Phantom of the Opera 1. Purely Accidental Nothing

hello, my dearies! Eheheheheheheheh! Friday the Thirteenth! a glorious holiday for a MURDER STORY! Evil is as evil does.

Chapter one: Purely accidental.

Christine rushed through the backstage beehive of activity, desperatley trying in vain to pull on her ballet shoes. The crowd was immovable and all shortcuts were blocked by bottleneckers and morons who just loved to stand anround and watch dust collect. A buzzing crowd filled the opera house, the old building nearly bursting at the seams at this point. Ever since the place had caught fire in the "accident", the shotty masonry was definitely showing. There was not a day that went by when one of the stagehands would not curse the damn phantom that had caused the woodwork and catwalks such turmoil.

Succeeding in pulling on her slippers, the girl tried her hardest to shove her way through the crowd, finding that her nintey pound frame was simply not strong enough to part the multitude. In a mad panic, she bolted back to her dressing room and locked the door. Madame Giry would be lining up her dancers in the rehearsed fashion. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Christine had turned down all lead parts for the operas ever since the scandal. She preferred to go back to the way things were before. Certain that there was a passage behind her mirror, she slid the panel to the side, running down the tunnel. All too well she knew that this was the way to the phantom's lair, but she feared him no more. He had come to her and Raoul's house in person, armed with the sincerest apologies he could muster. Erik had given Christine permisson to use his secret corridors whenever she pleased. For a maniacal musical genius, he was alright.

Taking a left turn, Christine could already hear the voices of her fellow chorus girls and the senior Giry barking at them for faulty foot positions. She smiled. It must have been nice to spy on the entire opera house like some dirty scoundrel.

It was certainly good to be back. He felt as if he could absolutely wrap himself in the darkness, his darkness. He, the Phantom, now going by the name of Erik, felt great to be back at the old opera house.

He had made many changes personality-wise ever since that ordeal with Christine and Raoul. That night when she left, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and die.Thankfully, the Persian had stayed with him for many months, a good friend and companion. The man had acted as an early psycologist, working out his deep-seated problems. But since he left, Erik felt more alive than ever. Though still possessing a shrewd sense of humor and a vanity that could only be soothed by a mask, he was different. He no longer spent long nights torturing himself with thoughts of Christine. He no longer wished to have her as his bride. He only wished good things for her and the Vicomte de Chagney. Despite the fact that he was no longer a monster at heart, he felt o reason to dtop is shennanigans with the rest of the opera house. He'd heard that Carlotta had the lead role in tonight's performance. There was a costume and a reputation just itching to be ruined. With a bottle of his finest black ink, Erik set off through his passageways, his image as a trickster yearning to be fufilled.

Christine tried her hardest to remember the way out of the hallway. It was Meg's idea that she draw a map on her hand, should the occasion in need of use of these tunnels ever arise. Naturally, she'd forgotten exactly when she needed the directions the most. Damn it, she though, her brow furrowing as she returned to a tunnel that was very familiar. Oh well. She supposed that there was only one way outof here, and only one person could help her. " Erik?" she said loudly, praying for an answer. " You rang?" a deep, velvety baritone sounded behind her, causing her to whirl around. He was standing perhaps three yards away, holding a large bottle of ink. The man held an expression of a young boy about to throw a rock through a pane of glass. " Oh, thank God you're here!" She sighed, a chuckle seasoning her exclamation. " Do you know the way to the stage?" The masked figure smiled, swirling his bottle of ink. She suddenly realized how obtuse she had sounded. Of course he knew the way to the stage.

" Absolutely. What kind of poltergiest would I be if I didn't?" Christine noticed a twinkle in his eyes that she did not remember, nor was she sure in she entirely liked it. " Splendid. What's the ink for?" Erik grinned wickedly. " As simple gesture of affection for Carlotta's solo. I'm sure all of Paris will get a kick out of it." Christine's smile faded a bit. What was it with his new cavalier attitude? " Come on. I will lead you there." Erik took her by the hand and led her through an impossible maze of corridors. Even though she missed his old intensity and romanticism, she enjoyed his friendly company.

The phantom stopped at an ordinary panel, pushing it with his shoulder. The wall popped open, revealing a spiral staircase to the catwalks. The pair decended the stairs, silently stalking out onto the catwalks. Christine withered when she saw that the show had already begun, but perked up when she saw that Jammes had kindly taken her place. She would have to thank the girl later, and would never let any of them forget that the spoiled, snobbish Jammes had done somebody a kindness. Erik sat down indian-style, uncorking his bottle of ink. He grinned devilishly when Carlotta had strutted onto the stage, overly gaudy as usual.

Suddenly, a loud sputtering sound came from their left side. Both of the friends looked over. Christine gasped. On the farthest catwalk opposite them, a man desperatly clawed at his throat, his face a purple shade of puce. Erik, jumped up, upsetting his ink bottle all over Carlotta. The diva screamed and began shouting Spanish profanities at the paled managers. The masked man rushed to the man. Chrisine tailed him, grabbing his sleeve as she saw that a dark figure had looked up at them. It nodded, then dropped the dead man onto the stage. He landed with the hideous sound of a watermelon exploding. The actors screamed, and Carlotta forgot her own woes for a minute to flinch at the corpse. Members of the audience, gasped, all rushing to the sides of others. A man from the orchestra pit leaped up, covering the body with a sheet. Erik and Christine sprinted down to the stage, Erik stealing a green cloak to hide himself. They pushed their way through the crowd, Erik kneeling at the body. He recognized the man as Pierre Fonasille, a backround manager. Cristine put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes finding something horrible. In the noose that had killed Pierre, a red rose tied with a black ribbon was tucked. Firmin and Andre shoved others out of their way earning many dirty looks. Andre plucked the rose from the lasso, a vein flickin horribly in his temple. " Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain calm!" He cried as the crowd vacated through the door. When the audience had left, Firmin sank to his knees, crushing the rose. " I give!" He yelled, banging his cane on the wooden floor. "That Phantom bastard has murdered for the last time!" The figure under the green cloak balked. Christine grabbed his hand, sprinting with him until she reached a deserted studio. Others called to her, inquiring her knowledge of the mysterious man. she slammed the door, but it was soon opened by Raoul. He looked very shaken.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, running to his comforting embrace. He recieved her, stroking her hair. Erik removed his cloak, his face set in a disbelieving manner. The vicomte paled. " It's him!" He hissed, pushing Christine behind him. Apparently, he intended to fight Erik. The masked man, stepped back, his palms up in a "don't look at me!" fashion. Raoul put up his fists, a flicker of cowardice darting across his complexion. Christine snatched his collar. " Raoul, Erik did not kill that man. He was with me." Raoul stopped, looking and feeling very stupid in his fighting stance. Erik glowered. " It is nice to see you too." Christine took Raoul's arm, looking into his confused blue eyes. " We were on the catwalks. We saw somebody else kill Fonasille." Raoul's expression softened. Erik grinned, awaiting an apology. " My regrets." Raoul mumbled, shuffling his toe.

The phantom collaspsed onto a crate, cradling his forehead in his hands. " Why would anybody kill Fonasille and then frame me?" The two others shrugged. This was certainly a problem worth stressing about.


	2. The Aftermath

Blah. That first chapter sucked eggs. I promise this one will be better! Oh, btw, pardon my american vernacular. I know it sounds weird with French characters. I just stink at rich language. Okay, on with the show!

Ch. 2: A Formidable Foe

Erik returned to his secret flat in a state of nervous distress. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple, blood punding loudly in his ears. The man could not understand for the life of him why somebody would want to frame him for murder, besides the fact that he killed three people last year and nearly every snob with money in Paris couldn't wait to nail his pelt to the side of the Lourve.

The makeshift apartment looked like that of a college boy, with the sheets of his cot thrown to the floor and bits of food strewn all over the ground. With his real home under the cellars under eagle's eye from the police, he was forced into this loft which hung forgotten beneath the attics.Only Madame Giry, Christine, and Raoul knew where this place was. It was a bit more than an overly large squirrel's nest in the wall, as far as any of them were concerned.

Erik slumped over a small wooden table, his chin landing in a splotch of bannana. Groaning loudly he flipped the table over, the noise echoing in the spires. His rage had gotten the better of him. That had not happened in months. He threw his mask to the cot, wanting to air out his scars. Contrary to belief, he did not love wearing that cursed thing. It chafed and rubbed him raw to the point of bloodshed. The whole mask deal was signature by mistake.

The mystery clouded his mind like a haze of frustration. The same questions chased each other around his mind, never coming up with legimate answers. A soft knock rapped gently at the wooden door. Erik hastened to hide his gruesome defects with a pair of undergarments. Madame Giry entered, looking vaugely amused at the sight of Erik with a pair of underwear pressed firmly to his face. " Hello, Cecile." his friend kicked a pile of dirty clothing from a stool, propping herself smartly atop it. She brandished his mask that she had picked up.

"Here. Get those ridiculous things off your face!" Giry threw him the" object. He caught it and jammed it onto his face. Trying tremendously to regain his shred of dignity, he cleared his throat. " So, what business brings you to my, erm, house?" Erik asked, glancing around at his surroundings. Cecile glared at him. He withered under her firey gaze. For such a small woman, she was almost frightening.

" What the hell happened at the Gala?" Giry screeched like a peacock. " I-I, I suppose-" Erik was cut off by the ranting woman. " Did you kill Fonasi-?" He put his hand over her mouth. The woman looked ready to explode. " No, I will humbly admit that I did not kill Pierre. Christine and I saw the real murderer kill him." He removed his hand, and she gasped for breath. " You did not kill him?" she echoed stupidly. It was one of those rare moments when she was not sternly self composed. He shook his head. Madame Giry looked confused. " We found _your_ rose in the lasso. Explain that!"

Sighing deeply, he explained the theory that He, Christine, and Raoul cooked up. " and we believe that somebody is trying to frame me." Madame Giry puzzled over this. " I would not usually believe you of all people," She muttered, " But I will believe Christine." Erik shot her his worst look.

" Well, I suppose you should adopt a new signature flower, then." The elderly woman joked. Erik gave a weak chuckle. " Yes, I suppose, but daisies don't seem to be the symbol of mystery and horror that I'm searching for."

" Are you alright, Christine? Are you ill?" Raoul, a mother in a husband's body, fussed over the visibly worried Christine. A ghostly pallor had consumed her peaches and cream glow and dark circles had made a defined appearance. The pair was walking to Christine's dormitory, pushing through the hushed crowd. Everybody was mourning silently for Fonasille, the air nearly salty with tears. The man had been very well-liked.

Christine felt a pang of relief ease her concern. The old place soothed her, like a security blanket for an infant. Raoul had agreed to let her live in the opera house after Erik had announced his indifference to their marriage. He gave her a tight hug and planted a small kiss on her lips. She rested her head on his breast. Raoul stroked her hair, slowing his pace. When they reched the door to the dormitory, she felt tears sting his eyes. " Do you want me to stay with you?" Raoul's forget-me-not eyes were filled with concern and boyish love. Christine shook her head, releasing herself from his embrace. " I will send for you tomorrow. Goodnight, my darling." Raoul kissed her hands and disappeared into the throng. The other choruss girls were pretending to sleep, while they were really fearing for their lives. How could anybody sleep knowing that there was a murderer abroad?

With nightmares torturing her thoughts, Christine let the tears come as sleep overtook her. Although she was merely his friend, she feared for Erik's well-being.


	3. A Second Strike

This pleases me! All this concrit is bad for the ego, but healthy for the writer's mind! I beg pardon for Erik's weird changes. I even said Christine hated it. I'll try to make him regain some of his morbid hotness. Sorry if that last comment was uncalled for.

Ch 3: A Second Strike

Meg Giry rushed through the halls of the backstage world as fast as her garter-clad legs would carry her. The place was deserted by those who worked by day, inhabited only by stragglers and those too drunk to remember their names. The girl shook her head. What was becoming of such a fine art? She quickly banished the thought from her mind as her destination called to her.

Meg held a small package that she clutched tightly to her bosom. It contained a gift for one of her fellow chorus girls. Michelle Pojek, which her lover had been too shy to deliver himself. The disheveled man had caught her by the elbow after practice, begging her to give his beau the gift. The dancer had been kind to Meg, so she agreed. The event had completely slipped her mind until she had been lying in her bed.

The young Giry counted off the doors impatiently. Why did the woman's dressing room have to be so far away? And with that murderer abroad, the nighttime was just about as welcoming as a quarantined hospital. Against her stubborn will to be brave, her heart pounded loudly against her frail ribs.

At last, the door reading Michelle's name was before her, and she knocked. No answer.

Meg feverishly knocked again, this time more loudly. Still no answer. Meg felt fear welling up inside her. Oh, why had she refused Christine's offer for companionship? Though a ninety-pound soprano could do next to nothing for protection, the moral support would have been invaluable. " Michelle?" She hissed into the keyhole, " It is I, Meg Giry. I- I have a delivery for you, from Henry." Michelle did not answer, though her gas lamp shone brightly from the crack under the door. Cautiously, Meg tested the handle's resilience. The door creaked open.

" Michelle?" Meg was now covered with a cold sweat, her blonde hair clinging to the fibers of her nightcap. All was silent, disregarding the hiss of the lamp and Meg's drum-like heartbeat. She called the name again into the illuminated gloom. A faint dripping sound startled her. It seemed to be coming from the closet. With a trembling hand, Meg opened the closet. Her eyes grew wide with horror, a silent scream escaping her lips. Michelle Pojek hung dead in the closet, her throat slit and the Punjab lasso entwined round her neck. Meg dropped her lamp in terror, the shards lacerating her bare feet. Tucked in the front of Michelle's nightdress, a red rose, tied neatly with a black ribbon, lay. The flower glistened with blood, monstrously. Finally regaining her voice, Meg screamed so loudly, that one lying awake beneath the attics jumped with surprise.

Christine stroked her pillow gently, thoughts of her life troubling her mind. She was waiting for Meg to return, her friend having left over five minutes ago. She sighed. This was one of those restless nights when there never seemed to be enough air and the sheets too warm. She longed to be in Raoul's arms, for he would comfort her as one would comfort a lethargic child. A/N: I'll try to explain their separate living as best as I can! Her husband, she knew, was slumbering peacefully in a magnificent flat in the midst of Paris. Since she had returned to the opera, he had tried tirelessly to convince the managers that he should set up a room of their own somewhere in the monolithic building. Firmin and Andre, who would ass around for days on the silliest of things, had still not gotten back to him on this. Nevertheless, the couple had discovered a deserted dressing room in the quieter east wing of the opera house. Together, they had already tidied it up and made it as their own little nest. Raoul, though accustomed to much fancier dwellings, would have lived in a crate had his beloved wife asked him to. All he had to get was a note with fond agreements, and they could once again sleep in each other's arms. Raoul had been more feverish in his attempt to receive permission over the past two weeks, after the murder of Fonasille. Was a husband's duty not to protect his betrothed?

As these hopeful thoughts of togetherness eased her restlessness, a loud shriek shattered her state of mind. All of her fellow chorus girls sat bolt upright, lights flying to illumination. They huddled together in a passel of thin white muslin and frightened cries. Christine forced her black robe over her head and sprinted down the halls. Lights came to life all around her as she ran, searching for Meg's anguished cries. Suppose her best friend was in some sort of mortal peril? Christine would never forgive herself for letting the ballerina go alone.

Among the confusion, she heard Carlotta yelling and cursing; her loud screeches a cross between fear and fury. The lousy drunks that were slumped over began to stir back to life, their bleary eyes lazily surveying the pandemonium. Suddenly, an arm grabbed hers and led her forcefully to a secret staircase. She cried out, but fell silent when she recognized the figure under the dark green cloak. " Erik!" she whispered, " We must find Meg!" He forced her around, fire burning in his green eyes. " Christine, there has been a murder, and once more, I am the one to blame." Christine felt unnatural force in his grip, which she tried to shake herself from, failing. She had never seen him this angry before. His teeth were bared in a menacing frown and his brow was furrowed with hatred.

" Go flee! Find you fop! I am going to try to track down this murderer. Michelle Pojek has been strangled. I will send Meg to you. Now go!" He roared, jamming his thumb behind him. " Go now! Get out of here! Find safety!" Without a word, she was released fro his iron grip and Erik vanished into the churning crowd.


	4. The Figure in the Dark

I know this took forever to update, please forgive me. Oh, well. Get over it and just scroll down.

Ch.4: The Hunted

Erik's POV

As I shoved my way through the crowd, I felt all sense of reasoning just fly out the window. Gone was rationality, replaced by a nameless rage that burst through my chest like a broken dam.

A loud scream had woken me from my stupor, causing me to bang my head on the low rising ceiling. With a loud curse, I had thrown on the stolen green cloak and sprinted for the stairs. Making my way through the walls and floors, I heard nothing but filthy denounces to my god-forsaken hide. That was it. There is only so much blame I can take. When I heard that it had been Michelle Pojek that had been killed, this only fueled my thirst for bloodlust and revenge. That girl had been an asset to the entire populace of the opera house, and I personally respected her. Now, with her life supposedly on my hands, I had decided that this real killer would have to taste what real justice would taste like, namely the coarse fibers of the Punjab lasso.

Suddenly, a hand snaked out and grabbed me. Before I could lay my fingers on the length of rope, Madame Giry's steely gray eyes stopped me. Her gaze snapped to the lasso at my side. " What were you going to do with that? Oh, I should have known. Revenge is your ordinary." Despite the gruesome conditions, she rolled her eyes, ever haughty. " Very well. Go send that man to the devil." I frowned. " I do not require your permission to do what I please. Now, kindly step aside." Without another word, I pushed her away and found a passageway. Along the floor, red rose petals were in a perfect line, leading to an unknown destination. It turned out that that mysterious path would take me to the roof. In the snowy howl of wind, another masked figure emerged from the shadows, undetected by myself.

Narrator's POV

Trying her best not to be trampled, the distraught Christine searched frantically for Raoul. The girl called his name and stopped passersby if they had seen him. One violin player, who was kind enough to lend her his time, led her to the nearly hysterical Vicomte, who was currently shouting curses at the walls in box five. Upon her arrival, he hugged her tight, making a motion for the door. To his surprise, she stopped him, staring at the ornate rafters in a frightened manner.

" No, Raoul," She said heavily, " We must remain here. Erik needs our help." He gaped, unable to believe what he was hearing. The girl had taken leave of her senses! " Are you mad? That murderer will kill the both of us if we try to help him!" Raoul yelped. She shook his shoulder with a force none could have imagined in such a dainty creature. " No, Raoul! Do not be a coward. He is our friend and he needs our help!" The pair then heard a loud, scream. It was coming from the roof.

Dun dun dun! Intrigue! Sorry it was so short, but hey, I have like twenty other storiesto install to.


	5. The Man in the Mask

Ooh, this will be great fun to write. I can probably guarantee a sadisticscene ahead, so hold onto your hats!

Ch. 5: The Man in the Mask

Erik's POV

When the door to the roof swung open, a mixture of anger, fear, and biting wind hit me square in the face. The statues loomed menacingly in the pale moonlight, casting shadows that melted into horrible, nonexistent silhouettes. Rose petals crunched softly beneath my feet, staining the snow a bloody shade of scarlet. The ominous trail abruptly halted at the foot of a gigantic winged horse. Before I could investigate this, a hellish pain caught me in the side, a brutal blow coming out of nowhere. With the flush rising in my frozen cheeks, an agonizing throbbing sensation threatened to overwhelm me. Another clout got me in the temple, a chuckle coinciding with our meet.

"Well, well, the amazing Phantom of the Opera, we convene at last." A voice boomed out of the swirling nausea that was my vision. I blindly swiped at the bastard, another chuckle mocking my efforts.

" If you must know the truth, you aren't half as fearsome as those little ballet twits make you out to be." Another sickening punch caught the line of my jaw. In another vain attempt to defend myself, I drew my sword and swiped at the voice. Two heavy boots landed near my head, kicking me in the jaw.

How could I have let myself blindly wander into such a blatant trap? Taken leave of my senses I had. Now, here I was, being battered into near submission by a serial wannabe. Even worse than the pain was the concept of my not being able to fight back. I had lost my eyesight from a vicious kick delivered to the back of my head, so all was dark. Hopefully, as the Persian had taught me, this would only be temporary blindness. Otherwise, the prospect was bleak.

"You are losing your touch, Erik," The voice said melodramatically. " You are getting fat. What this town needs is some action. As for me, I will do them a service and raise bloody hell!" At this he snatched my sword from my seemingly useless hands.

" Let's see if this won't get a rise out of you," It said, and the next thing I knew, my sword was jammed full-force into my side, ripping a horrible scream from my chest. With any luck, folks in Ireland would have heard my cry of pain.

A/N: Erik isn't really fat. It's just a figure of speech, for those of you who want to conserve the Gerik image.

Murderer's POV

As the weapon drove into the masked man's exposed chest, I could practically hear heads turning to hear the source of the scream. Erik writhed in silent agony as the blade was withdrawn. My plan was going precisely to schedule. That ballet brat had just been a jolt to get the phantom's rage pumping for revenge. I knew the stab was not lethal, just enough to cause much bleeding and temporary paralysis. All I needed was for the final piece to fall into place.

" Such a cooperative lad. Now, let's see if those nice friends of yours don't come running to your aid!" I cackled. It was heaven on earth to see the fool's blind eyes widen in horror. He bared his teeth, flailing out once more to try and hit me. I jammed the toe of my boot into his side. " Oh, did that touch a nerve? Yes, any moment now…" As he tried to curb the flow of blood from the wound, I leaned in to hear his curses.

" You bastard," He growled, " If you lay one hand, I swear to God, one hand, on either of them, it's your head on a platter."

This was definitely worth a guffaw. " What are you going to do about it, bleed on me?" The euphoria of domination returned when I saw his face fall when he realized that he was quite helpless to any of the de Chagneys. The moment of truth was coming, my time to do what I was supposed to do. I believe the term for my proposed action in later years would come to be known as political assassination. It was merely an added bonus if this terrible man were to die under the name of a serial killer.

As I contemplated the strategy one last time, footsteps suddenly sounded behind the wooden door. With a satanic grin, I mock saluted the agonized Erik and hid myself in the shadows.

Christine's POV

As I sprinted out onto the roof, a nightmarish image unfolded. With Raoul trailing behind me, I ran to Erik's side. The man was lying in a pool of his own blood, his eyes rolling wildly. " Christine!" he grunted, his breathing labored, " Get out of here now! It's a tra-" he never got to finish, interrupted by Raoul's cry of surprise and the clash of blades between killer and target.

Sorry if this is confusing. Here is the plot in simple words:

An assassin is hired to kill one of the most powerful families in France, the de Chagneys, and poses as the phantom of the opera for protection. See, that was simple, wasn't it?


	6. Is she?

Narrator's POV

As he lay half dead in the snow, Erik tried his hardest to warn the pair about the crazed lunatic that was waiting in the shadows to pounce. All he managed to do was garble nonsense, much to his frustration. When they first heard the metallic collision of swords, Christine looked up in horror to see a darkly garbed man and her husband trading slashes. Erik propped himself up against the foot of a gigantic stone statue, all the while trying to curb the flow of blood from his torso with little luck.

The murderer had Raoul pinned to the wall under the force of his forearm, nearly choking the young man with his bare hands. Unable to act as a simple onlooker any longer, Christine threw herself against the back of the masked figure. He whirled around and struck her with a sickening force, sending the girl careening into a stone gargoyle. Both Raoul and Erik gasped and bared their teeth. Nobody, and I mean nobody, hurt Christine and lived to tell the tale.

Raoul jammed his fist into the murderer's jaw and the collision made a pleasing crunch. His opponent leapt back to his feet, pausing to wipe a stubborn trickle of blood from his temple. Erik tried his hardest to stand up right, but in the end, kept falling over, much to his overwhelming frustration. The Punjab lasso lay only yards away, and there was only one way this murderer was leaving, and that was in a satin-lined box.

Raoul's POV

He jumped back to his feet, brandishing his sword in a cocky manner. I could tell that this battle was only going to end one way, and one of us wasn't going to like it. Christine lay at least ten feet away, and a pool of crimson blood was pooling under her fragile head. " Oh, My God." I feared the worst, not bothering to dodge the next blow, the blade catching me in the arm. " Aauuggh!" I saw Erik crawling over to Christine, leaving a trail of blood as he went. He put two gloved fingers under her chin, then fell back, horrified. I dropped my sword and rushed over to them. The masked man behind me began to laugh monstrously, while the one crumpled on the ground began to heave dry, racking sobs.

Before the bastard stopped laughing, I heard a loud gurgling noise as I bent over the motionless form of my wife. Turning around, I saw Erik staggering to his feet, holding onto the end of the Punjab lasso. Thankfully, the other end was around the neck of the murderer. Erik's teeth were bared and his whole body was shaking with fury. Pulling as hard as he could, I saw the last flicker of life leave the killer's eyes, sending him to hell. The phantom then fell to his knees and tried to crawl over to Christine and I. " I-is she…?" Was all he managed to say before slumping over facedown in the snow.

And there I sat, amongst two potential dying people, between two nearly dying angels. All I could do was wait and see if they would pull through, or if I'd be left alone to face the future on my own.


	7. The Bitter End

Ch.: The Bitter End

Erik groaned as a cool sponge slid over his throbbing forehead, batting away the arm that was helping him blindly. In return, he immediately received a slap to the face. He at once realized that he was not wearing his mask, his hand flying to the exposed defacement.

"Cecile?" It was only logical, because Madame Giry was the only one who possessed enough gall to slap him. "Good. You're alive." Her already flinty voice sounded flintier, as though she regretted saying those words to him. A moment of confused silence passed between them before he realized just what he should be concerned about.

"Christine! Where is she? Is she alright? What about Raoul?" He added the last part about Raoul like an afterthought. Madame Giry gave him a dour look.

"Oh my God. Please do not tell me she's-" the final word was impossible to say. He was furious when his friend waved him off like an irksome child in need of punishment. "She's, well, at least she's still breathing. The poor lamb took major trauma to the skull and hasn't woken up yet.

"Yet? How long was I out?" He gingerly poked the bloodied bandage that was tightly wrapped around his torso.

"You've been unconscious for four days. Almost died, you did. Consider yourself lucky." For several minutes, he did not respond, but observed his surroundings. The room he was in appeared to be in an attic away from mainstream life of the opera house, oddly comforting in all of it's dusty wonder. A carved window was directly next to the cot he was on, making it possible to see the busy street below.

"You needn't look so relieved. You're probably never going to see them again."

Another moment of silence passed. "What? What the hell do you mean by that?" Anger and denial was rising in his chest like water through a broken dam. Erik tried to sit up, finding the feat impossible at the moment. Madame Giry calmly continued to stitch on her sampler, not bothering to humor him. "You must know by now that there was an assassination attempt to kill the de Chagneys. Do you truly believe that Raoul is foolish enough to remain in Paris after he and his wife were almost murdered? They are fleeing within the hour."

It was then so quiet both of them could hear pigeons cooing in the streets. Erik abruptly tried to stand and in turn fell on his face. He let out a roar of fury, repeatedly standing up and falling back to the floor. Finally realizing that there was no way he was leaving the room. The broken man used his strong arms to drag himself back to his cot, laying facedown.

"Cecile, I need you to do me one last favor."

"Monsieur, your carriage has arrived. Do you need any help with your luggage? Or your wife?" The footman snickered behind chubby fingers. Raoul shot him his worst look.

"Please sir," the footman muttered, "it was a mere joke." Raoul scowled at him again. "I think it was in very poor taste, man. I can carry her. You take the bags." The impudent footman said nothing further, not wishing to pursue his master's temper.

Raoul gazed at is young bride sprawled out on her bed in the dressing room. The girl was deathly pale and her pulse was weak and distant. It gave him great pain to see her in such a state. She had been dressed in traveling clothes, but she would have no idea where they were going. The poor thing would wake up in a new home in Germany with no recollection of the coma or the memory of her body or Erik's being dragged like gunnysacks from the blood-spattered roof. It was for the best. That's what he kept telling himself. He had to protect himself and his loved ones. His sisters were already in grave danger, and he had to reach them before the assassins did.

As carefully was one will in care of a glass egg, he scooped up Christine into his arms and bore her weight with a straight face. Raoul carried her to the waiting carriage, gingerly placing her inside. Before he climbed into the coach, he noticed something rather strange on the ground. It was a single red rose tied with a black ribbon, but for the first time, the thorns had been removed.

" Devil's beard…" He had forgotten about him. He had saved both their lives. Raoul had never thanked him. Instead, he nodded his appreciation in the direction of the opera house, and for some odd reason, he felt as if the gratitude had been accepted.

As the monolithic building shrank into the distance, Raoul softly sang the words that his rival had sung so long ago.

_He was bound to love you…_

_When he heard you sing…_

And the prophecy was fulfilled for the second time.

**Fin.**

**I apologize if the ending sucked, but how would you have done it?**


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Humor, Suspense