I'd like to give my heartfelt thanks from the very very deepest chasms of my heart to The Scorpion, for organizing the Valentine's Day Morbidity Contest! Hooray!


This is the tale of Love. This is a tale of Death. This is a tale of Sorrow. It is the tale of the tragedy that was Erik and Christine and Raoul.

The white horse made its way slowly down a rutted, muddy path. The whole scene was rather incongruous – the peculiarly ominous rider moving conspicuously against a background of neat, unimposing houses. Mounted on the aforementioned horse was an unabashedly and rather unoriginally daunting figure clothed in black like Death on his bone-white horse. However, the passersby were not concerned with novelty. They did not like the look of the man who rode the white horse, for he was tall and the air about him held the scent of Death itself. A brave – or foolish – person might ask him where his sickle was. But not one was in the mood for even half-joking, because when Death rode by the houses of many semi-superstitious people, nothing was good was bound to come of it.

The nondescript houses passed the man on the white horse slowly by. He sat motionless upon the mount, his long-fingered hand occasionally emerging from the black cloak to trace the line of the horse's neck in a melancholic gesture of affection. He took no notice of the shutters that inched slowly closed in his passing. This man was like a stone thrown into a pond. Ripples of movement – the closing of shutters – began after his departure.

Though he seemed to have no apparent course, the man's trajectory became apparent as the horse eased into a trot, coming to a graceful halt at a house slightly larger than the others. Like a flash, the man was standing on the ground without seeming to have moved, his strange hands stroking the horse's neck like spiders wandering. His name was Erik. He had heard stories, whispered from the mouths of the wary, of a strange and magical rose that had been grown in the country. It bloomed on and on, in sun and storm, winter and summer. He found the derivation of those tales here, by this large, simple house.

The horse stood complacently as Erik moved away, one finger trailing over the mask, apparently deep in melancholic thought. He moved to open the door of the house, but it opened, and in the rectangle of the doorway stood the owner of the abode. There was an uneasy moment of silence, fraught with danger, between the two. Then Erik spoke, softly and dangerously to the other, looking down upon the shorter man like a snake about to strike. The man nodded hurriedly, as most did when Erik requested something of them. His hair and his small moustache were no longer fair, but grey and his face was lined by some unmentionable sorrow.

He showed Erik the rose. It truly was a most beautiful rose, of a deep crimson. There was an impenetrable and almost blessed silence in the garden as they looked down upon the ethereal, lovely thing. The velvet petals curved voluptuously and were unmarked by any blemish or bruise. The emerald leaves curled delicately out from the brilliant-coloured, tubular stem.

They were breathless. The rose was like a beacon in the blasted wasteland of the barren garden, seeming to exude an aura of its own. The delicate fragrance of the faultless bloom wove around them, rendering them immobile, silent, and dismayed statues. There was a subdued sorrow that permeated the desolate garden and seemed to radiate from the rose itself. Erik glanced at the man, an unspoken question in his emotionless eyes.

The other opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment there was no sound. His eyes glistened as he spoke, but his voice gained in strength as he spoke.

"On the day that Christine de Chagny, my wife, died, I planted this rose in her memory. It is the colour of her lips. It grew of my love for her."

Erik's face was impassive, but the eyes that were visible from the mask grew in intensity, like twin flames that have been fanned.

The man took a step toward the rose, one gnarled finger tracing the line of one velvet petal. He looked up as Erik stopped him with one imperious gesture. Without a word, Erik uprooted the rose and took it with him. He left the garden and the house, closing the door behind him with a sharp report. The rose was Christine. It was not meant for any but him.

Erik returned to his home, a place of shadows and music that played ominously. If a guest to the house tried to find the source of that enigmatically poignant music, they would only end up lost, and then dead. Only Erik knew, but Erik's secrets were his alone.

He planted the rose in the richest black soil, in a glistening black pot. The rose glowed with its own light, and he spent hours at a time absorbing its radiance as if seeking warmth from the everlasting cold of his house. It gave him the most terrible, pleasurable joy. How Erik adored that rose! How he cursed it, at the same time. It was beautiful. It was Christine. It was his.

But in a year, the rose began to wither.

Erik slept immobile in his coffin, motionless as a corpse. He was jolted awake as if by electrical shock.

A scream echoed through the house, dragging on and on. When it finally stopped, the echo of the beautiful, haunting, eldritch cry continued to echo through the cold halls. Fainter, fainter, fainter.

The strange cry brought a chill, a chill that raced up Erik's arms like thousands of spiders. He ran to the Rose Room. A hoarse cry came from his throat. He did not recognize the sob as his own. Erik had eyes only for the rose, crumpled and brown on the black earth and dangling like a limp corpse over the rim of the pot.

He bent over it, bowed over the dead thing, wracked with sorrow. He brushed his deathly hand over the crumpled blossom in a gesture of desperate longing. With a sudden burst of angry despair, Erik ripped the rose out of the black soil. It lay immobile in his hand, like the corpse of a small animal. He let out a wordless cry, and the rose turned to grave-dirt in his hands.

Erik traveled back to the house of de Chagny. He did not pay attention to the looks of fear as he passed on the white horse. He did not pay attention to the clack of closing shutters. He did not look at the scenery of the country. He just sat, letting his miserable thoughts wander.

Raoul opened the door without waiting for Erik to knock. Erik brushed by him with a disparaging wave of his bony hand, striding out into the garden.

Erik stopped, eyes pricking with unfamiliar tears. The barren wasteland of the garden stared back at him. A cold hand clenched in his stomach. There was a tree flowering in the garden, and oh, what a beautiful tree! The silvery-grey colour of the trunk seemed to glow in the weak half-sun. The trunk was perfectly formed, with not an imperfection along its length. Slender, willowy branched spread gently from the top of the tree like outstretched arms. Small, perfectly formed leaves budded from the branches in abundance. Beautiful, flaxen-gold blossoms flourished upon every length of the branches, glowing with their very own golden radiance. It was a small tree, but perfect in every way imaginable. As Erik and Raoul looked on, speechless, a single yellow blossom fell like a tear down the trunk. Erik did not look at him, but the other began to speak, his voice hoarse and redolent with suppressed tears.

"I planted this tree a year after Christine died. The flowers that bloom on it are the colour of her golden hair. I planted this tree in memory of Christine, and it grew of my love for her."

Erik turned his head sharply, looking at the other man with cold eyes.

Erik uprooted the tree and took it with him. He left the garden and the house, closing the door behind him with a sharp report. The tree was Christine. It was not meant for any but him.

Erik returned to his home again, his home of secrets and music and darkness. The halls seemed even emptier since he had last been there.

But the tree glowed with its own light, and filled the halls with music and light and happiness. Erik planted it in the richest, darkest soil, in a black pot adorned with painted angels. The tree spread out its slender branches and glowed with a beautiful light. And Erik was happy. How he loved Christine! How he adored that little tree! How he cursed it, at the same time, for the brown flowers that fell, withered, at its base. He sat next to the tree, basking in its serene, sorrowful glow. How he adored it! It was beautiful. It was Christine. It was his.

It bloomed for two years.

But the tree began to wither. Black patches spread across the trunk, and the flowers did not bloom as wonderfully. But the tree still exuded its familiar glow, and Erik was happy.

Erik slept immobile in his coffin, motionless as a corpse. He was jolted awake as if by electrical shock.

A piercing scream reverberated through the house, stretching on and on until Erik thought he could stand it no longer. It grew in intensity, louder, louder, and louder still. Erik clapped his hands over his ears, but it pierced through the covering of his bony hands, filling his mind until tears leaked from his closed eyes. Then it stopped, and there was only menacing silence.

A chill seized him, like the clutch of corpse hands pulling at him. Erik ran to the Flower Room, his breath sobbing in his throat. An inhuman wail of despair issued from his throat. Tears ran down his twisted cheeks, and he fell to his knees beside the blackened bole of the withered tree. All the blossoms were black and dead on the branches that littered the floor, and the tree itself was only a dark stump in the sable soil. He ran his longing hand over the curve of the tree-trunk, his breath coming in hiccupping gasps. Erik's tree was dead. Christine was dead. He kicked the black pot, and the tree fell over. The trunk lay before him, stretched out on the dirt-covered floor like the corpse of a woman. Christine…

He reached out his arms to hold the tree one last time, but it turned to shards of bone in his hands.

Erik mounted his white horse in shaking silence, began to ride. Erik was filled with a quiet despair, a raging anger, but at the same time, a small hope. He was certain that his rival would have another memory growing in the barren garden of his house. He would dispose of the man and take whatever was there.

Raoul opened the door as Erik dismounted from the white horse. He did not speak, simply stared at Erik with his inexpressive blue eyes. His grey hair had become greyer. Erik remained unchanged. Raoul gestured wordlessly to Erik, ushering him inside.

Erik halted where he stood, a gasp rising in his throat. A chill rippled over his skin, and a wave of sorrow washed over him. In a simple wicker cage was the most beautiful songbird he had ever seen. The songbird was white, the white of innocence. Its feathers were delicate and smooth, and its bright little eyes were the blue of a summer sky. Raoul stepped beside Erik, unafraid now that the spell of his memory had fallen over them both.

"I raised that songbird three years after the death of Christine. It is white as her skin and minds me of her purity. When it sings, the voice is Christine's. This bird sings of my love for her."

The songbird raised its downy white head, opening the frail small beak. From the mouth of the small little bird came a voice that Erik knew all too well: Christine's. Erik, Erik, the little bird sang. Raoul, Raoul. Tears came then, but Erik's face was constricted by the mask. The black surface remained impassive, as always. Half-suffocating behind the mask, Erik stepped toward the songbird's cage. Raoul did nothing to stop him.

Erik picked up the wicker cage with the songbird and took it with him. He left the garden and the house, closing the door behind him with a sharp report. The songbird was Christine. It was not meant for any but him.

Erik returned to the home of shadow and music for the third time. It was thrice as cold, thrice as unwelcoming. But the little songbird dispelled the shadows and the gloom with Christine's lovely voice, and Erik was in ecstasy. The Bird Room, as Erik began to call the little place filled with laughter and song, was its home. The slight songbird filled his whole house with a wonderful radiance, a holy joy that brought peace to Erik. He forgot about the ordeals of the past, forgot about all that had happened. He lost himself in the sound of Christine's familiar voice. He would sit next to the cage of the diminutive bird for hours at a time, singing with her and listening to her croon. He basked in the glow of Christine's wonderful, yet ethereal presence. Sometimes, she almost seemed to be next to him as her voice rang throughout the halls that were illuminated with light and joy and song. How he loved Christine, with all his heart. How he adored that little bird, who sang with Christine's voice! And yet, her song was not always for him, and he cursed the bird for it, and cursed the world for the frailty that began to affect the beautiful songbird.

Erik and the bird sang for three years.

Erik slept immobile in his coffin, motionless as a corpse. He was jolted awake as if by electrical shock.

There was no sound, though Erik's ears strained to hear any. There was no sorrowful singing, not even the sound of the strange music. Fear gripped Erik in its relentless hand, but it was fear for the little songbird, not himself. There was no scream, no reverberations. Erik stood up like a corpse reanimated. He dashed to the Bird Room, his heard pounding rhythmically in his ears. A terrible throbbing cry burst from his lips, a wailing sobbing sound that went on, and on, and then resounded in the cold, desolate, silent halls. He did not recognize the harsh sobs as his own as he bent over the little wicker cage.

Inside the cage, the little songbird lay still and cold, blood drying on its breast, gracefully and beautifully dead. Silky feathers were scattered about the body of the bird like offerings of flowers. The slats of the wicker cage were scratched. It had beaten itself senselessly against the cage, to death. It was dead. Christine was dead. The voice was dead. He ripped apart the slats of the cage, and held the bird in his cupped palms, tears falling on the little fragile body. A single tear balanced on the bird like a diamond, then rolled off. Erik bent to kiss the beautiful creature, but it turned to ash in his hands.

Erik rode the white horse numbly, his shoulders hunched over as if in pain. He took no notice of the looks of fear, the apprehension of the unknown that radiated from the people. He simply rode, and rode, until he arrived at the house. The simple house never looked more foreboding.

The door was not opened for him, but Erik pushed it open and walked into the house anyway. De Chagny was there, and his face contracted in fear at the sight of Erik's abrupt entrance. Throwing up his hands in some pathetic gesture of self-defense, the man backed away from the imposing shadow that was Erik.

But Erik did not attack, nor did he step away. He could not bring himself to move any more than he had. Love for Christine flowed through his veins, a fatal poison.

"Why make these things only to have them taken from you?" Said Erik softly.

Raoul knew what he meant. The rose, the tree, the songbird. He smiled sadly.

"I loved her. I need nothing to remind me of her. I think of Christine often, and I can picture her now. When I feel the wind, it is not the wind but her lips that brush mine. When I see farmers harvesting grain, I can see her golden hair. And when I hear the birds singing their morning songs, I can still hear Christine humming. When I buried her, I knew all I had to remember her by were the things she left behind. I grew a rose to remember her by. I planted a tree to remember her by. I raised a songbird to remember her by. But I have not forgotten the feel of her lips. I have not forgotten the sight of her golden hair. I have not forgotten the sound of her song. No one can take that love from me."

Erik's masked face remained impassive, and the unspoken question in his eyes prompted the old man to continue.

"Why do I do these things?" He continued. "I grow roses and trees and raise songbirds for he who has no memories. I grow roses and trees and raise songbirds for he who has no love to remember."