Chapter Five

The years rolled by quickly, because life was happy. Algernon Burel courted my little angel for a year, and then proposed. She consented, I consented, and they were married in the spring. Algernon did not buy the Opera Populaire, instead, he made his father's Opera house, called the Opera Rose, even greater than the Opera Populaire, and made Angel the star of every performance. And she loved it.

I began to go to her performances without my mask on, and nobody looked at me twice. I was simply an old man, and I had become a kind old man, who gave a quarter to one of the little ruffian boys playing in the street. It somehow made me happy, to be normal, and yet unique. I still composed music; I wrote most the operas preformed at the Opera Rose and had my name in the paper. Everybody knew me as Erik.

It crossed my mind that the Viscount was probably reading the paper one day until he suddenly saw the headline: "ERIK, AND THE ANGEL OF MUSIC!" I laughed at the thought of him spitting out his expensive coffee all over the newspaper and himself, quickly covering himself up and looking like a fool in front of his servants and wife.

His wife. Christine.

I tried not to think of her. She was a figure of the past, I could not think of her. And yet I did anyway, simply to humor myself.

More and more years went by and my little angel gave birth to many beautiful baby angels. She found a balance between her babies and her opera; I was proud of her. I held all my 'grandchildren' in my arms only hours after each of them were born. It is an amazing thing to hold a baby that had only recently been in a woman's stomach.

And Algernon was the perfect son in law. He visited me often, asking upon my health, even giving me a small share of his earnings. I suspect that was because of Angel's troublesome curiosity of my money, which had been running low for some time.

It is difficult to explain why time went by so fast. But it did, and my little angel was becoming a middle-aged woman, and my grandchildren were becoming bright young adults. Yet I was still alive.

"You will live much longer than I, my friend," Nadir told me as he lay in his bed, dying. "You are supposed to live longer. That is our fate. Isn't that what you said, my old friend?"

I smiled softly, "You have always been there for me, Nadir. And I would always refuse your help. I am so sorry, I should have taken your help. Thank you for everything you have done, my friend. You may rest."

He smiled back at me, "A rest? Yes, I need a long rest."

Nadir Khan died in the November of the year 1913. I mourned for him, but felt that it was simply his time. Angel told me that when we are ready to go, we shall go. I believed her; she was so wise of the world in her young age. She would come visit me almost every day, in between her children and opera. I don't know how she did it, but she did.

The years continued on, and the Opera Populaire went out of business. I decided not to have much information about it; I didn't want to know. I simply played with my grandchildren in the Rose mansion and wrote my music for my Angel to sing. But my age was becoming more and more obvious. Since my first attack, I had survived two more. The doctor called me an immortal.

"I have seen too many younger than yourself die of heart attacks. Even famous people die of heart attacks!" he told me, with his young, thirty year old voice.

I laughed, "Please. Who famous has died of a heart attack?"

The doctor shook his head, "Oh, there was that old man down in Paris, I can't remember his name. Not very famous I guess. . . Oh, my father was saying something about some Madam Viscount De Chagny."

I froze. "What?"

"Madam De Chagny, the opera singer?" the doctor asked. When I didn't respond, he shook his head, "Well, I guess she was just an opera singer; not really that famous. Now, you take care of yourself. Try not to exert yourself too much. We'll meet again next month."

"Wait," I said, still frozen. "When did she pass away?"

The doctor shook his head again, "Didn't you know? She passed away about two years ago." And then he left.

My world seemed to stop. Christine had been dead for two years and I hadn't known. I suddenly had the extreme urge to run to the Opera Populaire, to find her there, waiting for me, young and beautiful. But she wasn't young and beautiful anymore! She was probably only bones by then, long gone, buried six feet under the ground.

I couldn't breathe. Oh God, I thought. Christine is dead. She's dead. I got up, crammed a ring and a rose into my pocket, ran out the door and began to run as fast as I could toward Paris. It was a very long run, and in my old age, I could barely walk, but I kept running. I didn't care anymore. I just had to know if it was true. If she was really dead.

The forest seemed to never end. Why, oh why couldn't I get there faster? Pictures of my life flashed before my eyes. The Devil's child! Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me, enter at last, master! This man, this thing, is not your father! How long should we two wait before we're one? My friend, you are making an un-wise decision. But Master, you are crying! Come to me angel of music. Why do you wear this horribly uncomfortable looking thing? I love you Papa. Didn't you know? She passed away about two years ago.

Suddenly I was there, at the cemetery. I ran to the large DAAE tomb, my eyes scanned over every headstone. My breath came in short ragged gasps but I did not care. I had to find her. Where was she? Maybe she was actually still alive, and the doctor had been talking about somebody else?

And then, Christine De Chagny. Loving wife and mother. I found her. I took huge, heavy steps toward the headstone. A picture of her was on it. She was so beautiful, so young. I knew then, that I would always remember her looking that way.

I pulled out the ring and the rose and stared at them for a good long while. The ring was the same one she had given back to me that night was disaster. That night of despair. That night when I rode away from all civilization and human connection. I kneeled before her, placed the ring around the stem of the red rose, and laid it on the side of her headstone. And then I wept. "Christine," I whispered huskily. "I. . . love. . . you. . ." and I sat there and cried.

Slowly, I could hear an engine coming. I looked up and saw a car approaching. Quickly, but painfully, I took one last look at Christine's face, and crunched my way through the fall leaves; out of sight of the man approaching in a wheelchair.

I watched him cautiously. He stood up from his wheelchair and placed a musical box with a monkey on top in front of Christine's headstone. I realized suddenly, that that had been my little music box. It sang Masquerade on its little symbols. Tears continued down my face and I realized who the man was. The Viscount.

He looked at my rose and ring, glanced around the cemetery as if looking for me, and then rode away in his vehicle. I swallowed, and nearly had to crawl back to Christine's grave. I looked up at the sky, my breath coming in even shorter gasps. The edges of my sight began to fade away, but I could still see the full moon. She was still there, in the sky, staring at me. Why, oh why did she find me so interesting? Why could she never leave me alone?

I looked back at the grave. "Christine," I told her in between breaths. "I no longer wear half of the moon upon my face. Now I really am an angel of music." I swallowed once more and took in another deep breath, as the world seemed to fade into nothing. To die. Every muscle of my body became relaxed and I fell upon the ground, my head resting upon the foot of Christine's headstone. To sleep. I closed my eyes with a smile. Perchance to dream. Finally. I could rest.

- Goodnight -

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.