"Through a Mirror, Darkly"

by Kryss LaBryn

A/N: I own nothing. Please, if you read, review! Reviews make my feet dance, my heart sing, and my fingers type faster...

Epilogue: Mangos (Or The End of the Ghost's Love Story)

We were married in a lovely little church, very early in the morning, by a priest who truly did not care if the groom wore a mask, so long as he could be assured that I recognised the man beneath, and so long as the donation to his coffers was suitable. Nadir was our only witness. Mama Valerius would have liked to have seen my marriage to my Angel, but, alas, she was not able to travel that day. She was becoming more and more bed-ridden as she aged.

Raoul I never saw again. His ship sailed, as scheduled; and I heard nothing again of him for a long time. Many years later, at some gala affair or other, a pleasant-looking woman of around my own age was pointed out to me as the Comtesse de Chagny, Raoul's wife. She seemed kind; I was happy for him. And occasionally I would remember Raoul, the brave little rescuer of my scarf, and smile.

Mama Valerius would not leave our old flat, but Erik and I moved into a little cottage some distance from town; private, but not isolated. It was small, but cheerful, with large leaded windows that looked out over a beautiful, rambling garden. Erik was quite right: I loved to throw them open to the sounds and smells of summer, to the bees droning lazily amongst my flowers, to the birds chirping merrily in the mornings. I would have missed that, in the cellars…

We kept quiet lives, but I did not feel cut off. I puttered happily in my garden when we were not rehearsing, and I had ample time to shop and visit Mama on my days off. Our neighbours were mostly older couples who kept to themselves; they did not think it strange that we, the opera singer and her 'invalid' husband, did so too. And I did find myself offered the occasional cup of tea, which I gladly accepted.

Was I happy? Yes. Did I mourn my childless state? Not really; only occasionally, in the very darkest nights, or as I smiled at young mothers in the park, did I wonder about what might have been. We had a terrible conversation about it once. I suppose it was fortunate that nothing we ever could have done would have produced a child: Erik was adamant that no other child suffer as he had because of his face. I wish, though, that I had thought of adoption before he died. He lived to be a ripe old age, but he was around thirty years older than me! But we did have many happy years together.

I think I miss not having children more now, as an old woman, though, than I did then… I would have welcomed grandchildren at my knee, whatever they looked like. But more often I think that Erik was right, and this world was not yet ready to embrace them for the beauty they would have possessed, rather than shun them for what beauty they didn't. It is a cruel, shallow world, in so many ways.

But still, we found happiness within it, so it can't be all that bad.

And it has mangoes…

I still remember my first taste. Erik had disappeared on another 'shopping trip'. I was sitting in my favourite chair by the open window, reading 'Tales' again, enjoying the scented breeze, when he came in, quietly pleased with himself. "I have something for you," he said, kneeling at the small side table and moving aside my tea things.

"What is it?" I asked, curious. He had a small cutting board, a paring knife, and a funny-looking red and green fruit. He quickly and expertly peeled it, then sliced off a piece of the orange flesh.

"It's a mango," he said; "Open up."

I opened, and he popped the small bit of fruit into my mouth. He smiled at me, and I closed my eyes to better savour the taste.

It was juicy. It was sweet.

Finis

I would like to say that I much prefer to come up with a title sometime after I have well and truly begun the story, rather than just at the first chapter. I find it hard to come up with a title that truly fits, otherwise. But of course, as I wanted to post the first chapter as soon as I had written it, I could not do so. Were I to find a title now, I would call this phic "Pabhavati's Lesson". However, it will remain "Through A Mirror, Darkly" to avoid confusion.

To those who have requested that I continue this story for longer: Thank You for the compliment! I am deeply touched that you find my little phic so engrossing. However, here our dear Erik and Christine and I must, alas, part company for a while. But you never know: they may visit me again, and whisper something in my ear late one night. If they do, please rest assured that I will share it with you.

An especial Thank You to all those who send me reviews! To those of you who have followed along with this story update by update, giving feedback with each chapter, sharing your enthusiasm and critiques for my story: I have awaited your comments after each posting with baited breath: will they approve? Will they still be here for the next chapter? Will they approve of that one? Seeing your emails in my inbox truly made my day, each and every time. And to those of you only now coming across my story: please, if I have moved you in any way at all, send me a review and say so! It is good to know that it is still read, still appreciated, by others who share my deep love for these characters.

And I must once again send an especial Thank You to Flo Fett, without whose invaluable input and support we might never have gotten Chapter 12! I might never have found the courage to post it without her encouragement; and Chapters 13 and 14, and Raoul, would have been the poorer without her.

Thank you! I love you all.

And I leave you with a last parting gift, or Easter egg if you will, for those of you who have read this final note: Two segments I could not seem to fit into the story anywhere else.

The first:

And what became of the Opera Ghost, now that Erik had left? Did they miss Monsieur Le Fantóme? Why, not at all. He never left!

Every theatre needs its ghost, you see. And Erik had given the Palais Garnier the most magnificent ghost! And to this very day, when a powder puff goes missing, or a door gets stuck, or a light won't work, the denizens of the Opera will nod knowingly and say, "It's the Ghost!" And to this very day you will find chorus girls who will swear they saw a skeletal figure in dress clothes stalking the dark corridors…

Erik is, alas, long gone. He lived to a great age, but he was not a young man when I met him, and now I am an old woman myself. But the Phantom is ageless; the Opera Ghost will stalk the halls of the Paris Opera House for ever. And sometimes, sitting in my box in the silence after a performance, I could almost swear I hear an echo of his whisper…

A/N: And the second:

As the Prima Donna I eventually became I naturally had a certain number of social events at which I was obliged to appear. Erik, of course, was unable to escort me to most of them; I told inquirers that my husband was away on business again. But fairly regularly the Opera throws its doors open to all and sundry and throws a massive masked ball. And to the day he died, he never once failed to escort me to those. Oh, how we danced! And no one ever remarked upon the coincidence that he was always in town for the masquerades, or that we always left before the midnight unmasking.

A/N: And a bonus: This is the original start to Chapter 13! Frankly, I rather suspect that a bit of V and Evey drifted over from my other fics to visit; it doesn't seem to quite be fully Erik and Christine, so I redid it. Thank you again, and goodnight!

I drifted awake some indeterminate time later, the memory of his wonderful, calloused, hands, his lips, still burning my flesh. Light filtered through the still-open door from the parlour. Erik lay beside me, asleep.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, I rolled onto my side and studied him. With his face relaxed in sleep, head pillowed on his wrist, I could see something of the child he must have once been, something innocent, something peaceful. Unable to resist, I stroked a finger down the side of his face.

As lightly as I did so, he still felt it and awoke. "Hello," I whispered, smiling.

"Hello," he smiled back. He captured my hand and pressed a gentle kiss to my palm.

"Frustrated?" I asked, playfully, knowing full well that he had not been.

"No." He added, slyly, "You?"

"Mmm… No." I giggled.

He laughed too, a lovely warm sound. "I suppose you'll be wanting some breakfast, then…"

"Oh, I'm not really hungry, yet. You?"

"Oh," he said, reaching for me again, "I can go for days without eating..!"

Truly, The End!