EPILOGUE

(concerning the nature of ever-after)

At this juncture, according to M. Leroux (who supposedly had it from the Persian himself), the Phantom was overcome with remorse for his actions, released Raoul and myself, and permitted us to wed. He himself died a few weeks later, presumably of the usual sort of disease that permits romantic heroes, even such a twisted one as he, to die in a timely and dramatic manner. Raoul and I vanished into the mists, and everyone lived happily ever after, except perhaps the managers who had now lost a second diva in as many months and must begin the search all over again.

This account contains just enough truth to render the rest ludicrous. Erik released Raoul and the Persian from the torture chamber, of course: he had promised me, and so it was done. Nor, after the spectacular method of my disappearance, could I remain in the house beyond the lake, no matter what choices I had made: sooner or later the search for me would extend too far for even Erik to remain completely concealed, to say nothing of what either Raoul or the Persian might say when they returned.

"Oh, no." Christine snatched the pen away from her paper, but too late; half her sentence had been swallowed in a blot. With a grimace, she replaced the pen in its holder, crumpled up the paper, and threw it at the door.

Her husband narrowly dodged it as he entered. He glanced down at the paper, then strolled around to peer over her shoulder. "I take it that your project progresses ill today."

"Well enough, except that my pen leaks," she said, leaning back into the familiar warmth of her husband's body. "I do not look forward to what I must write next, I confess. I could hardly find the words to describe the events before the final choice. To explain what came afterwards…"

Her husband thought for a moment, hand absently stroking her hair. "I let you go," he said at last. "You returned to me the following day. The Vicomte spluttered off to the North Pole, Rahim apologized, you gave your notice, and we came north ourselves to here." His other hand waved casually toward the window. "What further explanation do they deserve?"

"You make it sound so simple," Christine protested, but she couldn't keep from laughing as she said it.

"Miracles are." Erik bent and kissed the top of her head.

No miracle, Christine thought. The past years had not always been easy - when two artistic temperaments set up house together, there would always be conflict, even if one of them did not have Erik's temper, and the press of secrets to keep. But then, they'd abandoned childhood stories in the depths of the Opera House. Speaking of which - "How is Marguerite?"

"Gone to visit friends. I do not expect her until supper." She could hear the smile in Erik's voice. Cool fingers drew the hair back from her neck, and Christine closed her eyes as Erik pressed one tantalizing kiss, then another, just beneath her ear.

"Erik." It came out as a moan.

"Did you wish something of me, my love?"

She laughed again, unable to stop herself, and turned in her seat, holding out her hands to her husband. "Bed," she said throatily, and delighted in the low laugh that answered her. Pen and paper would wait. This would not.

M. Leroux says the Opera Ghost is dead, a skeleton with a golden ring upon its finger. Those who knew him are dead as well, or vanished - and that, I suppose, is truth enough for the common crowd.

For the rest…perhaps someday my daughter, or her children, will return to more civilized lands, and Paris will once more fall at the feet of one who has heard the Angel of Music. I am content with what I have. The Opera Ghost lives, and I with him.

…et s'il ne mouraient, alors vivent-ils toujours.

-fin-

A FINAL NOTE, JUST BEFORE REHEARSAL STARTS - I MEAN, THE END OF IT ALL:

I began writing Christine's Tale in 1992, as a way to deal with my fascination with all things Phantom of the Opera. I listened to the OLC recording of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical over and over again. Why didn't it just end after 'Music of the Night'? Why didn't Christine have enough spirit, enough backbone, enough brains, to choose her Angel?

...what if she did?

I finished it in 1999, a year after I graduated from college, as much out of a sense of obligation as out of love for the story. I had drifted away from Phantom, burned out and disillusioned by the fandom, and gone on to other fandoms and other characters. But Christine deserved some kind of closure, even if no one else would ever see it.

Cut to: 2004. Rumors of the upcoming film are flying, even more thickly than when I left the fandom, and I listened with growing uneasiness. What were they doing with the music? Why did the Phantom look like he belonged on the cover of GQ? What was this about a swordfight? Finally, my significant other (also a Phantom fan of old) poked me. Post it, she said. If you want an alternate vision out there, then post CHRISTINE'S TALE.

So I began revisions. And here we are.

Thank you to all of you for sticking with me through this. I've read every comment, even if I didn't respond: some made me grin, some made me think, and some got shared with the aforementioned significant other because they deserved to be shared. Glad you enjoyed it (for the most part), and I'll see you around!