Chapter One: Downfall

He was older now, his thinning hair lightly tinged with gray, but his brilliant mind had forgotten nothing of that fascinating, mysterious, dangerously golden time that was Paris 1870. When he had truly lived…and afterward, part of him had died. Despite the tragic outcomes of those few months, he did not regret its passing. If he could choose to relive a period of his life all over again, it would be that one. Paris, 1870. The era of Christine Daaé.

Erik had not seen her for decades, and he knew that unless extraordinary circumstances decided to take their toll, he never would. He knew that, like him, she would have aged with the years, but he could not shake the image of Christine as he knew her in her youth: innocent, naïve, pure and beautiful in more ways than one. So many times he had tried to imagine her as she would be now: having a certain motherly look about her, smiling as he had once made her smile…but each time he failed to clearly envision her as such. To him, Christine would always be eternally young. Her long chestnut hair tumbling down in wild curls, her dark eyes, her full lips as she kissed him…twice…

He shuddered slightly. That memory made his lips tingle, filled him with wistful desire. He could never have her. Those two kisses were all that God had allowed them. Through all these years, he had missed her more than he could possibly describe.

"Christine…" the soft, almost desperate murmur slipped out unexpectedly, echoing silently along the long corridors of his manor where he stood alone. Love tinged with desolateness made her name a pleading wish. One that nobody wanted to grant him.

Looking back, he had harshly condemned himself for being what he was with her. He had done all he could to force her to choose him over Raoul, including attempted murder. A small part of him hoped that letting the both of them go had redeemed him somewhat in her eyes. In the months afterward, his deep sense of loss and crushing guilt had slowly worn away to a dull pain.

It was not probable, he knew, but he could not help hoping that her life with Raoul would be carefree and blissful, without any guilt or pain. More than anything else, he hoped that her spirit would remain free. The chalice of her resolve and inner courage was what he had fallen in love with. Her life in the opera house had been simple, and other than himself, she had never experienced the darkness of the world.

He hoped that she never would. He fervently wished her nothing but happiness in her life.

"Monsieur?"

The voice roused Erik from his musings as he turned around. Rémy, his ironed and starched butler, stood there holding a piece of folded paper in his hands.

"A letter, monsieur. For you." He held it out.

Erik frowned slightly. Any kind of communication from the outside world was a very rare occurrence. What could have possibly happened that someone would send a letter to the infamous recluse living in the countryside of France?

"Thank you, Rémy," he said, taking the paper from him. Rémy nodded and walked off.

The letter almost seemed to tingle, unnerving him. Erik stepped over the threshold of the corridor into its infinite depths, walking until he reached one of the infrequent gas lamps punctuating the darkness made by early evening as it penetrated through the paneled windows. Reaching up with his hand, he turned the gas on to its brightest, making a tall flame flare up in its glass chimney. Holding his breath, he slowly opened the letter. As he read it, he felt like he was plunging into hell all over again.

To Erik, the former Phantom of the Opera,

I realize that it is either very bizarre or complete madness to contact you; I don't think either of us have forgotten that we were rivals for Christine. But in certain situations regarding her, we find ourselves rivals no longer, only mere men standing hapless before Fate. Shall I just tell you, then?

Christine has died.

I hate to be the one telling you this kind of dreadful news, but I think you would agree that it is better to receive the news by letter than by reading it in a newspaper with a grossly enlarged headline. The doctors do not yet know the cause of her death. They remarked that even in death, she was so beautiful, with no wasting away of the body or soul. She died at sunset, and on her deathbed, she asked me to write you on her behalf. She conveys her farewell to you, and offers whatever last apologies you feel are necessary for the night of the Don Juan Triumphant debut. She also hopes that you have managed to find peace and happiness in your life. Although it feels out of place for me to say this, she also conveys her everlasting love and encourages you to always reach for the light, for that is where angels are.

Since you loved her like I did, I think it is only right that you come to see her one last time. We are adversaries no longer, we shall not destroy each other over her. Of course, if you prefer not to come, that is acceptable. Do as you wish, I will not attempt to sway you one way or another.

You loved her so. I know you did. And I hope that during the brief time you had with her, she brought you as much happiness as she has brought me.

Respectfully,

The Vicomte de Chagny

From the middle of Raoul's letter, Erik's eyes had started to dampen, misting over so quickly that he could no longer make out the words. Hurriedly wiping his eyes, he pushed on, needing to know everything, wanting to absorb every word, every last hint that spoke of Christine.

He slowly lowered the letter and ran a hand over his face, allowing himself to finally succumb to tears. If his sorrow upon the rooftop of the Opera Populaire had merely scraped the surface of all the human anguish possible, this letter had shoved him deep into its unrelenting depths with no indication to ever let him surface. All his memories of Christine, either sweet or better left forgotten, all rushed back to him, now full of nothing but pain. She was gone, she was dead, and there would never be any hope at all of seeing her again, as vital as she had been in life. He could not breathe; everything in him tumbled into the chasm of utter despair as he wept uninhibitedly. The crunch of the letter into a ball in his hands did very little to lessen his grief as he slammed his fists into the walls, letting out an untamed scream of grief and agony that echoed down the gilded corridor, not caring for Rémy's surprised reaction. Let the entire world mourn with me, he thought almost savagely as he heard his cry multiplied tenfold by the echoes. My Angel of Music has died.

Angels don't die! They can fall from Heaven to Hell, but they never die!

Reduced to a sobbing boy, he made his way to his quarters, clutching the crumpled remains of the letter in his hand. He slammed the door and sat down on his bed, burying his head in his hands, tears still coursing down his cheeks.

He had killed before, he admitted it. Death, when dished out to those who deserved it, was justice. He had never felt regret nor remorse for what he had done. But now, when Death had taken someone without his consent, someone he had loved passionately for all these years…he found himself grieving and completely helpless.

A glint of glass on the bedside table caught his eye. He reached for the bottle of liquor, then withdrew his hand. He never had reason to mourn for someone's death before, but he intuitively knew that if he intentionally drank himself into unconsciousness, he would wake up feeling even worse than if he had not succumbed to the sweet temptation.

His vision fogged over, he mindlessly undressed and crawled into bed. Time ceased to mean anything as he cried out Christine's name over and over into the pillow, knowing he would not get a reply. In time, his elegy slowly died out to anguished whispers as he finally drifted off to sleep.