SUMMARY: "The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."

In Soviet Russia, the year 1980, renowned opera singer Christine Daae learns just how painfully, horribly true those words could be when her husband Erik, a discharged KGB spy returns from his commission to Afghanistan shattered beyond repair. In their world of tragic love and dauntless devotion, where nothing is as it seems and all is so easily torn apart, these fragile and lost souls must learn each other once more, to mend what has been broken before everything is lost forever.

(Credits to the lovely Masked Man 2 for their help with the summary!)

A/N: Hello! Welcome to my newest story! This is yet another little historical piece from me, not as specific as my Berlin Wall one, though. Since there are hardly any modern, Cold War (ish) fics of Erik and Christine, I decided to write my own little AU. Hopefully I can capture your interest!

Erik and Christine are both Russian, if it is not obvious, and Erik works as a spy in the KGB. This is set during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and will center around the Afghan War as chapters unravel. This is set roughly around the 1970s-80s; this particular scene is in late-1980.

Unbeta'd and once again written in the middle of the night. Apologies for any mistakes.

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. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album Sigh No More. The song featured in this fic is called After The Storm—beautiful song. Have a listen.

And after the storm,

I run and run as the rains come

And I look up, I look up,

On my knees and out of luck,

I look up.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, skies clear and bright. For once, the air seemed warmer than usual; she had not even needed to don the usual coat over her sweater as she left the empty flat for rehearsals that morning. At least Erik had the insight to pick a home a short distance away from the theatre—even if thinking about him brought a sharp ache to her chest.

Each day at the Bolshoi Theatre was the same for Christine. She would warm up with the rest of the cast, stretching her voice with scales. Every warm up was followed by a brief rendition of one of the ensemble pieces before everyone would go their separate ways. The ballerinas would occupy the stage, practicing their pointe and flitting about; the chorus would stand by the foot of the stage by the piano, harmonising together; the director rushing about, ordering a change here, a set piece there; the backstage crew running after him, hastily complying with his orders and ensuring that the curtains did not close at inopportune moments again.

The main cast would be receiving individual direction, or be rehearsing by themselves, or lead a scene if need be. Opera was oftentimes difficult to stage, and with modernity had come the need for a new direction to the classics of Tchaikovsky, Verdi, Wagner. Suffice to say, Christine would be thoroughly exhausted by the end of the day; being the lead soprano was taxing, and she was always fortunate enough to be able to prepare herself a small meal before collapsing on the bed that was too big for her, curling into pillows that smelt less and less of him as each day passed.

She didn't expect the day to go any differently. She warmed up as usual, sang her aria for the Maestro perfectly, and smiled painfully at jokes exchanged amongst the lead tenors. There was no variation to her routine; but then again, Christine was used to it.

Another day to dull the empty ache of not knowing if her husband lived or not, of not having him by her side as she ate and slept; of not being able to draw from his warmth, to sigh into his kisses and be content in the knowledge that she felt whole when he was with her.

So she didn't expect the sudden shrillness of her ringtone in her bag, startling the ballet rats and causing the director to shoot an irritated glance in its direction.

"Telephones are to be turned off during rehearsal times!" he barked to the cast, and Christine immediately waved an apology at him, rushing to free the telephone from her bag.

Clicking the 'answer' button, she pressed the device to her ear. "Christine Daaé speaking," she said clearly into the receiver, feeling a pang of regret of not being able to reveal her marital name. Erik had always been distressed about that, apologising profusely. But she understood; she always understood when it came to her husband.

After all, it would not do to reveal that her husband was a spy in the KGB, sent out in covert missions to service the government.

It would also not do to reveal that he was in fact the infamous Phantom, a being thought to be merely legend.

A rough, unfamiliar voice filled the speaker. "Good morning, Madame," the voice greeted. It was undoubtedly male and unrecognisable; she frowned, turning away from the stage.

"Yes. May I ask who is speaking?" she asked politely—or rather, as cordially as she could without betraying a hint of annoyance.

"My apologies. I'm calling from the Lviv Airport, from the state services."

Christine took in a sharp breath.

The man carried on speaking, sounding a little too casual for the nature of the conversation. "You are listed here as Erik Destler's emergency contact, am I correct?"

Christine nodded quickly before realising that he couldn't see her. "Yes," she said shakily. "Where is he? Is he alright?"

"He has suffered from an injury that left him unable to proceed in the war, Madame. The flight carrying the injured is due to arrive anytime soon, and we require that someone is sent to fetch him."

She was no longer listening, though; at the mention of 'injury', she had panicked, heart thudding at an alarmingly fast rate. Initially she had rejoiced at the knowledge that he was not dead, but it was slowly replaced with a new sort of fear at the idea of Erik injured. And then there was the mention of 'airport', and Christine was shouting at the director that she needed to leave now, and then she was out the door.

A whip of breezy air greeted her as she pushed the doors open, hurrying out of the theatre towards the nearest bus stop. "Yes, yes," she said breathlessly into the telephone, clutching it tightly to her ear. "I'll be there to pick him up. When will he be arriving?"

"The flight should arrive in no longer than one and a half hours, Madame."

"Excellent. Thank you."

Without a thought to the man on the other line, Christine hung up and stuffed the telephone into her bag. Thankfully, public transport was easier to obtain these days—she was able to catch a bus to the railway station, where she could board a train that would take her to the airport.

Throughout the entire journey, her heart would not cease its insistent thudding. The words of the man played through her mind on loop. He has suffered from an injury that left him unable to proceed in the war... She bit her lip in worry. She knew that Erik had always been careful, that throughout his years working as a dangerous asset to the KGB, he had always managed to escape without a serious injury. Of course, there were minor scratches and cuts here and there, and ever since they had married a year ago, Christine would take it on as a personal responsibility to delicately clean his wounds, making sure to bestow a kiss on each bandaged area.

Christine had never been comfortable with his position as a spy working for the government, but the Soviet government was not to be trifled with. An order was an order and he would have to carry it out no matter what it entailed. She was not stupid; she knew that he was no stranger to killing, to assassinations and threats and the likelihood of danger at every turn. When Erik had first met her after one of the concerts held by the theatre, he had always been careful to conceal his identity, to ensure that there were no links of Erik Destler to Christine Daaé. Not many knew his name apart from those in the KGB since he would don a full-faced mask in missions, concealing every part of his face apart from his startling golden irises, but Erik was not one to take chances.

She had been the first—and only—person he had confided his secret with. Granted, she had discovered it on her own, but Erik was never a social man even before he had been drafted into the war with Afghanistan, and for him to trust her implicitly with the information was monumental in itself. For three years she had kept his secret, and for three years he had returned to her safe and whole, finally coming back to her as her husband during the last year. He would never discuss his work with her, and she would never ask. They lived in the bliss of newfound love and companionship, each finding solace in the other, filling a gaping hole marked by loneliness.

And then he had been sent a notice that he was to be sent to Afghanistan to aid the army, and their bliss had been disrupted.

As she finally reached the station and boarded a train, Christine mulled over the condition she would find him in. She knew that Erik was strong; there was never a time he would complain about any of his injuries, and was careful to never let her see the full extent of his more serious ones. She would always roll her eyes at his show of pride. But for him to be sent back, to be relieved of his duties before his service would have ended...

It must have been serious. And the thought of him hurt in any way only made her anxiously look out the glass, tapping her foot impatiently as each station passed by.

Finally, the train stopped at the Lviv Airport. Christine pushed past affronted passengers impatiently, feet moving quickly in her haste. She darted through the entrance, stepping into the air-conditioned building and looking around frantically. She had only been to the airport once—to send Erik off that fateful day—and had limited knowledge of how to navigate through the building.

It took a few impatient questions before Christine found herself at Gate E, standing anxiously with her hands folded, the watch on her wrist clearly in her line of sight. She took breaths to calm her breathing as she looked around the busy airport, searching for a sign of her beloved.

After what seemed like eternity, two men donned in black emerged from the gate, pulling a stretcher along. A motionless man lay on it, unconscious but still clearly alive. Christine looked on in panic. The man had revealed nothing about his injury—what if she were to find Erik in a similar state? She didn't think she would be able to function normally if he was.

One by one, former soldiers filed out of the gate. They were all similarly dressed in the standard uniform, each donning a bandage of their own—on their arms, around their stomachs, on their legs. One man had lost both legs; he was wheeled out in a wheelchair by an attendant. But each man bore the similar expression of emptiness, hollowness.

They were walking blindly, without purpose. It was as if she was watching an army of the dead.

Christine pressed a hand to her mouth, biting into her sleeve. If she was finding herself affected by these men, she was afraid to know her reaction to seeing Erik. If he had lost his legs, or his arms, or a chunk of flesh on his abdomen, she would surely lose herself in grief for him. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry at the mere thought of it. And when she opened them, she saw him.

Even the hand pressed to her lips could not stifle her cry.

It was Erik, but it was not. Like every other man, he walked dejectedly, without purpose, staring into nothing. Her eyes ran over his body, checking for an injury that would surely be present, but found nothing. He was thinner, but still as fit as ever; even through the thick clothing of the uniform she recognised his wiry muscles. He walked with his back straight, his height tall and empowering, seeming regal even as his arms lay limply at his sides, ridding him of his quiet confidence she had grown to know and love.

The most obvious change, however, was that his face was wrapped in bandages. Apart from his eyes, lips and jaw, she could not see an inch of skin, and it sent an icy trickle of fear down her spine.

Erik was walking, but he wasn't seeking her out. Realising that he probably wasn't aware that she was here, Christine took a few steps in his direction, calling out, "Erik!"

Instantly his gaze whipped to meet hers. She drank the sight of his beautiful amber eyes in, never ceasing walking forwards towards him. Her Erik. He had frozen in his spot, watching her with an unreadable expression.

She stopped in front of him. He was looking at her stoically, his usual bright, fiery orbs emotionless and dead, and Christine suppressed a sob.

"Erik, you—you're here," she managed, willing for her tears not to spill. She looked up at him, taking in the sight of his bandaged face, clean and crisply applied.

Her efforts not to cry didn't work.

Unable to suppress another sob, she felt wetness graze her cheeks, blinking to clear her vision. He was here, her Erik, but he was not. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he was still there—in the battlefield, or spying on the Afghan bases, or in the fields with the other soldiers.

Her Erik was gone, replaced by a pained, suffering man. She raised a hand, wishing to touch his cheek, but pulling back at the last second, not wishing to hurt him. After all, she didn't know the extent to his injuries.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, settling her hand on his shoulder instead.

It was that moment of contact that betrayed his pain. With one touch, Christine managed to draw an infinite, encompassing look of utter devastation from him that left her gasping for breath.

He was hurting, her Erik, and she wasn't sure if she was enough to heal him.

Another sob escaped her lips as she pulled him towards her, wrapping her arms around his neck and fitting her body against his. It felt right to feel the hard planes of his body against hers once more, and she weeped at the feeling of being together once more, at last. Erik didn't hesitate to return the embrace, his arms holding her around the waist tightly—almost painfully. It was as if he never wanted to leave her side, to always be with her and never part.

She sobbed and sniffed and cried into his neck, repeating broken endearments over and over. "Erik, you're here, you're here." Arms tugged him impossibly closer, fingers weaved into his hair and brushed the strands, cut unevenly from his months in service. They had embraced in a similar way countless times before, and Christine found herself sobbing even harder when she didn't feel the familiar texture of his nose and lips buried against her neck, trailing kisses and breathing in her scent. Erik held her tightly, but never allowed his bandaged face to press against her skin. Whatever he had suffered, it had been agonising, and her heart was breaking for the suffering he had undoubtedly had to endure.

Both woman and man stood there in the middle of the airport, embracing until all the other soldiers had left. He never spoke a word to her, but Christine felt it the moment he had started crying from the silent shake of his frame against hers. She had not managed to suppress her own tears for him, and she stroked his hair with a shaky hand, murmuring brokenly, "Ssh, Erik. It's alright. You're here with me now—you're home. You're safe."

He simply tightened his grip around her form, trembling uncontrollably, and her heart broke for him.

Silently, she vowed to never let him experience suffering again. If she had to give herself to the KGB to trade his safety and life, she would do so in a heartbeat. Anything to ensure that he would never have a reason to cry again. Anything for his smile; anything for him.

She would heal him, even if it killed her.

A/N: I have more planned for this story—as I said above, it won't take more than 4-5 chapters at most, but be assured that there is a plot to this! I intend to delve into the origins of Erik and Christine's relationship and marriage, his life working as a spy for the KGB, and especially his experiences in Afghanistan. We'll have a very special guest making an appearance as well. This is just a little teaser to set the mood for the premise.

Apologies in advance, because I will not be able to update anytime soon. I have my A Levels in 8 days, but I couldn't resist writing this. I have the rest of the story planned out; it's all a matter of writing it down now. I hope I will be able to update in a week or two!

Leave a review, let me know what you think!