A night at the Opéra hardly seemed worth the effort, Raoul thought miserably as he refused to be swept up in the grandeur of the auditorium. It was a beautiful hall filled with beautiful people, but there was nothing he craved more than blissful silence. Distractedly, he looked about him, noting how more than a few eyes had turned away from the stage in favour of admiring their companions. The decadence of this life had once excited him beyond measure, but now he could no longer bear to be in the same room as these aristocrats without fear of suffocating.

The sea was indeed the most preferable and appealing of his options. And yet, he was not able to stop the pang in his heart as he looked at his brother, who was trembling almost as subtly as the footlights that illuminated the woman at which he was gazing. In truth, Sorelli was a wonderful dancer and needed no patron to help guide her career, but Raoul knew that there was nothing on Earth that would ever be able to tear his brother away from her now. He was utterly besotted, and it had taken the Vicomte many weeks to learn just how deeply those affections ran.

As La Sorelli performed a jeté worthy of a bout of raging applause, Raoul's attention was drawn to the stiff way in which the Comte was repositioning his right foot.

He recalled the relief he had felt those two months ago, when the Persian had returned Philippe to him. Raoul had not held back from throwing his arms around his brother's neck as he cursed his stupidity at following him. What he had failed to notice at first, however, was the state of Philippe's leg. Even now, the memory of that bloodied limb still managed to make Raoul wince. It had been caught in one of the Opera Ghost's smaller traps, but the material of the trouser leg had been torn savagely and the blood that had dripped down and clotted on the surrounding skin had made him appear as though he had survived a vicious mauling. Philippe had resurfaced to the world above with numerous fractures, swellings and bruising, but he was alive, and for Raoul, that was reason enough to give thanks.

Although Philippe had insisted on resuming his public appearances, he had only just managed to walk without the need for further assistance. He still relied heavily on his walking stick, now more than ever, but he would be damned if he missed even a single one of Sorelli's performances. For this, Raoul admired him, and he could not deny the positive impact her presence had had on his brother's recovering health.

There was no denying that it had certainly been a gruelling series of weeks following the night below the Opéra, but the Ghost had officially been declared dead, and Raoul was finally able to find the closure he had desperately needed. Philippe had been told the same lies as Moreau had, and after Christine had unfolded her plan to the Persian, arrangements were made to pass off the unfortunate Beaufort as their masked ally. Raoul had initially been disgusted by Christine's part in this, but the more he listened to her, the more he realised that they had few other alternatives. Moreau was informed of Beaufort's reluctance to fight and that he had tried to make his way back through the passages, when he must have become lost in the darkness.

He soon became just another name to Inspector Allard's list of fallen officers.

Raoul felt terribly guilty over helping to weave this lie and had offered to pay for the vigil that was due to be held for the men, as well as for their individual funerals. His money was the very least he could offer their families, even if it could not help to bring their brothers, husbands and fathers back from the grave.

Not a day had passed when Raoul had resisted the urge to run away. Khan had been correct in his assumption that his life would cease to be quiet, and he had been hounded by questions by both reporters and officers. He had refused to attend social gatherings, merely to avoid the unwanted gossip that may arise, and for a long while, he chose to keep to himself, venturing out into the city only when he was called to do so.

He had barely spoken more than two words to Christine either, and he regretted the way things had come to pass between them. The most he had seen of her were fleeting moments between questionings and hearings, but when they had been asked to confirm the identity of the body and Christine had begun to shed tears at the sight, he had taken her in his arms and held her. He knew then that this web of deceit had affected her far more than she had previously led him to believe and it was all he could do to continue holding her, and to whisper words of comfort into her hair.

"She is performing exceedingly well tonight, is she not, brother?"

Philippe's voice broke through Raoul's intensive thoughts and he managed a smile in his direction. "Yes," he said in agreement as the audience began to applaud enthusiastically. "But she performs well every night. You would not be missing anything if you were to stay in bed for a night or two. You know you should be resting, Philippe, not gallivanting about the city until the early hours."

Raoul's lip quirked in amusement as the Comte laughed in response. "You are not my nurse," he chastised playfully, shifting in his seat so that he could peer over the edge of their box and down at his lover below. "Who could think of injuries when the sweet temperance of a beautiful woman is calling to me?"

Dropping his gaze to his lap, Raoul smiled sadly. "A woman's call is not the only one that is worth answering."

Above the pulse of the orchestra, Raoul could hear the gentle lapping of the sea, and when Philippe turned to him, he knew of what he spoke. With his attention now entirely focused on Raoul, Philippe leaned towards him, hand twitching on his wounded knee, aching to reach out.

"Is there nothing I can say that will make you stay?" he asked, releasing a long steady breath as Raoul shook his head. Mirroring his detached smile, he nodded and clasped his shoulder. "Then I wish you well," his smile grew, "but I will miss you."

A softness flickered in Raoul's eyes as he swayed under Philippe's touch. "Likewise, dear brother, but I am certain your life will not be as dull as mine." He turned his attention to the woman pirouetting on the stage, basking in footlights and music. "I have never been very supportive of your choice, Philippe, and I am sorry. I was blind to how happy you are around her."

Philippe followed his gaze briefly before turning back to him. "Thank you," he whispered, feeling a pain in his stomach as he pulled away from his brother. "Thank you."

Days blended into night, blurring the motions of Raoul's life until the moment he would step foot onto a wooden deck and smell the salty sea air again. His focus remained on his forthcoming expedition and the excitement of discovery began to bubble in his blood. Although adamant that his words would do nothing, Philippe remained vigilant and determined to persuade his younger brother not to leave. It was unfortunate then, that the stubbornness Raoul had possessed in childhood had followed him as he progressed into a young man. A fine young man, too.

When the time came for Raoul to begin packing for his voyage, Philippe felt utterly drained of his power. It was overcast outside and as the clouds began to cluster, he sought solace at the bottom of the glass decanter in his study. He would make amends to Raoul and would send him to the

Continent with an elegant celebration, but for now, it was in the Comte's best interest that he allowed each of them their own space.

Even with curtains drawn and a full view of the gathering storm through his windows, Raoul took no notice of it. His attention was fixed on the handling of his clothing and belongings as he sorted and folded and packed to a brisk and cheerful tempo of his own. He had just begun to shift through the papers on his desk when he heard a soft treading of footsteps behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the stoic Charton at the threshold to his chambers and with one last look to the documents below him, Raoul inquired as to what he wanted.

"There is a carriage outside, Monsieur le Vicomte," the butler announced in a monotonous droll. "Your presence has been summoned."

Amused, Raoul leaned back in his chair and surveyed Charton. "And whom, may I ask, is making that request?"

"A lady, Monsieur," he answered without hesitation or awareness of his employer's teasing tone. "She did not give a name, but she is wearing a veil and insisted that…" here, Charton shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, "You come to her."

Understanding sparked in Raoul's mind like a match and he bounded to his feet, thanking Charton as he passed on his way down the stairs. In his haste, he almost forgot to grab his coat and protect himself from the inevitable wind he would face on the street.

Smiling as he closed the front door behind him, he easily spied the carriage in question and began his way towards it.

A gloved hand then appeared within the darkness of the window, its movement slow and precise. It seemed to beckon him forward with every curl of its fingers, and Raoul found that he could not ignore his willingness to follow. He thought it curious that he should hesitate a moment after the carriage door began to open, however, and he wondered if a part of him doubted who he would meet on the other side. But when all that he saw was Christine's radiant grin through the thin gauze of her veil, he did not wait a second longer before entering the carriage.

His body was immediately flooded with warmth, not only from the relief of once again being sheltered from the wind's frightful nip, but also from the pounding of his heart. Within his body, his blood was racing and boiling all at once with eagerness, irritation and anxiety. Christine would not have called on him so secretly without an agenda and he shivered to think on it. It was with no small amount of desperation then that he chose to simply savour this moment of silence between them, locking it away in his mind to recall at a later time, the time he knew was drawing ever closer… the time when he would leave her life, possibly forever, and begin the his next chapter without her.

She removed the veil from her head and placed it beside her. The thoughtful look that passed through her dark eyes grounded him to this inevitable parting and, with a sigh, he leaned back into his seat and regarded her thoughtfully.

"Speak freely if you wish, Christine," he said, sensing her reluctance and watching as she lowered her gaze to her discarded veil.

Her lips pursed, her eyes closing in pained reflection until she raised her chin and shook her head. "I have lied to you for months, Raoul," she said, knowing full well that he was aware of the fact, but needing to free herself of the confession in any case. With a shaky breath, she found his eyes and braced herself for his reply, impatiently tapping one finger against the back of her hand.

Raoul was torn; half of him wished he had the strength to walk away from her, while the other wanted nothing more than to hear those words again, to force her to admit her misgivings until they both wept with sorrow. Surprising even himself, he merely gave a stiff nod and stared at her fidgeting fingers. He wondered if she would have allowed him to reach out and still them with his own.

"A year ago, I would not have hesitated to denounce you for a deceitful woman." His voice was not harsh or cold, but the quality of it seemed lacking in something… an attachment that was always here when he would speak to her. Raoul noted the detachment and hated himself for it, leaning forward to gently touch her hand in remorse. "I insinuated and called you many things in my jealousy. I recoil at the thought of them, but it does not make me forget that I spoke them to you. I will never forget that I dared to speak to you like that. And now… now, I will do just as you said I would. I will ask you… beg you for forgiveness."

"Oh, Raoul." There was something in her voice that mirrored his own, a trembling hint of longing, of a want for everything to return to the way they had been—a pining dream, and nothing more. "You know you have my forgiveness," she whispered, inching forward ever so slightly and twisting their hands so that her fingers were the ones covering his own. "You have been so good—to us, to me… and to Erik. What can I ever do to repay you?"

His chest tightened and began to heave slowly, even as he squeezed her fingers, hoping to anchor himself to her, to communicate in touch what he could not in words. When she sought his eyes once more, he smiled faintly and raised their hands to his face, gently kissing the backs of her knuckles through her gloves. "There is only one thing that I want, Christine. I want for you to be happy." Although he heard her light gasp then, he could have sworn he felt it too, travelling through the very expanse of her body until it tingled against his lips. "When you wrote to me," he began, "did you mean what you said? That I will live on in your heart?"

"Everything in my letter was true, Raoul," she said, and he knew in that moment that she was in earnest. "I meant every word of it. If there was ever a time to believe me, to truly believe in what I say, then it is now."

Untangling her hand from his light grasp was a swift task, but she baffled him when she did not pull back. Instead, the silk of her glove rose to stroke his cheek, tilting his face towards her as she selfishly, but sweetly, kissed his mouth. A short moment later, her fingers slid from his face and she stiffly rested her head on his shoulder. The sound of their lips parting would later haunt Raoul as vigorously as the familiar warmth of her breath.

So as not to disturb this precious scene, he carefully peered down at her, at how she lay against his arm but did not look at him. And with her sigh, he was instantly transported. Before his eyes, he could see their spirited selves, and in his mind, he recalled every stolen kiss she had ever bestowed on him as they hid and ran and explored the secrets of the Opéra together.

"I will always love you, you dear man," she admitted, but what should have sent joy blooming in his heart, only sent a dull ache. "You will make whomever you marry a worthy and wonderful husband."

With a chuckle, he leaned away from her. "No, I am to lead a bachelor's life. I… I plan to return to the sea, Christine. I was packing when you called on me."

A tremor broke through her body, contorting her features horribly. "Then… this really is our last farewell," she mumbled, catching his eye as he looked to her in dreaded bewilderment. "I came here for many reasons, Raoul, but mainly because I wanted to right the wrong I committed against you. Before, I would have left France without saying goodbye to you properly and I know that hurt you as much as it did me." She cast her gaze to her feet. "You see, I am on my way now."

"Christine," he lamented, lowering his face into his hands before glancing at her through cold fingers. "Promise me that you will not regret your decision. I want you to be happy, but… above all else, I want for you to be safe."

"Erik is a good man," she said, watching him as he straightened once more. "He will never betray me—I swear this on my life, Raoul. He is different now, but my love for him was not the cause of this. He was the one who instilled this change and I am so very proud of him for it."

"That may be," he said, attempting to drown out the undeniable sound of affection in her voice, "but it does not change the fact that he has taken the lives of men."

"I know," she agreed quietly, sighing but not shrinking from him or his words. "I cannot explain my devotion to him, but he has promised me that he will not kill again. On that night… he told me that he did not kill, even though he had ample opportunities to do so, and he proved to me just how much he has grown. He did not kill, Raoul," she breathed with a smile. "He did not kill."

Solemnly, he agreed, nodding his head as he readied himself for what he would tell her next. Finding her eyes, he looked at her pensively "He did more than that," he confessed, earning a pull of her eyebrows. "He saved my life."

Words could not describe the conflicting jumble of emotion that passed over Christine's face as Raoul explained to her the details of that night. Guilt clutched at his heart when he thought of his torn loyalties, but the gleam in Christine's eyes pulled him back from those murky depths.

"I have testified that he is the drowned gendarme," Raoul concluded, allowing a shred of bitterness to enter his tone. "I have sworn that Beaufort's cold body is his, and I can do no more. This is my repayment, Christine. I am no longer indebted to him."

Silent tears ran from her eyes, her hand pressed to her heart whilst her other reached for his fingers. Entwining them, she opened her mouth to speak, to shower him with words of her relief and confusion, but when none came, she merely squeezed his hand and nodded.

Raoul returned the sentiment before murmuring, almost to himself, "I am surprised he did not tell you himself."

"As am I," she whispered, staring at the streets outside before wiping her face and reaching behind her body. "I… I almost forgot," she continued, fumbling with something that was obscured from Raoul's line of sight. "I brought you something."

A strange looking parcel then appeared in her hands as she held it out for him to take. Inquisitively, Raoul glanced between the paper covered lump and her face, attempting to draw out any hint of what it might be. When he received no such hint, he took the parcel from her and settled it in his lap for further inspection. He almost felt like a child again, desperately seeking the knowledge that was hidden within a wrapped gift. His fingers rose to tug at the string holding it together, but before he could, Christine laid a hand on his wrist.

"Not here, please," she said softly.

Her withdrawal from him was both solitary and sluggish, and Raoul instantly knew that their time was nearing an end. Manoeuvring their fingers, he scooped her hand up into his and pressed her knuckles to his mouth.

"I wish you luck on your journeys," he told her, lips brushing the silk of her gloves.

Her breath caught. "So do I," she whispered back, leaning forward wildly to capture his own hand with her lips. Her kiss was slow and, like a burning brand to his flesh, he knew the memory of it would never fade.

The wind began to rage around him as he took his place on the street and watched the carriage whisk her away into the fog. His grip on the parcel tightened as his chest did the same, his heart pumping in futile beats against the constricting nature of his loss whilst his feet carried him back inside his home.

In his chambers, he lowered himself to his bed with a deflated sigh, looking about him with a sense of nihilism before he finally looked to the parcel in his grasp. For a while, he debated whether or not to open it, to reveal her parting gift, as though its continued secrecy would help to preserve the moment. Ultimately, he succumbed, the temptation too great for him, and with a single movement, the string released the paper prison.

His hand flew to his mouth to trap a choked sob as he parted the paper and stared down at the object within. Lying there, without pretence or splendour, was a red scarf, and he knew, without a doubt, that it was the red scarf. His fingers ached to hold it once more and he raised it to his face, rubbing his cheek along the aged linen.

"Farewell," he whispered into the material, pressing his worshipping lips to it as his tears fell freely. "Little Lotte."

o0o

Had the handkerchief within her fingers been made of a weaker substance, Christine was certain that her frantic groping would have torn it to shreds—but what other way was there for her to channel her nerves in such a public environment?

Every compartment on the train was taken, as far as she was aware, and she could feel herself becoming flustered under the thick air. Five others sat with her in this particular compartment, each of them minding their own business and paying her no heed. She sat by the window, awaiting the moment the station would come into view and she could fill her lungs with the open air again.

A repetitious tapping of shoes against the seat soon drew Christine away from the landscape, however. Her fingers stilled as she looked to the other side of the compartment and saw a young child throwing and kicking its feet in unrest. The mother—or perhaps, governess—beside the child huffed and whispered to the little girl to behave, with undesired results. Christine watched the interaction between the two with curiosity, even as she revelled in hearing her native tongue spoken so freely once more.

The girl—Ebba—talked excitedly and incoherently to the older woman in response to being chastised. Sunlight parted through the passing greenery and bled onto the child's face as she continued to prattle. Christine continued to watch Ebba with fondness, for she reminded her of herself at that age. The older woman spoke calmly again, trying to tame Ebba's wild limbs and mouth, but to no avail. Sheepishly, she looked at everyone in the compartment in turn, apologies laden in her eyes and silent tongue. It was then that she caught Christine's gaze.

Clouds hid what sunlight remained and the women regarded one another in plain view. The stranger did not speak to her, but Christine offered a smile of comfort, the gesture widening as the former reciprocated with a smile of her own.

For a moment, Christine was able to forget about the anxious tremors in her heart.

Trees flew by the windows and the scenery began to change, to take shape, the landscape melding into rural towns and cities. Rain pelted down on the glass, blurring the world outside, but Christine did not care. Her destination was approaching. It was not long before the train began to slow, and the din of weary passengers rose up like a choir of rejoicing voices. Bundling her jacket and collar close to her perspiring skin, she trundled through the crowd and to her luggage.

It was with that first step onto the platform that Christine took a deep breath, inhaling steam and petrichor as she walked to the end of the platform. The minutes came and went as she waited for the crowds to disperse. Rain continued to fall upon her head and clothing, drenching her to the bone, but still she did not move to seek shelter. She shifted from side to side, alternating between looking around her and readjusting her suitcases in her weakening grasp.

A whistle pierced her ears, soon followed by the steady turning of wheels, and she watched impatiently as the train rolled away from sight. Another minute, and she was alone.

The wind blew several curls out from their pinned arrangement and away from Christine's bonnet, much to her displeasure. They strayed across the wet skin of her cheek as she finally lowered the cases to the ground so that she might handle these strands more thoroughly.

The sight that met her when she raised her eyes stole the very breath from her body.

A figure stood on the opposite end of the platform, cloaked in black and wind and rain. Her heart leapt as she stared at him, and he her, and for an immeasurable amount of time, nothing else seemed to exist beyond that meeting of gazes. He took a single step in her direction and then another and another, until he was all but running. She, too, ran to him, colliding into his body as his arms came about her.

"Oh, my husband," she mumbled into his soaked jacket, her fingers grabbing him nearer and traversing up wet cotton, over the edges of his disguise and through the slick black hair she had missed so dearly.

"Christine." Oh, how many nights had she suffered without hearing that voice! Never again! "You are here, you are here," he cooed, carefully holding her waist and pulling her closer.

"I am here," she whispered back to him, sliding her hands over his shoulders and neck before they came to rest on his cheeks. "I shall never stay away again," and with those final words, she dragged his mouth down to hers. The sensations were overwhelming—his scent infiltrating her at every turn, the taste of rainwater upon his lips—and yet, they were not enough.

Erik's palms glided up and down her back, aching for the layers between them to disappear beneath his touch. Each month that had passed had seemed like an age and he never wanted to be without her again. The thought of never seeing that mouth break into a smile meant for him alone caused his grip to tighten, but even so, in the back of his frantic mind, he recalled their surroundings. There was no great certainty that they would remain alone for much longer.

Reluctantly, he broke away, resting their foreheads together as he swiftly eyed the forgone suitcases in the distance. "We must get you out of this rain, my love," he said before claiming her lips once more. "I would not forgive myself if you were to catch a head cold because of my foolish behaviour."

A smirk rose and fell on her face before she ardently shook her head, pleading only for him to kiss her again. Desperately, he obliged, deepening the kiss as he resisted the desire to sweep that confounded bonnet from her head and bury his hands in those frazzled and lovely curls.

Again, he pulled away from her, words of reason hanging upon his tongue. "Christine—"

"Shh," she sighed, running her lips across his chin and making him shudder. "I have missed you, Erik."

"As have I," he replied, impassioned, guiding her slyly so that she would walk with him towards her luggage. The wilful girl would not move otherwise. "But I fear the rain will not be merciful, Christine. We must go home now."

Had she not been reaching down to grab the handles of her cases at that moment, she would have thrown her arms around him in abandon and laughed like a gleeful child. "Home," she echoed, meeting his eyes and smiling.

The months apart from her husband seemed to vanish in her mind as he held her close, guiding her to the hansom that was waiting for them beyond the entrance to the station. Whatever path they would choose to follow now would be one of their own making. No one would dictate their future or bar them from the same opportunities given to others.

The Opera Ghost was dead, but Erik lived on, and at his wife's side, he felt as though he had the power to move mountains. The heavens had opened up above them and in Christine's soul, she could believe that it was a sign, a blessing for their lives to begin anew.

In rain, they were reborn, and they knew they would not waste this second chance to walk into the daring unknown.

Fin

A/N: After five years and a lot of anxiety, this story is finally complete!

Thank you to all those who have followed this piece through my erratic updates, hiatus and the discontinuing of the story when it was first posted on here several years ago. And thank you to all those who have reviewed and read and enjoyed. I'd also like to say a bigger thank you to AliceHeart247 for being so supportive and encouraging throughout the year and for giving me the confidence to complete this story.