A/N: This is my first POTO story. Summary: It's from Raoul's point of view. He's going to Christine's grave and remembering life from the point they left the Opera Populaire. Based on the 2004 movie. Flames not accepted, but concrit is. Enjoy the story!

Disclaimer: stuffs all versions of characters behind mirror Not mine! Not mine!

Reverie; Memory

The carriage pulls up to the cemetery. I am about to step out; and my life flashes before my eyes. They say that this comes before one's death; but I am not dying, simply remembering.

"Christine… Christine…" I whisper to her. She can't hear me now. She only speaks of her own accord, and when she does she cries out for either Marie, little Erik, or her Angel, as she calls him. "Where is my angel? I love you, Erik!" she screams as I simply stare at her helplessly.

She is well into her sixty-second year on this earth, and she is dying. I recall my life with her now. It was, most likely, not as good to her as it was to me, but it was certainly a life worth living.

After the ordeal in the Opera House, she is never the same. She has lost the will to sing, and does not until Marie is born. But this is not for many years, so let me start at the beginning.

We marry in a small, private ceremony. She cries as she says, "I do," letting one tear roll down her cheek. I move my hand to brush it away nonchalantly, and she says, "No." The tear stays and dries upon her face. Perhaps it is still there, a silent reminder of how she tortured him.

She spends a few nights with me, but most alone. After five months or so, she tells me that she is going to have a child. I, of course, am elated. Our first child, Jean-Paul, is born- the next Comte de Chagny. Christine holds him in her arms, but she seems to have no joy. She looks upon Jean-Paul's face with only a puzzled look on her own. "He looks like Father," she says as she falls back into the pillows. She says tiredly to the maid, "You may take him away now."

Our next child is named Antoinette, in honor of Christine's mother figure. She looks like I do, mostly. By now, Christine barely spends any time with me. I am away on business most of the time, but I make sure she is taken care of.

We are now both in our early twenties, and Christine tells me that she spent one night with a man she will not identify- to me personally, at least- to this day. Marie is born. I know in my heart that she is not mine; it is not possible. I discover who her father is later in my life. However, I love Marie just as much as I do Jean-Paul and Antoinette, and I forgive Christine for her infidelity. I know by now that she does not love me the way she did. But I still love her, and want to protect her.

It is obvious that Christine loves Marie the most. Maybe it is because of her parentage; maybe it is because Christine tells her stories of the Angel of Music. Once, I watched Marie play the piano as a child. She was singing an unfamiliar tune, a song about the music of the night. Christine sits behind her, and tears are in her eyes. Marie has never played it before. She says, "Marie, where did you learn that?"

"Father taught me!" she exclaims, and Christine's body is racked with silent sobs. "It was in my dreams. But, Mother, why does he always wear a mask?" At this, my heart drops, and my suspicions of Marie's father's identity are confirmed. At this moment, Christine looks at me.

She begins to visit the Opera Populaire again. I follow her, just once, and hear her. She cries out for her Angel of Music, and he comes to her and she kisses him and says she loves him. I have known for a long time; I have been resigned to what I know to be true. He cries into her shoulder and says he will never leave her, perhaps in body but never in spirit. This continues for years: Christine visiting her Phantom, and their whispered declarations of lifelong love.

One day, he does leave her in body. When we are nearing the end of our fourth decade, she comes home from the Opera bearing all the sadness of the world in her eyes. She says simply, "Erik is dead," and she goes out of the back door. I know that she has gone to see Marie. So, Erik is his name. I never knew it before.

Time passes, and Jean-Paul and Antoinette have children but Christine does not care. She sees them and gives them presents and tells them stories, but when Marie has her first child the sadness she has carried since Erik's death is briefly lifted from her shoulders.

The next part of our story I find extraordinary. Marie has given birth to a healthy boy at age twenty, and Christine is sitting with her. She has told Marie stories as a child about the Angel of Music, but not that he was no angel, but flesh; not that he is her father; not that his name is Erik.

Marie is looking at her baby. Like Marie, the baby has a birthmark; it is small, but visible. At the corner of both their right eyes, a small indentation lies in the skin; it is red as blood and shaped like a teardrop; only one piece of his face remained on his child and grandchild; a reminder of the great legacy of the Phantom of the Opera.

She looks at Christine and says, "I shall name him Erik."

Marie has always been perceptive about things she is not supposed to know. Christine, letting tears fall freely, says, "That is a fine name. A fine name indeed."

As little Erik grows, Christine and I love him very much. Christine takes him to the Opera Populaire and tells him that this was his grandfather's home; that he had a great and prosperous life, even though it was lived alone for the most part. She kneels down to him and says, "You shall have his legacy."

She is sixty now, Marie is thirty-seven, and Erik is seventeen. One October day, when the winds are just beginning to turn cold and the leaves are orange and gold, a day not unlike the one on which Marie was born, Christine takes Marie into her room and tells her of her true parentage. Marie is not surprised. She is disappointed in Christine for committing adultery so long ago, but she does not blame her mother. I catch a small bit of their conversation.

"Marie, to be unfaithful to one's spouse, you have to believe in something. I haven't believed in my marriage to Raoul since the day it began." I have no idea why this doesn't stir different emotions in me. I love Christine, but not in the way a husband should love his wife. But we seem to have a silent understanding. We've never divorced, and yet my life is happy and hers was.

Then she gets sick. In her delirium, she shouts so many different things. She mentions La Carlotta, her father's favorite violin piece, the time I found her scarf, the countless candles below the opera house, and so much more. The fever briefly breaks, and she takes this time to make a will. She has split her gold and jewels to Antoinette and Jean-Paul, except for a few pieces that are sentimental. She leaves everything of sentimental value to Marie and Erik. She leaves a few things specifically for him: the score to Don Juan Triumphant that Meg Giry had rescued from the flames (it was still singed at the edges), a sealer with a skull as the imprint, and the mask that I vaguely remember the elder Erik wearing to the Bal Masque. To Marie, she leaves her sentimental jewelry, anything else of personal value, and a plain metal ring.

"This belonged to the Angel of Music-" she says, pressing the ring into Marie's palm. And she takes out a package wrapped in black silk. "My dear friend Meg Giry found this in the bowels of the Opera Populaire as it burned. She left it to me upon her recluse into the convent. It was your father's. It is yours now." And she hands Marie the parcel. She unwraps it, to reveal Erik's most commonly worn mask, the white leather still spotless. And Marie starts to weep and embraces her mother. It is as if I am not there. Days after, she has a fever again, and the doctor says it will be a miracle if she survives a relapse. And this is a few weeks ago.

And now, she is dying. I stand next to her on her left side, Marie and Erik on her right. None of us cry. Jean-Paul and Antoinette are with their children in the foyer; they have only just arrived. They will cry. Christine will not like that, even though she is delirious.

Marie prods her. "Mother?" Christine sits up now. "Marie… You are here. I trust you have brought little Erik?" She calls him 'little Erik.' In her delusions, she believes that he is a small child again.

"Yes, Mother." She pauses. "Mother, little Erik has a request for you."

She sits up straighter. "What is it? I will grant any request of his." She holds Marie and Erik close to her.

"Grandmother, will you sing for us?" Erik asks.

She pauses. "Yes. I will sing."

And something inside myself knows. This is the last time Christine will sing. The dance of death has begun. The Reaper will come for Christine Daae this night.

She says first, "Know this first. I love you. I will always love you. And we will always watch over you."

I sit farther away. I should not be in this picture. I never should have.

She clears her throat to sing, and begins. "Think of me… Think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye…"

The song that brought me to her. That brought Erik to her. That set our story into motion.

"Remember me, once in a while

Please promise me you'll try

When you find that once again you long

To take your heart back and be free

If you ever find a moment

Spare a thought for me…"

And a faint glow in the room appears, beside Christine, Marie, and Erik. It grows stronger. And…he- Erik- comes into view, ethereal and phantom-like.

This happens as Christine's body falls to the bed, the same bed in which she gave birth to Marie. And the torso is lifted as another ghostly form appears- only this time, it is Christine! Christine, not a day older than sixteen. Erik takes her arm in the crook of his. And he speaks- the captivating voice which lulled Christine into his world of unending night.

"Christine…Christine…"

She smiles at him. "Erik, my angel of music. I am here."

Christine gestures to Marie and little Erik.

"Meet our family."

He touches Marie's cheek, but barely. She is almost forty now, but Erik has been able to catch glimpses of her throughout her life. He kisses her on the forehead, and whispers, "My daughter… I love you."

He turns to little Erik, who was born after he died. "I am sorry that I could not have met you personally, but I have always been watching over you," he whispered. "I am your grandfather, and you are- it appears- my namesake." He embraces little Erik, and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead, too. "Now you have been blessed by the Angel of Music," Christine says. She turns to Erik, and she kisses him fully on the lips. It is the most beautiful, the most pure kiss I have seen in my lifetime, probably that god or man will ever see. And they walk towards Marie and little
Erik, yet they seem to be getting smaller with every step. Christine sings now, in tandem with the true Angel of Music.

"You alone can make my song take flight"

And now Christine sings alone, only accompanied on the last note by everyone in the room but me.

"I'll help you make the music of the night"

They are gone now, gone forever.

Marie, little Erik, and I are jerked out of our reverie as Antoinette bursts in with Jean-Paul, flinging themselves over Christine's body and sobbing. I realize now that I was never meant to be a part of this family. I had been ordained to do something else, but some divine force had come in and thwarted Destiny from uniting the lovers, at least at that point in time. But now they are together: for all eternity.

I look at Marie, who parts herself from Christine's corpse and walks over to me. We simply gaze at each other, and in that moment we understand each other. Marie leans over and embraces me. The gesture is unfamiliar, but I don't know why. She leans back, gestures for Erik to follow her, and she walks out the door. I know that she will never return; Marie is like her father in that aspect.

Two years have passed since then. I have just gone to an auction at the Opera Populaire. I have seen Meg Giry; we both desired a music box that belonged to Erik. I outbid her by five francs. I am standing now; I do not know from where I gather the strength to stand. I gently place it on Christine's grave. And I see it: the red rose that is laying at the corner. Tied to the rose, by a black velvet ribbon, is the ring I gave her so long ago. I ever so slightly incline my head to it, in reverence. And I sit back in my wheelchair, a signal that I want to go home. Antoinette is there, caring for me in my old age. And I know that this night, Christine Daae and her Angel of Music are looking down on the world and smiling.