Author's Note: This fic is a shameless indulgence. I wanted to "fix" certain aspects of LND that drove me nuts, and also play with what might have happened after the events of POTO. Pre-read warnings: this fic liberally hints at all kinds of adulty stuff, including but not limited to sexy-times, murder, heartbreak, suicidal thoughts, and infidelity. I lean heavily on both ALW and Leroux, and offer up my heartiest thanks to both for the wonderful stories and characters they've created. I hope you enjoy this ridiculously florid romp through emo-town. Thank you so much for reading.

When Christine told Raoul that she wished to visit her father's grave, he didn't question it.

"Of course you're thinking of your father today," he said. "I wish, just as you do, that he was here with us. I wish I could tell him how ardently I desire to make you happy. I wish I could embrace him as my own father, and thank him for bringing my own eternal happiness into this world. What I wouldn't give to hear him play for us as we march down the aisle, the same tunes that he played for us when we were children."

Raoul was kind. Unfailingly kind.

He held her, kissed her brow, and told her that he would order the horses for her. She declined gently, expressing the desire to ride out in a cab instead. That brought the first small pinch of concern to his brow.

"But, why?" he asked.

"I want a little time just to my self, Darling."

His face betrayed his surprise. "I thought I would come with you, to pay my own respects..."

"Please, Darling," she said gently, "not this one time. I wish to speak to my father alone... It is the last day that I shall be his. Tomorrow I become yours instead. Happy day! But let me say my farewells to the days of singing to that fiddle, and dancing barn to barn out in the countryside with my papa."

"...Of course."

Another man might have pushed. Maybe even rightfully so. But not Raoul. Her Raoul had never pushed since that night of horror in the opera house. He blamed himself for what had happened, she thought, when his insistence on a plan had almost led to their annihilation. Her desires had never been questioned since, and this request was no different. But still his brow pinched tighter, and his dismay was plain on his face.

"If neither I nor anyone from my house can protect you, then I want you to take this."

"Oh, Raoul. The danger's passed, now," she said, putting her hands up to ward away the small pistol he proffered.

"We can't know that for sure."

"Surely heis dead," she said quietly. "And there is nothing else to threaten us."

"If you'll not have me or my man, it must be the pistol, Dear one."

"Do you insist, Monsieur?"

"I do."

She detested the weight of the pistol secreted in her cloak, but would not refuse Raoul's one request. Nor would she chide him for making a fuss over her safety. No, she would never ridicule him for that. She knew that she was not the only one to suffer fearful dreams of lassos, and water, and flickering candles in the dark. She would not begrudge him the pistol.

She bid him farewell. They shared a kiss, smiled tremulously, and promised to dream of each other until they met before the alter on the following day.

With such a late start, Christine didn't arrive at the cemetery until evening. When the driver mentioned that it might be difficult to hail another cab there at that hour, and asked her if he should stay, she almost laughed at the idea of him leaving. But the laugh never quite made it to her lips. And to her own surprise, she told him she wouldn't be needing him to stay.

Numbly, she walked, hardly seeing the gravestones and monuments she passed. What was the knot in the pit of her stomach that twisted like the snake? Why did she feel like a naughty child who had escaped punishment for her dishonesty? It was true, what she'd said. Every word. But was it the entirety of the truth? There was a heavy weight on her chest, and it was more than the now familiar pain of her father's loss.

All at once, she found herself before the tomb, and looked up to see the name, Daaé, carved in stately letters on the stone. She fell to her knees in the gloaming, crossing herself before bowing her head beneath that heavy weight of confusion. Who was she really mourning? She shook her head as if the thought had been spoken aloud and she had to deny it. Her father, her poor father. The violinist, bright and warm and gentle. ...and also the creature so unlike him that he might have been his shadow, the dark, brooding father of her voice.

Christine's eyes flew open. The somber letters - Daaé – peered at her still through the gloom, keeping watch over her. How could she think of those two men together in the same span of a breath. What a betrayal to the one to think of the other, after all her naiveté... And yet, there had been moments... achingly beautiful moments when he had been so tender, when he truly had seemed like an angel... And his music had enveloped her, transported her, pulled at her very soul, touched her more intimately than any mortal hand ever could. Her cheeks burned at that traitorous thought. It was the touch of heaven, purer than anything experienced by human flesh.

How could such a cruel, life-taking monster bring such beauty into the world?

Tears of confusion stung her eyes. They dotted her gown as they fell.

Her hands clasped together, white-knuckle tight, and she rested her forehead against them. She prayed fervently to her father for guidance, for peace, for the strength that she didn't feel. She prayed for her poor husband-to-be who could never know this secret guilt that coiled in his bride's soul like a viper. She prayed for her own frail self, that heaven would fortify her against whatever it was she was feeling. She prayed for love to fill her heart, pure and steadfast, leaving no room for haunting melodies, or regret, or the velvety touch of darkness. But the pain in her heart did not relent, nor the twist of the knot in her stomach. She looked up to face the silent judgement of her own name, barely legible in the fading light.

It was dishonest to deny what she felt, even if it was a wrong feeling. One could not slay a beast that one refused to see. She had to let it out, or it would fester there, locked in the cage of her breast. She had to give it a voice, face it, set it free so it could die. And she would leave it there, in that cold, dark graveyard. She could not stand before the alter and pledge herself to her earthly lord and master while still harboring this thing in her heart.

A shaking inhale of breath... and then her voice, soft and tremulous, poured out into the night.

The cemetery seemed to hold its breath and listen.

Stillness was broken by the first lofty notes of a requiem. She had practiced it for him, during those months of tutelage in the opera. He had lavished such praise on her the day she'd struck that perfect note, and it had filled her cramped little dressing room like a ray of heavenly light. Her voice hung suspended in the cold air, floating, untethered. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, but still her voice soared high and clear into the dark. Sorrow, and pity, and all the love she should not feel for evil things that stalked in the shadows – they all took wing in the night.

But still, it wasn't enough. The thing that coiled round and round in her breast called for a different melody. One of the Phantom's own making. One that she had been meant to sing on stage, but never did.

The Phantom's opera as a whole had been, kindly put, very strange. The majority of the music was discordant, harsh to the ear and unnatural to the tongue. The libretto was vulgar and base. Because of the Phantom's impatience, none but the company had heard anything beyond the duet in act two – the horrible duet that made Christine feel as if she were being undressed right there upon the stage, as if the notes of music themselves became groping hands on her body – but after that, if only he hadn't snatched her from the stage like some monster in a fairy tale – there would have been her aria.

The soprano's aria in the third act was like a redemption. It was beautiful, undeniably beautiful, with words that were sad and sweet. It was a glimpse of grace in a tangle of madness, and it was the one piece of that feverish work that she had truly enjoyed practicing. But how could she admit admiration for the work of a murdering ghost, even to herself?

When it was all over, and she was safe in the daylight, safe in the shelter of Raoul's arms with the opera house in ashes – only then had she realized that she had truly wantedto sing it. Had she been allowed, she might have absolved him on that stage. The whole world would have glimpsed that beauty beneath the ugliness. They might have begun to understand then... But that was not to be. And no one now would think her sane if she told them that she wished to perform the Phantom's music. It would never be heard by anyone ever again.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes at that thought. The music, the beautiful music. She let her eyes fall closed, and at last surrendered to what she felt, refusing to deny it any longer. The aria sprang from that heavy place in her breast and took wing. Only the dead were there to listen. Silently, the graves acknowledged her regret. Silently, her father's tomb accepted her longing. From Christine's mouth poured the angel's music, and she let herself love the beauty of it without remorse. There was no one, and nothing, there in the gloom that would judge her for what she felt. No accusing eyes, no jealous heart. Nothing but her, and the dark, and the music.

And when it was done, she finally felt clean.

Christine opened her eyes to find that dusk had turned to night. A night without even a shred of silvery moonlight, or any friendly stars. She was alone, in a cemetery, in the dark. For a moment she felt like a child again, frightened by the thought of unseen spirits. But that childish fantasy was too brief, for the moment that followed made her clutch for the pistol hidden in her cloak with the fear of a grown woman. She was not alone in the dark. Someone was there with her. Someone was there. She had grown too accustomed to the comings and goings of an unseen presence in her dressing room not to know it – some subtle change in the air, some animal sense of the eyes on the back of her neck. Someone was there in the dark with her, drawing closer.

Christine turned to run, but froze at the sound of an indrawn breath, so close to her that if she reached out, she was sure she would meet the source. That breath, when it was released, was a shuddering whisper of her name.

"Christine..."

Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle her own sharp gasp.

"...Oh, Christine... why did you come?"