Ch.: The Bitter End

Erik groaned as a cool sponge slid over his throbbing forehead, batting away the arm that was helping him blindly. In return, he immediately received a slap to the face. He at once realized that he was not wearing his mask, his hand flying to the exposed defacement.

"Cecile?" It was only logical, because Madame Giry was the only one who possessed enough gall to slap him. "Good. You're alive." Her already flinty voice sounded flintier, as though she regretted saying those words to him. A moment of confused silence passed between them before he realized just what he should be concerned about.

"Christine! Where is she? Is she alright? What about Raoul?" He added the last part about Raoul like an afterthought. Madame Giry gave him a dour look.

"Oh my God. Please do not tell me she's-" the final word was impossible to say. He was furious when his friend waved him off like an irksome child in need of punishment. "She's, well, at least she's still breathing. The poor lamb took major trauma to the skull and hasn't woken up yet.

"Yet? How long was I out?" He gingerly poked the bloodied bandage that was tightly wrapped around his torso.

"You've been unconscious for four days. Almost died, you did. Consider yourself lucky." For several minutes, he did not respond, but observed his surroundings. The room he was in appeared to be in an attic away from mainstream life of the opera house, oddly comforting in all of it's dusty wonder. A carved window was directly next to the cot he was on, making it possible to see the busy street below.

"You needn't look so relieved. You're probably never going to see them again."

Another moment of silence passed. "What? What the hell do you mean by that?" Anger and denial was rising in his chest like water through a broken dam. Erik tried to sit up, finding the feat impossible at the moment. Madame Giry calmly continued to stitch on her sampler, not bothering to humor him. "You must know by now that there was an assassination attempt to kill the de Chagneys. Do you truly believe that Raoul is foolish enough to remain in Paris after he and his wife were almost murdered? They are fleeing within the hour."

It was then so quiet both of them could hear pigeons cooing in the streets. Erik abruptly tried to stand and in turn fell on his face. He let out a roar of fury, repeatedly standing up and falling back to the floor. Finally realizing that there was no way he was leaving the room. The broken man used his strong arms to drag himself back to his cot, laying facedown.

"Cecile, I need you to do me one last favor."

"Monsieur, your carriage has arrived. Do you need any help with your luggage? Or your wife?" The footman snickered behind chubby fingers. Raoul shot him his worst look.

"Please sir," the footman muttered, "it was a mere joke." Raoul scowled at him again. "I think it was in very poor taste, man. I can carry her. You take the bags." The impudent footman said nothing further, not wishing to pursue his master's temper.

Raoul gazed at is young bride sprawled out on her bed in the dressing room. The girl was deathly pale and her pulse was weak and distant. It gave him great pain to see her in such a state. She had been dressed in traveling clothes, but she would have no idea where they were going. The poor thing would wake up in a new home in Germany with no recollection of the coma or the memory of her body or Erik's being dragged like gunnysacks from the blood-spattered roof. It was for the best. That's what he kept telling himself. He had to protect himself and his loved ones. His sisters were already in grave danger, and he had to reach them before the assassins did.

As carefully was one will in care of a glass egg, he scooped up Christine into his arms and bore her weight with a straight face. Raoul carried her to the waiting carriage, gingerly placing her inside. Before he climbed into the coach, he noticed something rather strange on the ground. It was a single red rose tied with a black ribbon, but for the first time, the thorns had been removed.

" Devil's beard…" He had forgotten about him. He had saved both their lives. Raoul had never thanked him. Instead, he nodded his appreciation in the direction of the opera house, and for some odd reason, he felt as if the gratitude had been accepted.

As the monolithic building shrank into the distance, Raoul softly sang the words that his rival had sung so long ago.

He was bound to love you…

When he heard you sing…

And the prophecy was fulfilled for the second time.

Fin.

I apologize if the ending sucked, but how would you have done it?