd care too now?" He waited for a moment but Christine kept her words to herself.

"Besides," he continued, "an encounter with the Phantom of the Opera was hardly what I had in mind for what I was rescuing you from. If rescuing is what you would call it. I'd opted for retrieving."

Christine closed her eyes, bringing Philip's rampage to an end. He would slaughter her spirits – what little she had left – if he kept on the way he did.

No, they'd never told Raoul's brother. The purpose was to forget the man behind the stories as he would be forced to forget her. Escaping, though a relief, was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life. The poor, poor soul.

They arrived at their hotel shortly after, not more than 5 minutes from the Palais. A young Porter waited outside the Hotel entrance and was swift to descend upon their luggage no sooner than they had stopped. Whisking it away to their suites while Philip paid the carriage driver and the hotel manager who welcomed them with an endearing but over-the-top welcome.

He went on and on about the hotel, it's splendour, its history, its architecture, its staff etc. Christine couldn't have cared less. She craved silence, space and a piece of paper to write her telegram to Nadir.

After an eternity of chatting, the Manager finally showed them to their rooms, bidding them a good day,

"It is a very great honour to have you with us, Mademoiselle, I trust your stay will be comfortable."

"Merci."

"Très Bien."

Then he was gone. Philip in his suite and Christine in hers. A pen and paper were found on the desk beside an enormous bed with gold-threaded patterns over a crisp white linen.

She sat down at the desk, ignoring the urge to sleep on the enticing stage of a bed, and wrote to Nadir. She sent it swiftly to him, informing him of their plans to meet the manager that very evening at a quarter past six.

Only then did she return to her bed to sleep away the tiresome journey. But the exhaustion followed her into her dreams where masked men and odd boats roamed around a building that seemed to be made of music.

OoOoOoOoO

Nadir stood at the foot of the stairs to the Opera house, fuming. But he didn't know why. Erik was insufferable to be sure but Nadir had long since gotten over that flaw of his. This was a different fume and he knew not where it came from. Exhausted anticipation and irritability, perhaps? He didn't know. He'd seen Erik more than once since having left Christine.

Every time, he'd left Erik with his sanity hanging on by the skin of its teeth.

He was about to make his way home when his name was called from a little way up the road,

"Monsieur Kahn!"

He turned to find Christine Daae surging ahead of Philip (who offered a small, gracious smile) to greet him, eyes red around the rim and puffy. Dark circles had begun to swoop down towards her cheeks.

The girl didn't look very well.

He returned her greeting with another bow,

"Madam."

"I was worried my letter might not reach you in time. I must admit," She glanced back at Philip, still making head way towards them, "I truly desired an old friend above all else in this matter."

Nadir held back his puzzlement. There was no need to ask what letter it was for he hadn't been at the hotel and had not received it for of course he'd just been with Erik.

"Monsieur." Philip took Nadir's hand and shook it heartily as he finally arrived, "I trust your journey was comfortable?"

Nadir chuckled,

"No more comfortable than yours, I would assume, Comte."

Philip glanced down at his appearance, then rubbed his tired wilting face to put some colour back into it.

"Awful."

Both men laughed, a strained sound that trailed off into a desperate want of any other situation other than the one they were in – a dead friend/brother/lover and standing at the foot of a building that held a twisted and uncomfortable history for two out of the three.

"The manager would be waiting," Christine interjected, walking away from them and taking Nadir's hand for a quick squeeze. Philip offered her his arm when they reached the top and she took it without question.

As if having counted together after having planned their entrance, all three strode inside when two guards realised who she was, opening the door upon her arrival, shutting them once they were in.

Two men ahead of them, standing in the middle of the greatness about them turned upon hearing such an occurrence. One shorter of stature than the other but slimmer. The other was slightly plumper with neatly trimmed, black hair, laced with grey and a moustache, accompanied by a singular looking-glass over his right eye. A chain for a pocket watch hung out of a lovely, grey blazer. The man must have been in his early forties. Not typically handsome but an intriguing face all the same.

He was the manager, it seemed, for he threw out his arms and strode towards them with arms wide and a smile upon lush lips, while the other slipped away.

"Mademoiselle Daae! Benoit Angier, at your disposal. It is such an honour to have you here, I can't quite tell you how excited we all are to have you. Excuse the lack of anything happening in here – it's lunch time and no one is in."

He shrugged carelessly. Nadir grinned at the man's flamboyance. Pompous but entirely likeable. Christine curtsied,

"Yes, I'm familiar with French etiquette, Monsieur." she smiled, "Forgive us, I hope we're not intruding…"

"Oh, no, don't be silly. No time for lunch when you're the manager of one of the most revered Opera Houses in the world. Dealing with a ghost and all!"

He laughed as if it were a joke but the smiles of all three failed to arise or otherwise faded.

"Oh come now, you're not superstitious people, are you? You don't look it. Miss Daae surely you would understand having worked here before? Fables and rumours. I must admit, strange things happen. But I must know, that being said, is it true you suddenly disappeared off of the stage?"

"I fell through a trap door."

"Ah. I thought so. You see? Rumours! Everyone recalls that story with what they call lucidity, claiming to have seen you kidnapped by the Phantom. Of course that's ludicrous."

"Simply ludicrous…" Christine agreed but Nadir didn't quite have the heart to let the matter be.

"Have you found a trap-door on the stage, Monsieur?" Nadir asked softly. The manager gazed at him for some time, as if trying to remember but realised he could not.

"I advise caution," the Persian continued, "I hear you're new. This Opera House is not very old but there's a history here you ought to respect. One of which Madam Daae is apart."

The manager, bowed his head and spoke in a more resigned fashion,

"You are right, Monsieur. My apologies, Madam, I should have thought my words through before having spoken them. I suppose I might let you in on a confidential matter to ease the strain I caused?"

All three of them cocked their heads curiously. He dropped his head sheepishly,

"I'm a firm believer in this Opera Ghost."

Nadir inhaled sharply and put his hand forward,

"Nadir Kahn, Monsieur Angier."

OoOoOoOoO

They were shown around the Opera House with an extensive tale for each new thing that had been incurred, built up or thrown away. Many of the staff members she had lived with had either died or left.

Christine had enquired about Meg and Madam Giry but apparently, they had left not long after she had and Monsieur Angier had no idea as to where they might have gone. It saddened Christine to think that she would never see them again. Carlotta Guidicelli on the other hand, had come back in full bloom after her departure and was once again the House's leading soprano.

Christine cast an amused glance Nadir's way and was met by an equally as amused sigh.

"I hope you don't mind, Madam, but we had hoped to have a gala the night before your performance. To showcase the Signora and those who are up and coming. With you, of course, as the headline."

Christine felt her breath hitch, amazed at the openness of the new manager,

"You would showcase unknowns here at the Opera House?"

"Yes, indeed, Madam. Why not? There is talent out there, all it takes is someone to open the doors for it." A sneaking little blush crept up his neck to his cheek, rendering him quite an endearing specimen, "Of course, it is quite a selfish endeavour. I'd like to be remembered in some shape or form."

Christine felt herself smile genuinely for the first time, laying a soft hand upon Angier's arm,

"Selfish or not, Monsieur, that truly is a kindness to all the arts. I'd be more than happy to oblige – I don't even need to be the headlining act!"

"Oh yes you do!" Angier retorted playfully, "Of course you do! You are an inspiration to many of the dancers here as well as to the new acts we will be show-casing. Some of them truly are stunning."

"I look forward to it, Monsieur."

Then she caught sight of the stage just over his shoulder. Curious as to what had caught her attention so swiftly, Angier turned, following her gaze.

"Ah," he whispered as she glided past him to it. He cast a smile at the Comte De Chagny as he followed swiftly after and who had winked as he strode by.

Christine climbed the stairs to the stage and took to its centre to gaze out at the hundreds of seats where hundreds of spectators would be gazing back. She remembered it all. The feeling of receiving a standing ovation for the first time.

She closed her eyes and she felt it all again.

OoOoOoOoO

"She's astoundingly beautiful!" Monsieur Angier told Nadir passionately as the Persian drew level with him.

"Yes and you're not the first person to say so."

"Of course I'm not, I'd never dare think such a thing. Is the young man her lover, husband, partner?"

"Are you hopeful?" Nadir cast him a weary glance but the man chuckled and eased Nadir's troubled thoughts,

"I am, Monsieur but I'd never dare. It would be terribly unprofessional."

"The young man is the brother of her late husband, the Viscomte De Chagny."

"Her late husband…" Angier's face fell, "How cruel of me. I did not know."

"Keep it that way, Monsieur, it would be better."

"You have my word."

Nadir and Angier watched Christine and Philip for a time; she parading about the stage as if to re-familiarise herself with all its ins and outs while Philip looked on, making comments here and there about the beauty or raggedness of it. It took some time for Nadir to work up the courage to ask but he needed to know in order to find out what sort of situation he was to anticipate.

"How much do you know about this Opera Ghost, Monsieur?"

Angier turned, startled,

"Well, not much."

"What has made you come to the conclusion of his reality?"

Angier waved it off,

"Things go bump in the night every so often. Strange sounds out of Box 5, notes from no one addressed to me. My staff have reported seeing a man wondering about the Opera House, wondering neither here nor there, going as quickly as he had come."

"And that's all?" Nadir asked sceptically.

Angier didn't look at him for a long while but the cogs in his head could be seen turning. At last he answered,

"No one has been kidnapped, I have been charged no fee and no one has been hanged."

So Angier knew all about the happenings of the past and yet he kept it secret but it did not take him long to answer the open question,

"The old Managers; Monsieur Andre and Firman told me everything – the whole story of Miss Daae and the Viscomt. I was sceptical of it but questioned them no more and took note of the warning they gave me. Never to repeat the story and let it simply be a fable as it would be sure go down in history."

"Then why bring it up as a jest earlier?"

"I needed to find out the truth. Your expressions confirmed everything. Tell me, Monsieur Kahn –"

"Nadir."

"Nadir…need I be worried?"

"Let me worry, Monsieur –"

"Benoit, then, Nadir."

"Let me worry, Benoit. My history with this ghost is even longer."

Just then, Christine belted out an exceedingly loud and boisterous note that echoed throughout the theatre and bounced off of every wall.

"That's…quite a voice…" Angier commented in surprise.

OoOoOOOOOoooo

It did not go unnoticed. The sublime voice of Christine Daae did not only go up but sank into the depths of the theatre where Erik sat and lifted his eyes to the heavens.

A/N Remember, we like reviews. So...please. Review. Also, Viscount or viscompt? I can never remember...

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