As a young boy, Raoul had never considered himself envious of Dante; despite the promise of paradise, Hell was not a place he'd ever wanted to venture through. He was certain that being confined with monsters, both man and beast alike, was enough to drive a sane man mad. No thank you, Vergil, he would rather reaffirm his faith on his own and skip the experience of eternal damnation. Seeing the castigation men faced after death was not something extraordinarily high on his list of things to do.

And yet here he was, once more delving into the depths of his own personal Hell. He made no attempt at stealth, knowing it to be unnecessary. Certainly if that monster of a man was alive, he was fully aware that Raoul was here. So what kept him alive in his descent to the lair? Either the Ghost was dead and gone, the Opera rid of its problematic poltergeist, or he was lurking farther below and plotting something horrible.

Honestly, he wasn't sure which idea worried him more. If the ghost was lying in wait for his arrival, he was dead the second he saw the lake, certainly a thought to put a damper on his afternoon. If he was gone, though, having been burned to a crisp in the fire that'd taken the opera out for a year, then Christine…

Ah. Christine. Rubbing his eyes in an attempt not to break down here, of all places, he pressed on. She was what had brought him here now, and the times before.

It had been around two in the morning when a shift in the mattresses' weight had stirred him slightly. He'd shrugged it off as nothing, attempting to fall asleep once more. For some time, it felt as though the elusive dreamland would come to claim him once more; it never did. He'd rolled over and mumbled something to Christine, expecting his blushing bride to be in bed beside him; it was quite the unpleasant surprise to find that she was gone. Hopping up immediately, Raoul had tried to calm his mind from its frenzied state and think rationally; far easier said than done.

He'd managed to shrug on a more appropriate outfit for facing the world, and was wrestling on his left shoe when he'd found the note.

"Love,

Hopefully you'll sleep soundly tonight and not find this, but if you do, I've gone to visit my father. I'm just having a bit of trouble sleeping tonight, no need for worry. I'll be back soon!

Yours,

Christine."

Raoul scowled at the note, rather annoyed with its contents; surely Christine remembered the last time she'd gone to visit his grave alone! Swearing vehemently under his breath, he took off in a dash to the stables, mounting his horse and riding off in pursuit of his beloved.

The first few minutes of the ride passed without incident; adrenaline and worry drove him as quickly as possible, hunting desperately for signs of Christine. On the outskirts of Paris, however, he'd been stopped by a desperate cab driver, beaten to what could reasonably be considered a pulp.

"'Ey! You! Come 'ere, ah' need your 'elp, sir!" His plea was somewhere between a sob and a rasp that horrified Raoul. Dropping from the horse as quickly as possible, he followed after the driver.

"Tell me what happened."

"I was drivin' 'er. ju' as usual. Then some," he waved a hand dramatically at this, the poor cap still clutched firmly in the other, "maniac pulls us o'er. Rob'ry. Pulls tha girl out, an... an' I make a run fer it. Last things I 'ear are a scream an' a gunshot, an' tha's a good bi' ago. Then ya showed up, an'" he admitted this quietly, glancing over to where the body lay. "'oor girl. Didn' do a thing, 'n this is 'ow it 'appens."

"No." The world suddenly felt like it was crashing, seeing Christine laying on the ground. Rushing over and kneeling beside her, the tears streamed down his cheeks. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This was-

"Raoul." The name was practically silent, nothing more than a ghost on her pale lips. Taking his love's hand within his own, speech failed him. Whoever had shot the gun… his aim had been horribly off, but he arrived too late. She wasn't going to make it.

"Raoul, love… one favor, please," she murmured gently, looking up to him with pleading eyes. Choking back a sob to speak, he nodded.

"Don't say that, Little Lotte, you're going to make it! It's going to be alright! We'll get you a doctor, an-"

"Love." Her words quieted him once more, though they did nothing to help the falling tears. Pulling her other hand to gently caress his face, she smiled weakly. "You.. you must tell him I forgive him."

He paled at that- surely, she couldn't mean…

"Who, Christine?" He asked weakly, both worried for her both mentally and physically.

"You very well know, Raoul," she said quietly, lips pursed ever-so-slightly. Expression softening once more, she continued. "And… tell him… tell him I'm sorry, too… that I l…"

"You what, my love?" he choked, trying not to think. God, no, she was dying. He wasn't supposed to be on her mind, anyone but him..

"Lov.." Her head lulled gently, and Raoul knew she was gone; the only woman he loved dead in his arms in the cold streets of Paris. Somehow, it only hurt worse to know that she had been thinking of him when she went.

It had taken some convincing Mme. Giry, but eventually she'd led him to one of the entrances. He wasn't aware of where it was at all; she'd made certain to keep the Ghost safe from everyone, and wasn't about to risk that now.

"Is he still alive?" He'd asked tentatively, shifting uneasily in the doorway. She glanced up at him from her work, a scowl fixed on her features.

"I cannot tell you, vicomte. It is for you to discover on your own."

So here he was. Cold, alone, and descending into the pits of hell he'd only escaped from but a year ago. Maybe if he was lucky, one of them would be killed; himself, so he could see Christine once more, or the Ghost, so he wouldn't have to deal with him. That would be nice. Fumbling his way through the darkness, Raoul proceeded on as cautiously as possible.

Down that path into darkness deep as hell. Damn Dante and Vergil, this trip was nothing like he'd imagined.