Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, book or musical. Nor do I own Phantom, by Susan Kay. I do not, even, own a personal life size Erik, even though I asked my cousin to get me one for my birthday. She said it was impossible. pout

A/N: This is not a one shot. Yay! And I DO plan to finish this one. It won't be very long, though. Just a few chapters. Still, this has been going on in my head since I finished reading the book by Gaston Leroux, and I was finally forced to write it when I started reading Phantom by Susan Kay. (There both such wonderful books! They're inspiring! Such wonderful angst!)

This story is completely Leroux based. Which means Erik wears a full mask, and I will always refer to Nadir and "daroga" Just like in the novel. There will be, however, some things from Phantom, as that goes along with what Leroux originally wrote. I was inspired to write this when I read the scene where Erik comes to the Persian to explain how he let Christine go. In fact, two paragraph from this story was taken from that very scene, though I had wrote it out in my own words, and changed the ending to suit my purpose. Oh, and I did not write the song that Christine sings. I sang it once at a recital, and I just love it, though I can't remember who wrote it. And now! On to the story!

All the Tomorrows

Chapter 1: Goodbye.

I have never been one to indulge in journals and memoirs. Disregarding the fact that I find writing itself a tedious and menial task, I believe, whole-heartedly, that a life such as mine should not be put down in paper to be remembered. A life such as I have lived should be forgotten completely, fading from thoughts and therefore, existence. So why do I now find myself sitting at my desk, not composing or sketching out architectural plans, but recording a part of a life of one so dark, and I daresay, evil as I? Perhaps it is to calm your fierce curiosity, daroga. For I am sure you are desperate to know what has happened in the months since you were saved from death by the pleading of Christine Daae. Indeed, you have tried many times to enter my house by the lake again. But I think you'll find that since your last success, it is now impossible.

But perhaps the real reason is that I cannot bear for those few precious months where I was content and even happy to fade out of existence. So you will have to forgive me for this selfish act of plaguing the world with an account of something from my life. Even if, daroga, you will probably be the only one to ever read this.

For the sake of completion, and because you must want to know everything, I shall return to the night Christine Daae consented to be my wife. And my wife she was. But I get ahead of myself. You and the Viscount had been saved from a watery grave completely by Christine. When I had ignored your cries in the torture chamber, she came to me, tearful and panicky, and pleaded for your life and the life of that damn boy. When I turned a deaf ear to these also, she promised me something I could not refuse. She promised that if I saved your lives, she would not only be my wife but my living wife! I had reconciled that she was to be my wife only in death, for she would surely kill herself after entering marriage with a monster such as I. And I was content to follow her into death. But now! Now the possibility of her being my actual, living wife! Oh, how could I refuse?

You and Viscount were pulled from the flooded room of mirrors (Why had you chosen to lead him into my house? For surely you knew this would mean your death. I cannot understand you sometimes, daroga.). The Viscount woke before you did. Indeed, you took so long in waking that we thought you would die. But you know what took place from there: my fiancé (then I had called her my wife, mostly to get the point across, and partly because I could scarcely believe it myself and it was as if saying it would make it somehow all the more real) treated you in silence, and I took you above ground. What you do not know is what I did with the boy. I did not kill him, as you no doubt suspect. But I did not release him either. For quite some time he was my hostage in one of the cellars of the Opera House. Quite without Christine's knowledge, I must confess.

I cannot fully describe to you the scene which took place after I had set you free. There are no words which could tell you of the miraculous, wonderful things that happened. When I returned from my task she was there, waiting for me. Waiting for me! And when I hesitantly moved toward her, she did not back away! Like a real, living bride she stood there, unflinching when I placed my hands, my cold, death-like hands, on her shoulders. Like a real, living bride, she put her forehead forward a little (a little! Just a little!) and allowed me to kiss her forehead. She did not shudder! She did not flinch away or cry out, and she did not die! She allowed me to kiss her, when no other woman has. When my own mother, after I had asked, in my innocence, for a kiss cried out in horror, "You must not ask that! You must never ask that again…never!"

Sobbing, I sank to the floor at her feet. The happiness of this simple act was so fierce that it was painful. I could not bear it. Great, moaning sobs and muttered words of adoration erupted from my lips as I kneeled before her, kissing the hem of her dress, her shoes, her ankles… Tears fell from my mask and I was horrified to see that my tears, my tears dared to stain the garment which she wore. But I could not stop my sobs, and soon my tears were not the only ones to fall. I looked up in disbelief when I heard an answering sob to my own to see that she cried with me! Her tears rained on my face and I ripped off my mask so as to not lose a single one. Her tears mingled with mine, trailed silkily down my face and into the crack of my lips. And she did not move away from the horror of my face. Instead she cried all the more, bent down and exclaimed, "Poor, unhappy Erik!" And then she took my hand! I could not bear it. If I did not get away I would die. I would have suffocated in the tears and sobs and utter emotion that welled up in me. I pulled a gold band from my pocket, the ring I had given her, and she had lost, and I had found again, and slipped it on her finger. Placing a trembling kiss on her hand, and giving a great sob when she didn't pull away, I dragged myself to my room and collapsed on the floor.

I stayed that way for hours, completely oblivious to the passage of time, to anything around me. I only know that when I finally emerged from my room it must have been the next day, for there was Christine, freshly dressed and reading a book, as she had done in her previous visits, in a corner chair. It was so much, in fact, like her previous visits, that for a moment I wasn't sure if the night before had happened, if we had not, actually, been pushed back into time and she would soon be leaving me to go above ground to flirt and court that idiot boy the Viscount. Then she looked up from her book and I knew it all had been real. A mixture of violent emotions took hold of me: sadness and guilt over her pale, drawn features and puffy eyes; joy, love and triumph as I realized that I had won. Christine was mine.

"Come," I said, gesturing to the piano. I sat down on the bench and she walked faithfully to my side. For both of us, music was a release. It was a way to unleash the emotions with in us, to give way to pain and sorrow, to finally breathe freely. I understood this. And though I still felt my triumph keenly, I was compassionate to her pain. I played a song that we had practiced before, a song that required emotion, passion. A song of farewell. A song simply titled "Goodbye," which I will write some of it out for you, so you can see why I chose it, and why it fit her so.

Falling leaf, and fading tree

Lines of white on a sullen sea!

Shadows falling on you and me

Shadows falling on you and me!

The swallows are making them ready to fly

Wheeling out on a windy sky.

Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye, goodbye.

Goodbye Summer!

Goodbye… goodbye.

Her voice rose up like a living thing, filled with so much passion and sorrow that I wept. Even as I played I wept. It wrapped itself around me, hypnotizing and entrancing me just as my voice had done to others. I too, felt despair and sorrow as she softly sang the lines. All the tomorrows, shall be as today… The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry… The link must break and the lamp must die… I have always been obsessed with creating things, daroga. As you well know. But I cannot claim to have created the voice which had filled that tiny room. Oh yes, I shaped it and formed it. But there was no way, as her voice rose to its emotional peak, the end of the song, that I could have created such raw, agonizing beauty.

Goodbye to Hope. Goodbye, goodbye.

Goodbye to Hope!

Goodbye… goodbye.

What are we waiting for? Oh! My heart!

Kiss me straight on the brow

And part again. Again! My heart! My heart!

What are we waiting for, you and I?

A pleading look? A stifled cry!

Goodbye! To summer!

Goodbye! Forever! Goodbye…

Goodbye… goodbye.

When the last chord faded she collapsed in a trembling heap, completely drained. Silently, I closed the piano and went to her side. She had paled terribly, and had raised one hand to her mouth as she released great, gasping sobs. I gently wiped the tears from her face, reveling in that this small gesture was allowed, and picked her up, cradling her against my chest. She did not stop her crying. I carried her to her room, placed her lovingly on the bed, took off her shoes and tucked the blanket around her. Murmuring words of comfort and love I brushed back her curls from her face.

Her sobs continued as I walked out of the room. I hated to see her like this. I hated that my Christine, my angel, suffered. But I knew that the song had been necessary. That perhaps now, with the emotional release of closure and of saying goodbye, we might, both of us, be able to move on.