A/N: Yet another POTO/Wicked crossover. A story that popped into my mind while i was brushing my teeth. Another spontaneous plot, so let's see where this takes me. It should be in the POTO/Wicked crossover section, having characters from POTO, but seriously, what's the point of putting up a story if no one's gonna read it? So i think i'll leave this here for a while. Give it a chance, will you?


The corridor was damp and stank of sewerage, the incessant dripping of water annoying to his ears. In the darkness several uneven cracks in the flooring tripped him often, causing him to fall to the puddled floor with a splash. Grunting, he would get back up to his feet, wondering how this fate had been assigned to him.

He was the Devil's child; he deserved this fate. He deserved to be shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude. He was a gargoyle in hell that yearned for heaven's comfort, something he knew he wouldn't get anytime soon, not with this repulsive face.

Christine. Oh, he thought he'd touched heaven when he caressed her, he thought his dream had come true. But when she too recoiled in fear of the dark, it only made him see the light; that dream had been cursed as a reminder of the impossible.

Now he stumbled through the passageway, heartbroken and crushed, longing for this nightmare to end. Ever since he'd stepped through that broken mirror he'd wanted nothing but to get away from his life. Yet now it seemed another impossibility.

Something wrapped around his foot, nearly causing him another fall. Yet, he did not curse this time, as he found a pair of electric blue eyes staring at him through the darkness.

"Well, at least I still have you, my dear Ayesha," he whispered hoarsely. Just then, the cat took off running into the darkness, and in his fear of being left alone again, he hurried to keep up.

Then he saw it. Up ahead, a dim glow of faint moonlight, ever so small but there, shining into the corridor. He picked up his pace, and with the little light he was grateful to be able to see where he was stepping. His limps became strides and his strides became runs, and suddenly he burst out into the world, only to feel the pitter-patter of rain run down his face.

He looked around him. This was certainly not Paris. Trees towered over him, looming up into the midnight sky above. He looked behind him, only to see a never-ending forest of trees, trees that seemed neither pines nor rainforests. Where had his exit gone? What was this sorcery? The trees seemed of foreign species, but then again he'd never really seen the world above the Opera. He realized he was alone; Ayesha was no longer in sight. He sighed, having a feeling he had not seen the last of his pet Siamese cat.

Slowly, he began his arduous journey through the unfamiliar woods.


The rain didn't let up. The raindrops pounded mercilessly against the windows of the sanctuary, frightening patients beneath their covers and sending the maunts into frenzy. The Superior Maunt could not be in worse mood, her brow furrowed and face flushed. Her head reeled with the errands she had to run, and it gave her a worse headache to know that there was yet another patient at the doorstep of the Mauntery.

"Sister! We must let him in!"

"But where are we to put him? There are weary road travellers seeking refuge from that Ozforsaken rain as well! We have no rooms left, and everyone is not in better mood now."

"But Sister, he cannot be in worse shape!"

"Fine!" said the Superior Maunt finally, throwing her hands up in defeat, "Let him in, put him with Sister Doctor or someone, but do not bother me! I have worse matters to attend to with pneumonia and hypothermia attacking the patients!"

The woman ran to the door, where the man was still crouched, one hand clutching the right side of his face. He wore a simple plain shirt and a pair of black pants that was soaked to the skin, neither of Quadling nor of Gilikin origin.

"Come, child, we must get you inside, away from this hell of rain." She reached out a gloved hand to touch him, but he recoiled.

"I do not belong in such a sacred place," he growled in a heavily accent. "I belong in hell."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Nobody who seeks refuge in the Mauntery of Saint Glinda, belongs in hell," she said matter-of-factly. "Come, we must dry you before hypothermia gets to you."

"Let it," he said through gritted teeth. "I deserve it."

The woman's patience was waning. "I don't care whether or not you deserve it, master, but you will come in here and be my patient."

She practically grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the mauntery, ignoring aghast looks sent to her by her fellow colleagues. "Give me a ward!" she yelled, her tone clear that she would not tolerate any more nonsense from anyone.

A junior maunt quickly led her to a vacant small room, where the woman shoved the man upon the bed. She stripped him, ripping off his clothes without his consent, knowing he would surely refuse to oblige. Ordering a towel, she held him down until his strength to fight wore out, but she let him cover his face, giving him only that much freedom, despite her not knowing why he did it. The junior maunt rushed in with a thick towel, which she used to swaddle him so that he no longer shivered, and drifted off to sleep, his hand still stiffly on his right side of the face. She made no attempt to remove it however, for after all she'd done to him that night, she felt he deserved that little amount of privacy. She left the room and closed the Quoxwood door behind her.


He woke up to a throbbing headache. His hand was still on his face, though he was unsure why he'd been afraid to expose it in the first place.

Where was he? He sat up, his hand firmly in place, and groaned from his aching muscles. He was in a small, dimly lit room, with only a streak of morning sunlight filtering in from a window near the top of the wall. There was a bedside table, with a small candle, it's now weak and flickering wick casting dancing shadows around the room.

What happened? How did he get here?

The door opened, and he scrambled to the edge of the bed, into where darkness could hide his face. A veiled woman stepped inside, and suddenly all the events of last night came flooding back to him. The passageway; The woods and the rain; The struggle in the mauntery.

"You," he growled, his voice hoarse and crisp.

"Yes, me," she said. "I have brought you the maunt who shall be tending to you're needs during your stay here in the mauntery. And she has brought you breakfast. My job here is done. Lurline bless you, Master." With that the stout woman walked out, and in entered a much slender and taller woman, a dark veil also hanging over her face, carrying a tray of broth and water.

"I don't want breakfast," he said bluntly, though he eyed the glass of water.

Water. He throat itched and the dryness irritated him; he hated when his throat wasn't clear, especially when he needed that to sing.

She came closer, and instinctively he pressed himself against the wall.

The maunt did not speak, and instead she simply put the bowl and cup down on the beside table. Then she left him, her flurrying black skirts disappearing behind the door.

Tentatively, he reached out for the water, his hand shaking as he brought the cup to his parched and cracked lips. The cool liquid ran down his throat, and he gasped in pleasure. Setting the cup back down on the table, he spread himself out on the bed, half-heartedly letting a song into his mind.

"I dreamed a dream in time gone by…" he sang, with a tired sigh. "When hope was high, and life worth living…"

Good, his voice still worked, even after screaming at Christine and that fop to leave him.

"I dreamed that love would never die…I dreamed that God would be forgiving."

He stared up into the ray of sunlight. "Then I was young, and unafraid, and dreams were made and used and wasted. There was no ransom to be paid, no song unsung, no wine untasted."

But then he looked away, turning over to face the wall. "But the tigers come at night, with their voices soft as thunder, as they tear your hopes apart, as they turn you dreams to shame…"

Indeed, he'd hooked all his dreams and hopes on Christine, who he loved and adored, but Raoul had taken her, and his dreams along with him. He shook his head. "She sang a nighttime by my side, she filled my days with endless wonder. I took her childhood in my stride, but she was gone when daylight came…"

He stared up at the ceiling, still absentmindedly singing to himself. "And still I dream she'll come to me, that we will live the years together," he let out another sigh. "But there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather…"


She had had plans to tend to other patients. She had other things on her mind when she closed that Quoxwood door. She didn't expect herself to stop and pause when she heard the beautiful angelic voice drift out from within.

It was entrancing, and the pitch was perfect. She could not resist pressing her ear to the door, listening to the song sung by a man she never dreamed to have it in him. His tone was perfect as well, the way he delivered it was so fitting to the lyrics that it caused her heart to ache and melt. It was sung rather wearily, burdened with dogged tiredness, but it did not mar the perfection of the song.

"I had a dream my life would be," sang the man, his voice dripping with sadness, "So different from this hell I'm living, so different now from what it seems."

There was a pause, and the last notes hung in the air, painting the silence with ethereal music. Then the man sighed heavily.

"Now life has killed the dream…I dreamed."

At this point the woman could no longer contain herself. As soon as the last note drifted out, she crashed into the room, all manners forgotten. She was usually a composed and collected woman, but his singing just pushed her limits.

The man started as she entered, and once again jerked up into a curled position, the right side of his face obscured by the darkness of the corner. She later wondered what was there that made him so skittish about it. But for now she didn't care.

"Master," she breathed. "That was amazing." She could not find words to describe it; But then again, many words had been lost to her tongue over the years.

He did not reply, simply stared up at her a while, as if trying to comprehend this phenomenon.

"Let me know your name," she said shyly, slightly hesitant; she'd not spoken for some time.

He pretended to develop a sudden interest in his toes. "I have many names, but if you must know, it is Erik."

The woman nodded in acknowledgement.

"I'm Sister Saint Aelphaba."