Welcome, dear reader! Before you venture into my humble story, I have a few quick things to tell you about the story.

First: I like Love Never Dies. I listened to the soundtrack and it was wonderful, and Ramin Karimloo is, in a word, awesome.

Second: As much as I love it, I was dissatisfied with, well, several aspects of the story. So I took it upon myself to rectify those parts of the musical. Hence, a retelling of Love Never Dies.

But thirdly: If you think this is a mere retelling of the musical, you are wrong. It will feel like one, at first, but trust me when I tell you that, about a quarter of the way through, the story is going to change GREATLY. Hence, an AU as well.

And as for the prequel/sequel parts...well, you'll have to read to find out.

So, enjoy my story!

Chapter 1

Paris. The heyday of the Third Republic of France was well under way. Only two years after the revolution that had toppled the King of France and stripped the nobility of their powers ("But only temporarily, thank God" was Raoul's often-muttered response to this piece of history), France was experiencing another revolution, but on a social and economic scale. Industries were booming, the mines and quarries for once more important than the small farms France was known for. Paris teemed with people, both from factories and from the countryside.

Away from the hustle and bustle of the city, however, on the very edges of the city of Paris, sat a small chateau. It was much expanded, as befitted a home for a Vicomte and his small family, though it was nowhere near as grand as the Chagny's ancestral home, as befitted a building meant only for a summer residence. It was several miles from Paris, though the recent and quick expansion of the city meant that this might not be so. The well-kept grounds were surrounded by rich farmland that had been tilled for generations by the peasants.

The chateau itself, while small compared to the great homes of the nobility, was quite grand next to the small peasant cottages. The three expensively furnished stories were more than enough room for the Vicomte, his beautiful wife, their son, and a small group of servants, to live in.

It was also within this home that the aforementioned son was holding his first musical recital.

Gustave finished off the composition with a flourish, then rose from the piano bench and performed a little bow, a maestro in the making. The audience, who had been listening with rapt attention, burst into loud applause and cries of "Encore!"

Of course, the audience consisted only of Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny. Gustave's parents.

"Another work of genius, Gustave," said Raoul. "A masterpiece in the making, don't you agree, Christine?" Christine, sitting beside him, hid her smile at his extravagant praise.

"Yes, it was very lovely," she replied. "All your compositions are beautiful."

Gustave hopped next to them rather ungracefully, a ten-year-old boy once more. "Was it really that good?" he asked worriedly. "I think I hit a wrong note in the middle, and it wasn't that good in the beginning."

"You are too hard on yourself, Gustave," murmured Christine. "You are years ahead of others your age." And, she thought to herself, despite the cancellation of any more music lessons. Money had become too tight for such luxuries. Christine had only been glad that Raoul had not been forced to auction off the piano. She was not sure how she would have explained that to Gustave, who remained unaware of his parents' financial troubles.

Gustave tilted his head, catching her brief, troubled expression. "Mother? Are you all right?"

Raoul shot her a glance as well. Christine waved them both away, putting a smile on again. "I am fine, Gustave. But I think it is nearly time for bed."

When Gustave had disappeared up the steps, Christine drew shut the curtains, her husband closing the piano lid. He said, "Gustave has a rare gift."

Christine's back was to him as she said, "Yes, he does."

"He will be a magnificent composer one day. And if not, the way he plays his instruments will stun audiences anyway."

She turned around. "Just like his grandfather," she murmured.

Something in Raoul's eyes seemed to flicker. "Of course, his grandfather," he repeated. He smiled slightly. "And his mother."

She returned his smile. "I think not. I've only ever sung, Raoul. I remember Papa once gave me his violin to try. The 'music' I created could put the Baroness's cats to shame." She shook her head mirthfully. "And I've never even tried my hand at composing."

Raoul laughed at her mocking description of her skills, but sobered quickly. "But his singing voice, I think, is yours."

"And not yours?" she teased in an attempt at lightness.

"I believe my singing would go quite well with your violin playing."

Christine smiled once more and gave the curtains a final flick, shutting out the view of the setting sun. When she joined Raoul, her face had settled into a more serious air. "Raoul, our finances-"

He held up a hand. "Christine, it is not for you to worry about."

She frowned. "Raoul, you can't hide our troubles from me-"

"My troubles, Christine." He stroked her hair. "It's my responsibility to take care of the money, Christine. And you do not need to worry."

She lowered her head. "I have heard things, Raoul. Many of the other ladies are talking too – their husbands are being forced to sell off their lands...and the banks are not lending to us…and you said yourself that Phillipe did not leave the money in good hands." She was wringing her hands, and she forced them apart, trying to apply the techniques she had learned for calming down on stage. "After all, you said that was why we had to cancel the music lessons for Gustave…and for selling your old home…"

"Shush, Christine, it's all right," said Raoul soothingly. "The money from the auction – and the money we saved – it is enough to cover our debts. I know what to do. Trust me." He cupped her chin in his hands when she still looked unsure. "Come, Little Lotte, don't let these worrisome thoughts fill your head."

She forced a smile. "Very well, Raoul. I do trust you." She kissed his cheek, then moved away. "I am going to put Gustave to bed."

"Tell him good night from me."

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Since you are so worried, I will stay down here and look after our money." She made to protest but he waved a hand. "It is no trouble, Christine. Go to bed. I will be with you shortly."

She acquiesced gracefully, gliding up the steps. As soon as she was gone, Raoul let out a heavy sigh. It had been difficult lying to his wife, but he did not want to worry her – and moreover, he did not want to look a failure in her eyes.

For it was true that the Chagnys were experiencing financial problems, though the extent of them had been carefully hidden away from Christine and Gustave. The Chagnys had been a wealthy and high-born family, but Raoul's father had carelessly spent the money, and his habits had only been continued by Phillipe, the now deceased Comte de Chagny. Raoul's inheritance had been their accumulated debts; it had not been helped by his own youthful spending. And though he had protested Christine's (short-lived) pursuit of a career as an opera singer, he had been secretly grateful for the money it had brought in.

But Christine had not performed in years; Raoul hadn't heard so much as a note from her the last few months, which was a great pity: Christine's voice had been likened to that of an angel's for the brief time she was on stage. It was so clear and pure in tone that only a few months performing had guaranteed her the title of "Soprano of the Century".

But she had retired – permanently, it seemed – in preparation for the birth of their son. And there Raoul – and Christine, though her only fault lay in ignorance of the situation – had made another mistake, lavishing toys and clothing and gifts upon their beautiful son as soon as he was born, pitifully weak though he was. For a few blissful years Raoul had allowed himself to forget about the mounting bills and enjoyed being with his beautiful wife and adoring son. But now his spending days had finally caught up to him.

He cleared his desk – an antique mahogany table hand fitted together – of extraneous papers. There weren't many. Most were letters from banks all over France demanding he settle his debts. Others were long lines of figures he had painfully worked out himself, almost all ending in the negative. Already he could feel a headache coming on, as well as a deep, gut-wrenching sense of worry. He knew that there was little hope of him paying any of the demanded accounts.

It was while brushing off another, quite-angry letter from a banker, that he spotted the note.

It stood out immediately from the others by sheer expensiveness – the envelope was made of thick paper, and the letter itself was quite heavy for only one sheet. The address was handwritten in elegant cursive, and the envelope held down by a scarlet stamp. He ripped it open with care, then proceeded to read the letter.

When he was finished, he set it down to think.

The letter had been polite enough. It had come from somewhere in America (Coney Island was the location mentioned, though Raoul had never heard of the place), but the French was impeccably correct. It had been short and to the point. The man owned an amusement park with the extraordinarily flamboyant name of 'Phantasma', and he wished Christine to sing there, just once. In return, he was offering a huge sum of money, one Raoul didn't think he would have refused even if he were not in financial trouble. This letter was a heaven-sent answer to their – his – problems.

But of course, there was the matter of convincing Christine. It was unthinkable that he tell her their very real and very dangerous situation. No, he would have to present it in a wholesome manner. Perhaps a vacation – they had not had one in a while, presumably to stay at home to properly care for Gustave (there had been unfortunate complications during birth that had left Christine unable to have another child and Gustave hanging on the edge of life and death), but actually because there was too little money for a proper holiday.

But this proposition surely justified the money they would use. He put the letter aside, quietly making a note to look up this Coney Island – and this mysterious benefactor, 'Mr. Y'.

Christine looked up from the letter, a frown wrinkling her brow. "Sing? At…what is this 'Coney Island'?"

Raoul nodded. "I have looked the place up. It is a beach, an amusement resort of some sort, off America's east coast. There are theme parks and shows and all kinds of entertainment." He offered a tentative smile. "I was hoping…we could vacation there. It would be good for you and for Gustave. He needs to go out more, I think."

Christine nodded absentmindedly, still turning the letter over in her hand. "And this…Phantasma? And this Mr. Y? What do you know of him?"

"Phantasma is a relatively new amusement park – one of the only ones there, in fact. It was started a few years back, actually, but it has already inspired imitators. My men have told me that the freak shows and acrobatics are particularly entertaining. They actually said it was responsible for much of Coney Island's success and popularity today."

"And I am to perform there?" said Christine, still skeptical.

"This Mr. Y you were asking about – he is an impresario, an entrepreneur. He has made a great deal of money, and he finances concerts, plays, music…a connoisseur of some sort, I believe."

Christine didn't speak for a moment. Finally she whispered, "Can we afford it? A trip, all the way to America?"

Raoul placed his hand over her small one. "Christine, he is offering a large amount of money. And…we don't absolutely need it…but it would help…we could afford more servants, better items…music lessons for Gustave once more…"

Christine's gaze cleared at the last part. She gave a decisive nod. "Very well, Raoul. I shall go and sing there." She handed the letter back, shrugging slightly. "And it is only for one night. One performance, actually."

"Of course," smiled Raoul, trying to hid his relief. "We needn't stay there very long, Christine. A week at the most."

She laughed, looking happier than Raoul had seen her in years. "Oh Raoul, we're journeying to another continent! I don't think a week would be enough to see everything!"

Raoul joined her laughter. "No, I suppose not. Two weeks, then? A month? Five years?" He hugged Christine, lifting her up spontaneously. "Just think, Christine, you on stage once more. It will just like the day I met you…"

"Yes…" For some reason she was no longer smiling. She was gazing at the letter once more, eyes seeming to cloud over. "Just like old times…" She sighed, moving from Raoul's grasp. "I should practice…I haven't used my voice in years…"

"I'm sure you will sound as lovely as ever," assured Raoul, but Christine only shook her head, demurring quietly.

"I will practice tonight and all the days until the performance," she said with that strange decisiveness that had always come to her before she sang. Raoul wasn't sure why he felt a little shiver go down his spine. Christine's singing was lovely, and he should be rejoicing at her decision to do what had made her so happy. He said this out loud, but Christine shook off his worries.

"It is nothing," she said, "just thinking of things from a while back…"

Unbidden came the image of a rose, a white mask, and a face that looked as if it came from hell itself…he pushed the memories away, wondering why the long ago thoughts should appear now.

Gustave was naturally excited to be going.

"A vacation?" he repeated. "We're really going out? On vacation?"

"Yes, Gustave," said Christine, tucking the covers around his small body. "We're going by special request, too… there will be so many things for you to see, you know…" She sat down, musing, "I suppose we all must brush up on our English, though…"

"I know English," piped up Gustave.

His mother smiled. "Of course you do, Gustave."

"I do," he pouted. "I really do. Father taught me a while ago, but I still remember!" He flashed to another thought. "Do you think Father could teach me to swim there, too?"

"Of course. Coney Island is a beach resort, Gustave. I'm sure there will be many places for you to learn."

"All right." Gustave burrowed deep into his pillows, yawning. "And you will sing too, won't you Mother?"

"I will. I was going to start rehearsing tomorrow."

"Can I listen? I like your singing."

She kissed his forehead. "Of course you may, Gustave. Perhaps you can play one of your compositions along, too."

"Yes…" He perked up. "Mother, do you think people might actually like my music?"

She smoothed back his hair. Gustave often worried about the reception his music might make. He had admitted one night that his schoolmates sometimes mocked his ability to make music so well, preferring the rough-and-tumble world of sports and boyhood games. Christine also knew that Raoul quietly agreed with this view, and Gustave absolutely adored his father. Sometimes, it felt like only she and Gustave truly understood this love for music.

She answered him, "They will love it, Gustave. You can be sure of that."

"Would you sing if I wrote it for you, Mother?"

"Of course!"

"And if I make it to the Opera Populaire, you will be on stage singing for me, right?"

She couldn't hold back a laugh at his innocent dreams. "I will, Gustave, though I think I will be too old to do any really difficult pieces."

He frowned, unable to imagine his mother as anything other than how she looked now. "You won't be old, Mother," he declared. "And even if you are, you'll still sing for me." He suddenly looked shy. "Right?" It softened the entire tone of his last sentence, enough that Christine could shake off thoughts of another man with just as forceful and commanding a personality.

"Right." She gave him one last kiss. "But now, you must sleep! Good night, Gustave."

"Good night, Mother."

A few days before they were to leave, Christine visited her oldest friend and her mother, Meg and Madame Giry, at their home.

The Opera Populaire had been rebuilt and given over to the care of new managers, but had never managed to gain back an audience the size before its pre-chandelier-crash days. The Girys had moved to another, smaller theater, where such drama and disasters were far more unlikely to occur. An accident on stage, as well as her old age, had left Madame Giry unable to command the ballet corps, but Meg had been more than capable of taking over the role, having learned all the orders and postures at her mother's knee. Nevertheless, Madame Giry still insisted on watching from the edge of the stage, scolding at a dancer out of synchronization with the rest.

Today, though, was the end of the opera season, and the two Girys were enjoying a much-needed rest.

"America? Coney Island?" Meg whispered. "Oh, Christine, how wonderful! Aren't you excited?"

"Of course, Meg!" Despite the gap in social classes, the two still got on beautifully. Christine felt as if the pressures and rules of the nobility fell away when she entered the area backstage of the theater, and Meg was all too happy to brag of her friendship with the Vicomtesse de Chagny – and to regale them with the romantic tale of Christine's marriage to the Vicomte, the patron of their opera. And if none of the dancers believed her, then it was all the more enjoyable to see their jaws fall open upon seeing Christine walk casually into Meg's room.

"It will be the first time I've performed in…well, years," continued Christine nervously. "I hope I do not disappoint them." At times, the title of "Soprano of the Century" was a heavier burden than that of Vicomtesse.

Madame Giry patted her foster daughter's knee. "Practice and you will do splendidly, my dear," she told her in her usual no-nonsense manner. "You have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard, my child. And I've always believed that."

"Yes, and you can always trust Maman's opinion," chimed in Meg. "She listened to La Carlotta's excellent singing for five seasons! She knows, Christine!"

The three women shared a laugh; La Carlotta, furious over the catastrophes that had befallen her, and grief-stricken by the death of her lover, Piangi, had left Paris, and France entirely, soon after the disastrous performance of Don Juan Triumphant, much to the relief of the other members and the harassed managers of the Opera Populaire. They had looked carefully for a diva who could sing and who was nowhere near as demanding.

"I suppose you will hear about me in the papers once more!" said Christine. "The 'Soprano of the Century', returned to the stage after a ten year vacation!"

Meg laughed, "I will clip them out and show you when you return!" Then she impulsively hugged her friend. "Be safe, Christine," she whispered. "You wouldn't leave me with no friend to brag about, would you?"

Christine giggled. "No, Meg, I am not as cruel as that." She stood, hugging Madame Giry as well. To her surprise, she felt tears pricking her eyes, and she saw a suspicious wetness on Meg's and Madame Giry's. She lifted her head, willing the tears to disappear, and said, "I'll be back in a few weeks, anyway, to tell you all about it!"

The three walked together to the door; there Meg gave her one more quick hug. "Goodbye, Christine. Come back soon, you hear?"

"I will. Good bye Meg. Good bye, Madame."

A little slow right now, but give me time.

Constructive criticism is vastly appreciated.

Oh, and the title? Yeah, no idea what it means. I'll figure out a symbolic meaning for it sometime.

Right now, I feel this is the best thing I have ever written. (Not that it means much.) Watch how quickly my opinion changes.

And might as well stick this here, at the end: I own nothing, have always owned nothing, and will continue to own nothing, from Love Never Dies. Except, possibly, some special merchandise should I win the Facebook raffle.