Thanks for the reviews, everybody—
Sephira Netzach— aw, that's sweet. I love you too. I agree, very Zen. I love to psycho-analyze characters. Its fun, and as long as you don't tell anyone else your conclusions, no one can say you're wrong... :)
Jamy, this is the last chapter, a little more upbeat way to end things—
Aries-Chica56— glad you liked it, hope you like this one too.
Tactics— (hi, by the way) I know, it isn't fair is it? Well, that's the way the cookie is dropped on the floor, stomped on, and totally obliterated.
So, I think this is the last chapter, though I'm considering writing another Phantom fic. We'll see how that goes.
Very quickly I want to tell you about something kind of odd— when I was little, probably seven or so, my mom was cleaning out her room and going through stuff, and she found this little ring. Its pretty small, and just a plain silver band. Anyway the weird thing was that inside, someone had carved the name "Erik" and then the initials "E.L." We have never met anyone named Erik, and never seen the ring before, and my mom had no idea how it came to be in her jewelry box. This is true, I am not making it up. I still have the ring. Anyway it was a mystery I always enjoyed— and then I read "Phantom of the Opera" and of course it took on some new meaning...
About the last chapter: at the end of the Leroux's Phantom book, Erik says he is dying of love, and then there is a notice in the paper that says "Erik Is Dead." I think everyone has different interpretations of it— for myself, I think he did commit suicide, in that incarnation anyway. I can't see Susan Kay's Phantom doing that, or Andrew Lloyd Webbers— but Leroux's, yes. But I didn't want to end this fic on such a downer note, so I decided to make this one the last chapter.
This one is very, very much based on the Gerard Butler version.... read and find why.
Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered
Strangely enough, there was one incident that stood out in the minds of the Phantom and Christine both, when they reflected on the time they had spent together.
A duet.
He had hit a wrong note.
This was, of course, impossible. Christine stopped singing immediately and stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open. She could not speak. He had sung to her for three months and ever his voice had been faultless. Now he had been reaching too high, extending his voice beyond where it was willing to go—
The air was tense.
She didn't know what to do.
There was surprise in his eyes as well as in hers.
"I," he said, and stopped to clear his throat. When he had done this he seemed not to be able to find the next word he wanted.
Were there no words for this situation?
When your Angel of Music suddenly falters in the middle of a lesson, what exactly do you say?
"Excuse you," was out of the question. It wasn't as though he had hiccoughed, or belched, or anything like that.
"Beg your pardon?" seemed woefully inadequate.
Should she reassure him? "That's alright, dear, try again," seemed so condescending.
In the end she could not bear to say anything at all, and for some moments they simply stared at each other wordlessly. She had time to notice how blue his eyes were.
Then—
Wonder of wonders!
He smiled.
Not a tentative, brief, uncertain kind of smile, either. A big one, broad, teeth showing, total enjoyment radiating from his face. She smiled back.
He laughed.
Not the maniacal laughter of a mind unhinged, as she feared and flinched from, but a chuckle as musical as his voice. She laughed as well.
For a brief moment, they enjoyed each other's company as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This was their single and only glimpse of what their lives would have been like, had he been a normal man, had she met him in an average social setting, had they fallen in love together without a hint of dangerous obsession, and been married, and spent their lives together till a ripe old age— this is how they would have laughed at the birth of their first grandchild.
This was the moment that stood out in their minds the most.
Well, that and the kiss, which burned in their memories like a throbbing flame, a mark branded on their souls (especially his). She could not think of that kiss without blushing— he could not consider it without rejoicing.
But the laughter, as laughter goes, was perfect.
And after their deaths, the moment lived on.