Warning: I categorized this as tragedy for a reason. This is somewhat Kay-based, but I intentionally left some details vague so you can fill in the gaps with your imagination.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or its adaptations

In darkness you came-

She stood in his wrecked home, unfazed by the broken furniture and demolished scraps, remnants of an act of unearthly grief. Surrounded by shadows and damaged objects, she was clean and white, hands folded, one over the other, a gilded card between those soft palms. He was a figure hidden in the wreck, a shadow of a spirit, a damaged whisper.

"I came."

The words floated towards him, soft, warm, and distinctly her. She stared into the darkness, and if he had not been so hidden, their eyes would have met. Her face was the same as he remembered, delicate and beautiful, as if she was anything but, framed by chestnut curls that fell past her shoulders.

"You did," he replied, not bothering to hide the weariness in his voice.

She smiled with those lips that had been the first and last to ever touch him. The girl placed the card on a drawer flipped over. She did not try to find him. She stared once more, large eyes piercing and hardened with growth. This was a woman.

"Erik, it would make me so glad if you came."

He said nothing, stepping around the broken objects, silent as a cat. He could not go.

"Tonight you have made me the happiest man on Earth. Goodbye, Christine."

It was not a lie. Never would he have predicted her arrival but he was far too tired to consider the peculiarity. He refused to show her his face. He refused to show her any of him. He felt heavy, burdened with shame and guilt and an empty heart.

"Do consider it."

"I will."

Christine smiled once more at nothing, warm and inviting with an innocence that nearly broke him thrice over. "Goodbye, Erik." Her steps were light in her tread away from him, and he wondered if Hades and his queen had ever loved Eurydice.

"Hold me, my love," she pleaded.

Standing in the parlor, staring out into the lush de Chagny garden, Christine wondered if she was prepared to face a lifetime of this. Her fiancee's arms wrapped around her waist, his boyish chin resting on her shoulder.

"Never let me go, Raoul."

"I won't."

Raoul was warm against her, the embodiment of youth and dashing vigor. He was her pillar, her comfort in so many ways. She shut her eyes, imagining a world by the sea, of warm sand and rolling waves. It had seemed so long ago.

"Do you forgive me, Raoul? I went to him today."

"I was angry, my dear." He sighed. "But you are safe now. That's all that matters."

She imagined a wedding by the sea, a dress long, white, and curled trailing behind her, the sea breeze in her hair. She imagined her father waiting, she imagined Raoul standing ever handsome ever loving.

But she saw him. Him somewhere else, stuck in his winter castle, building things of wonder that she would never know again. Him, in his darkness, vulnerable and alluring, singing hymns that threatened to drown her in tears.

"Must we wait four days?" she asked.

"I want it to be perfect, Christine. Four days will seem like nothing at all."

"You shouldn't go," the Persian said, taking a sip of burning tea.

Nadir stretched his aging legs, staring at Erik with that all-knowing gaze. The man in the other chair fidgeted with the card in his thin hands, legs crossed, and eyes shut. Behind the mask, he may have been smiling.

"Leave her be, Erik. You let her go once. Do it again."

"She wants me to be there."

"You have two days to decide. I have a bad feeling about this." He could not explain it. Nadir rubbed his head, savoring the taste of tea, thinking back to simpler days, pained days.

Erik was silent, eyes dull for once in his life, and looked out the Persian's window. Nadir could not explain his thoughts, but instinct told him to object. That was the most he could do to spare them all.

"She wants me to be there." It was a short, decisive statement.

Raoul had taken everything into account except the weather. Christine's wedding day was filled with bleak skies and morning showers, melancholy and grieving. And yet her fiancee had still seemed so happy. It cheered her slightly- it reminded her of the days long gone, with her father in the Scandinavian winters.

Gendarmes followed her like ducks that day, per the vicomte's orders, and it was only at her insistence that the guards not be allowed into the church. It bothered her. Raoul's reasons were not unfounded- he had nearly forfeited his life at Erik's hands and yet-

"I don't think this is necessary," she told him the night before.

She had thought about it every night since the first. Raoul's orders were vague- the gendarmes had safety as their priority and that included an obligation to rid of all threats, Erik among them.

"Lotte, it's only a precaution," was his only reply.

And still he had promised to call them off should he actually show up, unarmed and yielding. He would not show, that much Christine was certain by then. And in her preparations for the inevitable wedding, in her excitement, in her anxiety, in her sadness, in her happiness, the gendarmes were all but forgotten.

No man was to give her away as she walked down the aisle. She had hoped- no, he had already done that. Raoul was waiting for her at the very end.

It was a fairy tale wedding, if not scandalous in the eyes of Raoul's family, and yet she did not care. As long as they were together, nothing mattered. Christine kept her eyes ahead, the flowers shaking in her hands.

Erik had not come.

There were no objections and the vows slipped through their mouths as easily as sweets. Her heart fluttered when the veil came away, when Raoul brushed her cheeks, his blue eyes momentarily taking up her entire world.

Their lips touched just as a crack filled the air. Three distinct shots echoed in the building.

She wanted him to be there.

Erik did not know how he would appear to the other guests, how he would explain himself, how he would react upon seeing her, but he knew he had to go. He needed to see her in this step, even if it meant seeing the boy take her away once more. No, she went with the boy. For that, he hated the boy. For that, he loved the boy.

He wanted to see her go with the vicomte. He wanted to see her smile one last time. He wondered if his heart was still present, if it had yet to be ripped apart completely. He was sure it would both swell and break a thousand times over at her wedding.

He was the opera ghost no more. He would go as the man who knew Christine Daae. With that sentiment, Erik dressed in his best tailcoat and threw on his most expensive cloak, the invitation safely tucked in his pocket. He was ready to see her- he had accepted it, embraced it, loved it.

It was raining lightly when he managed to hail a cab. Nadir would disapprove, he was sure.

It took all of his willpower not to bolt the moment the carriage stopped, the horses stained with mud and water. When he finally arrived at the church, he was met with a row of gendarmes. He walked toward the entrance without a change of pace.

"Oy!"

One of the men standing guard nudged the other. It was none of Erik's concern. He was late for the wedding, a slight setback due to the weather. He pulled the fedora's brim over his mask just a tad more in an effort shield it from the rain. Perhaps he had already missed their vows. It for the best, he supposed.

"Stay where you are."

She wanted him to be there and he was late. He walked on, hoping he had not disappointed.

"I said stay!"

A crack filled the air.

He froze in his tracks, still, calm, and for once, looked at the gendarmes. They stared back, the man holding the pistol gazing wide-eyed at his superior. Erik swore he heard someone scold the officer with the pistol and another curse.

Ignoring the burning pain in his side, he began the walk up the stairs toward the entrance. He was late.

"What are you do-"

"The vicomte said-"

"Boy, don't-"

He ignored the argument. Erik was about to push open the door, imagining Christine's smiling face and the boy's warm features, when he heard the next crack. He fell backward, rolling down the steps, hat flying into the air, wondering if the daroga had been right. Perhaps this was a trap but-

She wanted him to be there. No, he was certain he had done the right thing.

He hit the ground painfully, coming to a stop from his tumble, the raw agony in his shoulder preventing further movement. But he was late. The world was swirling around him, a mix of white and red spots. His good arm dug in his jacket pocket. He heard the officers shout.

His finger touched it then.

Two more shots were fired, followed by a moment of nothingness before the little card slipped from his hands, covered in slick red blood.

Christine was the first to burst from the church doors, Raoul barely catching up with her, the dress trailing behind her. She descended the low stairs and fell to her knees, hands flying over her mouth in a loud sob.

"I- I didn't know! I thought he was getting a weapon! I didn't-"

The young officer was babbling beside her, horrified at the pistol in his hands. The other gendarmes were crowded around him, arguing and shouting.

"Monsieur le vicomte! Come quick!"

She didn't hear what they had to say next. Erik had come. Erik had come. And he was lying before her, wet and muddy on the ground, a man of flesh and blood, broken so mercilessly. Christine crawled towards him, shaking her head at the miniature rivers of blood he seemed to be drowning in. The rain was red around him, streaming into the cobbled street.

"Erik," she whispered. Her invitation had fallen beside him, stained with his blood and heavy with rain. Her hands pulled his cloak away, revealing the never ending layers of scarlet coloring his waistcoat.

She was in some strange nightmare. Up until then, she had never considered the possibility that something like this could possibly befall him. She half expected him to stand up, like he was wont to do, as if he would be alright forever more.

"Erik!"

Her dress was stained with muddy water and bits of red, the stains only darkening as she moved, hands struggling to stem his wounds. His eyes fluttered open, half lidded and horrifyingly tired.

"C-c-christine..."

Raoul was shouting behind her, arguing with the young officer. She could sense no one's distress but her own. She prayed.

"I came," he whispered, hoarse and strained.

She missed his lovely voice, with all its mystique and warmth, and yet she heard none of that now. Only the pained whispers of an injured man, a dying man. Her palms were covered in blood. How many shots!?

"Erik, please," she babbled, "you'll be fine. You'll be fine-"

"Oh, Christine," he sighed, "I- I am... oh-oh-so glad to see you."

He moaned and she cried out, throwing herself over his ruined body. "My poor Erik," she whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry- I'm so sorry-"

"You've made me... the happiest man on Earth."

Erik poured the words out, his breathing ragged, each syllable a pierce to his being. All he registered was pure unadulterated agony, his vision swimming in and out, but an angel's face was before him, so bright in his view. Christine's tears spilled, mixing with the thin drops of rain. He held up a blood stained hand and traced her cheek, the young woman's hand clapping over his own as he felt himself go limp.

He had broken a promise to himself- he was going to die a spectacle, but he had kept his promise to her. Yes, that was all that mattered. He wondered if he was crying as she removed his mask, exposing his flesh to the salt of her tears.

They sky was not sunny, but he was sure it was bright, light. The rain would let up soon and-

"I had always wanted to die in broad daylight," he mumbled.

Christine pressed her lips against his bloodied mouth for the last time. He tasted her once more, forgiveness and heaven. She was light itself- she was-

"I love you."

His last breath left and Christine was left with her head on his chest. And still she cried his name, sobbing and sobbing for her fallen maestro. She sobbed for what could have been, for what may have been different, for all that he could have been.

She moaned his name without pause, rosy cheek traced with his blood, wedding gown stained crimson, mourning him with a fervor she didn't think possible. Raoul crouched by her, arms ready to pick her up. Christine cradled Erik's head, claimed by death at last, and stared at her husband.

It was heartbreaking look that pained him. He knew it far too well- it was the look that told him that a part of her belonged to this man. No, it told him that Erik belonged to her, that a part of her had died with him.

It was on her wedding day that Christine Daae sang the angel of music's final requiem and in his last moments on Earth, it was her voice that filled his ears. Her voice soared in spite of the choked sobs- he once told her that the angels wept for her. She wondered if they were weeping then.

-And in light you left

The end! Thanks for reading and feedback is very welcome (was this relatively good? bad? stupid?)

I believe Christine marries Raoul and lives happily ever after, but you don't have to agree with me. I was trying to keep her feelings for Erik vague, as a confusing mix of paternal and romantic- whichever way you prefer works.