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"Christine," Raoul chided to the young nineteen-year-old as they boarded the ship, "you must be more quick, this ship will not wait. Make haste!"

"Raoul, please," Christine whimpered. Her father was Dustave Daaé, the late famous Swedish violinist whom had died when she was around the age of ten. "It has only been six weeks after that..."

"Fire," he intervened her words as they trailed off her lips. Lips that kissed the Angel.

"We'll get through this, remember, he was after me too."

"Yes," she trailed her fingers over her lips where the memory ultimately lasted. She hadn't kissed Raoul or anyone since that night in the layer of the opera house, miles under the main floor.

She saved Raoul from the angel's grasps for the final time, just by kissing him; she had freed Raoul from the Punjab and saved herself from the darkness. Ultimately sending the Angel of Music to eternal darkness...

Raoul took her hand and guided her with haste to the ship to Iceland, Greenland, or some such place where Raoul had planned their trip away from the horrors of l'Opera Populaire.

A wind had picked up, ruffling Raoul's straightened shirt and whipping his leather jacket around Christine's legs. His hair moved together with the small curl at the end. She smirked at this. He's so perfect, nothing out of place, she thought. He saw this and took it for her being happy to be with him, always.

Her hair flew all around her head and smacked her in the face a few times, causing her to fit over it. She wore a long, chic cloak with a fur wrap. Lace and silk was everywhere around the dress she wore, one of the gifts Raoul had given her after the fire. This dress made her sweat horribly.

They boarded the craft and hobbled through the slop to the lower deck where their cabin was. Christine sat on the hard king size bed and took off her cloak and fur wrap.

It was around ten in the evening and she prepared for bed as Raoul went to the opposite side of the room.

The cabin was small with only a king size bed and dresser for a three month voyage to their destination. There looked to be holes where rats or other animals could crawl through and there was grime in the corners of the room. The lavatories were on the other side of the ship and both Raoul and Christine thought that it was okay for them to dress together, quietly of course.

"Is this the cheapest and quickest there was to Iceland, Raoul?" Christine asked.

"Yes, unfortunately, I thought the accommodations would have been more..."

"I understand," Christine said as she dropped the long sleeves of her dress and began to undo her corset. She removed this and completely removed her dress, revealing her nudity to the wall.

Christine turned around to see if Raoul would make an action towards her. He had his back to the wall and was changing himself.

As Christine slipped her nightgown on, she turned to see that Raoul had removed all his clothing also. He quietly picked out some substantial nightwear and unfolded them. She looked at his back, with its muscles glistening. She traveled to his arms and wrists and saw the scars of the Punjab still there, after six weeks. She looked farther down and saw his buttocks. She quickly looked away, it being the first time she had ever seen that of a man. She turned towards the dresser and began to set her clothing inside.

Raoul had put on his clothes and had turned up the lanterns and lit more candles for him to read a book. Christine went to the other side and quietly lifted the blankets. She lay her head down and tried going to sleep. As she began to close her eyes, she saw his face again. The Angel. The Phantom. The Murderer. Erik.

After about an hour, Raoul finally turned off the lanterns and put out the candles. He crawled into the large bed and slept as far away from Christine. Christine waited for him to change his mind and lay closer to her, but it wasn't so. Christine thought of the Angel and closed her eyes and began to cry silently. Short sobs came from her mouth as she covered it.

"Raoul. Raoul," she spoke a little louder.

"Yes, Christine?"

"Will you hold me? Just until I fall asleep."

He moved closer to her and lightly lay his hand on her shoulder. His hands were cold and soft on her hot sweaty shoulder. Damn that dress, she thought. It would stink like that for weeks. She took his hand in hers. Her crying had yet to stop.


It was one month later that they harbored in one of Great Britain's ports. She wrapped her shawl around her as the winds of autumn picked up. Raoul had gone into the city of London to meet with a man for business. He had told her to go shopping and meet the ladies of Britain. They would be there for a week or more.

She took his money and looked at the cheap fashion of Britain with their heavy fabric and ugly patterns. Most unlike that of the dress she had worn for Hannibal, when she had substituted la Carlotta. She crossed the drowsy, smelly streets of London with clouds and thoughts of rain above her. She looked down towards the market and saw a young blonde woman standing and arguing with a young British man in français.

The young woman continued jabbing with her finger at a pair of shoes and asking how much money would they be if she paid in francs.

Christine walked up and immediately noticed it was Meg Giry, the daughter of Madame Giry who had led Raoul to the Phantom's layer.

"Meg!" Christine shouted towards the young girl of about seventeen.

Meg turned and immediately smiled. She flew a hand out at the man and quickly hugged Christine. "I feel I haven't seen you in ages. When did you get here?"
"Just today."

"How is the Vicomte de Chagny?" Meg asked with bitterness of misfortunes of being born into a poor family of Girys.

"He's absent; on business," Christine quickly said.
"Right, well, I was going to buy something, but these British don't speak French."

"Have you any word on the opera house?"

"Yes, they removed the rubble and bandits stole the gold."

"What of the Angel?"

"Nothing, most believe him to be dead."

Christine reached towards her lips and turned away. "Are you sure?"

"There was a mirror broken, but it just led to a dead end. Most think him to have been burned by the villager's torches when they lit his layer on fire. Others think he died on the stage where he had played Don Juan and taken you."

"I want to see, I want to see this mirror."

"What of Raoul? The murderer is dead, Christine.

You're getting married to Raoul in Greenland!"

"Iceland," Christine corrected. "When is the next ship to France?"

"No, stay here!"

Christine left to the ports and asked some sailors when the next ship was to France.

"Not in three days time, miss."

"Merci."

In the turn of three days, Christine began packing her dresses again and undergarments, she continued thinking of the Phantom. He isn't dead, was her constant thought as she then began to write a letter to Raoul.

Cher Raoul,

I'm sorry this is such short notice, but I must go back to France with Meg for some time. It won't be long, something has happened to Madame Giry, and as you know, she was my godmother after my father had died. She has become ill with the flu. I'll be back to you as soon as I can, please wait for me for we shall go to Iceland as soon as I return.

Your Love,
Christine

She folded and put the letter on his side of the room where he read his book. Christine hurried out of the hostel and rode a carriage to the harbor. She gave them her passport and headed towards the cabin where she lodged for the next two weeks. Seems that the more expensive, the less time wasted.

When she reached France, she took a carriage to Paris, which was about a two-day trip. She rode alone, which by Raoul's standards wasn't very safe. But, what is this land without the imagination of danger.


When Christine reached the Opera Populaire, she began to cry. The golden Apollo statues were gone from the top of the opera house and it just looked ransacked and burnt to nothing. As she walked up the steps the guards blocked her way.
"You are not to enter, mademoiselle," the one on the right spoke to her. "The place has been too ransacked for anything else to be taken, and besides, it is still too dangerous for a young woman to be."
"Oh stop, Pierre, this is Mademoiselle Daaé, from the Hannibal and Il Muto operas. J'adore l'Hannibal. Il est mon favorit," the other spoke with vigor.
"Merci beaucoup. May I check to see if any other belongings haven't been taken of mine?"
"Of course mademoiselle, go ahead," the kinder one spoke.
Christine smiled at both and walked up the ash covered steps of the Opera Populaire. She immediately went up to the dressing room of la Carlotta. It had been removed of its scandalous painting of Carlotta holding a tray with a man's head on it, most likely her late husband, Ubaldo Piangi. She walked to the ash-covered mirror that had served for many visits to and from the layer of the Phantom.
She moved the glass of the mirror to the side and entered the decaying walls, ceiling, and floor. She skipped over rats and the slid through the slush of mud and water on her silk slippers. As she found the hidden staircase to the dungeon. After constant stepping, she found the gondola to the gate. She found that the lantern was lit and that the stick to guide the boat was still there. She grabbed the stick and pushed off the shallow water.
When she reached the gate, she realized it was open, most likely the actors and stage crew had never shut it after their raid. The gate was covered in grime of algae from lack of care. She stuck the stick back into the soft ground underwater and pushed the boat forward.
When she had pushed the boat above water and gotten out, she took hold of her surroundings. She silently cried as she saw that the layer had been raided of all its jewels and drapery. His music and operas were half burnt or dissipating in the water. She lifted up a work of music from the dirt ridden ground and saw the title was named Cher, the French word for dear.
Christine had experience with reading music and saw that it was sad, gothic note, of forbidden love and death to the lovers. It begins with on a somber note with the lovers dead and the village of Paris sad for the deceased. It then begins to tell their love for each other, seemingly a flashback, which began with the tenor part.

Ma cher, have you lost your conscience? Have you lost your reason?
What reason must I have, then to make a harmony with thee? For you are my life, I plea, do not leave me.
Ma cher, doth the sun ever change? Doth the seasons become out of place? I would be the grandest fool to leave.

Christine folded the music and held onto it, prepared to sing it that night. She looked around the cave and noticed that her replica mannequin was gone, most likely burned also. She walked towards the raven bed noticed that it had crisp sheets and was still intact. It had not been harmed in either the fire, or time. She walked to where she and Raoul had taken the gondola to the outside, leaving the Phantom to fend for himself. No one was there, watching the precipice for return. She sat down on the bed and waited for his return, to see if he would come back if he had gone out of his quarters.
After an hour, she sulkily walked towards the gondola. As she was walking towards the boat, she saw a wall with a red drapery covering something. She saw that there was broken glass on the floor and a candelabra fall by it.
She walked over to the drape and lifted it, seeing that there was a hole in the wall. She walked through this and quickly realized that she had no light with her. She quickly turned back, stepping over the glass. As she lifted her head, she saw the phantom's face in front of her.
She fell backwards and hit her head on the glass and fell unconscious.

When she awoke, she found that she was on the bed alone. When she tried to lift her head, she found that she couldn't and became dizzy. Was my Angel of Music here? she thought. She could at least turn her head to the side a little and saw that a man was sitting on the ground just outside the room. He wore a long cloak over his body, covering up his hair and profile. She again tried to lift her head and found that she couldn't. She received another whirl in her head.
"You hit your head on the sharp stone, that's why you are having scruples," the mysterious man said to her. A fit of coughs came over and he moved his hand to cover his mouth.
It wasn't the Phantom. Couldn't have been. His voice was filled with phlegm and it was older, shakier. She found it repulsive, even put against Raoul's obnoxious laughter.
She tried to lift her head to see the man more clearly, but it was in vain for she fell again into unconsciousness.