Whoa. The end has finally come QAQ

I never wanted to write this ending I never wanted to post it. So I left it in pieces and rotting forever in my computer. But I finally decided to post it-if I didn't do it now it'll never be posted...I'm alive LOL...sorry for dying off for so long due to emotions and etc orz I think my ending is too dark sighpie. It's a bit disconnected too

Chapter 22

In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Raoul sat in the carriage, peering upon the bleak landscape that was the roads before him. What had been a resplendent, gay entity but a year or so back with the Bal Masque turned to ashes with the Populaire fire and the Prussian invasions of the once bright city. On the roads, mothers wept poorly and begged for houses they had been turned out of, their own houses bought with their hard-earned money at the factories while their husbands whiled their time away in the ill-kept bars of Paris. A child huddled up to her mother, their faces ashen and white, drawn over the bone thin forms of their bodies. The child rushed up to the carriage, the driver not even bothering to stop.

The plaintive wails of another broken could be heard piercing through the air as the Vicomte de Changy became audience to the sickening crunch of bone and marrow, blood and nerve under the lithe and bedraggled forms of the coach horses. He shook his head, not even bothering to reprimand the driver. In the world after his love for Christine, it had been as bleak as that. Why bother? He could ask himself that a thousand times and never get an answer. Why did he care?

Tears flowed freely upon his cheeks as he regarded the former mansion of his family, burnt to the ground. Soon, he would reach his butler's abode. Tapping on the ceiling of the carriage to stop it, he got off before taking his trunk and traveling bag, determined to forge the rest of the remaining journey ahead by foot, an atonement of sorts for his self-determined sins.

The joyous cries of many as they raced down the streets to some unknown place caught Raoul's attention as he set down his trunk. A little girl, taking in the Vicomte's haphazard methods of dressing and his bedraggled form smiled at him gaily and tugged on his coat.

"Come, sir, come and play!"

Watching the little girl, Raoul felt most certain he could not refuse. Her smile was as bright as the sun, something yellow and warm and fuzzy in a dark sea of blues and greys. Very well, he thought.

I shall follow.

It was but a few weeks later that Christine sat at the table, chewing slowly on the scrambled eggs as the rain continued to fall. It felt almost sad as the raindrops dripped from the window, making the room feel almost gloomy in itself. Recently, it seemed to rain more than ever, to a point that she felt that she had not seen the outside world in probably about a few years. The thunder rolled as the butler brought in the papers, and she flipped them open, thankful for a glimpse of the outside world. Her eyes flicked across the pages, reading more news about the Paris siege and thankful that Madame Giry had been with them the past few months, as well as Raoul, hopefully he had remained in the city? She didn't know, not having seen him for such a long period of time. She slowly turned the page, hoping to read some happy news at last. However, as she scanned the pages, her face turned ashen white as she dropped the forkful of scrambled eggs.

What was Raoul doing in Paris? Fighting for the commoners? True, she had been a commoner, but this revolution? And he was a leader? Did nobody know of his identity? And the Prussians…the Prussians that invaded? Did nobody recognize him? Thank heavens, he looked so different from his past, but Christine had recognized the description in the papers almost instantly. Raoul had left? But why? Her heart raced wildly as she contemplated the safety of her childhood friend, her eyes darting about as she called for Erik, who calmly explained that he had left on his own accord.

It could not be!

"Erik, tell me, what did you tell him?" she cried, clutching at his shirt.

"Nothing. Except that he was welcome to stay, but he could not be more than friends with you."

"But, then…if that is the case, why would he leave? Oh, foolish, foolish Raoul!" she half-shouted, blinking back her tears. "It'll mean I'll never see my friend again…"

Erik frowned at her reactions to the news, thinking she had but been too hasty in her declaration of worry for her "friend". In his mind, the cogs were already turning to expose him as a noble, but as of now he had but the role of the prodigal son to his butler, which was the last he had heard from the boy. The both had kept a simple correspondence which was terse, short, and at times rude, but they had kept it nonetheless to ensure the safety of their loved one, Christine de Changy nee Daae. Erik moved forward to console her, wrapping her in his arms and wiping her tears, which were falling uncontrollably. A certain wave of fear washed over the girl, worrying over the friend she had lost.

"But Erik, you are much more important to me…" she murmured. Erik felt the rustle of the latest letter he had received from Raoul, in the back of his pocket, and he nodded to Christine with a relieved, lopsided grin, blinking back his own pain of loving her. Having gotten over the initial shock, she proceeded to quiz Erik as to Raoul's whereabouts, to which he found that he could not lie. Claiming important work, he slowly backed away, only to run full tilt to his den to pry open the latest letter. To him, it was a form of disgusting, yet intriguing activities that took his mind off other business. As much as he loved Christine, this to him was a certain form of entertainment, albeit the most sadistic one that he could have thought of, considering the fact that he had not been much fond of his acquaintance, nor this boy with him. He unfolded the crisp sheets of paper, slowly shuffling them, before really beginning to read the letter.

M. de Changy,

I write to you again, and this to inform you of my health for Christine's sake and nothing for yourself. I am well and decorated with the spoils of war due to my victories, and the commoners are happy with me. This is but a report, and the rest of this letter is something that you can choose to pass to Christine—or perhaps not. But it is something that was written to her, ages ago, something she once kept but lost. It was not written by my hand, but by her father's, and I would think she would treasure it very much.

R. de Changy

Erik flipped over the page to see if he had written any more, but apparently, he had not. He then proceeded with the letter from Christine's father, interested by the prospect. Why would this be in the possession of that damnable boy? He smoothed the crinkled paper, which crackled dangerously in his hand as it had been worn with age.

My dear child—

If you are reading this, I must have been long dead. I hope you are well and perhaps married to the man I gave your hand to. You see, I doubt any other little girl would have such an experience as you did. I have no idea how, but a little boy once told me he would make you a star, shining brighter than the sun. This boy's name is Erik, and I gave you to him when you were but a wee child. I hope you'll forgive me for this, and I hope you are a star brighter than the sun, my dear. Also, you must be quite old now, so happy birthday, dear Christine, for the thousands of birthdays I have missed. I know you have probably missed me dearly in the years that have past, and I know not of your relations with anyone. I hope you are married to the right person, and I hope your life is bliss. I am also so sure of your voice that one day it will soar to the heavens and I will hear it, even before your time should come like mine. The days for me grow short, and I hope you did not open this letter until I told you to do so, which would be after your sixteenth birthday. Are you happy, my child?

I know you may not remember your mother, but here I have a few memories of her for you. When you were born, you had her smile, the smile that never failed to brighten my day. Your mother had a weak constitution, and we both knew she most likely would not have made it through childbirth. I must say, I did not take her death well, and soon after she died, I neglected you. As such, you fell terribly ill, and you almost died. I was frightened, and realized that I would lose the very last shred of what I had of your mother. Although you were brought up for music, I still but remember your first music lesson, child. You fought against it and refused to open your mouth. Then, you were but three, and I realized I could not force you. My dear child, you taught me much, and through you my heartache for your mother is but amplified a hundred times over. I do love you, my child, and I hope you will live to see this, you have always been so sickly as well. I will not live for much longer, and I write this in between bouts of waking, sleeping and coughing. Right now, I see your face peeping around the corner, and it is so distorted with worry. My child, it pains me to see you like this as the pain from this strange illness wracks my body. Christine, my child, if we could but meet again in heaven, that is but my dream, my dear.

I love you and always will.

Gustave Daae.

Erik folded the papers back, keeping the letter from Raoul and turning to go to give Christine her letter. He sighed softly, feeling the sheaf of papers in his pocket. Of course, what he had read was but the bulk portion of Gustave's letter, considering the fact that Gustave Daae had cringe-worthy levels of penmanship in his final days. He then shuffled the papers around, noticing a smaller, torn sheet where there seemed to be a drawing in crude pen, scratched across the paper. Erik blinked, recognizing himself and someone that seemed perhaps to be Gustave, and a curly haired blob that he assumed to be Christine. The blob seemed to be wearing a veil, and him a formal dress suit. He shook his head, Christine must have been drawing Raoul, but if that was the case, why did it resemble him so? He frowned, trying to make head or tail of the whole diagram, and finding that he could not, placed it amongst the rest of the papers to hand to Christine.

Christine stood in the kitchen, her hands buried in lather as she slowly scrubbed at the dishes. Although they had servants, Christine still preferred to do the dishes by herself, claiming it for good. She giggled as a large bubble floated past her and popped, spraying soapy water over her. She giggled softly, wondering what could have made her husband so mysterious that morning. Perhaps it was a letter from Raoul, and he did not wish to hurt her? Slowly, sank her hands back into the soap, before running the water to wash them off. A thought crept over her as she washed the dishes, wishing that she would eventually have a child. Perhaps they would. After all, her monthly flow had been delayed, but then again, it had never been really regular. She let out a squeak as she suddenly found two strong arms around her, pulling her close and breaking her chain of thought.

"Erik!"

"Yes, ma Cherie, ma bel Ange?" he murmured into her soft skin at her nape.

"Ah…you surprised me." She giggled, turning to face him, before planting a ball of soapsuds on his nose, to which he screwed up his face and blew at it, causing it to fall on her hair. Pretending to be angered, she let out a huff, giggling as she threw another ball of soap at him. He deflected it easily, smiling as he picked up his wife in his arms, twirling her around.

"My Christine…" he whispered against her lips, pulling out the sheaf of letters slowly, lips curving into a smile against her full ones. Christine let out a soft gasp, opening it like it was a present. Her eyes slowly travelled down the page, imbibing the words like it was a drink, making her gasp, her body slowly wracked with emotion and tears.

"Erik…" she muttered, looking at him with eyes, quivering with the emotion of the words she read.

"When can we go home?'

In the doorway, behind marble columns, Antoinette exhaled slowly, looking up to the heavens, where in the shadows on the banisters an olive skinned man stood, eyes locking onto hers. They understood.

Raoul blinked slowly and rubbed his eyes. This...was play? He watched as children and adults alike stood in the square around a guillotine, all craning their necks to watch as noble after noble was led to the centre, where they would lay their heads for it to be cut off. Children would then scramble as the head fell to the ground, kicking the head around like a football as adults chanted, "Down with the nobility!" Raoul felt his hands grow clammy, shaking his head as he looked around for a means to escape, pretending to chant along. Damn it, should he have stayed in neutral Austria? He gasped for air like a fish out of water, a person completely out of his element as he tried to pretend, tried to forget the horrific scene. Someone, a good friend of his father's, one he remembered to be Lord Svën, was led up to the guillotine, his head bowed with brute force but straining against it with pride. He looked up and regarded the crowd with a hearty laugh as his yellowed, cigar-stained teeth showed, growling at the crowd. "Fools," his deep baritone rang. "Fools and peasants all of you!"

A few minutes later and all was silent, save for the triumphant roars of the crowd, and the mild whimpers of Raoul in his head as the disfigured head of his acquaintance rolled at his feet. Giving it an experimental kick, he pretended to play the wimpy, oppressed and fearful man as he tossed it into the group of awaiting children, culminating in a weak but somewhat rousing "yeah" that he had never expected of himself. Is this what betrayal tastes like? He watched as the children sprung onto the head, kicking it about before the executioner collected it and dispersed the crowd, them all disappointed at the end of festivities. Wearily, Raoul returned to his trunk, sitting atop it as the sprightly and weathered figure of his butler seemed to emerge from the crowd. Without a word, the old man heaved the trunk onto his shoulders, carrying it the short distance to his house, a mere hole in the wall in comparison to the de Changy mansion. Raoul crossed the hall in a few steps, the tiny house cramped but fit for a man and his wife. The two regarded the boy with some warm hospitality, knowing he had witnessed the death of many nobles at the guillotine. Raoul could only nod dumbly at their questions, slowly sipping the tea that they gave to him.

"My boy, this is no place for you," Madeline, the butler's wife began. Raoul shook his head firmly, as Christine would hold a conversation about him with her husband.

Two decisions.

One place.

One Opera Populaire, one Revolution.

They were but joyous as they set off, Madame promising to care for the house that would be empty as the grave. As Christine stepped into the carriage, she looked up to the heavens where she thought her father resided. The letter rustled in her hands like a sick memory of what she wanted to do, what she must do, she convinced herself. Would she not return now she would never forgive herself. Surely, her father wanted her safety and yet there was this thought, this knowledge that she must return to the ravaged city where she was once the inhabitant and star of. Already, the scent of death was stinging to her nose as they boarded the ship. Presumptuously, the ship must have been used to store bodies for transport, it would have been an understatement to assume the illegal trade of bodies had risen in the times of war. She looked over at Erik apologetically, who sat beside the Persian with a stony gaze. When she had requested to go home, he had thrown a fit, locking himself into the study for days. Of what reason would she need to return to the goddamned place? Had he not provided enough for her in here? Nevertheless he had conceded as they sat in the ship, riding the rough crests of the waves.

The harbor of Paris soon loomed over them like a giant ready to devour his prey, swallowing their ship in the dark shadow over the once gay city. Tears slowly dripped from Christine's eyes as she felt her legs grow weary and numb, and Erik followed her down, the both of them dressed in commoner clothes such that they would not incite the anger of the people. Nadir followed, fleet footed as he had been the Daroga in the past, making a strange trio.

Along the streets, yells could be heard and the discordant clangs of the sword, metal against metal, metal against flesh, the rip of clothes from each and every body. Fires raged as people cheered for the death of nobles in the town square. Gone were the days of fetes and laughter, replaced now by the cold hearted laughs of the murderers they now all were. Christine huddled into her coat as they rounded a corner, seeing a flash of the familiar charge forth.

Her throat went dry as the syllables caught in her throat, to see her childhood friend fall, and yet rise, slashing his way through…

Slashing his way through former friends. Through his former allies. The nobility were no more.

Death were them, and they were death. As all men are, they will one day be death to be claimed by the dark that returns them to the earth. No man can escape it, nor will they fight it. But now, each must wage his own wars, wage his own battles, for we are but one, and we are the people. We are human, we are fragile. We are not death yet, we cannot be claimed by death. All that one can do now, behind the straw made barricades where they hid, driving swords and bayonets into each other, so charge forth with conviction, the people who will not be slaves again.

We are dust, we are death, we are lost, but most of all as humans we are Incomplete.

xXx FINIS xXx

Hi :)

Thank you for reading my 22 chapters of imagination and my feels. Thank you for being there. I hope to publish more here, but school tells me "NO WAY"

And thank you for all your concern.

I'm sorry to end this...maybe someone can like talk to me on twitter or something... I dont wanna lose contact with you all QAQ

my twatter is sparklingsonata

i fangirl a lot about everything on there...

time taken for this story is about 100 days... orz

Love, WynterVivaldi