Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any characters found within this story. I only own the words in the order they appear upon this page. Thank you.

Story Note: This story is based upon a specific scene in Kay, however it is not necessary to have read Kay to understand this piece. Just to cover myself, references to ALW or Leroux may show up. Just a warning: this story may fall into the more morbid or dark realm of phantom fiction. This is due in part to the nature of the subject. If you are expecting butterflies and rainbows, this is probably not your fic (there are many excellent fics which go down that route here on )

Note Two: …anything that doesn't seem quite logical is explained by the end.

-----------------------------------

The Free Fall

What if, instead of embracing madness and destruction,

Erik had decided suicide was the better route?

---------------------------------

To any errant Parisian who might be walking the streets below the Opera that night, it would seem a most iconic image. The type of true life painting which shall never fade from one's gallery of memories. It was like Waterhouse's illustrated legends or Monet's impressions. For who but a great Artist could set up such a composition, one which intrigued the eye and stained the imagination with its light and colours.

Brush stroked of navy cascaded around a pale, origami moon, its light caressing the faces of the luminescent marble denizens of the Opera's roof. With Luna in such glory, any art connoisseur would gasp and coo over the scene's beauty. However, it was only the unfamiliar silhouette which would draw out the novelist in every man's soul. For what is the iconic scene sans its iconic figure?

He was an inky black line against a blue wash of sky. A simple pen stroke which spoke volumes of magic, mystery, sorrow, and sadness. His midnight cloak flared out behind him, like the swirls created if a drop of ink is allowed to run through the creases and crevices of a fine piece of stationary. Yet, no matter how much imagery the novelist could describe, nor the amount of detail the artist could sketch, no man could ever imagine who the figure was and what his plight could be. For what sane being can dare to infer what illness could be so acute as to slowly eat away at the psyche, like acid to flesh, until nothing remains but desperation and madness?

oOoOoOoOoOo

"Keep away from the edge!"

The simple phrase echoed throughout the night sky, reverberating in every tongue know to man. French, English, German, Italian, Persian- no language could act as a barrier to the command from his past. It was a mantra his malformed conscience threw at him time and again, and usually when he least wanted to hear it.

"Yes, keep away from the edge…" the man mused to himself, acerbic humour permeating every word, "But what edge could that be? The cliff that leads towards destruction? The line between madness and sanity? Perhaps the edge of the roof, is all… perhaps I believe my inner self capable of more depth than it really is."

The man laughed harshly as he raised his eyes to the Paris skyline. He surveyed the scene, viewing the few people dart about the streets below. But though his golden eyes saw everything below, his mind did not take in any of this information. For the normal sparkle which marked his fey eyes had dulled to a deeper color, like that of tarnished brass, and the only glint which could be discerned was that of insanity. He was at another crossroads in his life and he could either choose to let his genius wither into the lunacy which his former Master so urged him to, or he could end it here. Did he truly want to spend an eternity in eternal damnation? But, then, wasn't this life he was leading hell enough for a hundred souls?

If only she could have loved him as he did her. Then perhaps he would not be here, at the edge of the world. And, if he was destined to be at this place, then perhaps she would have been standing next to him in this moment, pleading with him to come back with her, to return to the ardent darkness and the single flicker of hope she personified. Perhaps it would all be different… but no. He was a slave to Fate, and the goddess of Destiny had dubbed him her personal court jester since his birth. He was bound to forever bear the brunt of Her cruel jokes. Forever bound… he could not bear to imagine any more years of this torment. If only he had the will to jump.

He stepped onto the ledge, staring down the side of the building he had spent so many years perfecting. He knew the statistics well. From this height, at the speed gravity would take him, it would all be over in mere seconds. No one would ever recognize his deathly visage upon the pavement. For everyone loses their beauty in death. He supposed he could take comfort in the fact that, in Death, the Vicomte de Chagny would look no more handsome than he.

oOoOoOoOoOo

"I will return in a moment, Raoul, I seem to have left something on the roof…"

Something, oh yes she had dropped something on the roof. The ring. His ring Raoul, in his boyish nature, had begged to go with her, fearing for her safety if alone. She hadn't allowed him to continue, however, and had quickly turned to run back up the staircases towards the roof. If she had lost that ring, there on the edge of the world, she would never forgive herself. Erik may never forgive her either. Besides, how could she explain to Raoul that she wore that simple gold band- even after all the things she had confided in him that night. She could barely understand it herself.

Instinctively, however, she knew that it was necessary to get the ring back safely around her finger. She had worn it for weeks now, and she felt almost incomplete without its reassuring weight around her finger. It reminded her that her Angel was always there…watching, guarding, ready to guide. A sudden shiver ran through her spine as she burst through the entrance to the roof. Not from the sudden burst of cold air however, but from the though which had suddenly taken root in her mind. If he was always watching, had he seen… had he heard the conversation between her childhood friend and herself? Had she not heard beautiful, sinister echoes in the night?

As she moved nearer to the edge of the roof, all thoughts of recovering the golden band left her mind. Her heart stopped and seemed to freeze within her chest as she saw her dark angel, clothed in Night and Star-shine, staring out at the invisible horizon. He was there, he must have heard. An unfounded fear constricted within her chest at the sight of him. He was so close to the edge. Christine tried to brush off her worry. She reminded herself that Erik was a grown man, not some little child with no balance. He wouldn't accidentally fall off the edge! It was just her silly imagination running wild, she chided.

A sudden movement from her Angel immediately caught her attention. He had stealthily moved closer to the edge, all while hanging his arms at his sides with an air of abandon. With that she took off running across the roof towards him, fear clouding her heart, her mind, her reason. She had to reach him in time! He would never fall off accidentally, but what if it was his intention to fall? What if he would jump purposely? And, all the while, a horrible little voice echoed within her mind.

You! You did this! Your fault! He heard you! Heard you! Your fault, your fault, your fault! You have killed him, only now you realize all he meant to you!

"Erik, no!" she screamed into the night.

She hadn't realized that he was so lost, so deep within his despair and loathing, that he had never heard her approach. She saw him jump in surprise, teetering precariously on the ledge. It probably took mere seconds for him to lose the little balance he had, but in the space of a moment he faced her, his eyes glistening with some unknown sentiment as he whispered her name across the air. The raw emotion she heard in that single utterance sent her to the edge as well, grasping frantically at him, desperately trying to save him. She needed to tell him she was sorry, to let him know that she couldn't imagine returning to life without her angel… she had to save him!

Somehow she had caught hold of his cloak and she clutched at it, trying to pull him up as well. But her efforts were for naught, for instead of lifting him back into the world of Light and Life, he had unwittingly dragged her into Darkness and Death along with him. And she had blindly followed, just as she always had.

oOoOoOoOoOo

They had fallen, he knew that much. Fallen from the edge of the world down to Hell. By his calculations, it would have taken mere seconds for the entire trip but it had seemed like an eternity. Her face as they fell would be burned into his memory forever. It was not the look of fear he had expected, but one almost of acceptance. Her gaze had locked with his own, and her eyes had held an expression which no one had ever granted him before. It wasn't pity, or fear, or any of the reactions he had received within his life, and his failure to place his finger upon this one unnerved him greatly.

It was only after musing about this puzzling development, that Erik realized he wasn't in any kind of pain, which he was quite positive he would be feeling by now. His senses began to return to him and one by one he began to feel more alive. He felt the cool road beneath him, heard the wind blowing between the buildings, and even the distinct smell of the city greeted his nostrils. He surely couldn't be dead, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted to open his eyes, either. That is, until a lovely, lilting voice broke through his thoughts.

"Erik, please wake up? Erik…"

His amber eyes fluttered open to behold a woman with beautiful chestnut hair and soft features silhouetted against the pale moon. Moonbeams caressed her skin, giving her an almost otherworldly appearance. She looked like an Angel, (or what he supposed Angels would look like, at least), and he almost believed he truly was dead until she spoke again.

"Oh, thank God you're all right! You were lying so still… I wasn't sure…" tears began to grace Christine's cheeks as she stared down at him, recalling their recent ordeals.

Erik stood up with more grace than he had thought he could manage, and assured his Earthly Angel that he was, amazingly, fine. Suddenly, he was thrown off balance for the second time that night as Christine threw herself against him, sobbing. He couldn't exactly say he was an expert in these sort of matters, so he simply comforted her as best he could until she turned her face up to his.

"Will you take me for a walk in the park, Erik? I do so miss our midnight trips."

He nodded in agreement and led his love through the moonlit streets of Paris.

oOoOoOoOoOo

The disappearance of La Daae was a sensation in the papers. Numerous rumours abounded, each one more ludicrous than the last. The managers of the Opera were stumped, the chorus girls and ballet rats lamented the disappearance (and, of course, attributed it to the ever-present Phantom), and La Carlotta- while putting on a lovely façade of concern for the press- secretly reveled in the news. But, perhaps no one was more concerned than Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He had searched high and low for Mademoiselle Daae, but every lead turned up empty. Madame Giry and her daughter, Meg (who he had known to be excellent friends with his love), could give no hints to her location. He had even tried to discover her whereabouts from Christine's one time guardian, Mama Valerius.

Raoul had then suspected Christine's Erik, her deformed genius, to be behind this new treachery. Every attempt to uncover the Phantom, however, proved fruitless. No one had seen anything suspicious, or heard from him (neither in notes or disembodied voices) in weeks. Eventually, at the urging of his brother Phillipe, the Vicomte had been resigned to go on with his life- without Christine. He left specific instruction with the Surete, however, that if ever they uncovered the whereabouts of Miss Daae, to inform him immediately.

It seemed that during this entire disaster, only one man carried himself in contentment. The Persian had been lurking about the Opera ever since he had discovered Erik within its vaults. Wherever the reclusive composer was, it was probable that the Persian was not very far behind (or, to be precise, not many floors above.) For this man knew exactly what had happened to both his friend and the star soprano, and it had taken none of this skills he acquired in his previous position as Daroga of Mazenderan. For he had been outside the opera that night, searching for a cab to take him home. He had seen two people fall from the roof, and upon rushing to the scene, had discovered the two bodies upon the pavement. He was also witness to a couple strolling away from the scene as if nothing was out of the ordinary. A couple bathed in moonbeams, or perhaps by the way the light shone through them as if through stained glass, they were made of moonbeams.

Fin.

Authors note:Thank you for reading. If you've gotten this far, I urge you to please please please leave a little review. Feedback is a precious thing and I love to hear opinions- both good and bad. So if you loved it, hated it, or had no opinion, let me know! - Titania of the Fae