Requiem

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Christine was breaking every last rule of being a proper lady in this period of time-at least, that was the thought that came into her mind as she hoisted up the hem of her skirt. She hadn't been on the streets of Paris for months as Raoul hadn't allowed it. Ever since the incident with the Opera Ghost, he had tried to keep her as far away from the opulent opera house as he could.
This was where she began to feel somewhat scandalous. She had run away from her home aided by a housemaid when Raoul had been called away on business matters. Now, as a married woman, she was wandering the streets of Paris under the dim light of the moon without a trustworthy chaperone.
She felt there was a great chance that some drunken man would stumble out of a bar and believe her to be a harlot, a fille de joie. Christine was deathly terrified of being assaulted by someone in this way. She had been through many trials in her past, but she still felt defenseless. In her heart, she was still just a young Swedish girl trying to find her way in the world.
These thoughts pushed her feet to patter against the streets faster. She knew she was close to her destination; she had memorized the way there years ago. Even though she had only left Paris for a months, it felt like years had gone by. Nevertheless, the memory of her path stayed in her mind as if it were burned there.
Finally, her gaze rose up to see the majestic Palais Garnier bathed in moonlight. Every detail was precisely as she remembered it, which managed to surprise her. After much of her life had been altered, it seemed like the opera house should have changed as well.
All at once the memories of what had happened in the past came back to her, making her heart begin to boom as if it were an en...

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...ce becoming weaker and more broken with every word.
"No," Christine responded. "It is not the face of a monster. It is a face of a man, the face of an angel fallen from Heaven."
No one had ever laid their fingers upon Erik's skin willingly throughout his entire life. It was like every part of his was plagued and would cause disease at the smallest contact. But Christine had broken through this barrier several times in the past-her fingers had caressed his defiled face, her soft lips had been pressed against his, her dainty hand laced into his own.
"Erik," she murmured, running her porcelain fingers across his twisted face. He used the last of his energy to turn his head towards her, the faintest hint of a smile across his lips. As Erik's gaze joined with Christine's for the ultimate time, he took in a shuddering breath in order to speak.
"Do not wilt, my white rose."

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