Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. And you should be thankful for that. Because it seems that if I did, it probably never would have gotten finished and we would all be without Erik.

A/N: Tonight, or last night, I started reading my comments on this story—I was bored and I couldn't remember all that had been said, and after reading them I was very ashamed. All those wonderful comments you readers left and I haven't posted in so long! Really, you all were so wonderful, critiquing it and giving me the advice I needed as well as the confidence that I needed for some parts I weren't sure about. I am horrible.

So! I sat down and wrote this out all in one sitting. It is now after 2 am. I'm tired. But you guys sooo deserve it, and I very much enjoyed this chapter. But for excuses for the constant drawing-out-ness at the beginning and loads of description of Christine, I was listening to Le Salon de Musique the entire time, and it is to blame. Such a lovely, lovely song. Also, my rationalization is that Erik would really focus on memorizing everything about Christine here. And he probably couldn't help write a lot about her. Yup. That's what I say.

ABOUT THE EPILOGUE: I have decided not to have an epilogue on this story, and am instead just leaving it here. This was what I originally planned to do when I first thought up the story (I had the first and last chapter planned out before anything else) and I like it too much to change the ending with an epilogue. HOWEVER, I might at some point write up the epilogue I had in mind and post it as a one shot companion piece to this. So if you want to find out a bit about what Christine's life will be after leaving Erik, read that when its up.

So yes, THIS IS THE END OF THE STORY.

All the Tomorrows

Chapter 5: Empty Tomorrows

It is not always true that actions follow decisions. For it was some time after I decided to break off my marriage with Christine that I actually did it. Parting from Christine would be the most painful thing I had ever experienced, and I wanted to forestall it as long as I could. A man does not rush to cut off his own hand, and I would sooner lose both hands than Christine. Without hands I would not be able to play, but music is merely a comfort and luxury, Christine was life. The decision however, could not be forgotten: Christine was fading. Before my very eyes she was withering away, crumpling into a pale shell of the magnificent girl she had been. She had dark bruises under her eyes, clashing with her very pale skin. Her hands shook whenever she used them—to hold up a book or to sew or even when she merely smoothed the folds of her dress. But even then, this shadow Christine was so painfully beautiful I just wanted to keep her near me.

She kept up the façade of life. She went about daily tasks with the vigor she always did; Christine always had something to keep her busy. Perhaps this was to fight off despair. An option to sing or discuss books and music was always welcome; she never turned away from my touch and embrace. She even continued to smile and laugh. But she was falling apart; her life was nothing but a pretense, an opera she would have to perform in for the rest of her days. I had to end it.

There was nothing special or particular about the day I chose for Christine to leave. Nothing triggered the decision but perhaps that I could no longer look upon this broken Christine and live with myself. The day started out normal; we arose from bed and ate breakfast at the usual time. There was some quiet conversation, nothing of consequence, just small chatter to keep to weary souls occupied as they awoke for the day. Afterwards I asked her join me at the piano. She readily complied and I took her through her warms ups, relishing in her voice as it reached the high point of each scale and letting the glorious notes tumble over me as she went back down. It was the last time that I would ever hear such a sound.

When we were finished she lightly touched the pile of music on the organ and smiled at me. "What would you have me sing?" she asked, her voice soft. For a moment I just looked at her: her hair was only lightly pulled back, leaving her blonde curls free to fall around her shoulders, just as she knew I liked it. She was not wearing a high collared dress, and the bruises on her neck had finally faded. Her lips were curled into a light smile. At that moment I could ignore the circles under her eyes, or the light trembling that seemed to plague her entire body. Here was youthful, beautiful Christine, the girl who had captivated me with her pure, untrained voice, the young woman who had driven me to desperation and madness in my quest for her love, and my wife, who had given me more than I could have ever deserved, who had given too much. I pulled out a song from the pile. It was one she had not sung since the beginning of her training, when I was still an angel and she an innocent. The song was light and happy with a simple melody and soaring notes; it was a song for spring and for lovers, and I wanted it to be the last song my Christine ever sang for me.

She gave me a quizzical look when she saw my selection but did not hesitate when I started to play. She sang the song with the ease of someone used to ones far more difficult, but with the sweet, clear voice of her youth. Even in this happy song she could not quite get rid of the sadness that weighed her down and it added a wistful quality to her voice that was almost too much to bear. And when she reached the crescendo of the song and her voice, that perfect voice I had never thought to hear until her, rang out in joyous rapture I nearly wept. But I refrained from doing so, there were to be no tears for this goodbye. Not yet.

The music died and Christine was looking at music with a fond smile on her lips. "I'd forgotten how much I liked that one." She glanced at me, inviting me to share in her delight, but I could not. Instead I took her left hand and traced the gold band on her finger lightly with mine. Then, ever so carefully, I slipped it off. "Erik, what—"

"Go." I interrupted her, my voice hoarse as I choked out the word. "Go, Christine. I release you from all the ties with which you are bound to me. Forget you ever called me 'husband.' Go and… and marry that boy." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Go and be happy." I continued to study the gold ring, refusing to look up at her face, to see the relief and longing I would surely find there. But with her quiet words I looked up in shock.

"I'm not going anywhere, Erik." And again more firmly: "No where. I am staying right here."

Dear, dear Christine! Even at the moment of her freedom she was still too good to me! Still so ready to do her duty as wife, to finish her job as companion. But I could not allow it. No. I could see the longing in her face, just as I knew I would, I could see how her eyes flickered to the door—beyond which the outside world and her real love were now so close for her to reach. I shook my head. "No. I release you! You are no longer bound to me, Christine! Go!"

"But you forget, Erik!" She exclaimed shrilly. "There are also ties that bind you to me!"

"Then I break them!" I stood up, flinging my arms out wide as I shouted, scattering sheet music and knocking over the piano bench as I did so. She backed up, eyes wide and hand automatically going up to touch her throat. My hysteria died when I saw this, but not my resolve. "I want you to leave, Christine." I muttered brokenly. "I can see that this place, that I, have ruined you. And in the little time I have left I would rather remember our brief time together than watch you shrivel away with me."

She took an impulsive step forward, one hand stretched toward me. "In the time you have left…"

I stopped her with a raised hand. "Yes, Christine. I am dying. My health has been failing for years and I don't have much more time."

She shook her head wildly, golden curls flying. "Then I should stay! I can't just leave you, Erik!"

"No, Christine. If you stay then you will surely die with me, and I cannot allow that." She said nothing and we stood there in silence, ten feet apart and each trembling with the power of our emotions. In some ways it was not unlike the night Christine had sworn to be my living wife. And here she was, my lovely, living wife and I wanted her to stay that way. Finally, she nodded before looking away and wiping at the tears in her eyes. My shoulders slumped. "Good." I whispered. "Now go an pack your things and I will take you up to the gate." I didn't watch her leave the room. My eyes were once again drawn to the little ring I held in my hand. For a short second I had a notion to give it back to her and make her promise that when I died she would come and put the ring on my finger and see that I was buried. But I could not ask that of her: by then she might have restarted her life, possibly with that Raoul de Chagny.

It did not take her long to gather all she wished to take. Even though she had started late morning we still set out across the lake not far into the afternoon. It was another thing to be ashamed of. Had this been anything but a farce of a marriage she would have had several large trunks at least to fill with knick-knacks and items she held too dear to part with. Instead two suitcases were all that she loaded into the boat. The ride across the dark waters of the lake was uncomfortably silent, but there was nothing we could have said. It wasn't until we reached the gate that any words passed between us. Before she left she wrapped her arms around me, kissing my misshapen lips and then pressing her face into the crook of my neck. My entire body shook as I held her. She was going to leave me forever, now, and I was the one making her go. Desperately I clung to her and I buried my face in her hair once more. "I love you," I gasped, what I had not been able to say the night she consented to be my wife. She shuddered and cried but did not say it back. I did not expect her to. And indeed I don't think I would have been able to let her go if she had.

"Goodbye, Erik." And she slipped from my arms and out the gate, my last view of her a silhouette against the light. I closed the gate behind her and pulled out the key—Christine's key, I thought with a horrible finality. The silence of the boat ride back was worse than the one before and the house was too empty when I entered it. I walked through it, by passing the music room and heading straight for the bedrooms. I lingered at the one Christine and I had shared, but I couldn't bring myself to enter it. Instead opened the door to my old room and lowered myself in the coffin I had not slept in for five months. It was cold as I laid there, Daroga, and I was empty. I pondered how my life would be with out her now, an empty string of days that couldn't possibly end soon enough, and as I did the memory of Christine's voice on that first night echoed in my mind.

All the tomorrows shall be as today…

What a terrible thought indeed.