The Valiant One- a Raoul Fanfic
Back story: This tells the original story of The Phantom of the Opera from the point of view of Sir Vitcome de Changy, casually known as Raoul. I am a supporter of the Vitcome, and I'm a bit annoyed with all the anti-Raoul fanfics out there. The following does not bash Raoul, but it does not obsess over him. I hope you enjoy this fanfic. Many were unsatisfied with my last one, which was a Mary Sue of the sorts and lacked in depth and perception. I have attempted to dig deeper, and if anyone has tips, please let me know. I want a well-rounded review. If you do not enjoy this fanfic, explain in detail what I need to improve.
Disclaimer: I think it should be pretty apparent by now that I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I cannot take credit for the fabulous work of Sir Gaston Leroux, though I wish I could.
Final Note: I apologize for any lack of accuracy in this fanfic. I have only seen the movie of this masterpiece, with little knowledge of the original novel in its entirety.
The Valiant One
I glanced inquisitively upon the opera stage, curious to see if the show would continue with its successes now that new managers have been admitted. Something about the opera swept me up in a magical world where I could become entirely engrossed in the resonance of song. My focused remained on an attractive girl singing a beautiful aria, and I felt as if I had seen this beautiful young woman before. I turned to the gentleman to my left.
"Pardon me, Monsieur, do you know the name of the lady who is singing that beautiful aria?"
"Aye, Monsieur, that's Christine Daae. She's a promising talent, no doubt."
Christine Daae! I remembered her plainly. Her voice began to reverberate in one pristine note above the rest. I applauded in awe of the talented young woman she had become.
As the Opera resumed, I examined the other scenes less directly, and my mind became fixed on the image of Christine. I was determined to see her again, but the Opera seemed perpetual. When the last scene had ceased and the curtain lowered, I hurried backstage to catch a glimpse of Christine once more. She was sitting on her knees with a look of gratitude in her eyes. It appeared as if she were thanking the heavens above for being sanctified with such a chance to sing at the most elite opera house in France.
I wanted to choose my words wisely. This was the first I've seen of Christine in years, and I wanted my return to be a joyous one. Suddenly, I remembered the tale of "Little Lotte," the tale that her father used to tell her about an angel of music. She turned in eager surprise to face me, and she continued to recite the story as we looked into each other's eyes amorously. I was falling in love once again.
The moment came when Christine and I needed to depart from the small corridor where we met. Public was waiting to be accosted. Nevertheless, she gazed in trepidation at the room around her. I agreed to give her a moment, but she insisted that I resume without her. I was confused about what was occurring, but I obeyed her wishes. After I closed the door, I heard her call my name, so I attempted to re-enter. Unfortunately, the door was locked. I stood there for a moment, waiting for her to open the door, but I heard no response. What echoed in my ears, however, was the sound of singing. Not Christine's singing, but the sound of a man. Instantly, I was curious. I struck the door once again, but I was left to linger.