Just a sad little one-shot that again, leaped out. I'm actually probably only going to be writing one-shots for a while. My chapter stories are far more intricate, and thus are on hold at the moment.

So, here we are with another Love Never Dies one-shot. The Phantom is Ramin Karimloo, and Christine is Sierra Boggess... naturally. Enjoy.

He was numb. Empty. But he forced himself to be strong. For his son.

They were two lost figures-one small and pale, one tall and shadowed, with only a stark white mask standing out-walking back to the island where the lights of Phantasma glowed.

Behind them, a small carriage, black flags adorning it, carried the broken Meg Giry, the sorrowful Madame Giry, and all that remained of the Phantom's Angel of Music.

Erik looked down at his son, at the small hand nestled in his own, and felt an enormous rush of protectiveness for the small, broken boy that reminded him so of himself.

"Gustave," he said quietly, and his son looked up at him, mirroring Erik's gaze with eyes similiar to his own.

"Yes... father?"

He jumped a little at the shock of the title, but quickly pushed it down. "Would you like me to carry you?"

Gustave nodded slowly.

Erik lifted Gustave in his arms, holding him close.

Gustave felt so safe there. He leaned his tired head on his father's shoulder, and tried very hard not to cry again.

As Erik walked closer and closer to Phantasma, he became aware that his employees, his "children," so to speak, were gathered around the entrance, eyes worried and horrified.

He came through to door, stepping up on a podium that was there, putting Gustave down on the stage beside him, gripping his hand in his own.

He faced the crowd of freaks, looking at them.

They all saw the strength in him. They loved him, feared him, and respected him. His power had not faded, and his irrepressible, magnetic control over all he surveyed hadn't either. But he was a broken man. This they saw, and it frightened them. He had always seemed invincible to them.

"Tonight," he began, and was proud that his voice projected fine, without even shaking a little. "Tonight a tragedy has befallen us."

He pointed at the carriage, carrying his lost love. "The Soprano of the Century... Mademoiselle Daae... was..."

He couldn't say it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again.

"Tonight, Christine Daae was killed on the docks of Phantasma. All that could have been done, has been done. She is gone."

All the freaks were shocked, some of them burst into tears.

They had liked the beautiful Mademoiselle Daae. She had been kind to them, smiling at them without a trace of fright, understanding them even though she was so beautiful herself. Not like her husband, who was obviously disgusted by them. Not all of them had known, but some of them had had an idea of the connection between Christine and Mr. Y. And seeing his eyes, his obvious pain... it hurt them all.

Gustave looked up at his father, and the Phantom looked down at him. Madame Giry and Meg appeared, carrying Christine onto the stage, to the gasps and screams and sobs and wails of the crowd of freaks.

Erik placed his hands on Gustave's shoulders and did not allow him to turn around. He said, quietly, only for Gustave's ears, "Close your eyes, Gustave."

"No," replied the child, "I have to see. I want to see."

An understanding passed between them, and Erik nodded almost imperceptibly.

He turned, lifting Christine easily into his arms. "She died without need," he said, "Without cause or reason. She was so good, so pure, so lovely-an angel."

The freaks nodded, remembering.

"We will never forget her. She will live forever in our hearts, and she will never die that way."

A single tear, noticed only by Gustave, dripped down his father's cheek.

"Not all of you knew... But I loved her. I loved her very much. We knew each other, you see. I am sorry if I did not tell you. But I did. I loved her with all of my heart." he told them, and they cried for him.

Madame Giry and Meg began to take Christine back to the carriage. He watched them go, and his heart went with them.

"Love Never Dies..."

He began, shaking at first, but then strengthening.

"Love never falters...

Once it has spoken

Love is yours."

Gustave held his hand, and the child's pure soprano voice joined the flawless baritone that had been thought the voice of an Angel, or that of a ghost.

"Love never fades

Love never alters..."

And all the freaks began to join, their voices swelling and singing for the lost Christine Daae.

"Hearts may get broken

Love endures.

Love never dies

Love will continue

Love keeps on beating,

When you're gone..."

And they all stopped, suddenly, and Gustave's angelic voice climbed, ringing out. And for a moment it seemed he did not sing alone, but that his voice had been joined by that of a woman, whose voice had inspired a lonely ghost once, and had ensnared his heart...

"Life may be fleeting..."

And all sang together once more.

"Love lives on."

And Gustave and his father, the great Mr. Y, stepped off the stage, as behind them, the freaks of Phantasma covered their City of Wonders in black, and began to mourn in all their richly flavored customs, all the cultures living there bringing a rush of pure sorrow, all for the soul of Christine Daae.

Erik tucked Gustave in, holding his hand gently.

"Father," said Gustave, "I'm sorry."

"For what, Gustave?" said Erik, confused.

"If I hadn't... been so foolish.. this would never have happened. I knew not to go off, Mother told me, but I didn't listen and now-"

Erik was furious, and Gustave stopped. "You listen to me, Gustave. Your mother's death was not your fault, do you understand me? You could not have done anything. You had nothing to do with it, understand that. And she would not want you thinking that for a moment, even if it was true-which it is not. And neither do I," his eyes softened, "You cannot blame yourself. I forbid it."

Gustave smiled slightly. "Alright."

Erik began to leave, but Gustave's small hand clutched his tightly. "Don't go!" he said, panicked. "Don't leave!"

Erik sat down on a chair next to Gustave's bed, smoothing his child's hair back from his forehead hesitantly, eyes uncertain. "I'm not going anywhere."

And, true to his word, Erik sat by his son's bedside. His hesitance and uncertainty were eventually overruled by the powerful need he felt to protect his son, to comfort him. He sang him lullabies, something he had not done since Christine had been a young child, back at the Opera House, and when he fell asleep, he sat and watched his son's peaceful face for a few minutes before quietly slipping out, effortlessly silent.

Once he had closed his son's door, he turned and observed his lair. True, in Phantasma it was a house and not a lair hewn into the rock of an underground catacomb, but the feeling was the same. He strode purposefully to the room that he had built, so very long ago, dreaming of a normal life. It was more conventional than the rest of the house, somewhere he had envisioned Christine being comfortable in. He could see her even now... by the fire, reading a book. Lounging on the chaise, soaking in the sunlight streaming through the window... at the piano, plucking out the few simple tunes he had taught her, and intense expression of focus on her face...

He fell to his knees and screamed in agony and despair.

Three hours later, he left the room and quietly closed the door.

It was in shambles, the bookcase over turned, pages ripped out of books and strewn across the floor. It looked as if a wild animal had scratched the walls, the wallpaper shredded and torn and slashed by finger marks. Every glass or china thing in the room lay in pieces on the floor, even the window having some cracks in it. The frames of pictures had been thrown onto the ground, the chairs overturned... it looked as if a wild animal had laid waste to the room.

Erik sat in the kitchen, picking the broken glass stoically out of his knuckles and palms. He showed no pain as each blood-stained sliver landed in the bowl with a gentle "plink".

When he was finished, he did not care to bind his wounds. He let them bleed.

Sleep was out of the question.

He chose instead to wander, flexing his hands and hoping the small stabs of pain would keep his mind occupied, if only a little.

He found himself standing on the balcony of Christine's suite, and for a moment, it seemed that the doors would open and she would be there, packing her things, ready to move into his house with him. He could see it so clearly...

"Erik!" she would say, her eyes widening in surprise and delight, rushing towards him and wrapping her arms around him. "I wasn't expecting you until later, I'm not finished packing..."

He would press a kiss to her forehead and murmur, "I'm an impatient man, love."

"So I've found." and she would kiss him gently, their kisses deepening and growing with each passing moment.

"I love you, Erik," she'd murmur, "I love you."

He pushed the fantasy back with a snarl.

He strode into the empty, dark room. He saw all her things there, and his hands began to shake. He wanted her back.

He began going through her things, hoping some small piece of Christine would ease the agony in his heart.

Her clothing smelled of her, and her cards and letters that she carried with her were worn, as if she had read them over and over.

He went through them, and suddenly stopped, his heart momentarily ceasing it's damnable beat.

To Erik

It was that simple. The envelope was sealed with red wax, but had obviously been opened many times. Simply not by him.

He remembered, for a moment, a conversation he'd had once, with a very young, miserable girl who thought him an Angel:

She was crying, and he could not bear it when she cried. "My darling Christine..." he said, his voice smooth and warm, "Do not cry, my child."

She looked up, hearing the disembodied voice, and hugged her arms around her huddled form even tighter. "He's gone, Angel... He's gone. And I can never talk to him again..."

Erik knew she meant her father. He didn't know what to say. "My dear, that's not true. You will meet him again, one day, in Heaven."

It felt so wrong, telling her that. He gritted his teeth, going against what he believed to comfort her felt so wrong.

"There's so much I wanted to tell him... I never even got to say goodbye." she whimpered softly, and it broke his heart.

"Write a letter," he said, and cursed his foolishness as she looked up, tear-filled eyes wide and expectant.

Well, no going back now, he thought grimly. "Write a letter," he repeated, "And say in it everything you need to say. It will make you feel better. Know that somewhere, even if he cannot hear you, he can read it."

She nodded slowly, and gave him a tremulous smile that warmed his heart. "Yes, Angel," she said, "I will do that."

He stared at the envelope, with his name on it. With shaking fingers, he broke the seal, pulling the pages of flowing script, of Christine's handwriting, out. The pages were tear-stained, the ink running in some places, but he could read it. He took a deep breath and plunged into the letter.

To Erik:

Do you remember the times when we laughed together? I thought you were not human, then. But it felt as if you were, when we laughed together. I could pretend.

I have spent so much time pretending. It is all I have ever done, my whole life. I pretended that you were human, when I thought you were an angel. When I was older, and I began to lose my faith in angels or magic, I refused to let myself think of any alternatives—of what you might be, what you really were—even though I knew, deep down, that you were no Angel, but rather a man. An extraordinarily gifted and troubled and beautiful man.

But I pretended, because if you were an Angel, it meant my father was there, in some small way. And it made things so much simpler between us.

I didn't have to act on those strange longings I felt when I heard your voice… longings I had never felt for anything else, because you weren't human, and thus that love was forced to remain safe and platonic. I was so weak, then.

And then you came to me, as I had asked. And I felt that love and that longing transform into something darker. But I didn't care. You were so close to me then, so beautiful. And I wanted you. I wanted you as you wanted me, and again I pretended. I pretended you didn't have that mask, that there were no secrets between us, that you had no real reason for wearing the uncomfortable, bulky thing. I didn't have to try to hard, not when your touch was making me burn, when your hands were on me and your lips were so close to mine.

And then I betrayed you with my curiosity, and again I pretended. I pretended I had never fallen for you, had never wanted you, even as my heart broke for you. I pretended it was only pity, only compassion for a man as broken and tortured as you.

And then you killed. And I was so afraid. I had always been afraid of you, of those feelings you made in me, of the power you had over me, of your anger, even of your face—I was shallow, then. But when you killed, I had to pretend I feared you, too. I had to pretend, even to myself, that I feared the man I loved. Because the truth—that I was deeply, passionately, and achingly in love with a deformed murderer, the Opera Ghost himself—was too much for my silly innocence to bear.

And so I pretended, and then safe, sweet Raoul came, and he made it easier for me to pretend. I could even pretend that the childlike, innocent love of a friend I felt for him could be something more. And I girlishly giggled when he kissed me, because isn't that what girls should do when they have their first kiss? But I felt nothing like I should have. Like I felt when I kissed you, my love. But wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. Yes, I pretended. I even pretended when Don Juan Triumphant came that you wouldn't come, that you were far too clever to be near that place that night.

I was so foolish, so unforgivably foolish. I knew that you loved me, I was all too aware of that. I knew what you risked to be near me before.

But on that stage, with your music swelling around me and enveloping me with its notes that made me burn and desire as only you and your music could… It was so easy to pretend.

I pretended that it was you, did you know that? When we were singing that song together—I, Aminta, you, Don Juan—I pretended that you were there. With your music around me, I fell into it. I wanted it so.

When I heard your voice, I knew it was you. How could I not? You had sung to me every night for ten years. But I pretended again, my Angel. Now you are beginning to see how adept at that I am. I pretended that it couldn't be you. Piangi had been replaced, by some no one with a decent voice. Because the man singing to me with your voice could not be you. You would never do something so foolish as to come onto a stage when you were fully aware of a plot to kill you that night.

But I forgot how foolish love makes us, how desperate. I forget, too, my Angel, did I mention that? I am also skilled at that, I see now. You have always professed me to be flawless, perfect, an angelic being. But I am deeply flawed. Perhaps you see that now.

I forgot that I was not supposed to want you. I forgot it was supposed to be Piangi and not you. I was so wrapped up in my lies to myself and what I wanted to believe that it only mattered that your music was there, your music that seduced me and made me burn. Your voice stirred flames in me. Your touch made me crave and yearn something I did not yet know. And it didn't matter that I was only supposed to be pretending, aided of course by your music, that it was you beside me, holding me, singing to me, touching me.

The truth was suddenly so beautiful, and I needed it. Hungered for it. So it was you beside me, and I could feel passion rising and making us whole. A few times during that performance, I remembered. When you touched me and it was my turn to sing, I remembered. And I knew that Piangi had never caused such stirrings in me, not in the countless times we had run over the choreography.

But I am so good at pretending, and at forgetting. And then it was you again, and I thought I was only imagining it. Imagining it because it was only you there in the music, that it couldn't possibly be you there in the flesh.

And then I felt your mask. And I realized it should only be there in my imagination, only it wasn't. It was there, real as the man I was touching.

And I was so afraid then. Afraid of you, afraid of the reality I suddenly remembered. That gendarmes surrounded us, that blood covered your hands that brought me such dizzying pleasure, that I was supposed to be in love with Raoul and pretending for the sake of right and wrong, not for my own sake. And I was afraid of your anger. Of what you could do to me.

And then I felt that love again, when you sang to me. It was so powerful, I could hardly even breathe, remember how I was supposed to feel or what I was supposed to think. There was only you and me, and no need to pretend anymore.

But I—I panicked. This love, it was suffocating me. It never occurred to my innocent, girlish heart to let it. I had to stop it. And the only thing I could think of that would make it stop was the fear of you. I thought perhaps the fear of your face would make the confusion go away.

So I betrayed you, and exposed your distortion to an audience full of people, to the gendarmes, to the entire Opera House.

And I will never forgive myself for that, not if I live a thousand years.

But I found suddenly that I feared your anger far more than your face. I feared what you would do to me, to all the people I knew and loved, and not your face.

And I loved you despite all of it. And that added something more for me to be afraid of, this power you had over me that I didn't understand.

But in your lair, that night after Don Juan Triumphant… It was impossible to pretend any longer. When you lost every semblance of control, when you became what the world had made you, when your torment and your desperation and you darkness exploded in that one horrible moment—I couldn't pretend anymore. And I saw you. I understood, even as you tried to hurt me and my poor, dear friend, and forced us into this mad choice… I loved you.

I chose you, and I was finished pretending at last. I loved you so much, when I kissed you. The world shifted, and nothing was the same. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I wanted you, I needed you, and you were all that mattered. All that existed was the two of us, in that moment.

But you sent me away, and I had to pretend. I could never refuse anything you told me, and you made me remember the "right" and "wrong" I had so clearly defined in my head—things I now know to be nonsense. You made me pretend again. I don't blame you. I understand now why you did what you did. But I was so heartbroken and I couldn't understand why.

I thought I loved Raoul, I thought I should be happy that you had let me go. I couldn't understand why I wanted you so badly, why I felt this pain as I left you.

So I came back. And I let go, as I always should have. And again, I felt what I have only ever felt with you, the love that we share. When you made love to me, I never wanted it to end. I never wanted it to stop. I could have loved you forever.

And then you were gone. And I had no choice but to pretend again.

I do not know now if you are alive or dead. But I am so tired of pretending, and, if only for you, I've decided to stop. I know you will never read this. And each day I grow more and more certain that you are gone, that I will never see you again.

I do not know how I would feel if I saw you again. Anger, probably. Fear. Shock. Pain. But I will never hate you. I've forgiven you, deep down, even if the scars are still there on the surface.

I am so tired of pretending. I've pretended for Raoul. I've pretended for myself. I've even pretended for my son, Gustave. Our son.

He is yours. Of this there is no doubt. I've had to hide it for so long, from everyone, even him. But each day, I see more and more of you in him. And I can't help but love him all the more for it. Perhaps it is selfish of me to find the parts of you that I see in him and obsess over them, all while Raoul is there… but I cannot help it.

The talent he has, the music he writes, his intelligence, his love for things that are dark and bizarre, his childish genius, his artistic skill, his passion… and it is not only these things.

It is the little things… his eyes, the way they change when he is angry, the way he caresses his music as he writes it, the way he refuses to sleep when he needs to finish his work, the way he locks himself in his room for hours when he needs to think hard about something, the little crease that appears on his forehead when he's frustrated… it's all so wrenchingly familiar, and it makes me miss you all the more.

I am sorry. I am so sorry, for everything.

I love you. I loved you from the first moment I heard your voice as a frightened little girl. I fell in love with you when you first revealed yourself to me. And I will always love you—until the end of time.

If you ever read this, please promise me something. Promise me that you will learn to forgive. Forgive me for all I have done. But more importantly, forgive yourself. You are so beautiful, my love, no matter what the world says. And you have so much to give. There will never be anyone else quite like you, and you have my heart from here to eternity. Forgive yourself, please.

I should have chosen you. I should never have made all those mistakes that have kept us apart. I should have told you how much I loved you when I had the chance.

Goodbye, my Phantom, my Angel, my Erik.

All my love,

Christine

There was a strange sound in the room. Dimly, he began to realize that it was him-the dry, wracking sound was him. He was crying, and his own tears joined her own tear-stains on the page. He ran his shaking fingers over the words... All my love, and her name.

I love you, he read over and over again. He folded the letter, tucking it in his vest pocket, close to his heart.

He broke down, then, where no one could hear him. The guests had all left their hotel rooms long ago... the season was over, the doors of Phantasma were shut. He sobbed and screamed and called her name. He loved her so much and she was gone. She was never coming back. He would never hold her, never touch her, never see her again.

He would never see her smile at him, her eyes sparkle blue with mischief, her lips curling warmly; never see her eyes, filled with desire, smoldering at him; or the blatant love in her gaze and her voice as she held him, held Gustave.

She was gone.

No.

He forced himself to stand, swaying a little as if drunk.

She was not gone. She was still there, in his heart. He had written for her and her alone. As long as she was alive in his music, alive in his mind and heart, she could not truly die.

As long as he loved her, she would always be there.

So be it, he thought, and strode out of the hotel room, shimmying easily down the side of the building, with an agility that had not lessened with age.

As he walked through his kingdom, he almost felt her beside him, her pale hand touching his shoulder, her curls brushing his face.

I'm here, she seemed to whisper, I'm here, my love.

And she wasn't and yet was.

And, with his love by his side and his son asleep in the building behind him, he turned and faced the rising sun, ready to face life without his reason for living.

He was ready. He was waiting.

*sniffle* Alright. I had to. It was sad, and it was in my head, and I had to share my sorrows with the world... I feel like it was a bit cheesy. Do forgive me if it was. I wrote it very quickly, again.

Enjoy?

Not enjoy?

REVIEW. Tell me what you think.