A/N: Yes, another E/C, post-PoTO, slightly AU. It's definitely been done before; I hope to put a bit of an original twist to it, though! Constructive criticism—and reviews in general—are greatly appreciated. Flames will be sent to Nadir's fireplace.

Disclaimer: I own nothing—everything in Phantom of the Opera belongs to Leroux, Kay, and Webber. (This fanfic, incidentally, is based on both the musical and the 2004 film.)
(Edit: may also have elements from the books.)

-1-

Erik sat motionless, staring into the dark water. Only a hint of moonlight, creeping in from a crevice above him somewhere, illuminated its surface, which undulated as it scattered pale, distorted reflections of the light. Any more light would have been intolerable; it would have merely served to display the half-destroyed wreck his lair was now. Everything in it pained him, reminded him of Christine—better not to see it at all.

It had been months since he had burned down the Opera Populaire. Months since Christine had rejected him. The pain, however, had not lessened. It had increased, rather—increased relentlessly with the passing of each day. He had learned to partially numb himself now. He had done it in the past, and he was grateful of this feeling of desensitization, temporary though it was.

As he suddenly came to himself, he realized that it was very cold. He could not remember how long he had sat there. By now, he must have gotten quite filthy. His stomach ached from emptiness.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he even allowed himself to stay alive. Indeed, he barely could call himself alive; he rarely ate, spent most of his time either in a half-conscious state or at his organ, and almost never bothered to involve himself in any way with the outside world. For all the world knew, he truly was dead. Something, however, drove him to live on. Pride? At that, he smiled bitterly. A ruined, broken Phantom, still driven on by pride; the thought was amusingly absurd. Yes, maybe pride—and something else as well, perhaps.

He stared up at the darkened ceiling. Another reminder of Christine was entering his life; the reconstruction of the Opera Populaire had begun. Fools. They never did learn.

And yet—what would motivate him now to haunt the opera house again? Nothing. He knew that he was only a husk of what he once was. A husk which would eventually shrivel up in entirety and disappear. Erik abruptly stood up, disgusted with himself.

The organ once more screamed despair and rage.

- -

"Christine."

She blinked and rolled over. A sharp, unpleasant smell seemed to waft around her. She grimaced and burrowed deeper beneath the covers.

"Christine! Wake up!"

She started awake to find Raoul standing beside her, still looking bleary and rather disheveled.

" . . . Raoul?"

"We need to get out of here, now."

Christine looked at him, confused. "Why?"

"Can't you smell it? Now hurry!"

Smoke. That was what she had smelled. Christine scrambled out of bed, blinking rapidly. "Raoul—"

"No time, Christine." He grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the room. They raced through the corridors, dodging the panicking servants who were also looking for a way to escape. Christine could tell through the sounds that the fire was spreading quickly. Raoul led the way to the main entrance hall, and then stopped dead for a moment. The fire had already come here; the heat suddenly grew unbearable, and black smoke rushed out to meet them.

"The door in the servants' quarters," Christine yelled. Raoul nodded, and they hurried back through the hallways. Smoke began to fill the hallway, swirling around them. Small flames peered out through cracks in the doors.

They finally reached the servants' quarters and started looking for the door. The smoke and heat were intensifying. Christine groaned and threw off the robe she wore over her nightclothes. As they looked, they bent their bodies down as low as they could to avoid choking, and soon had to drop to their hands and knees. Christine felt a familiar sort of terror—the sort she had felt as she had watched the Opera Populaire burn down. She shivered despite the intense heat.

After what seemed like an eternity of searching, Christine heard Raoul give an abrupt shout. "There! I found it . . . I found the knob." Christine looked up at Raoul, and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed something dark descending toward them through the haze. A large beam . . . she cried out a warning as she tried to shove Raoul out of the way. The next moment, searing pain ripped through her head, and she felt her consciousness slip away.