Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, Susan Kay's Phantom, or Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical.

Turn of the Tide

"A Fitting End"

My years studying human anatomy and experience as killer told me that my wounds were serious. I moved away from the scene outside the jail like a wounded animal retreating into its burrow. The entrance to the Rue Scribe was not far from where I began, and I hobbled toward it in hopes of finding solitude.

The injury to my side was growing ever more disagreeable, and the concussion of my pained step on my shoulder was excruciating. Every step was more difficult the last, every breath became a struggle. The knife wound was deep, and each breath of air I drew it expanded my ribcage and thus reopened the wound. I doubted my ability to carry on much further between the indescribable pain and increasing loss of blood.

To my dismay and relief I made it to the Rue Scribe entrance. I was not more than 50 feet in, however, when the dreadful realization occurred to me – my home was no longer safe. It was most likely destroyed and most definitely located, leaving me with no place to go. I feared my last moments on this horrid world would be in the dark depths of nothingness.

I despaired. I sank to my knees against the dank wall, wishing the pain to ease so I could breathe. My energy was draining faster than I had expected. I had not eaten anything that day and I was purely exhausted from the wounds and my flight from the jail. With no destination and no companion, I felt myself beginning to give in. I allowed myself to sink further and fall against the stone walkway. I gazed out into the blackness.

I had lost Christine. I had lost my Opera. I no longer had my music, and I no longer had any reason to live. I could not bear to think of life without my music, and I could not bear to think of my music without Christine. It was a circle of torture that I was caught up in, and the disconcerting part was that I could no longer care.

For years I had longed for death, and several times it had nearly taken me. But whenever it came near, I was always called back. Who would call me back now? Nadir was surely in his flat plotting his next appeal to the judicial system, and the Vicomte had taken Christine away. No, I was alone with no one to stand between me and eternal darkness. I imagined how Christine would sound if she were there, speaking my name with her glorious voice. It would dance off her tongue and float past her lips if she were here…

"Erik…" I could hear it now. Such a wonderful sound it was.

"You." I knew I was not terribly coherent, but I certainly knew that was not Christine's voice.

I opened my eyes and my heart began to race even more. I picked myself up on my left elbow and turned back toward the entrance of the Rue Scribe. Christine's precious Vicomte. I cursed under my ragged breath. A sharp pain from my ribs reminded me of my condition and my head dropped.

"No…" I muttered. I did not want anyone to see me like this. The bleeding still continued and I was growing increasingly weaker. I dragged myself slowly up on one knee and threw my left shoulder into the wall for support. Raoul de Chagny stood facing me, stiff as a statue.

"Go!" I snapped, conversation becoming increasingly more difficult for me to manage. "Go far away from me…"

"I will not," he declared. Damn you infernal boy! I wanted to crush his wretched throat in my hands, but I could do nothing but curse him silently.

I pressed my arm harder against my side and drew another shallow breath. "Come to watch the monster die, did you? What, no admission at the door?"

I sank further against the wall as the Vicomte spoke. "In the alley…Who instigated it?" he demanded. I shook my head. I do not go looking for fun by killing others, you twit. I moved to say something in my defense, but was lacking the strength. I did not want to have this conversation and decided to retreat further into the darkness, away from prying eyes and pity.

Suddenly I looked up at him, anger pulsing through my veins. The events of the evening seemed to culminate at once – had he anything to do with my assault? Was Christine's "visit" a simple ploy to entice me to cooperate with a plan that would ultimately end in my death or humiliation?

Hindsight tells me that the boy was simply not capable of that sort of malicious plotting. But there in the darkness, fighting the effects of a concussion and two devastating wounds, the character of my rival did not register in my mind. "Your…brutes did a fine job, I should say. Pity for them…I possess an exquisite talent in this field," I spat. De Chagny was silent for a moment, then took a step toward me.

"You think I am responsible for this?" the Vicomte demanded. Someone fetch the boy a prize.

"I could not expect a gentleman. …such as yourself to put a lady in danger for the…the sake of a monster. What, you thought you would have an easier go of it if I thought that she would be present? How, exactly, did you intend to explain my hideous carcass come the investigation, pray tell?" I sneered. "Did you …intend on blaming the wretches you had hired and leave them out to dry?"

All at once my body began to falter. The pain caught me off guard and took my focus away from verbal warfare and placed it once more on my deteriorating condition. I hung my head for a moment, willing the pain to subside if only for a moment. I was suddenly too tired for anything more. "I have no need to speak to you," I sputtered between breaths. "Get out before I am forced to do something rather…rash."

Raoul paused while he stared at me, then instinctively placed a hand on his pistol. "What do you intend, sir?" he asked.

To bleed on you, I hissed under my breath. I shifted painfully against the wall and attempted to stand as he watched with critical eyes. I was nearly up when I lost my footing on the damp stone. My right leg slipped out from under me and I came crashing down on the unforgiving walkway. I could not breathe – I could not move. The wounds in my side and shoulder were ripping me apart.

The searing pain was entirely unbearable. My jaw clenched as the tension coursed through my body. Every muscle was drawn tight, which only hastened my increasing exhaustion and discomfort. I rolled further onto my left, and as I brought my left arm up to press against my ribs, I wanted to bury my face into the stone. I had forgotten that I was being watched – my vision now only went as far as the blinding pain. As I drew another shallow, agonized breath, I felt a light touch on my right shoulder. In my delusion I thought it to be Christine, and I moved to turn back toward her. But the movement sent me into another fit of anguish. It was as if the knife and bullet had buried themselves once more, twisting and digging until I was writhing in agony. I slammed my head back on the walkway and drew another difficult breath in an attempt to calm myself.

"Easy…" I heard. I opened my eyes in horror – the voice and hand upon my shoulder belonged to the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. I shuddered as I realized he was now kneeling behind me, surveying the damage. I wanted to move away and retreat further into the darkness, but I could only press my face more against the freezing stone.

My wounded shoulder in particular could not cope in that position as it felt as if my entire arm were hanging by a thread. I dare not move for fear of another assault on my tortured frame, and wished then for de Chagny to leave me to my death. No, I had not wanted to die alone in the darkness, but I would have much preferred it to his presence. It was a final mockery of my existence, a stinging reminder that in then end, I had lost to shallow perfection.

I expected mocking words from the Vicomte. Even in my condition I could hear his rehearsed monologue of sorts, damning me for my involvement with Christine and proving once more that good always triumphs over evil. I envisioned his immaculate, innocent façade reveling in my defeat, and half-expected a swift kick to the ribs. Lord knows I had earned it.

But I was to be disappointed. His tone was quiet, nearly calming. I was so taken back by his demeanor, it nearly brought be back to life. Perhaps I should have been more concerned for myself at that moment, but in all honesty, why? I knew that if he intended ill, I would not live long enough to endure it. I no longer feared being dragged before a crowd and exposed like the monstrosity I was. If I was to die there quietly, in the company of my rival, than so be it.

It was not long before I was rendered utterly senseless from the shock. I felt my body failing me. As I awaited the end, I vaguely realized that I was muttering what I believed to be a requiem mass – which was absurd, of course, as I was not dead. But lying there, delusional from blood loss and intolerable pain, I doubt I was thinking very clearly.

In my stupor my past revisited me. The events of my life briefly flashed before me as a final reminder of the idiocy of it all. I heard my mother in a fit; dear Marie's kind words, the few I had experienced in my lonely childhood; I heard and saw the crowds that gathered outside my cage; I heard the Khanum's wretched cries; I saw Nadir's face after placing his dead child in his arms; I relived everything up to my time at the Opera.

I wished beyond all wishes that my time would end with a memory of Christine. I wanted to experience her triumph again, feel the exhilaration as the audience flew to its feet; but only blackness came. I did not see what I had hoped for. All that came to me was a vision of my beautiful Angel weeping in despair. I heard voices around me, but was no longer able to distinguish them. I liked to think, though, that one of them was Christine…

Soon enough the world itself and the agony I had been enduring became a second concern for me. Exhaustion had taken control of me. I still felt de Chagny's hand upon my arm, but I was far more interested in the darkness that surrounded me. It did not feel nearly as cold as it had before. Death, it seemed, was like a warm embrace. My description of the whole saga sounds somewhat like an overly dramatic novel of sorts, but upon reflection, perhaps it was a fitting ending for the Opera Ghost.

Author's Notes:

A huge thank you to all who have reviewed! What great feedback you guys have given. I very much appreciate it.

Queen Ame – while I like to remain true to Leroux canon, I can't. So I envision Erik in this instance as he appears in the ALW stage musical with the half mask and usual, impeccable evening dress. I love a guy in tails.

Lindaleriel – we are long-lost twins! I looked over your profile as well and damn! Nice to meet you, I'm Lindsey. Aubrey-Maturin? Do you doubt my LOVE of Patrick O'Brian? Master and Commander is sitting right here, and says hello. :-D My small library of literature on fighting sail also says "what up?" My masterpiece is "Broadsides," a Commodore Norrington fic in the POTC fandom. Let us run away and revel in POTC, POTO, and Jack Aubrey-ness!

Thank you for the kind words and encouragement – the interaction between Erik, Christine, and Raoul always fascinated me. Particularly Erik/Raoul interaction (and I do NOT mean slash. I stay far, far away from E/R pairings). Perhaps the most exciting part about writing is getting a chance to look deep into a character – what makes them tick. What are they feeling? Why? That's the part I love the most, and it makes me feel good to know I'm accomplishing my goal.

Solecito – Thank you for the comparison to Susan Kay, what an honor! And you are correct. I believe she did write that under difference "circumstances" the relationship would have been different.

Once again, thanks to my readers! I'd love to hear more from you.