Author's Note: Thanks to all my reviewers. Well, the story will continue. Had the overwhelming consensus been that Erik should go to the mob, then I would have written an epilogue, and it would be finished. However, it was unanimous that he should live and remain with Christine, and so I bow to the wishes of my readers.
The story continues, and will for some time, since my other plan will be put into motion. Look forwards to lots of reading, and keep the ideas coming! This chapter is basically a little more Erik/Christine angst, and some things from Raoul's POV. The next chapter will have more resolution to it. But you won't get to see how the mob situation is resolved until chapter ten, so keep reading and reviewing...and don't worry, it will continue past chapter ten!

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Chapter 8: Don Juan

Erik had endured many agonies in his life. He had borne things that no human being should ever be asked to bear, and he had spent all his life in rejection and sorrow. He had been called a beast, a monster, and a devil, and to his mind, all of those titles had some credence.

But now, he stood in the arms of an angel who believed he was of like kind, and he thought that he would gladly endure all those past agonies and more if he might only be spared the awful pain of what he must now do.

With infinite gentleness, he dislodged himself from Christine's embrace, and moved away from her.

"I must go, Christine. The police cannot hold the mob much longer, and then it will be all over for us both."

Christine looked down to the lakeshore, and she knew that he was right. Only the dramatic flourish of their final embrace had prevented an utter riot. It was a fitting ending to a story so long told, and the theatre-loving crowd was sure to have enjoyed it, she thought bitterly.

She looked back up at Erik, and she wanted nothing more than to beg him to stay. She searched his face and saw that all the sadness of the world had returned to his eyes, and she knew that he needed her now more than ever. He needed her strength, for it seemed that he had none left for himself.

She gently touched the disfigured side of his face, and nodded.

Erik hesitated only a moment, and then he turned, squaring his shoulders resolutely, and began to walk towards the mob. A hand on his arm stopped him, and when he turned, Christine was crying again. "Erik…" she whispered softly.

"What, Christine?"

"Erik, I love you."

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Raoul reached the top of the stairs, and approached the two-way mirror through which he had come. The glass was blackened, rendering it almost useless. It still opened, however, and he stepped through it into Christine's dressing room.

The fire had apparently been contained before it had reached this room. The door was partially burnt, and the walls on either side streaked with black soot. But for the most part, it was still unharmed.

Raoul lingered for a moment, breathing in the scent of Christine's perfume that still remained, even through the pervasive sulphur odor. He looked about the room for something of hers, some token for him to keep. His eyes were drawn to her dressing-table, and he saw the mask that she had worn to the Opera ball lying on the varnished wood.

He picked it up, running his fingers over the smooth, stiff fabric of the guise. It was a fitting thing for him to find, he reflected bitterly.

The mask in his hand, he jerked open the door of the room and exited into the theatre of the Opera Populaire.

Nothing on earth could have prepared him for the destruction he saw before him. The red velvet seats were burnt out, only a semblance of the frames remaining. The walls were charred, and the stage was completely ravaged. The magnificent sculptures were blackened, and the heavy odor of sulphur and smoke nearly choked Raoul when he took a shaky breath.

He walked slowly towards the remains of the stage, and crossed to the center. He looked up from his vantage point to Box Five, where he had watched the Phantom and Christine perform the finale of Don Juan Triumphant. How full of dreams he had been that night! He had hardly heard most of the opera, parting from his thoughts only when Christine's angelic voice pierced them.

He tried to fight back the memories, but they would not leave. One in particular seemed to have burned its way indelibly into his thoughts: the sight of his Christine, his fiancée, locked in the Phantom's embrace. She had never given in so to his embraces, her girlish modesty had never permitted his hands to touch her so, her head had never fallen back on his shoulder in a pose of abandonment, her skin had never flushed hot under his touch. Raoul tried to remember a moment between them when Christine's eyes had glazed over with desire for him, when her body had moved sensuously against his, but he could find none. She had loved him, of that he was certain, but with a girlish innocence not far removed from the day when, as a small child, he had run into the sea to fetch her scarf and she had kissed him for it.

What part of her soul had the Phantom touched that he could not reach? What connection could a ghost have with Christine that her childhood sweetheart did not?

These were questions with answers already given.

Raoul fell to his knees on the stage, the mask still clutched in his hand. "Christine!" he cried out to the walls, his voice breaking. Tears streamed from his eyes as he buried his head in his hands, the stiff material of the mask brushing against his cheek. The scent of her perfume filled his senses, and her face appeared again before him. Christine filled his thoughts, his senses, her face dancing before his eyes, her voice singing in his mind. And in that moment, kneeling brokenly on the charred floor of the stage, Raoul knew the misery of love that had possessed his rival for so long. His body shook, racked with sobs, and he cried out to the silent, unfeeling walls that had once trembled to the beauty of her voice:

"Christine, come back to me. Christine, Christine, I love you."