A/N: Hello again! First off, I'd like to apologise for my long hiatus. I know I promised an epilogue to this story, and I had always fully intended to deliver that, but I suppose life happened.

This has been sitting untouched in my drafts for the longest time, and I've finally come around to finish it. Please excuse any typos/errors; I haven't written for the longest time.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, After the Storm, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears,

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

Ten years later

The sky is painted orange, a mix of reds and yellows blending in the slow light. Further ahead, the vague forms of mountains, each peak rising higher than the last, fading behind mist, the haze of clouds. But, closer still, a hill that rises from the edges of a forest, standing silent and lonely. Rows upon rows of stone stand from the ground, the inscriptions upon them weathered and vague; the wind whispers, brushing the ground and lifting tiny specks into the air, blowing away with the breeze.

In the distance, a figure of a man to forms from the mist. Each step forwards is a stride, an intent. As he nears, more of him is seen: the faint scruff of beard forming on a darkened chin, the loosened tie that hangs around his neck, the shirtsleeves that have been rolled up to expose fit, tan arms. A bunch of yellow poppies are gathered in hand, tightly grasped within clutching fingers.

The figure stops by one of the stones towards the edges, kneeling down before it. His dark head bows, lips parting in a silent prayer carried by the wind. The ground beneath his feet listens, hears.

Hazel eyes lift as the man extends his arm, branding the grave with bright flowers. They stop short, however, at the sight of another—a single white chrysanthemum, laying in the middle of the smoothened pile of dirt.

The man's brows furrowed in confusion. Others had left flowers, at first; when the dirt had just settled and was still fresh, there had been many flowers. The hill had been coloured with white, pink, blue—every shade imaginable to a blossom of life within the dead. But it had been years since the war had ended.

Perplexed, he lowers the golden flowers to the ground, slowly rising to his feet. Amidst a sea of yellow the white chrysanthemum lies proud and untouched, pure in its simplicity.

Perhaps Reza would ask his mother if she had left it there.

One long, last look upon the weathered grave of his father, and he turns away. Strides forwards past the vast expanse of land, with bodies scattered beneath and covered by hardened ground. Soldiers littered below mud and coarsened dirt; an ever-present reminder of the horrors that occurred. He steps ahead and does not look back.

The walk to the village is familiar, the grass and dried mud sinking beneath black shoes. He has made this trek many times since moving out into the city, each week another journey to his past.

The years he'd lived away from the village are ones that hold the sharpest clarity. Moving into the city, seeking refuge within homes and families. Being introduced to a new school, meeting new faces that grew brighter as each year passed. The war ending—a final, devastating triumph—and peace, at last.

Peace had not lasted—it never did—but it became easier to breathe. And when his mother had decided to finally return to the home that had perished in the fire, he had not gone with her. He did not want to go back to the house that had nearly burnt him alive.

The forests are not as dark, now; the trees do not stand as tall, some having burnt to the ground from the fire of so many years ago. Light shines through what must have been a shadowy walk, clearing the path and illuminating the way through. He follows its track and emerges into the familiar clearing.

From the little he remembers of living in the village, it seems to be the same. There are small alterations, of course: the wooden huts are sturdier, infused with brick and stone; the fountains set up in various corners, an ever-present memory of the flames that had once engulfed everything whole. The children still laugh and play, their shirts rolled up as they run in circles until their mothers and fathers return from the marketplace with baskets and stern expressions. The sound of chickens in a coop, goats grazing within fences.

Civilisations change, but this does not.

A few faces greet him as he walks past—old friends of his mother, his father. He inclines his head politely, never ceasing the path to the secluded house in the back. It is not as big—his mother never did favour large spaces—and not as tall, but it is home, all the same.

It is as if war has never touched this small scrape of land. The children will never know what it means to suffer, to watch a loved one die.

A weary sigh escapes the young man's lips, not having realised he'd paused for reflection. Rough fingers comb through his uneven hair as hazel eyes darted towards the direction of a humble, worn-down home.

And widened at the sight of a figure he thought to be long gone.

He never wondered what had happened to the little village he had left behind.

Of course, there were always thoughts of Khan that floated through his mind; memories of the man's last moments, replaying ceaselessly. He pondered over the woman, too, and her curious son—did they manage to escape? Could it be that they were still running, still hiding from those who sought to have them killed? Were they safe?

So many questions left unanswered—until now.

A slight pressure on his hand, and he glances back towards the curly-haired woman beside him. Christine smiles, a slight upturn of pink lips. "It's nice here," she comments, following his initial gaze to look out the window. A man and child are seen chatting animatedly ahead of them, their voices muffled by the thick build of the house. "Peaceful," she continues, "Nothing like the city."

"Yes," he agrees, and sighs as she comfortingly slips her arm around his waist. "It is. Too hot for my liking, though."

She glances up at him with a raised brow, her eyes both amused and disapproving. He merely shrugs, pressing a kiss to her soft, dark curls. Being here with her is safe, comforting—nothing compared to his memories of this place. He's glad she agreed to make the visit with him.

"Erik?" comes a voice from behind them, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns to face a dark-skinned woman, her eyes grey and hair gathered in a neat braid. She holds two glasses in one hand, held outwards towards the couple as an offer.

He strides towards her and takes the glass, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you, Rookheeya."

Christine takes the other glass, thanking their host graciously with a smile. "We were just talking about how peaceful it is, here," she says to the woman.

"Yes," is the only answer that is given, though the dark shadows under grey eyes are unable to conceal a deep sorrow. Even now, there is the feeling of someone missing. He cannot fault her; he aches for her loss, too.

"Mama! Papa!"

They are interrupted by a wild, dark-haired girl, running into the room to her parents. She grins up at the husband and wife, showing a missing tooth. "Papa, Naina let me play with her goat!" she recounts excitedly, tugging at his hand. "It was soft, and cute, and she let me pet it! Can we have one?"

Christine laughs, shaking her head as Erik lifts the girl into his arms, pressing his lips to her curls (that are so much like her mother's, he muses). "I don't think a goat would like our house, Ana. It's too small."

"And we have no garden for it to stay in," Erik supplies. The girl's attentive eyes meet his own, a mirror of his golden orbs. He tenderly brushes a strand of hair away from her face, continuing, "You'd have to let it stay in your room."

Ana makes a face, and both mothers laugh. "She's a pretty little girl," Rookheeya observes as his wife tugs at his arm, reaching upwards to brush a speck of dirt off his daughter's cheek. "How old are you, Ana?" she asks.

Erik glances at his daughter, silently urging her to answer the question. Ana merely looks at him for a long moment, the wide, attentive eyes of a child unwilling to speak to someone unfamiliar, before turning to look at Rookheeya. "Four," she answers shyly, lifting four fingers up as proof.

"Five in three months," Erik adds, pressing another kiss to his daughter's cheek. The girl merely slides her arms around his neck, letting out a loud yawn.

The grey-eyed woman smiles, sighing. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss," she says quietly, gaze solemnly moving from Erik to Christine's. "How old was he?"

"Two," Christine answers, just as quietly. Their first child had been born with a weak heart, and the wounds of losing him were still fresh. The years before they'd had Ana were lifeless, almost; Erik and Christine had returned from the Bolshoi day after day with sullen expressions, too tired to think of mending their pierced family. If not for Ana, he was certain they would have sunk into a deep depression.

But their daughter is here, in his arms, perfectly healthy and ready to fall asleep. Running around outside must have tired her greatly. He glances at his watch before turning towards Christine, who nods.

"I think it's best that we leave first," his wife says apologetically, moving to embrace Rookheeya. "It's a shame we didn't manage to catch Reza. Erik was keen to see him, and I would have loved to meet him."

Rookheeya nods, an apology in her tired smile. "Yes, he's busy with his new job in the city. Always late to visit his mother. But he's happy."

"That's what matters," Erik says gravely. Rookheeya merely nods at him.

"Thank you for coming," she says as she leads them to the door, opening it for them. A welcome mat lies outside the door frame; it relieves him to see it weathered, telling of many visitors that call on the Khans. "It's good to see you again, Erik. Nadir would have been glad to know that you are doing well."

"As well as I can be," he concedes. With his wife by his side and daughter in his arms, he cannot be well enough.

Rookheeya gives him a faint smile, a nod, and bids them farewell.

The little family stays silent as they walk through the small courtyard, standing out against the tanned folk who eye them curiously as they pass. One of the children—a dark-haired girl who stands beside a little goat—tentatively lifts a hand, presumedly waving at Ana. Sure enough, Erik feels his daughter lift her head sleepily and wave back, her deep yawn breathed into his ear. A small smile tugs at his lips. How simple it must be to live a child's life and bond over the bleats of a goat.

Taking one last look at the village, his mind seeks to memorise the rebuilt huts—though they resemble proper houses, now—and the faces that stare back at him. Faces that live in peace, away from the fighting and bloodshed they had once been witness to. Erik looks long and hard, then turns away.

And sees hazel eyes, bright and piercing, an identical match to the man who had died for him.

Christine stops as he does, her gaze questioning as he stares at the figure ahead of them. He is more stocky than his father was, and far more unkept; his shirt is untucked and dark hair ruffled and uneven. Still, Erik remembers those eyes—they had gazed up at him before the boy in question had engulfed him in a tight embrace.

"Reza," he hears Christine breathe beside him, and the sound of that name brings a tinge of comfort.

He watches as those hazel eyes hover over the image of his family, following the line of his wife's arm that rests loosely against his back, his daughter's head tucked against his shoulder. Erik wonders if he feels resentment—after all, the Soviet man now has what the other did, long before the war had started.

Instead, the man fixes his gaze back on him, hard and resolute. Reza nods, and Erik nods back at him. They do not speak; there is nothing to say.

The sky fades into a myriad of reds and blues, setting over the darkening sky as it would do tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, and for many tomorrows to come.

A/N: Well, that's it! It's all over, and what a journey it's been.

I want to thank everyone who's played a role in helping me create this story. Everyone who's left supportive reviews to those who have discussed possible plot lines in my inbox, to those who would just drop me an excited message whenever a new chapter was posted. Every single one of you has motivated me to make this happen and I couldn't be more proud of the finished product.

This will probably be my last published fanfic in a while, I'm afraid. My muse has shifted away from fiction, lately, but thank you for keeping up with my wandering imagination up until now.

I can't possibly list out all the people who have influenced this piece, but know that I appreciate every single one of you who has taken the time to read this to the end. Thank you.

Side note for those following The Undone, The Divine: I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be updating this story for the simple reason that I don't feel as comfortable writing smut as I used to before :( I regret it, but I don't see myself continuing this story anytime soon, perhaps not at all.

Have a lovely day ahead of you, everyone, and I hope you've enjoyed After the Storm!