Author's note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Christine, Raoul, Erik, the Persian/Nadir, and other Phantom-related objects. They belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, or Susan Kay. However, I do own any original characters, and from their debut chapter on I will note whom/what I own and whom/what I do not own. Now that the allotment of ownership has finished, we now begin the tale.

I don't have a title as of yet... sorry

Christine's features appeared pale in the moonlight. She gazed into the night, as if into the face of a long lost friend. Her expression was blank when Raoul came to check on her. He walked to the picture window and placed a hand on her shoulder. She shivered slightly, and then placed her hand on his. They remained silent and still for a few moments, two silhouettes against an unusually bright night sky. Christine then slid across the leather upholstered bench and motioned for Raoul to sit down. He sat down and in doing so, took her hands in his.

He knew how abruptly she had needed to choose between the two loves of her life. He had been very lucky she had turned the scorpion and then, in turn, saved his and the Persian's life. He was forever indebted to her. He had decided from the moment she and he had left the underground lake, he would not only be her husband, but her patient servant, doing whatever he needed to do to ease her pain.

He was snapped out of reminiscing when Christine took a deep breath and prepared to speak. He braced himself for whatever she would say, no matter how heart wrenching. "Raoul," she began, "You have been all I could ask for and more. However, I must know what happened to my Angel-" Christine corrected herself, "I mean Erik." The pale moonlight reflected off her blonde curls.

He could not deny her the wish she wanted most; though this request made him believe she still had feelings for Erik. He looked into her deep pleading eyes and nodded, silently giving in to her request. She collapsed in his arms and was so glad she had to wipe a tear from her eye. She thanked him between sobs, excused herself, and she walked into her bedroom, where she locked the door, a nervous habit, and laid herself to sleep. Raoul walked to his private chambers and tossed and turned in his bed. He fell asleep with a mind weighted down by thought.

The next morning, Christine woke to the smell of fresh croissants and crepes. She got dressed and walked to the dining hall. Raoul glanced upwards and smiled at the bright expression on her face. He handed her the newspaper and she opened to the obituary section, as she had for the longest time, just in case.

The rosy complexion she had regained this morning quickly grew pale. She stood in shock, unable to speak, scarcely breathing. She gasped a breath and brushed a stray lock of hair from her right eye, trying to remain composed. She placed the paper on the oak table, with a trembling hand, quivering breaths coming out of her lungs. She recited a small, three word obituary to Raoul.

"Raoul," she spoke softly, "Erik is dead."