"No, Erik please you don't have to do this," Christine begged, clinging to the hem of his jacket. "Please!"
He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't meet her gaze. Swallowing hard, he freed himself from her grasp and shot Raoul a look that said, 'get her out of here now.'
"You'll find your way to the street if you go straight down this tunnel to the fork and then take a left."
Raoul, grimacing in pain with every step he took, limped over to Christine and firmly but gently took her by the wrist with his unbroken hand. "Christine," he whispered, "we really don't want to be here when that is ignited."
Raoul never once looked away from the masked man who had caused him such pain. To him, the only problem with the Phantom blowing himself— and the opera house— sky high was that it wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of viewing the man's corpse once the deed was done.
"Erik—"
"Go now and leave me," he said, cutting her off.
"Erik, please."
"Go now and leave me!" he hollered, throwing his arms up to lash out at her. He didn't want to hit her, but if it made her go, if it got her to safety…
Christine jerked away from Raoul's grasp and threw herself at Erik. I can't let him do this, she thought, I can't let him kill himself and everyone else in the opera house.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangling herself in his long limbs as he staggered backwards in surprise.
"Christine-?" His confused exclamation was cut short as her tiny pink lips met with his bloated purple ones. His entire body stiffened at the contact. His mind was swimming with confused and terrified thoughts as he raised shaking arms to embrace the tiny soprano.
It was only when he began to sob that Christine slowly pulled her lips away and opened her eyes, looking for any sign from the masked man that he would even consider reconsidering his plan.
His eyes were filled with a sorrow the likes of which she had never seen, even when he had spoken of his childhood.
"Vicomte," Erik's voice broke as he called the other man over to collect her. As she was pulled from him, Erik couldn't help but stare down at her in shock. She kissed Erik, he thought. The thought did not compute.
As she slipped out of the room, Christine looked back at Erik with tears in her eyes.
When he was almost certain that she was out of earshot, Erik cried, "Christine, I love you! I love you." He repeated the words again and again, his voice cracking and breaking more and more with each repetition.
Erik gave them longer than he had intended to escape the disaster he was about to create before turning his attention back to the kegs of gunpowder. Your bloodlust is your death sentence, he thought angrily as the cries of the angry mob descending into his realm reached his ears.
He fashioned a fuse of reasonable length— one that would allow him to arrange himself in a dignified position before being blown apart— and tidied up his home one last time.
He stopped in the doorway to Christine's room. Across the bedspread lay her wedding dress. The ring he had planned to give her weighed heavily in his jacket pocket. The pain in his heart was quite real when he tore himself away from what could have been.
No, it would never have happened, he told himself, it never would have worked.
He lit the fuse and wasted no time in returning to his own bedroom. The coffin lay open, inviting him to lie down in it one last time.
Just outside the door, he could hear evidence that the mob had finally located him. Even knowing that their vain foolishness would be their end couldn't lift his spirits, however. He slipped into the coffin and, with a little effort, pulled the lid shut.
