A/N: I'm so terribly sorry I haven't updated in, like, three weeks. Four weeks. Maybe more. Again, I apologize. I have exams, alright! You can't blame me for wanting to study! I have an academic reputation, you know!

Ahem. This was just a little something I wrote in a few days, during my study breaks. It's from Raoul's point of view. No, I don't think he's a fop. He loves Christine. He's kind to people. He's neither a drunkard nor a gambler. (I just watched Love Never Dies. That was HORRIBLE. That was a bloody SOAP OPERA. Erik composes OPERAS, not SOAP OPERAS. Get it right, Webber! JEEZ.)

This is Leroux-based. Enjoy.

A/A/N (Another Author Note): This is the second time I've posted this. I'm very sorry, but I realized that this wasn't the whole story, and I hadn't fully typed it out. My apologizes! And thank you so much to the people who reviewed, even though it was only half a story!

Memoirs of a Vicomte

Gustave came in, screaming. I remember it all very clearly. He was the one who started taht dreadful day's events. Gustave is my son, the only son of the Comte and Comtess de Chagny, named after Christine's dear father, may his soul rest in peace.

I was sitting on the desk in the corner of the drawing room, doing paperwork and reading letters and such, and my beautiful wife Christine was sitting on one of the satées opposite me, reading a book of some sort. One would expect me to take care of business matters in my office, far from gossiping wives, but truth be told, Christine was not a gossip. I even share some with her, and she tells me her opinions. Some are very intelligent, you know. Other times she sings and I play the little piano in the corner (I am not very musical, mind you, but my dear Christine is very understanding and pretends not to notice my mistakes). But mostly, we simply sit in comfortable silence.

Gustave burst into the room. I could immediately tell he was very alarmed, not in a terrified manner, but rather in a boyish, laughing manner that I had long since outgrown. Christine was instantly on her feet, comforting him, soothing him, but Gustave's eyes were locked on mine, twinkling, daring me to ask.

"Son," I said quickly. "What had frightened you so?"

"Father, father," Gustave exclaimed. "There's an old man dying near the river. He smells of dead things! Come look, father!"

I never quite understood how he could say that so simply, so effortlessly, as if he saw the dying every day. Perhaps he still did not understand life and death, or perhaps negative business letters had just left me irritable that day.

It being Sunday, the doctor could not be called upon, so I, with my basic naval knowledge of first aid, decided to go see if I could help the poor man.

The walk to the river behind the de Chagny Manor was a long one. There are a long row of gardens and patches of trees and then there is a sort of long, empty space where one could stroll and gaze over the Seine. Then, at the end of said empty space, are the final mossy steps that lead down to the river.

True to Gustave's word, there was a small, crooked figure, lying in a heap on the grass. My son and I went to meet him. As I neared the man, the pitiful, mangled creature, he turned his head to me.

And I gasped.

It was him, in the flesh. Him, that thing I had long thought dead. Erik, that ghost come alive whose spirit would haunt me till I were dead.

The phantom of the opera.

Instinctively, I placed myself in front of Gustave. I could see the man's eyes flicker from me to him, noting the resemblance with hate.

I told my son to wait at the empty space. He ran and did so.

The ghost and I stared at each other for some time, overwhelming memories coming to us quicker than we anticipated. I took the moment to note his condition: he was badly bruised, and his right arm and leg were sprawled at strange angles, seemingly broken. He wore a full black mask that hid the deformity of his monstrous visage.

Unsure of how to proceed and having deemed him unfit to attempt an attack, I sat on the grass beside him. I nodded my head towards him and he acknowledged me with a grunt.

"Vicomte," he choked out harshly. I shuddered. "Vicomte," he repeated. "Leave me."

"It is Comte, now, actually, since my brother passed. And you are on my property, and I am allowing that, and you should be grateful."

He emitted another low grunt, this one radiating with disapproval. The man closed his eyes, slowly, painfully, and when they opened, they were filled of sadness.

"I am sorry about your loss," he said. "Philippe was a good man."

I frowned, surprised. "You knew Philippe?"

He nodded, but did not elaborate.

"You..." I took a moment for the meaning of those words to sink in. I remembered the torture chamber and that horrible, murdering heat that drove me past insane for hours, with only Christine's memory and the Persian's presence as my hold on reality. Philippe had had no one.. and they had never found the body...

"You killed him! You horrible, murdering vermin! You killed him!"

"I did not kill your brother," he stated slowly, and somehow I knew it was true.

Erik – if I can even call him that – began coughing, heaving, sickened coughs that shook his whole body. It disturbed me to think that the convulsing wreck in front of me was once the great Opera Ghost.

Once he had finished his bout, he reached a twisted, bony hand into the dirt, and pushed himself. Even with my help, it was only with considerable effort and considerable pain that he sat up.

"How did you end up like," I gestured to his body. "This."

He shook his head. "I am an old man, Vicomte. Old men who have nothing to lose can quickly be pained." He said no more on the subject.

He sighed, and coughed again. It was then that I realized how old indeed he was, and I felt a twinge of guilt, but that guilt disappeared the moment he stopped coughing.

"How old were you when – when it all happened?"

The man sharply jerked his head to meet my eyes, but my eyes were not there: I was staring far off into the water. I could feel his gaze on me, but had not the courage to look at him. Finally he turned his head back towards the Seine.

And he began to laugh. It was the most peculiar and eerie sound I have ever heard. It chilled me to the bone. His laugh, if one could describe such a sound, resembled a thousand wailing children and a thousand nails on chalkboard. His laugh had, yet, a melodious aspect to it, echoing the musician he once was.

Once he stopped laughing, I lived in utter fear he would start again.

"Forty-two? Three? Why, dear Vicomte?"

"It has been fifteen years! You are nearly sixty!"

"As I said, an old man."

There was a long silence. I stared at the ground beneath me. Once, I had considered the ghost worth less than such soil. But now, as I saw him in this pitiful state... I closed my eyes. No, he was still the Opera Ghost. Still a murderer, still a criminal.

"Why such kindness, Vicomte?"

I opened my eyes and tilted my head quizzically.

"We were once sworn rivals, were we not? And here we are, talking as old friends, and not old enemies. What game are you playing at, Vicomte? Trying to be the better man?"

My eyes narrowed. No, I was not trying to be better. I was not playing at any game. I didn't really know why I was talking to him, then: perhaps I was older and wiser than when the whole ordeal occurred; perhaps my conscience forced me to give the dying man the friend he had been denied his whole life.

Suddenly, I began to see things from his perspective. Him, the creature with the face of the devil himself.. As a child? Shunned and hated by the world. Perhaps even his own parents. He would have never learnt values, morals... He would have undoubtedly run away, perhaps to Paris.

I shuddered. Every action, every threat, suddenly became very clear. Once had found Christine, who had loved him as a father, and whom he had loved as his one true love... His one true hope at having a normal life, at children... And I had snatched that away from him, mockingly, painfully.

"I'm so sorry," I choked out.

Erik stared at me with wonder. How he could make his emotions known through that horrible mask, I'll never know, but he did. Yes, wonder. Wonder at being pitied. He had certainly never been pitied before, except by Christine.

He looked back at the water, clearly uncomfortable by my sudden statement. He coughed again.

"He has her eyes."

"What?"

"Your son. He has Christine's eyes."

He spoke her name quickly, as if too tormented to say it, too much in pain, too scared of his haunting memories returning.

I looked over at the boy in question, thirteen years old, playing with the odd stick and stone he found. I sighed and turned back to the ghost.

"Gustave," I said.

"After her father?" he asked, but we both knew the answer. He seemed especially pained at this, having acted as the man's messenger for so long.

"She wanted to name him Erik, you know. I wouldn't let her."

He turned to me, his pain suddenly gone.

"She wanted to name it.. Erik?"

"Him," I corrected bitterly. "But I wouldn't let her."

He sighed. "That is understandable."

We sat in another moment of silence.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Very well, considering she has just become pregnant with our second child."

"Congratulations," he said without emotion.

"Gustave," I called, unexpectedly. The little boy came rushing down the steps and the ghost hid himself behind his cape.

"Go fetch your mother," I whispered into his ear.

By the time Erik had registered what had been said, Gustave had run off.

His eyes widened in alarm.

"No!" he cried. Once more he dug his shriveled fingers into the dirt, attempting to stand. "I cannot let her see me! I cannot let her see me.. like this..."

I rested a warm hand no his shoulder and he froze, tensing.

"She needs to see you again. You have been her closest friend for so many years... Though she does not return your feelings, she still misses you. Let her see you again. You owe her that much."

He tilted his head and sighed.

"This is quite out of character, Vicomte. But.. I suppose I must thank you. Thank you for taking care of her when I couldn't. Thank you for loving her as much as I do. Thank you for giving her the life I wanted her to have."

He paused, coughing quietly. "Thank you."

Those were the last words he ever spoke to me.

When Christine finally came, appearing at the top of the stone steps, Erik did not move.

I went up to my wife and whispered into her ear, "It's him."

She frowned, tilting her head quizzically.

"It's him."

Her eyes widened, as she stared at the injured, heaving pile, sitting by the riverside.

Slowly, Christine descended the steps to meet him. Gustave tried to follow her, but I held him close. We watched as she sat on the ground and stared at him.

I sent my son back to the house, and stayed to observe them. At first, there was a long, heavy silence, but the ghost began to talk, though the words were too far away to hear. Finally, I turned and headed back through the pathway surrounded by trees.

I learned later that Erik had died that night. Christine arrived back to the house a broken, sobbing mess, and I did the best to comfort her as she cried in my arms, grasping the worn, black leather mask for dear life.

For the next few days, we went down the empty space to stare over the water, always in silence. Or rather, I stared over the water. She stared at the small wooden cross and the mound of dirt that marked his grave.

Once those few days were over, Christine was herself again, the loving, caring, happy mother and wife, as if nothing had ever happened.

She never did sing again.