A/N: This story takes place about a year after Christine leaves Erik and gets married to Raoul, and is only based on Leroux. Hopefully, I can stick to that. Please tell me if I put in something from the movie, or other versions. This version will be mostly Raoul-friendly. Ok, here goes!

Christine Daee walked in the bustling, warm streets of Paris. Her stems were measured and calm, but also brisk. She wore a long, green dress with a veil over it, successfully hiding her face from the world. If one had gotten close enough to her face, one could see that her blue eyes were downcast, and her whole face seemed to be cloaked in shadows. She had lost weight, and was obviously disturbed about something. Her blonde locks were tied up in an elegant fashion that one could not see behind her hat and veil. There were dark circles around her eyes that showed her lack of sleep.

She did not stray to the right or to the left, and did not stop to look at anyone. Her jaw was clenched with a kind of determination, and she avoided contact with anyone. People did not look at her, and she did not look at them.

She stopped at the steps of her destination, pausing on the tan steps. This got her some strange looks, but she did not mind. Her eyes were only for the Opera Populaire. The building had fallen into disrepair, and was obviously abandoned. She stood there for a long moment, looking at the mess that had once been the fine point of Paris. One could see her swallow and then continue on, into the ruins on the Opera house, past the arched doorway into her former domain.

Christine paused as she stood in the grand foyer that had accommodated so many rich patrons, going on their way to applaud the performance. She walked around and put her hands in the cracks of the great marble, ran her fingers delicately over the engravings and paintings that had once been a mark of the greatness and wealth of the Opera-house. They were now only empty symbols of a world that had forgotten.

She continued on, up past the grand statues and the steps to the doors she knew would catapult her into the past. There was a light tape over the doors that lead to the grand theater, which she easily lifted over herself. She opened the great portal into the theater, pausing for only a moment. It was no doubt that the great diva had many memories of this place. She, after that small pause, flung open the doors, as if she doubted her resolve to do so, and so mocked herself.

What she saw made her back up a few steps. She was standing on the balcony that overlooked the stage and all the common seats of the Opera. She could see the boxes, including the infamous Box Five, and knew well the routes to them. The place obviously had not been set foot in for a long time, and there was dust and cobwebs everywhere. But other then that, it was still the same Opera-house she left so long ago. She wondered briefly who could have lit the whole room with the soft candlelight it possessed, but the thought of common sense was driven from her mind by an overpowering sense of memory.

She saw the magnificent wood balconies and the gold and marble statues, all dull now with age and ill-keeping. Christine saw the red, velvet seats that once had held Paris' elite, all applauding her. The magnificent chandelier still sparkled with its diamonds, although it had not been lit for what seemed an eternity to her. It seemed almost impossible that the Opera-house's glory could have diminished so quickly. She had never realized how much work it had taken to keep up a grand theater like the Opera Populaire.

Christine then turned her quiet, blue-eyed gaze to the stage on which she had sung so many songs. The curtains were open, giving her a full view of the stage that had been hers. Christine was immediately plunged into memory; of Faust and Margarita, of Carlotta, and of that fateful night, when she had dared once more to exonerate and raise her plea to the heavens. Holy angel in heaven blessed... my spirit longs with thee to rest!

Christine now walked towards the stage, down slowly. Her lips were parted slightly, but her crystalline blue eyes were still fixed on the stage. The orchestra pit was shut now, but she could see the conductor making his gestures, directing the music which she had sang to. She could still hear the gentle strum of the instruments. She stepped up the ascending stairs to the stage. She walked forward, taking her hat and veil off in one smooth motion. The stage was devoid now of bustling attendants and backdrops; but she could still hear their noise, the gentle thrum that she had gotten used to. The seats were empty now, but she could still see the rich and elite talking in gentle voices about the latest gossip, chatting before she came on. She looked up to Box Five. The sight of it almost undid her. She could almost pretend that Erik was there, watching her...

Christine stood forward onto the stage, where she had stood as prima donna, where she had the whole world watching her. Something possessed her, and she discarded her hat, throwing it down onto the stage. She pretended that she was singing for an audience once more, and that Erik could hear her...

"Holy angel in heaven blessed," she sang slowly, the passion of the song consuming her once again as it had before. She remembered the song, and the way she had sung it, and suddenly she was the Viscomtess no more; she was Christine Daee, the diva, and the world was listening to her, hanging on her every word.

"My soul longs with thee to rest!" Christine threw her arms wide, the song issuing from her throat like golden wine, reverberating around the empty theater. She was half-expecting her angel to come and take her away, as he had before. But he did not, and she put her arms down, disappointed and feeling foolish. She had been performing for an audience that was not there, and was jolted back to reality.

One could see that there were tears in her eyes. They flowed gently down her cheeks, dripping down into her neck. They were not bitter tear, and they were not angry, but seemed to lament for something. It was not a kind of nostalgia, although that was some of it. It seemed as if Christine had some kind of regret for something she had done. She knelt down and cupped her head in her hands.

"Oh Erik," she sobbed. They were the first words she had spoken, and they were infused with a sense of regret, almost as if they were torn violently from her soul.

"Oh, Erik," she sobbed again. But the tears on her cheeks were starting to dry, and the look on her face was determined once again, almost angry. She stood up, and glared out into the audience, as if there was someone there with whom she possessed a great grievance.

"Erik!" she cried out into the audience. There was no answer, but instead only the fleeting echoes of her voice.

"Erik!" Christine cried out once more, this time into the stage. The look in her blue eyes was that of a flame, one that burned and smoldered with emotion.

The cries continued, the Viscomtess crying out desperately for her Erik, growing more and more angry and frantic by the minute. She cried out like an injured animal, the force of her cries growing more and more. Finally, Christine stamped her feet down on the wooden stage, the force of it making the floor shake and tremble with the force of her determination.

"Damn you, I'm not leaving!" Christine once again cried out. The oath sounded strange, coming from her innocent lips, but she meant it. The diva was obviously prepared to stay.

A voice came from the shadows that the great curtain created.

"I am here." Christine's breath caught in her throat. She had heard that voice sing to her, first as her angel of music, then as Erik. It brought back a stream of memories that battered her defenses relentlessly, until she felt raw and exposed. Then the man who was the owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows.

Erik, if it was possible, had grown to look even more like a skeleton, assuming the appearance of one half-dead. He no longer took care of his appearance; his dress-clothes were crumpled and wrinkled, and they hung off his skeletal frame barley. He still wore the black mask that she had grown used to. His eyes seemed, once again, to be great, bottomless pits that swallowed all light. Christine resented this, for if she could see his eyes, she could have discerned what he was thinking. He still looked as horrible and as monstrous of ever, and she could smell the death coming off of him. But this was Erik, and she had come here for him.

The sight of him, however, seemed too much for Christine to bear, and she managed to get five words out of her mouth before she slumped to the ground in a dead faint;

"Erik, our child is dead."