Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

An Exodus of Angels

He watched the steady rise and fall of his beloved's chest as the sleep that came with such weariness conquered her pliant form with the deftness and mastery of a skilled seducer.

The hours seemed to pass, linger, and then fall into a blissful, beautiful oblivion that only promised the bittersweet end to such a wondrous interlude. And with this solemn realization he knew that such substantial beauty could not endure the inevitable loss in which he was about to accept.

For within the span of three years, he had watched over her, protected her from the countless waking nightmares that often plagued her, and offered her the soft reassurances that he would always be with her, even within the darkness of her worst fears.

Even now, she slept peacefully under his watchful gaze, as if she were in a deep sleep, only waiting to be awakened by a chaste kiss from her beloved. Her ivory face cast a hauntingly beautifully glow within the soft candlelight, the ebony curls glistening with visible perspiration from the fever that had beset her. Her lips, which were once vibrant and full of vivacious colour, were now faded, pale against her stagnant features. She looked like one who was already dead, only the steady, shallow breathing contracted her deathly appearance.

The man who was her husband turned away, his eyes haunted by the sight of his fading wife. This doll who lay upon their bed was not the woman he loved, nor could he find the child that he once adored in her. His Little Lotte was sadly nowhere to be found.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered her name in an aggrieved sigh, the tears within his brilliant blue eyes threatening to fall. "You were once so full of life; there was nothing that could harm you whenever you smiled, for even demons loved you so." His words drifted into the dense silence, their opulent meaning almost prophetic.

It was during these dark times that he prayed, inwardly hoping that some divine power would hear his pleas and answer them. But it never came to pass; only silence and the long awaited hour of his beloved's demise echoed any promise of relief, a relief that denied him the thing he loved most.

He idly recalled the day he saw her after years of harsh separation. Her beauty—the very light that shaped her fragile form—was almost too incredible, too wondrous accept, or even believe. He had difficultly even being near the presence of such an ethereal creature.

Christine was everything he desired. And sadly, everything he could never have.

Society and its cold strictures of propriety had reduced him to a besotted fool, intoxicated with the maddened love of a smitten adolescent. The idea of having a mistress was tolerated in most circles, encouraged even by many of the elite upper-class. A powerful family in which he was born into had a wealth of names of those who graced the rare bloodline with their tainted nature.

There was no sin in having a devoted paramour, even when married. That was the philosophy his dear brother imparted before his tragic passing. And it was the same philosophy he refused to accept. He could never demean Christine's name in such a way. It would be sacrilege to disgrace a heavenly entity by poisoning her with his ancestral blue blood.

And so for three years Christine remained untouched; untainted by his corrupted ardour. But despite his altruistic notions of morality, there was another reason for such willing abstinence: He could never fulfill his husbandly duties to her; the knowledge of betraying her dead husband only increased her sorrow to the point where her living husband could not even bear to hold her in his arms at night.

It was a sad irony in which he lived, to have the woman he prized most in the world long for a dead man's touch. But he could not condemn her for it, nor could he reproach her for the many tears she had shed for her Angel in secret.

Oh, how he saw the sadness, witnessed the utter dejection that pervaded her spirit and inundated her soul with only the agonizing remorse of abandoning the one thing she loved most, yet denied at that final, fatal moment of truth.

The years that had passed since that tragic night under the Opéra left only the unpleasant reminder that would unfortunately remain with him until the end of his days. It seemed that even a ghost, who was long since dead and buried, could still haunt the fragile memories that encompassed his mind with the bitter fascination of what could never be.

For even now, the remnants of the Opéra ghost remained, always taunting his angel, beckoning her to return to his side. The voice of the ghost returned the night when Christine fulfilled her promise to him—a final farewell that had inevitably consummated their union, making them become one in the same the moment she placed the ring upon his lifeless finger.

Christine would forever be the bride of dead man.

And much to her living husband's dismay, he knew that the wealth and promise of a lifetime of companionship that was so willingly offered could never eclipse the solitary vow made within a moment's madness; the reluctant, yet condemning, pledge between two souls had joined them in an inescapable union, the amalgamation between them finally fusing the tattered truth they had both denied.

And now, after all of the stars had fallen and Heaven itself watered the earth with its tears, did he finally understand his part in this tragic story. For although he never considered himself as a villain; he knew that it was he who was the true reason that such a love was denied. Even though his beloved proclaimed that she loved him, the truth that contradicted her words was evident within her tears. She could never love him in the way she did her Angel; he was only a friend, a dear brother whom she could depend upon.

But even with the rejection of his ardent and inequitable love for her, he could graciously accept the fraternal love that she so freely offered him. It was better to love her from afar and hold her with the knowledge that she cared for him, than despise him for robbing her of the life she was meant to live.

Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, and he wiped them away with a weary hand. Over the course of years, his appearance, which was once highly favoured by all, had fallen into decay. The lank, tawny strips of hair lay idly against his pale face, the cold neglect and years of sorrow freely showing in his once-handsome countenance. He was stricken by the curse of age before his time, the frown lines showing heavily upon his noble brow.

Grief was not new to him, however. Losing his brother and forsaking everything he had known was only the beginning to his terrible dilemma. The death of Madame Valérius, Christine's beloved guardian, had also dulled his senses, stripping him of the naïve joy that had once engulfed his childlike soul. He no longer cared to see the light of day at times, even Christine refrained from welcoming the light of the garish sun into their pastoral home.

She had grown pale over the course of her long-abiding ailment. The myriad of physicians who had once crowded their room offered several cures, but when nothing ceased her torment, they left, overtly puzzled by their failed attempts.

And despite the list of possible illnesses many of which suggested, he knew the truth: It was not an ailment of the body that plagued her, but of the soul. The part of her she left behind the in catacombs of the Opéra that night had precipitated the state in which she was now in. She was dying, and there nothing he could do to alleviate her pain from that cold truth. She would die in his arms this very night.

Another tear fell, hastening itself down a gaunt cheek. The foreboding fear and grim dread of three years had finally shifted, moving forward and residing at the center his aching mind. It would be difficult to let her go, even when she was never his to begin with. His days of pretend were now over. And after this night he would finally become a man. The bitter, painful realization of it all finally collided against him with the concrete validity of his loss.

His hand gently moved to clasp hers, the soft feel of her ivory skin slightly cold from the loss of life. His tired gaze traced over their joined hands, the faint outline of indigo veins under the sallow flesh that covered her hand furthering his agony. Christine's paleness only confirmed that her time in this realm was drawing to an end. Very soon she would join her father and the rest of her friends and family, who had passed on before her. She would not be alone—she would never be alone—for even her Angel would be there to comfort her.

There was little doubt that anything, even the chains that could fetter such a damned soul in Hell, could refuse the creature its only desire. It was the same desire that he himself yearned for, the battle between the living and the dead over this child's soul would only end with one possible outcome: the Opéra ghost—Angel of Music and Death—would finally have his Christine at last.

And with this, her grieving husband finally found the will to release her from the ties that bound her to him, albeit in name only. It was time that she returned to the blissful darkness, into the arms of the one she truly belonged to.

He looked at her with tangible dismay, his sense of loss heavily foreshadowed by the fatal, staggered falls of her beleaguered breath. He could watch her for an eternity without feeling the need to look away from her inert form. But time, it seemed, would not be so accommodating, not even for a man desperate to hold onto the only thing he loved. Her eyes, those beautiful azure eyes, would forever remain closed after this night. The realization of it was more than he could bear.

"Christine," he muttered under a tremulous breath, praying not to awaken her with his childish pleas. His eyes moved over her as the gentle breaths she took eased a fraction. Perhaps she would gift him with one final smile before the end. It was all he could hope for, or even desire.

And it was then his beloved's eyes opened.

"Raoul?" she gently asked in a broken whisper, her breathing ragged from speaking.

Holding her hands tightly in his, the Comte de Chagny looked at her, forcing himself to speak. "Yes, Christine, I am here."

A soft smile framed her pale lips. "I knew you would be; you are always here when I awake from my sleep."

"And I always will be, Christine." Tears threatened to choke his words when he added, "I love to watch over your sleep. You are so beautiful," he said, his thin fingers tentatively moving aside an ebony lock from her face.

Her tired eyes brightened at his words, casting aside the dull cloud of weariness that overshadowed them. Even when the long hours of watching over her had taken its toll upon him, he found the means to compliment her with the tenderness and sincerity of a devoted husband.

Christine slightly frowned at the thought, inwardly knowing that she did not deserve to have such a devoted husband, a husband whom she could only view as a brother. The constant looks of regret and sadness she often saw in his eyes confirmed that he knew the truth as well. And yet, he stayed with her, secretly loving her from afar.

Remorse flooded her as she looked deeply into his eyes, instantly finding the love she could not return. But despite the devotion that lingered within his tearstained stare, she also saw something else, something that she also knew—the innate knowledge that her time with him was finally drawing to a close.

Exerting the last of her meager strength, one of her delicate hands moved, suspending itself in midair, before finally coming against the ruggedness of his pale cheek. She saw the growing despair within his tormented expression. "This cannot be the way," his eyes seemed to say.

But in spite of his wishes for a different fate given to her, both knew that her impending death was immutable.

And holding onto this ill-fated truth, she finally spoke: "Raoul, I wish…"

"No, do not say anything, Christine," he found himself quieting her, his firm grip on her hand trembling with each bated breath.

Penitent tears formed within her eyes, threatening to fall without a moment's notice. "But, Raoul, I need to…to…"
"No, Christine, you do not have to," he gently assured her, his heart secretly breaking within his chest. "I already know."

Christine looked away from him, unable to bear the sight of his pain. "I never meant—I never wanted it to end this way," she murmured in a dejected whisper.

Raoul nodded. "I know. And yet, it must, Christine," he said, his words thoughtful.

One of his hands moved away from hers, falling upon the visible side of her right cheek. He caressed it with the tentative touch of unskilled lover, subtly coercing her to turn and face him once more. A faint smile touched his lips when she complied, submitting to do his will. They regarded each other for a silent moment, no words or explanations were needed as the rain softly fell outside.

They remained silent, basking in this last, quiet, rare moment. Christine felt Raoul shift, hesitantly moving to hold her in his comforting embrace. She accepted it and cradled her head against him, a gentle sigh escaping her. "I wish this moment could last, Raoul. I love the rain," she whispered, her breathing becoming strained with each passing word.

"I know you do," he muttered, trying to mask the grief within his voice. A rueful grin then settled itself upon his pained expression. "Do you remember when you wanted to go outside in the rain, and your father asked you not to?"

"Yes, and you were there with me." Her childlike smile widened. "I remember Papa was adamant in keeping me indoors, and I pleaded for him to let me out, if for only a moment." Her expression became thoughtful. "You managed to persuade him in letting me. We went out together, you and I. And we stayed out there, for what seemed like hours." She turned to him, her tears freely falling down her cheeks. "I wish I could feel the rain on my face again, just one more time…"

"Christine." His eyes pleaded for her to be silent, as the sense of gravity overcame him. Instinctively, he moved away from her, releasing her from his protective embrace. He glanced at her, silently assuring her as he turned and moved to the opposite end of the room.

He opened the set of doors that led out onto the balcony, going out into the baleful storm. Christine watched him from the bed, her eyes in wonder as she saw him invoke the rain, accepting the tears from a mournful god and harvesting them within himself.

After a staid moment, he returned, his face awash with distant remorse. He moved over to her, his gait staggered, edgy; his hands cupped, holding only remains of the precious offering. His eyes riveted over her, their stormy nature a perfect comparison to the raging tempest outside.

And without words he moved over her, gently releasing a portion of the tears upon her lovely face. The droplets fell, hastily scattering themselves against her sallow flesh, and melding into a perfect display of naïve innocence.

Raoul looked at his wife, noticing the slight smile that was etched upon her lips. Through it all, it seemed that he found a part of his dear Little Lotte. The thought of such a monumental discovery tore at him as he realized that the fragile moment could not last; the Angel would return, calling upon his protégée.

The temporary ease within her weathered form ceased as the ragged strains of pain began their deadly course once more. Christine looked up him, the tears within her eyes enhancing her piteous expression, the solemn, hollow gasps of breath ensuring her imminent demise.

It was almost too much for the comte to bear, and he turned his head away shamefully, closing his eyes in defeat. The eroded remains of the woman he adored only left a hole—that seemed to widen with each passing second—in his heart. If only he had taken her away that night on the roof, perhaps none of this would have happened, and he would have a wife who returned the love and adoration he so selflessly gave.

And yet, no matter what he could have done to prevent such agony within his and Christine's life, he could never alter that which was already set into motion. From the moment her father spoke of an Angel, Christine had been lured down a dark and twisted path of deception, only to come to the point of true loss. She had lost more than he could ever fathom. And it was his obligation to give back the time he had taken away from her and her beloved Angel of Music.

He turned to her then, his wounded gaze fixed upon her as he read the subtle words within her eyes. It was time for them to say farewell.

Christine frowned at Raoul's torn visage, and with the last of her strength she caressed his rough cheek with a trembling hand. "Raoul, I am so sorry…"

He shook his head, the golden locks carelessly falling against his forehead. "No, Christine. Do not be sorry for this. I chose this life; I chose to be with you, no matter what happened to us. I do not regret, for one moment, the time I shared with you—I would relive each memory, each moment for a thousand lifetimes if I could." He caught a tear from her eye and placed it against his lips. "You made me happy, Christine."

Her breathing shuddered as the unending pain within her body began to ease, relieving her of the burden she bore for the past three years. Within a matter of minutes, her agony and all of the anguish she endured would finally end. She would finally find peace at last.

However, there was one thing left undone…

Taking her hands in his, Christine silently bade for Raoul to look at her. Her weary expression softened when she recognized the boy she had loved as a child. "Raoul, will you make me a promise?" her voice echoed in a gentle whisper.

The comte's blue eyes widened at her words. "Anything," he returned, his passionate declaration expressing the sincerity within it.

A semblance of relief reassured her, and she realized that he would be all right after she left him. He would find happiness, and perhaps someone who would return the love he truly deserved. The words she had memorized a thousand times over within her mind finally came with the support and comfort she needed before her release. "Promise me that you will live, Raoul. Live for me, and be happy."

The dam that had held his tears finally broke, and Raoul wept at her words. With a hesitant nod, he agreed, albeit reluctantly. "I will…" he muttered bitterly, his tense hands shaking with unparalleled fear.

With a careful hand she wiped his tears away. "Raoul…" she uttered, her breathing slowing as her fingers fell away from him, falling deftly through the still air until they collided against the wrinkled ivory sheets. "I believe it is…"

Before she could say anything more, Raoul placed his fingers to her lips, gently silencing her from admitting the inevitable. The placid, yet almost, inaudible strains of a distant melody chimed throughout the house and within his mind, the legend of the divine being descending from the infinite realm of imagination now came into the harsh existence of reality. He had arrived at last.

The time had finally come. And sadly, he knew that he had to give her up at last. A long moment of silence ensued as both regarded each other with only the crude knowledge of true death. It would be an end to many things, but also a beginning as well. And with a heavy and almost unwilling sigh, he finally spoke: "Go to him, Christine. Go to your Angel of Music."

An abrupt and slightly relieved awareness then fell upon Christine, tainting her with the acceptance and understanding that now emanated from her old friend. She felt comforted by his acknowledgment and the subtle release of his claim on her; she finally was free.

And with this, she gave him one last, loving, endearing smile. "Thank you," she rasped, her breathing lessening with each strained word. Her eyes brimmed with tears as the joy and sadness within her soul melded together in a glorious bout unfettered emotion. She faintly considered his somnolent expression before turning away, her gaze falling upon an unseen shadow within the room. Her eyes widened and the last of her tears freely fell.

"Erik, you are here," she murmured quietly, the contentment within her words reflecting within her pale features. She reached out to the shadow, welcoming it without reservation. Her bloodless hand remained suspended within the air for another moment before it fell to her side, never to rise again. Her breathing shifted, heightened, and then fell to silence as her eyes closed, the azure orbs darkening to the blissful, dreamless sleep of the dead.

And thus, Christine Daaé de Chagny died within the weeping arms of her husband.

Raoul looked at the lifeless figure that lay so slovenly against him. For a moment he held her in silence, and yet it seemed as if an eternity had passed without his knowledge; the only thing that mattered—that truly mattered—was the angel whose head was drawn back at odd angle. She could not even feel the pain from it, the soul that dwelled within the flaccid form had ascended into the heavens, leaving him here, to linger in this mortal hell.

But he did not hate her for it, nor could he condemn her Angel for taking her. By some perverse stroke of fate, it had been his destiny to endure the pain and utter dejection of losing an angel who had somehow graced his dreary life with her light. No, he could not hate her for leaving him.

And as he gently removed himself from his wife's cooling embrace, he turned to the set of doors across the room, still open from his bout with the storm. He gave Christine a final glance before removing himself from her sightless gaze.

With a tired and almost weary gait he moved to the balcony and stood against its glass threshold, silently welcoming the rain and darkness and anger. The loss that filled his soul echoed only the sad remains of his inborn humanity. He watched the storm envelope the northern land in a coverlet of night as the dark certainty within it seethed and raged underneath its blackened surface.

But despite the anger and wrath that derived from an irate god, Raoul only felt a minor sense of comfort from such a brooding entity. For within the distance, beyond the bellowing ire of the storm, and past the thrash of blinding lightning, he thought he heard the faint echo of a hauntingly familiar voice. The deep, masculine sound that imparted itself upon him only left the faint memory of days long since past.

However, this did not disturb the Comte de Chagny, only when the light voice, which only belonged to an angel who was taken before her time, followed, and resonated with its dark companion did it bring tears to the noble's eyes. The dual set of voices heightened, and then fell to silence as the burgeoning thunder shattered all sound and thought.

Raoul stood in silence, amid the chaos that caused the world to collapse and fall into a thousand shattered pieces of dissolution around him. He remained where he was, however, quietly brooding like a dark god borne of the shadows. Silently he considered the voices and their unknown origin. Had it been a mere comfort that his beloved imparted before abandoning him to the coldness of mortality? He had no answer. In truth, he found no cause or reason to believe in the fanciful delusions that often clouded his mind.

No, his conscience reasoned. The voices—whatever they were—were only fragments of memory, brought on by his grief. The divine song of two angels had been nothing more than the listless sound of the falling rain, which fell ever so gracefully against the glass windowpanes.

…

Author's Note: This was a sad little ditty on my part. I don't generally write something so utterly depressing. However, this idea has remained with me for quite some time, and I finally decided to set it into words. I do hope that I did not make Raoul or Christine too out of character. It was a little difficult developing their characters, given the circumstances.

Also, I wanted to write Raoul in a good light. I usually see the poor guy being placed in so many bad situations… (Sighs.) In truth, he's probably my second favourite character, with Erik and Christine tying in first—there is no way I can separate them—and Raoul coming in next. Meg comes in a close third, but I will not get into my favourites…

On a side a note, this story has nothing to do with any of my others. This one-shot completely stands on its own, as it very well should. ;)

I want to also apologise in advance for any confusion at the beginning. I wanted to keep the character something of a mystery until Christine revealed his name. She even did that with Erik. It was an odd approach, and I must confess that I had a bit of difficultly with it. I just hope it turned out all right.

Another thing I feel I must mention is their marriage arrangement. I mean it may seem unbelievable that in the course of their marriage it would be more than a platonic relationship. In truth, I would agree. But looking at the factors and also at the depiction of Raoul and Christine's characters in the original novel, I find that their relationship was childlike, almost innocent in the aspects of an actual marriage. And also, I truly believe that Raoul would respect Christine's wishes in anything, even if it denied him the right to freely love her. Of course, that is merely my take on things.

Also, I realize that this story's pairing was a bit ambiguous. It is, overall, an Erik/Christine pairing with a one-sided Raoul/Christine added into the mix. I really wanted to express that even though Raoul realized that Christine could never love him in that way, he could still have the deep affection and commitment for her while she loved another. I found it rather poignant, actually.

Anyway, I hope everyone liked it. I will try to write more one-shots—some happy, others sad—in the future. :)