I just watched Love Never Dies and felt the need to give poor maligned Raoul a crowning moment of awesome.

This is pretty much just a character sketch. It's been an awful long time since I've written any fanfic- hope you guys enjoy! :)

"I'll tell you nothing." The boy spat the words, along with clumps of dirt that remained in his mouth when the masked madman removed the cloth gag.

The man growled. "This is your last chance, child!"

Raoul tilted his head back to look at the strange, mirrored ceiling. He saw his reflection there, hair matted, left eye swollen, skin dirty and abraded. He shuddered and closed his eyes.

Erik strode confidently away, fingers laced behind his back. He faced the wall as he spoke. "Tell me where she is, and I'll set your free. Tonight. This instant. Just tell me."

Physically, Raoul was close to breaking. His whole body was covered with scrapes, punctures, cuts, and his throat was raw from screaming. Not too much more, and he would give in to unconsciousness again. But he was determined, and only had to remain silent for a little while longer. A little while, and he would have no information to offer, and she would be safe for good.

"I'll tell you nothing."

The masked man roared this time, turning abruptly and running up to Raoul with his ivory handled knife in his left hand. He stopped just short of the wicker chair Raoul was bound to, and brought his face uncomfortably close. Raoul could smell his death's breath, and choked back a gag.

The knife was at the boy's cheek, scalpel-sharp blade drawing a thin line of red that ran down his face and washed away a streak of dirt.

"This is your last chance, boy, or so help me I'll-"

"You'll what, kill me?" Raoul was awash in a fury that he thought had been extinguished. "Kill me then and be done with it! I'll die a hundred times before I tell you a word more of Christine."

Erik slashed madly at the boy's cheek with the knife, this time opening no small scratch, but a deep gash in the boy's face that gushed a river of blood.

"She won't love you like this! You will be a monster, at this rate," Erik became hushed, "and we will be even, good sir, and you will have nothing to offer the girl. I will have my monster's face- and my music."

The twine bindings cut into Raoul's wrists as he instinctively attempted to wrestle a hand free and protect his face from another attack. His arms were firmly bound, though, and he uttered a garbled set of oaths in frustration and pain. The wound sent lightning bolts down the boy's body. He'd be lucky if he didn't die of infection, if he even survived the lost blood.

How simple things had seemed just a few short days ago. He'd sent the girl to his carriage, and meant to follow in his brother Phillipe's. But when Christine didn't appear onstage, Erik was ready, and, unable to find the girl, took the next best thing, straight to his torture chamber beneath the innocuous little house on the lake. The girl was headed for Raoul's summer estate, to wait for word.

Raoul had come to understand the monster, in his way. He'd arranged for his brother to go to their estate too, with instructions to take her away if he did not send notice in two days' time. The count wasn't told where to take the girl. It was all the better; in less than a day, she would be long gone and safe, even if Raoul broke under the masked man's tortures. He had hoped to use his little revolver against Erik, though, even if he didn't intend to walk away from the confrontation.

Truthfully, the youth didn't expect to face the man and live. He was a poor match for Erik and his Punjab lasso.

He had expected to die for his love, and he told the monster as much. This proclamation seemed to spark something in Erik that Raoul hadn't yet seen.

Before, Erik had been careful with his tortures. Too much pain would kill a man as surely as the rope. But now, he was driven nearly insane with rage, his fists flying out of control against the boy's sides. He cursed, and punched, again and again, until his skeletal knuckles swelled, red and bruising. It was not a good way to extract a confession, but this wasn't for a confession. This was for revenge.

The masked man must have sensed the window closing on he and Christine.

In his desperation and fury, he didn't notice Raoul smiling gently, his blue eyes closed. He wiggled one ankle, and then the other, ignoring the blows, realizing suddenly that as Erik was distracted, he could slip the twine that held his legs to the chair. He pried off his boots against the chair's feet. Ever so slowly, he pulled one leg loose, then the other.

Raoul swiftly swept his leg to the side and took Erik's legs out from under him. The masked man hit the floor with a graceless thump, eyes flashing in their deep sockets. He lunged, predatory, and knocked Raoul down backward, chair and all.

By sheer luck, the angle at which the chair fell took enough pressure off Raoul's hands that he was suddenly able to free them both from the rope and throw himself at Erik's shoulders with the force to send them both tumbling to the far side of the room. In the scuffle, the man's ivory handled knife clattered free of his grasp and skidded right to Raoul's stockinged feet. Raoul snatched it in his right hand and fluidly swung it forward. The tip of the knife slashed just short of Erik's stomach.

The monster hadn't expected to lose the upper hand. Reeling, he stumbled backwards into the wall of mirrors, shaking his head in disbelief. Tiny cracks fanned out where Erik's bony hip contacted the fragile glass.

Raoul backed away, brandishing the knife at arm's length in front of him. He considered the options. There was no obvious door in the torture chamber, and he hadn't been conscious when Erik brought him in. Without the monster, he was trapped. But without Raoul, Christine was lost to Erik forever.

With sudden determination, Raoul brought the blade to his own throat, pressing it against his burning skin. The wound on his cheek still trickled slippery blood down his neck. He chuckled, and stared down the masked man, relishing the shock that showed in his eyes, even with the mask covering his face.

"If I die, you will never have her."

Erik extended a hand, the other clutching his chest. "Idiot boy! You couldn't-"

"I will." He pressed the knife harder into his own throat. Raoul felt the blood it drew, but not the pain he knew it should cause. His heart fluttered helplessly in his chest.

"Goddamn you, boy!" Erik ran forward, as if to somehow stop love's suicide with the force of his will. The knife glinted dangerously, and the man stopped a stride away. So it was to be a standoff.

Raoul closed his eyes and thought of Christine. Her sweet blond hair, brushing his face gently as they kissed. Her voice, the voice that brought the angels down from heaven and the devil himself to her dressing room. Her red scarf in the waves, the simple piece of cloth that set his end in motion.

He could no more stop this than he could stop loving her. Opening his eyes for one last look at the mirrored torture chamber, he clenched his shaking hand and-

"Wait, boy!" Erik stepped even closer, but kept his hands at his sides.

Raoul focused on him, curious.

"You would slash your own throat- for- you would-" The monster was trembling. Raoul had heard many times about the surges of sobs that Christine brought forth from him, but was taken aback by the emotion in the man's voice. "I hadn't thought- I didn't know- my god- goddamn you- what have I-"

Erik turned away, his voice muffled. "Take your leave now. Take your leave. Don't look back. The door is behind you, the spring is on the ground beneath your feet."

Raoul glanced down, keeping the knife to his neck and half his attention on the man. Just as he'd said, there was a nail-head trigger there for the trap door in the mirrors. Raoul depressed it with his foot and the wall sprang open like a miracle.

He stared at Erik's back for just a moment more before he turned and threw himself through the door in the mirrors, running full out with the knife still clutched in his hand. He stumbled up the spiraling stairs, crashed through the rooms of the little house on the lake, and finally emerged on the shore. Pulling in a deep, painful breath, he dove head first into the cold water and swam for his life. The water stung the gash on his cheek, but it cleaned the filth from his clothes and gave him another sorely needed rush of adrenaline. When he reached the far side of the lake, he chucked the knife into its black depths and ran by memory down the pitch black path that he knew led to the Rue Scribe gate.

As he burst into the midmorning light on the bustling street, passersby gasped at his ragged appearance. He shouted her name, over and over. He felt like he had emerged from a dream- a nightmare. A kind voiced woman asked if he was alright, and he shook his head, only able to utter the girl's name.

The wound on his cheek still bled, and he looked every bit a madman. But it was no matter. He swooned as the pain from every inch of his body flooded into his consciousness all at once, and let the woman usher him over to a waiting cab. He sank into the plush black seat. The people were gathering around to see the sight, and he could hear their whispers: "Chagny! Daae! Monsieur! My god! His face!"

His face, oh, his face. Had the monster ruined him?

But he was alive, wasn't he? What did it matter. And Christine was safe. Yet the madman was still down there.

But Raoul felt- felt so strongly he knew- that they would not be hearing from Erik again.