A/N: This idea came from Nowhere. Damn plot bunnies…

Disclaimer: Don't own The Phantom of the Opera, and I'm not making any money off this! I don't own the song, either—I give the owners credit at the bottom of this fic.

Ratings: PG-13

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Hmm…can't tell you without giving it away. It will warn you, however, that it is a little morbid.

Main Characters: Erik

Additional Notes: As if you don't know what this is based off of…


Blackbird

He lifted his weary living death's head as the distant echoes of footsteps reverberated off the cold stone walls of his little house by the lake on the lake. His eyes would no longer glow in the shadows, for all spark of will and life had left them nearly three weeks ago. They had left him with his sweet Angel, Christine. Merely the thought of her name sent a shudder through his weak frame. He had neither ate nor drank since she had left, hoping only to wither away in the dark. He had never looked more skeletal, even when he had played the part of the Living Corpse for the gypsies. He sat silently at his pipe organ, his fingers resting dully on the worn ivory keys; his sunken eyes were trained on the old and yellowed score of the Dies Irae. He needed to play it soon, he knew. His requiem.

But did he truly deserve a requiem?

He doubted it. Not after everything he'd done, after all the lives he had taken—and all to make a selfish, foolish child laugh. And oh, how he had made the little sultana laugh! But her laughter could not wash away the stains, nor could any other force on the earth, aside from a priest's absolution. Maybe not even that. Perhaps only an angel's mercy could save him now. He was fooling himself, he knew. No angel would ever forgive him for these sins—how could they? He was a creature not worthy of anything—he had given up his right to sympathy decades ago. He was a monster not worthy of love. It was a fact that, at last, he had come to painfully accept in death.

The footsteps were nearing and he sighed. He was sure it was another hallucination—they had been occurring more and more frequently as of late. He hated them. They reminded him of the only thing he had ever loved. Of the thing he had lost. His Angel, his Christine. Always, it was her that came to him in the visions, the torturous illusions that plagued him. He wished for the end. And yet, he ached to see the apparition finally turn the corner—he wanted to see her, if only in the fevered dream. The weak flicker of a candle came into view first and his hopes rose, against his will; this was new. She was radiant, lit softly by the candlelight as she stepped into the chamber, his tomb. She glanced about the room, her blue eyes searching for him; they widened however when she found him, her lips parting slightly in the familiar horror. He sighed and looked down at the ivory keys—he could hold his head up no longer.

"Oh, Erik!" His throat closed painfully when he felt the phantom touch of her hand on his shoulder, felt the nonexistent brush of her breath on his cheek. She sounded so sad this time and it was killing him. "Erik, what have you done to yourself?" He did not answer—what good would it do to answer a ghost? "Please, why?" He closed his eyes against the sound of her voice. Gently, she lifted off his mask, her fingers brushing his cheek. "Please, sing for me Erik? My beautiful blackbird—please?"

His heart was throbbing. This couldn't be real—it couldn't! Could it…? "Christine?" he whispered, falteringly, afraid that the dream would shatter. His voice was harsh and dry, like dead leaves—it held nothing of its old glory; it was worse than a croak.

He heard his Angel whimper. "Oh, Erik—your voice!" He could feel the cold wetness of her tears on his forehead again and he began to shake, his breathing labored; he slid from the bench to the cold floor, resting his temple against the old familiar wood.

"Christine?" he asked again. "Christine!"

Her breath hitched and he could not find the strength to open his tired eyes anymore. "Oh, God—I've taken everything from you, haven't I?" His Angel was crying now. His Angel—crying for him! "Please, forgive me," she whispered in his ear, her voice so pure and so remorseful—for him.

Weakly, he raised a hand, searching for her soft skin. "Christine? You've returned to me?"

"Yes," she whispered, taking his hand in hers and caressing his face gently. "Yes, I have. I'm here now."

He smiled, though it was painful; the action only caused him to cough and gasp for a moment. "My Angel," he managed to breath out when the attack had passed. "My beautiful Angel…"

"I…I'm going to give you a gift now, blackbird."

He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. "No," he gasped lightly, the effort of speaking nearly more than he could bear now. "I don't…deserve it…"

"Yes, you—"

"No!" He coughed and sputtered, his chest heaving to bring in air as he struggled with the words. "I am not…worthy! I am filthy! I am a monster! I…deserve nothing…"

His Angel could do nothing for him, he knew. But she was here! She was with him! She had returned, and for that last piece of happiness, he was grateful. She was still crying, trembling as she held him on the cold floor. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I see now that you have never been free… I…I'm going to free you." Her voice lifted his spirits and he sighed in her arms, his head resting against her shoulder now. "All your life you've waited—I'm going to free you." Somehow, he found the strength in that moment to open his eyes. His Angel was radiant, the tears in her blue eyes only making her all the more lovely. And she was smiling. Pain exploded then just below his ribcage, and he watched, numb but peaceful as his Angel pulled the dagger from his chest. Tears ran down her cheeks—but she smiled for him. For him.

He choked and tasted copper; he held onto her now, a sudden fear welling in his pierced heart. "Christine!"

She swallowed, smoothing her hand over his brow tenderly. "Hush," she murmured. "It's all right. You're free now." With her touch, he calmed, looking at her as a child to a mother, frightened but still trusting—utterly helpless. The pain was an ebbing tide now, growing ever stronger. "You are free." Her words were his requiem. He was forgiven. He managed a weak smile for her, but it was hardly more than a strained, distorted thing. She smiled softly as he drifted away, as the pain melted to sweet, peaceful oblivion. But, before he had gone completely, he felt her press a gentle kiss to his twisted lips and whisper, "Fly, my blackbird."


Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird fly blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

—The Beatles, "Blackbird"


Fin—


A/N: Odd… I've just noticed that nearly every Phantom one-shot I've done ends with dearest Erik dying… He really is my favorite character! I swear! Anyway, please review and I'll try to be a little nicer to dearest Erik. Oh, and can anyone tell me how to enter the Morbidity Contest, if they still even do that?