A/N: Thanks to all of my devoted reviewers, especially both Van Tassels, JenValjean, Bergerac, and Snarky.Kitty. Much love to all of you. Disclaimer: Erik lives in my closet, but that's all I have…sob…
Six years later
Christine's voice had become magnificent. It was no longer a wavering, warbling vibrato, but a warm, melodious and emotional mezzo-soprano. That was because she was taught by one of the best artists in the country, Erik. Ever since Erik was small he had loved the human voice, and had listened to the opera frequently. Even though his voice outstripped Christine's in brilliance, she could still make him tremble. Due to that, he admitted, he was beginning to love her.
Love, he remembered, came in many forms. There was the motherly, matronly love that he had so lacked since his birth, there was the love for king and country which he despised, and then there was the love for humankind. Humankind did not love Erik, and he only bestowed it upon the most select people. Giry had been the only one until now. He thought of Giry constantly, that radiant beauty that was beginning to grow old and wane through the infinite years. Her hair still fell in silky locks, her breasts were still voluptuous, and she had a divine personality and a gorgeous elegance. But Christine began to beguile him. Her form was so fragile, her hair so lustrous. She was a fragrant, charming nymph in a vast world of devils. But, he remembered, Giry was the one with brains, with a cruel, unfettered, divine mind that would make Voltaire weep. Christine was different. She possessed no eloquence and had not much to say. Seldom would she speak of anything but the sleeves on ladies' dresses and the way ladies held their parasols. In truth, their conversations bored him, but he was lusting after her. He wanted to taste young flesh again.
He built a porcelain model of her, dressed it in a wedding gown, and hid it from Giry's eyes. He began to write an opera, Don Juan, which was his secret concealed on paper. And yet he caressed Giry and made love to her, and he knew that she still loved him with that now-ancient fervor. And in a way he loved her devotedly, but constantly watched Christine's form out of his wary eyes.
"Mon beau ange." Said Giry, "What is it?"
The pair was sitting languidly on the piano bench, Giry's arms draped around her husband.
"Nothing, ma cherie." He replied, writing a portion of his opera hastily.
"What are you writing? Another opera?" she asked.
"Yes." He said.
"Do you want to make a royalty off of it?" she said. "Monsieur Debienne would be happy with such a proposal. The Opera Populaire has done The Marriage of Figaro three times over the course of six years! They need a new opera, particularly one with a much darker resonance and sinister plot. You have always writ these types of operas, Erik. Why not give it to me when you are finished?"
"I do not want any mortal ears to hear it, except mine." He said slowly. "It is too precious to me to put it up in public."
"I understand," said Giry lovingly, nuzzling into Erik's cape. "An artist and genius must have at least one piece of his work that remains close to his heart."
"Do you wish me to sing to you?" asked Erik.
"From what opera?" she said.
"Juliette Lost." Said Erik. "I must admit is has been years since I have granted you such a favor."
"Indeed it has. Sing, angel."
He did so, in a voice that made Giry ache.
My love has died
What is there to pine for?
Love is distrustful
It is scandalous and shameful
Puts maiden girls to disgrace
Adulterating kisses
On tender brow
I am nothing now
The trees whisper in the rampant wind
Dead skeletons of love
And yet I see your everlasting form
And bless you from the layers of ice
That conceals me and hides me
From your long-gone embrace
He finished, the last note blending into silence.
"Erik," murmured Giry. "Your pain and passion is so magnified…" she began and then composed herself. "But I must be going. The ballet rats are in wont of an instructor."
"I suppose they are." He sighed heavily. "You may go."
"I will return to you soon." She said, and placed a kiss on his forehead.
"Goodbye, ma belle ange." He whispered. "Do not be too long."
She nodded and with a turn of the heel marched diligently up the stairs leading from the catacombs.
"She still loves me," admitted Erik. "After all these precious years."