Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or the Really Useful Group. Please don't sue me.
Author's Notes: The idea for this fic came to me in a very depressing moment. There are a lot of fics on this side that try to illustrate Erik's death scene but I haven't read very many that made it anything less that idyllic – Erik always seemed to be quite peaceful and content to go. So…yeah. The summary says it all. In this story, Erik does not exactly die in perfect comfort.
Mort
By Exitabilis
As he dies, he remembers everything about her.
Her eyes. Her scent. Her sweet, sweet face. And all the other insignificant things that come tumbling out from the recesses of his mind – the long lashes that sweep with delicate modesty over pale cheeks, the precise way her golden hair curves and falls about her shoulders, the soft red of her lips. He can see her, and yet he cannot - it is all there to torment him now with its absence. And the ringing echoes of her voice – his greatest creation – are the worst torment of all.
For a moment, he believes himself to be in his own torture chamber. He feels hot, far too hot and unable to do anything about it, unable to wipe away the sticky rivulets of sweat that course down his body, or even to uncover himself to release some of the heat. The physical suffering clouds his mind, blurring the line between his perceived notions of reality and imagination. He is sure there was a torture chamber, somewhere in the distant past…or was there more than one? He waits expectantly for the memories to come flooding back but they do not. He can only recall mirrors…rooms and rooms full of them, and the thought inspires a strange dread in him that he does not have the power to understand. Mirrors. The torture chamber. Christine.
One, two, four…a dozen Christines are dancing round him; whether they are mere reflections or reality he does not know and does not care to find out. They tease him with the airy perfection of their smiles, their laughter. Giddily he laughs with them and feels himself breaking. His mind is wracked with pain - made sharper by the bitter knowledge that it is the last he will ever feel - as he struggles and twists, trying to hold the shards together, and then it is all over.
Tumbling curls of sunlight…swirls of snowy gauze…
Suddenly it is not the mortal Christines that surround him, but a circle of white-robed angels, sitting judgement on him with serene blue eyes. Lying prone in the midst of them he hears their whispered words of song…his song. His music.
At the point of death the mind, shattering, begs the heart for mercy, and the heart finally relents and ceases its feeble struggle for life. And unseen by any, the soul bids farewell and silently slips away.
In his last second of life, Erik sees nothing at all. But whether this is blissful peace or his final punishment, he is not longer able to tell.
Author's Notes: I felt a little bit mean writing this as I'm sure most of you believe, and I agree with you completely, that Erik went through enough in his life to deserve a painless death. But it was just a random idea I thought I'd test out.
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