Just wanted to add a quick note to let everyone know that this story was previously published under my old username "nightingales-rose"! I'm trying to get all my fanfics in one place now, under this newer account, although I haven't gotten around to deleting my old one yet.

It was the day before the wedding. Christine sat before the fire in her apartment, wearing a simple cream-colored dress, the beads of her rosary dancing restlessly through her fingers. Her face was pale and drawn, and black exhaustion ringed her eyes. She watched the flames flicker and the red coals dance, her thoughts far away, focused on the events of the past few weeks, and trying her best not to think of the ones that were to come.

Her mind was tormented. Anyone who saw her could tell this. She had tried to cover the dark rings around her eyes and the stress lines around her forehead and lips with a dark veil, and stayed away from public as much as possible. But there was nothing she could do to protect herself from the consequences of her own choices. She had betrayed her heart, had chosen the easy way out. She could never forget the sorrow in those golden eyes, the feel of those thin, cool lips on her own. She would never be able to stop thinking about the way her spirit soared when she joined her voice in song with his. Could her lovely young vicomte ever fill this vacancy in her soul?

She tried to tell herself that she had had no choice. Wasn't it he himself who had joined her hands with Raoul, begged the young vicomte to love and care for her? It was he who had sent her away, wasn't it? And surely, surely he was not as ill as he had suggested, and was living and well in the depths of the opera house right now, composing a new opera, and forgetting about her?

She tried to tell herself these things, but her heart knew that they were not true.

Her fiancé arrived, looking young and handsome and bearing an armful of bright, cheerful flowers. He tried not to notice her drawn, haggard expression. He smiled cheerfully and talked of their upcoming wedding, of the days of bliss and love that would follow. Christine tried to listen, tried to smile and respond politely, but her heart and thoughts were far away.

A lull in the conversation. She bit her lip, looked down at the gilt-edged card on her lap. The wedding invitation. The one thing Erik had asked for upon letting her go. She fingered the edge of it nervously, took a deep breath, and looked into Raoul's blue eyes.

"It's time," she said at last, "It's time to take it to him."

Anger crossed Raoul's handsome features. He stood from his seat beside Christine and paced angrily.

"He's mad, Christine!" he exclaimed, "Raving mad, and I will not let you go back to him!"

"But we promised!" Christine pleaded, also rising from her seat to look him in the eye, "We told him we'd bring him an invitation before the wedding!"

"There won't be a wedding!" Raoul spat, "Not if you go back to him!"

Christine let out a little cry as Raoul ripped the invitation from her fingers. He tore it into little pieces and hurled them on the fire before storming out of the room.

She sat down again, tears starting to her eyes. She watched the flames consume the little card, the edges fluttering and curling like the broken wings of a dying butterfly, stifling a sob that threatened to rise to her throat.

But she knew what she must do. Resolutely drawing in a breath of air, she stood and grabbed the brass key sitting beside her before leaving the apartment.

Devastation. Complete and utter destruction.

That was the only way Christine could describe what met her eyes as she entered Erik's home beneath the opera. The rooms, usually so stately and orderly, were in a state of ruin. The furniture had been ripped, as if by a knife, and the stuffing was strewn across the deep red carpet. The pipes of the organ were twisted beyond recognition, and the black tapestries were shredded to pieces. Papers, presumably Erik's treasured musical compositions, fluttered around Christine's feet, torn and wrinkled in a state beyond repair.

Christine nearly sobbed aloud. Erik had destroyed his life's work. All because of her.

She almost didn't notice the small, frail frame of the Persian, sitting in one of the armchairs that had been the least damaged. The once-smooth olive skin of his face was now wrinkled and drawn, and the look in his eyes was impossibly sad. He rose to his feet upon seeing her, and took a step towards her, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"Christine," he breathed, "Dear girl, we didn't think you would return."

"Erik," Christine whispered nervously, "Is he . . . Is he still . . ." She couldn't make herself form the words.

"Yes, he's alive," the Persian answered, "Although I don't think for very long. The mercy of death is not far from him now."

"Oh God," she sobbed, "I shouldn't have left him. I should have stayed . . ."

The Persian put a comforting arm on her shoulder. "It cannot be helped, madame," he said sadly, "Nothing in the world can prevent this now."

"Where is he?"

"Your room is the only one he could not bring himself to destroy. After his last seizure, I helped him to the bed in there. It is the bed in which he was born, you know . . . he said that it was only fitting that he should die there."

"Can I see him?"

The Persian nodded, and took her hand gently. He led her to the door of her old room, where she had passed so many nights after the singing lessons with Erik. She remembered the lovely furnishings in that room that he had chosen just for her, the sheer curtain that draped the bed and the tapestries and paintings hanging from the walls. So much work, so much love, put into bringing her happiness.

She took a deep breath before opening the door, but still felt as if she was not prepared for seeing the form that lay upon the bed. He was still clad in his black dress clothes, and his glistening white mask still covered his face, from the top of his forehead down to his upper lip. He had not let the Persian remove it; he was determined to die with dignity.

The Persian remained in the doorway as Christine stepped nervously forward, wringing her hands. How would Erik react? Would he be angry with her for leaving, or for not coming sooner?

All fears of his reaction fled when he raised his eyes to meet hers. A flash of incomprehensible joy lit up his golden eyes; such strong emotion filled him that he was momentarily unable to speak. He merely stared at her, at the lovely dark curls cascading over her shoulders, at the tear-filled shimmer of her brown eyes. They gazed into each other's eyes, and although no words were spoken, so much was said.

"You came back," Erik said at last, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence.

"Yes," Christine answered slowly, "Yes, I did."

"Did you bring the invitation?"

Christine walked up to him until she stood next to the bed, and she knelt down beside him until they were at eye level to each other. "No," she answered, "There was no time to prepare invitations."

"No time? But you have been planning this wedding for weeks. And isn't the wedding tomorrow?"

"No," she whispered. Her voice cracked and tears began to flow. "No, the wedding will be tonight, although I didn't know it until a few moments ago. And there is no need for invitations; everyone is here who needs to be."

Erik continued to stare into her eyes for a few moments, unable to form any words. Nervously, uncertainly, he took her white hand in his. "You don't mean," he breathed, "You don't mean to say . . .?"

"Yes," Christine said resolutely, "Yes, my love . . ."

Gently, carefully, she lifted up her hand and touched the edge of his mask. Tears ran down both of their cheeks as she removed it, and then brought her lips to the trails of tears down Erik's face. She covered his cheeks with her lips, unhindered by the distortion of the flesh, the blue veins that pulsed underneath. He continued to cry openly as she trailed her kisses to his forehead, careful not to leave an inch of his face untouched.

"Wait," he breathed, taking her face gently in his hands and pushing her slightly away so that she was forced to look directly at his face. Her eyes roamed across his distorted features, the hole where his nose should be, the thin eyelids and twisted flesh. He felt bare, almost frightened, without his mask, without the piece of fabric that had protected him for so long against the cruelties of the world. He searched her eyes for any signs of disgust or hesitation; he found none. He had never experienced such absolute acceptance and love; the feeling was almost overwhelming, and his breath caught in his throat.

Dropping his hands from the soft skin of her cheeks, he leaned over to the nightstand beside the bed and opened the drawer. He took out a simple, thin gold band from it, and held it before Christine. She nodded softly.

"Nadir," she asked, turning towards the Persian man, who stood nearby with tears in his eyes, "will you be our witness before God?"

The Persian nodded, speechless.

Erik gently took Christine's left hand in his long, thin fingers, and slipped the golden band on her ring finger. He then softly ran his fingers along the edges of Christine's face, smoothing out her soft dark curls. He seemed afraid to touch her, as if she would shatter into pieces in his grasp, or disappear as a desert mirage.

"I'm here," Christine soothed, "I'm here and I'll never leave you."

And, taking his hands in her own, she pressed their lips together in a passionate kiss as the click of the door indicated the Persian had left the room.