Okay, everyone, before I begin--I should warn everyone that is a Strawberry Pocky and Dihydrogen Oxide induced phanfic. I don't own Erik--but I wish to Heaven he owned me! I don't own the song by Evanescence which inspired this one, either...I am poor college student, so please don't sue.

Return to Me Salvation!

I tried to kill the pain
But only brought more
(So much more...)
I lay dying
And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal
I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved?
Am I too lost?

Lost in what most of the world would consider a fine prison, Erik laid his head over the fine Persian bath, and retched again. The metallic taste was getting rather old--as was the current position he was in, which made his aching muscles scream in protest.

Finally spent, he collapsed in a half-stupor in the bathroom, gazing upward--toward the sunlight, the golden edifices of the Paris Opera, the cool marble, and wondered...

Three months. Had it really been three months since Christine left him in his solitude for that boy, the Vicomte? Yes--the days had been marked off almost religiously.

It was a strange thing, that--keeping track of time the same way he had when Christine was his willing ingeune. He would never forget that first day he heard her sing--

'Damn it all,' he chided himself, 'you'd think I'd finally be able to purge myself of her...'

My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation
My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation

'Go on, Christine! Sing for the Phantom! I'll bet he hears you!' said Meg Giry, locked away in some sort of gtiddly, girlish matchmaking business.

With a reluctant sigh, Christine recalled a song that she had once sang with her father.

And that was when it had begun.

I was besotted with her immediately. That voice! It was like finding a vein of some rare and precious metal--or a jewel--locked away beneath years of soot, dirt, and ash. Christine'stalent was painfully obvious--but that wasn't the only thing.

She was a sad little child--still mourning the loss of her father. Even now--what a girlish heart, a childlike innocence she had.

'Little Lotte let her mind wander. Her soul was as clear and blue as her eyes, and she wore a crown of springtime flowers over her blonde curls. She was affectionate to her mother, loyal to her doll, and was very careful of her red shoes, dress, and violin. More than anything else, she said, Little Lotte loved to hear the Angel of Music as she was falling asleep. No one ever sees the Angel, but a few are chosen to hear him. Sometimes, as with Little Lotte, he leans over their cradles. Sometimes, if the children are not good and do not practice as they should, he comes later. Sometimes, if the children have unquiet consciences or impure hearts, he will not come at all. The Angel of Music usually comes at a time when he is least expected and the most needed...It is then that one hears music that they know is not of this world, and surely Heaven sent. They known then that the Angel of Music has come, and they are so blessed that they will never take up an instrument or open their mouths to sing without making celestial sounds which the world considers pieces of talent or genius...'

I heard the story from Christine's own lips one night--and suddenly an idea came to me. I had not a doubt that she still waited for her own Angel of Music to appear. Her father had promised to send him.

'You? Oh, come now, think of what you're saying,' some part of me chided, 'she's lovely and you...well...'

'Don't listen to his chicken shit,' another part said, 'even a monster has a heart.'

This raging debate with myself rather annoyed and drained me, and, for the moment, anyway, I retreated to continue this discussion in more comfortable quarters--where I could shout at and have rather loud discussions with the two sides that screamed in my head.

It was a bout with Carlotta that finally made up my mind for me. Christine spoke rather rudely to her dresser one night, and wished many terrible horrible things upon that banshee that the managers had the brass to call a Prima Donna and Diva.

'Oh, Father--why did you lie?' she sobbed, and the decision was made. I would take this girl, mold her voice with mine, make us one in music, play the part of the Angel she waited for.

Her reaction at my voice was quite gratifying...

Without even knowing it, Erik had begun to sob, and he ripped away the mask which hid his terribly malformed face--and sobbed his heart out there--even on the floor...

Do you remember me?
Lost for so long...
Will you be on the other side?
Or will you forget me?
I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved?
Am I too lost?

Christine, le Vicomtesse de Changy, awoke with a start. For the last three nights, her nightmares of a time not so long ago were haunting her, calling her back to the life she left when she had left the Phantom--no, Erik--and his world below the Opera.

She sat up in bed, glancing over at her husband's sleeping form. She smiled slightly, reaching out to move aside a stray lock of blondish-blonde hair. He was handsome, loved her regardless of her silly little faults, and protected her from the rather brash Paris aristocracy.

In short, he was every inch the model husband.

This wasn't so bad, in and of itself, except the fact it bored Christine to tears. Lately, she found herself drifting more and more toward the music which she knew resided in her blood. She had never told Raoul, but she had saved her copy of Erik's music from Don Juan Triumphant and often looked over it, plinking out random chords and notes from it on the piano she had nearly begged him for.

She thought of Erik often--and cherished every memory.

With thoughts of music in her head, the Vicomtesse went back to sleep beside her safe, albeit dull, husband.

My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation
My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation
I want to die!

Christine was a model student--more or less. It was my rather black and unpredictable fits of temper and jealousy which frightened her from time to time. I couldn't have asked for a better student--and within three months' time, she had improved greatly. It wasn't really anything I did--not really. I saw her talent, combined it with my own, and together we soared, our souls intertwined in music and beauty. I could not have been more pleased with her.

And then de Changy had to show up. I don't necessarily think I can lay the blame on him, though--any man in his right mind would fall in love with Christine Daae.

But she was mine. And I was determined to keep things that way...

I hardly noticed the footsteps as they announced a most unwelcome visitor.

"Allah! Merde, Erik--what is wrong!"

"I'm...dying, Daroga...can't you bloody see that!" I hissed as loudly as I could, "and now, if you would leave me to die in peace, I would be most grateful..."

"But my friend--"

"I want to die!" I screamed as loudly as I could, and began retching again.

My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation
My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation!

It was late morning when a strange note arrived, hand-delivered by a foreign man--

"I think he was Persian, Madame," murmured the elderly valet apologetically, "and he said it was most urgent you receive this at once--and that I was to deliver it into your hands alone."

With a nod of thanks, Christine dismissed him and opened the letter. Her smile of pleasure rapidly faded into a haunted look--something between horror, despair, and shock...

Madame le Vicomtesse--

As I write this, I do not think you will answer. However, for the sake of my friend, I must try. It is Erik. He is dying, Madame. If you cannot return to the Opera within forty-eight hours with medical assistance, I seriously doubt you will see your Angel of Music alive again.

Urgently--

Nadir Khan

"Erik!"

The name was torn from her throat, and brought the valet and several maids running. Christine hastily ordered one to pack her a bag, the valet to order her carriage brought round, another to send for her personal doctor at once, and the remaining maid to fetch her a good strong sherry.

My wounds cry for the grave
My soul cries for deliverance
Will I be denied?
Christ!
Tourniquet!
My suicide...

I never wanted anything more than Christine's love. But that was then. Now, I want to be released from this damnable life! I want to die, I told Nadir, and I wasn't pleased when he arranged for, 'more confortable quarters,' as he put it. The room is Madame Giry's, and I shall have to thank her--if I live...

God, please! Let me die! I have nothing left...not Christine, not my music...nothing.

With her my life began...and without her it's about to end.

Sweet release at last...

Christine ran as fast at her skirts and petticoats would carry her. Up the Grande Eschler, and...

Wait. She didn't know where she was going.

"Christine?"

At the sound of her name, the Vicomtesse turned around and there, with a smirk on her face, was none other than Meg Giry. After a quick hug, the ballet girl led Christine upstairs and into a darkened room, where a rather familiar form was lying in the bed. She nodded her thanks to Meg, and stepped inside, shutting the door behind herself and the hastily procured Dr. Maynard.

No...God, please! Don't torture me now--not like this...It can't be!

"Ch--Christine?"

"Yes, Erik--it's me..."

No...but wait...warmth...I feel her hand around mine.

"Please, mon Ange...you have to hold on..."

Ah, Christine! You know I'd give my soul for you...

What followed was a long night, complete with feverish ravings, fresh retching, and every combination thought possible. Nadir, Christine, and the doctor were completely drained, but at last Erik slept.

'Sleep, Erik...sleep, and don't dream anymore tonight.'

'Oh, but Christine...I will dream. Of us...'

Christine laid her hand over his in a calming gesture, and spent a restless night succoring him as best she knew how.

When dawn finally broke, a firm hand grasped the wrist of the Vicomtesse and started her awake. It was Erik, clinging to her as if she were a lifeline.

"Christine," he whispered, "is it really you?"

"Yes, Erik."

"Then--why are you here?"

"I wanted to save your life, Erik. Even though I left with Raoul, I never forgot you. I could never forget you, Erik--your music is what saved my dying soul. Now, mon Ange--it is time for me to repay the debt."

Leaning in close to him, she whispered, "And if I have spend a lifetime doing it--I will."

Cupping his head in her hands, Christine gently placed her mouth over his--and in a moment knew that her heart and soul had made a decision for her.

My Dear Raoul--

Forgive me, but there is nothing that could possibly keep me with you anymore. I realize now our whole marriage was nothing but a massive farce. I loved you once, yes, but my soul and my heart are not with you. They were given up the night I first hear my Angel of Music--Erik.

We are going far away from you--and rest assured you shall never hear from us again. I wish you well.

Your Little Christine.

This is part of a series I'm starting-- a combination of Evanescence songs and Phantom characters. Next will probably be Bring Me to Life. Now, since, 'no one likes a debtor,' please review!