This is something I just wrote because I thought that Raoul writing Erik letters would be a nice idea. Again, not a great writer, I just have ideas I want to realize somehow. Still hope you like this. This is based on Susan Kay's novel.

Raoul wasn't entirely sure why he was doing this - it made no sense. He didn't owe that man anything, and what good was it anyway? The man was dead, had been for a while now. But for days, it had been itching in his fingers to pick up a pen and paper and write him.

So, now he was sitting in his bureau, looking down onto the empty piece of paper, contemplating how to start this letter.

Opera Ghost? No. Phantom? No, not that either. Erik? Raoul didn't feel he had the right to call that man by his actual name.

I know this is nonsense, to write a man who is already dead and (hopefully) buried, who was not even a friend of mine, but rather my enemy. But even though these words will never reach you, I feel compelled to write you.

I'm sorry that I do not feel confident enough to divulge our location, for whatever reason that may be. Maybe I'm worried that your ghost will come and haunt us here, although I'm fairly sure you've already found us whenever I look at Christine.

Do not misunderstand me, this is not for your benefit. I would be lying were I to say that I care for your interests, this is more for my own peace of mind.

Christine is fine. She spends most of her days reading, or singing or taking care of our son.

Raoul was hesitating over these last few words. Should he tell the man? That little Charles was actually his?

She seems happy. She even adopted your cat who, as you might be amused to know, hates my guts.

I do not know whether I shall write you again, seeing as it would not make sense to write a dead man further letters.

Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny

He put the letter into an envelope and contemplated what to do with it. Should he send it to the Opera House, who would only throw it away?

He quickly scribbled Madame Giry's address on it, which gave him some kind of assurance that the letter would find its right place, even if it were only next to a grave.

It had been weeks since had sent off the letter addressed to the Ghost, yet his mind would give no rest. Had he said all he had wanted to say? Raoul was frustrated; even in death, the man would not let him be in peace. This was probably his last victory.

Raoul sat down at his desk with his head buried in his hands. The last letter he had written hadn't been the last and he quietly laughed at himself for his foolishness. Writing a dead man, Raoul kept thinking to himself. Anyone who would find out would think him insane. Yet, strangely, writing the Phantom his thoughts helped him stay sane, like knowing that maybe, somehow, the man would read his letters gave him a peculiar sense of comfort. It helped him ignore all the nagging thoughts in his head whenever he saw Christine deep in thought, or lost in a completely different world, a world Raoul could not hope to breach into. He knew he did not exist in that world; there would only be music in there and him. Whenever he thought of that, jealousy closed in around his heart like a cage, because he knew he could never fill that endless void in her that he had created.

Sometimes I wish I could talk to you, just once, to understand what exactly you've done to Christine, how you managed to etch yourself on her heart and soul, how you captured her very being with your music, tinged her with a strange darkness that would never let her go. Do you know what you've done by letting her go? We both thought that if you let her go with me, she would find happiness and peace, that being with me would grant her a wonderful life.

Yet whenever I see her sitting alone, a little voice in my head tells me that maybe we made the wrong choice. We presumed this is what she wanted, but maybe we were just wrong.

Maybe, Erik, we were both just fools.

Charles was 10 years old now, a young, handsome boy he should only be proud of. But whenever he saw Charles at the piano, his little hands gliding expertly across the keys, creating haunting sounds that made Raoul want to flee the room immediately. Everything about Charles was a reminder of Erik, and Raoul knew Christine felt the same. Yet, for her, it was a source of happiness. Raoul knew that seeing so much of Erik in their boy made her feel like her old mentor was not completely gone from her life. To Raoul, it was like Erik's spirit was mocking him and this facade he was keeping up.

You must enjoy this, right, Erik? Watching me suffer from wherever you are, watching Christine with Charles and how much delight he gave her, filling at least a part of that gaping hole you left in her. Sometimes, I wish you were still alive so I could kill you for this. Is this fun for you? The final and lasting victory of the Phantom. You must be so damn proud of yourself - to know you will always own your place in our lives.

He is every bit yours and Christine's son and it kills me. I love the boy and he loves me, yet his very existence will forever mock and haunt me. I hope you're happy, you bastard.

Raoul furiously wrote these words so unbecoming of a man of his standing, but he found he could not find an ounce of his being that cared. He sent the letter against his better judgment, knowing it was too obvious, but who was going to read it? Madame Giry might, yet, considering her lack of response, it didn't matter. Let her know. Let her lay the letter to that monster's grave and let him know of his son, let him enjoy this victory.

Raoul felt so much older at this moment he had been dreading all his life.

Erik,

I regret to tell you that Christine has passed away. Despite having anticipated it, it was still a shock to me. I don't know why I am writing you this; maybe because you are the only one who will understand what this has to feel like for me. The pain of losing her is unimaginable, having lost my companion and oldest friend so swiftly.

Yet I feel a certain gladness. Seeing her face, so relaxed in death, knowing that she must be happy wherever she might be now, and despite myself I hope she will find you. Now, it seems to me she has only been waiting to finally see you again and death must have been a relief for her, even though she probably would have never admitted so to me. I sincerely hope that you two will be happy together, as much as it breaks my heart. I guess I just borrowed her for this lifetime; it was you she is supposed to end up with. And I gather I must thank you for giving me this time with her, then.

I feel like I can now stop this fool's errand and stop writing you, but will you promise me one thing, Erik? Do not let her forget me.

In deepest respect,

Raoul