Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or anything connected with it. This is a sad truth I will one day learn to accept.

Author's note: This is a one-shot phic that came to me randomly in the middle of class. I have spent a few lessons writing this, though it has been brewing in my mind for a while. Like I said in the summary, it is an E/C. I dunno if its any good though, as I've written it in a number of different moods. I hope you guys like it. Please, tell me what you think!

To my regular readers, I am working on "Semblance", and I promise to have the next chapter out as soon as I possibly can. I was a bit distracted by this one! Lol

Once and forever

By Liriel-Eris

Nobody knows precisely what happened that night. Oh, there are theories. And legends. Nothing more than fairytales, to mystify, and to frighten. But to be fair, nobody knows precisely what happened that night. All they know are ghost stories…

Perhaps somewhere someone lives who knows what really happened. They laugh scornfully at the legends, if ever they should hear them. Although as far as the ghost stories go, that someone would probably think to themselves, maybe they weren't that wrong…

As is only reasonable, the cold night preceded the cold gloomy day.

From breakfast onwards, winds raged outside the windows. Light drizzle tapped against the pretty French balcony door. Distressed eyes watched the tiny figure down in the gardens below.

When she had attempted to venture outside to taste the crisp air, her golden locks whipped around her pale cheeks as though come to life. She should have worn a scarf, but if she went back inside to fetch it, she might not have come back out. As she walked, her skirts blew this way and that clinging to her legs in the gale. Then it began to drizzle.

After fighting for all she was worth, she had made it as far a the rowan tree not half a mile from the beautiful, ancestral Chateau. The reddish branches and small red berries were a stark contrast to the melancholy all around. But their cheerful, bright tines presented a little respite from the depressing void of the weather.

For this she was thankful.

Like a tomb…Christine Daae thought, as she clung to the tall, slender tree. Snapping a small sprig of scarlet berries off of one of the lower branches she stared at it absently. Her hand was beginning to shake with the cold, but she could not, or would not, feel the pain in her pale flesh.

Daae… She would not remain 'Daae' for long. Soon all that would fade, leaving in its wake the Comtess De Chagny.

The rowan berries were still too bitter to eat, they would remain so until the frosts began to hit. She broke off a red berry and presses it between her cold fingers. The what little there was of the pallid almost colorless juice stained her fingers, flowed under her clean fingernails. It was almost impossible to see the stains.

In Christine's dark mood it was only natural that blood would come to mind. Clear blood. Too clear to see it on her hands, but it was there none the less. Blood followed her, staining her hands in one way or another. Metaphorical blood. And probably physical blood too.

Erik… Raoul…

Raoul… She would have been his wife already, if not for the weakness of her demented soul. That very night of their escape from the Fifth Basement, the Vicomte would take no chances. In his young desperation, Raoul had located a priest to wed them in the wee hours of the morning. Then something broke in her. She proclaimed that she would not wed in the middle of the night, like some fugitive of darkness in an unholy union. No. She wanted no part of darkness anymore. Especially not in an eternal bond of marriage.

Confused Raoul agreed, though with slight edginess. Christine did not understand his uneasiness. Surely he had no reason to worry. She had sincerely believed her reasons to postpone. Now she was not so sure. Maybe the then-Vicomte had not been all that wrong in his worried glances.

He had been upset too. Oh, how she hated upsetting him!

Then there was Erik.

Of course there was always Erik, in some way or other. For weeks now, she could feel his deathly presence around her. Watching her, sending chills up her spine.

Christine had always feared him to some degree. Now she had direct reason to feel that way.

The leaves around her crackled strangely in the wind, reminding her of snakes. Rattle snakes, Erik had called them, as he held her in his insane gaze. She had been enthralled. Enthralled by the tales, enthralled by his eyes.

In truth, the leaves sounded nothing like rattle snakes, Christine knew, but she greatly wanted them to sound as such. She wanted to remember. And she hated herself for that. And she remembered anyway.

The fire in his eyes, always scathing. His words, his tales had probably been a warning of some sort. Erik always warned her. Rarely were the warnings direct. She was the rose to his nightingale.

Even then she had known it. Deep down she understood the warnings. From Erik, from fate. Yet she never heeded. His love was a doomed, twisted love, and she was doomed to receive it. Just watching him, she became lost in his spell.

Oh, Christine knew how irrational her thoughts were. She had seen the paper. She knew he was dead. It didn't matter though, Even in death Erik would find a way to avenge himself.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle, it is time." Christine looked up, startled. One of the maids stood before her. Prim black dress, savagely attacked by the wind, though it was having less luck with her neatly tied hair. She held a large umbrella in hand.

"Time?"

"Yes, if you are to be ready, we must begin the preparations right away. The, maid took a step towards her and Christine nodded, together they returned to the manor, sharing the black umbrella.

Christine wondered at the woman next to her. Nothing more than another nameless face to the singer. Though she had been introduced to the entire staff, she remembered few by name.

The maid wondered at the strange girl who would, in less than a day become the new Mistress of the Household. It was a strange occasion indeed, when storms raged and the wedding hours were almost feverishly precise. When distress etched the groom's face and the bride wore black the day before her wedding.

She had heard several rumors from the other members of the household staff, but there were always rumors. She wondered how much of what she had been told was true.

The delicate Spanish lace, imported especially for the wedding resembled white spider webs, weaved in intricate patterns. Or maybe it was more like the winter frost on windows, Christine loved to look at when she was a little girl. She could remember getting up early in the morning after frost hit and running, laughing to the window of wherever they were currently living. She would throw aside rough curtains and peer at the window in childish delight, tracing the pretty patterns. She saw flowers, animal sand people in the icy mandalas. Stories to be dreamt of. With shall fingers she would trace the pattern, ignoring the cold in her fingers. Then she would ask her dear father to tell the story of whatever princess or knight she had seen in that morning's pattern.

Upon her golden locks, the veil made her look like an angel, or so Raoul's sisters kept telling her, as they fussed over her. Christine's stomach clenched unpleasantly as it tended o do whenever someone mentioned Angels or phantoms. An unexplainable ache settled over her heart and her stomach burned as though she had drank a full glass of pure lemon juice. It felt that way too, whenever she began a song. She could not bear to sing, tough she longed to, so very much. Whenever she opened her mouth, she could not bear to let a single strand of music pass her perfect lips. Not a sound would come, and if it did, it was a cry of strangled despair.

For that too, she reprimanded herself. What reason had she to despair?

Christine closed her eyes and said nothing. With smiles of their faces her future sisters in law all left the room to do their own pre-wedding preparations. The eldest gave Christine's hand a gentle squeeze and warm smile before leaving.

"Be calm, my dear. All will be well. Soon you will be part of the family and then we can call you our sister in all truth." She said, as Christine smiled back weakly.

"I am sure that will be most wonderful." She replied. With another smile, the older woman left the room. Raoul's sisters, who had always been especially fond of him, had at first greatly disapproved of the match, but they seemed to have come to terms with it now. The singer felt faint resentment begin to rise in her heart. They were kind enough, but she knew they held no real fondness for her and she could not stand the pity she saw in their eyes whenever they looked at her. No doubt they considered the 'horrors' that the singer had lived through. True, Christine Daae had lost much, but she still clung to her dignity, and she would accept no pity.

Knowing she should perhaps take the veil off for the time being, she kept in on her head none the less. Lifting the white skirts of her wedding dress, Christine looked to the open balcony, as though it held the antidote to an ailment she could not even begin to identify. She could smell the faint lavender oil on her skin from the scented bath she had taken.

She shivered. Faint music interrupted her dark reverie. Christine turned her head in the direction of the music. A music box sat on a small desk in a dark corner of the carefully decorated room. It was the sort of toy a little girl would appreciate. On the tiny pearl stand a girl in a delicate ballgown spun in an eternal dance to the haunting melody. Christine moved closer, picking up the small porcelain figurine. It was no taller than her palm, and her features were perfectly painted by the finest craftsman. It was the song that bothered the woman, though. Christine felt it at the back of her mind, and with it the memories of childhood dreams. She felt that she would not soon forget its tune, and that made her uneasy. Setting the music box back onto the cherry-wood desk, she moved away from it, catching a glimpse of herself in her mirror.

A bride.

The wedding was at sunrise, in accordance to her own wishes. In the gardens a roofed pavilion had been prepared for the ceremony. It was all cut flowers, silver and white and pink hangings. A fairytale.

What a pity it was that Christine didn't not believe in fairytales anymore.

The little bit of wind that brushed her cheek, making the net curtains flutter caused her heart to freeze momentarily then commence pounding, its rhythm thrice as fast. Christine's mind drifted to another time. So similar and so frightfully different. She could feel it. His touch, though he had never so much as touched her. She had shivered then too, despite her warm blanket and the heat from the fire in the hearth. His hand glided above her skin. He made no contact she felt his burning touch graze her skin juts the same, branding her. Christine remembered the dark passions he had awoken, frightening her with the easy way in which she had surrendered all control to him.

Then she remembered him going mad, down in his lair. Christine was not sure she would have remained sane down there for long either. Yet he had meant for her to stay. He had yelled and threatened. Cursed and implored. He had frightened her, angered her. And he had meant to keep her thee, his living bride.

Living or dead, back then she had been desperate to flee his tomb of murderous insanity. He had played his strange games with her, toying with her mind. Then he had offered a choice. Grasshopper or Scorpion. She knew it was not a choice at all, but then, if he had given her a true choice, she had no idea which way she would have chosen. The Phantom had sworn that she was his. His bride, his wife. It his obsession he would have destroyed them both, she was sure. How could he expect her to remain underground forever? She would hate him, and he would have died from her hate.

So lost in the morbid wandering of her mind, Christine did not notice as a warm tear slid down her porcelain cheek. She was free of him He held nothing over her now. Yet somehow, even in his death. Christine belonged to him. For the tiniest sliver of time, she would have liked to be belong to no-one, to be her own person. By the next morning she would belong to Raoul by law, yet in truth, in her mind (and no she knew that her soul as well) would always belong to Erik. The Ange d'Mort had conquered both hate and death to bring the ultimate revenge upon her. She knew now that any way her story would go, she would never belonged to herself, nor it seemed, her future husband. The Phantom owned her and just this knowledge would slowly destroy her from inside out.

"No, oh, no!" She wailed suddenly, crumpling to the floor. Christine had suddenly realized that from that moment of realization onwards there would be no life for her.

"Why must you haunt me? I am crushed, are you sated now? I will remain forever yours, but that was your intent from the start wasn't it? My blood will not spill,. But this fate worse than death is mine now. I am forever yours, but through this binding you are forever mine as well! What use is all this to you, in death?" She spoke into the night, kneeling on the only part of the floor not covered by the rich carpet. Her dream-like white wedding dress was crumpled but the condition of the beautiful creation did not bother her.

Christine's blue eyes glared into the darkness, hands fisted in determination, tear streaks down her pale cheeks. But she cried no more. What good would tears do?

Christine should have felt foolish, talking to an empty room. Like a child, sitting in wait of he Korrigans. Yet somehow she felt that if there was ever a time for Erik to hear her, it was then. Who knew, maybe she was already insane. The girl felt the air shift behind her, but did not dare turn around. It was just a breeze from the windows and nothing more.

"Torment you? Really, my dear, are you in any position to talk? What will you have me do? Leave you? Leave you, when all you do is call to me? It your mind, heart and words. You see, I have given myself to you long ago. Now I think, is an excellent time for retribution."

Her stomach fell and her heart rose and she let out a strangled cry all at once. Flying to her feet, she spun around to face the voice behind her. The empty room stared back.

Christine shook her head in utter despair.

"And it seems my sanity, what little of it remains, has been laid upon your shrine as well." She whispered brokenly.

"Flattered as I am, my dear, I have no need of your sanity. Keep it." The voice was behind her again, brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. The damp smell of death that clung to him wafted at her, as Christine turned again, slowly this time.

He towered over her, his thin frame radiating frightful magnificence. His amber eyes burned out of the black mask that covered his face. The Phantom's darkness was but an extension of the shadows around her.

Christine did not even realize that the candles around her had all gone out. She could not help a shudder that ran through her as she felt the power in his presence, and saw the cold vengeful glare in his surreal eyes. Her breath became heavy as she struggled to breathe in the tight bodice of the dress.

"You? What do you want of me? Why have you come? You are dead!"

"Dead? No my dear, as much as I am sure you would prefer it were otherwise, I am quite alive. But then, you knew that. Else why would you keep calling out to me? Why ask my purpose when you , so charmingly, described it just moments ago." He growled, taking a graceful step towards her. With a sharp breath. Christine took a step back.

"I…I did not know…I did not…" She stammered.

"Didn't you, Comtess? How strange."

"I am not…" But Christine did not finish her sentence. He knew she was not married. This was just another barb.

"Are you going to kill me now, Erik?"

"Kill you? How odd that you should speak of death my dear. Of Death and Fallen Angels." He thundered, grabbing her wrist crushingly.

A she trembled. Then realization visited her again. Christine felt his cold touch on her flesh, then looked back into the scorching golden eyes, as fear drained from her blue ones. The sadness remained though.

"You cannot harm me…"

"Are so very sure?"

"Yes, for you are no more free of me than I am free of you."

"Indeed? It will interest you to know, in that case, my dear, that I am here for my rightful vengeance. I am free of your clinging curse, foolish child."

"Vengeance? Were you as free as you claim, then mine would be a swift death."

"Oh? But Christine, you forget, I am a monster. I mean to torment you as you have tormented me." His voice was cruel.

"You have been tormenting me for weeks, Erik. But you will not kill me, for you are not divine and even you cannot fight your own human will. Nor will you help me. For neither are you an angel. I know that now. Fallen angel or otherwise, you will not make an enemy of yourself."

"What observation! No, am no Angel, but a Demon of the darkest pits." His sinister tones sliced the silence of the room, as he took another step towards her and Christine found herself backed against the wall.

"No. Not a demon either." She whispered breathlessly pressing into the wall to create more space between them. "You see Erik, I have given you much thought. More perhaps than was healthy, and I know a great many things now that I did not know then."

"Ah, but I am a demon. And you…you are mine." He grabbed her slender arms roughly.

"It seems I will always remain as such." She sighted again, and looked away to her right, her eyes glittering.

"Why now, Erik? Why the night before my wedding. You have set me free! But you have not answered my question. Have you come to take my life? Or perhaps to save me from that fate which is to be mine?"

"Rescue? You are deluded, Comtess. I am no knight come to rescue the fair maiden! Have you forgotten that I am the ruthless sorcerer, who had once ensnared you? Well, I have back to reclaim what is rightfully mine." The beautiful voice was dark and frightening.

"Confuse you? But that is impossible, when it is you who controls all the trapdoors!" His thin frame shook with rage at her audacity. What had happened to his innocent, sweet Christine?

"And I am not a Comtess." She bit out bitterly.

"No, you are not." He sighted, then let her go and stalked to the window. "But you will be and I will not remain bound to you."

"Bound? Truly, Erik. It is my life in which you meddle."

"Meddle? I govern your very destiny!" He laughed a laugh that froze her blood in her veins. "And I have come to do just that." Gliding towards Christine, who watched his warily. Eyes narrowed, Erik's hand shot out, and he ripped the veil from her head, tossing it to the floor, in another flash of fury.

"Erik! What…'

"You are mine, my dear! Mine!" he repeated yet again, a maniacal look in his eyes. "I forbid you to wed that dandy!"

Those eyes that burn… the unbidden thought flashed through her mind.

"Do you? I suppose you will employ you divine powers to spirit us away, Angel." Christine said, startled by the sarcasm and bitterness in her own voice. Moving away, she stepped towards the windows, drawing the curtain aside. The drizzle still fell, studding the window and the gardens below with tiny crystal droplets. Guards patrolled the grounds.

Raoul had insisted on all safety precautions. He had not specified against what, but he did not need to.

Christine knew better than to think all the guards in the world would be able to stop Erik.

The Phantom said nothing, as he followed her gaze, shooting the patrolling guards a look of derision. He was shocked by Christine's progressively biting tones. Had he snapped her sweet nature for good?

"Should I? Or perhaps you, Comtess, will see our way past them, with you noble graces?" his cold reply held a warning. She should not push his temper.

Christine gave a sight, moving her hand out the open window and watching impassively as the rain fell onto her pale psalm. Erik's eyes were unreadable as he watched the singer.

"Are you going to take me away with you hen?" She asked after a while. They had stood in silence, listening to the golden clock tick on the mantel, and the soft patter of rain. She almost though he would not reply, when he did.

"It was my intent, though upon seeing the merry bride, I am not sure it still is." He stepped away from her, watching her suspiciously. Why didn't she scream? Try to escape? She had spoken of him abducting her with such utter calm.

"You muck me!" Christine accused bravely , knowing that she had no reason to fear him any longer,

"Mock you? Mock you, my dear? Oh, yes, a grand mockery indeed! When it is your very existence that is a mockery to me!" His voice boomed as his skeletal fingers grabbed Christine's slander shoulders, shaking her madly.

"Erik! Stop! You will draw attention! The guards will come running!"

"Will they? And your Comte, too, I imagine. It is far too much to hope hat the boy has learned to tame his meddlesome ways." The malice in his voice unsettled her even further.

Christine did not reply. It would no do for Raoul to find out that Erik lived. She did not wish to think of the dangers and tragedy that would follow such an outcome. Then, slowly she began to speak, as though to herself.

"I will not ask your forgiveness anymore than you ask me for mine. There can be none for all the pain we have caused. I do regret leaving you that night, Erik. I don't want to regret it, but I do. Yet you must understand, there was no other possible way for me to have reacted, you have killed for me, and you threatened to do so again. I was frightened. frightened of you, frightened of what you would do, and most of all of what I would do. But fear has consequences. And I am paying the price now."

Erik froze in place, saying nothing in reply, his gaze far away. Christine, too, did not move, staring at him with widened eyes. Silence stretched on and on, until footsteps sounded outside the door.

"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, are you there?" A maid rapped on Christine's door. The singer did not reply

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" the maid's voice rose in volume

"Yes! Yes, I am alright." Christine answered shakily.

"I was sent to tell you that it is sunrise in half hour. You must be in the foyer in twenty minutes. Do you require any assistance?"

"No, thank you, I will manage. I will be down shortly." The singer replied, hoping the woman would leave.

"Very Well, Mademoiselle. Then I shall report back to the Comte."

"Yes, thank you."

In twenty minutes! How could she think of such things when her very fate hung in the balance. Her entire life. A pawn. She would be a pawn no longer! Her blue eyes flashed as Christine reached a conclusion.

"Erik!" She cried, taking him by surprise as she flung herself towards him, and grabbed the lapels of him black coat. "Erik! You claim to have come here to take me away. I know you expect betrayal, and I do not blame you. I realize you do not trust me, and I will understand if you never do. I deserve your fury. But, oh Erik, I cannot go back down now. I cannot face them in their wedding cheer. I cannot be the happy young bride. I cannot play this game any longer. I am done. And I cannot face Raoul. Maybe someday, but certainly not now. Fling me aside if you will, but I am no longer blinded by a little girl's dreams. My path is with you, and no other!" She cried desperately, knowing there was no taking back from what she had just said. She could feel his tense frame, though he looked right through her. A horrible thought struck her. Had it all been for nothing?

"Please, Erik, I beg of you, speak, say something!" Still he did not move, did not acknowledge her. Forgetting her oath not to shed a tear, Christine crumpled to the floor for the second time that night, covering her face as the salty tears made their way down her deathly pale face, staining the exquisite gown she wore.

The clock carried on its ticking, inconsiderately reminding of the passing time. The Phantom looked down at the soprano. No matter what words he spoke, he loathed to see her crying so dissolutely. What was she playing at? Had she willingly asked him to abduct her? Reaching out he took hold of her wet hands, lifting her up. Christine looked at him with a sniff and blinked her wet eye lashes.

"Please, Erik. Take me away with you. To the very ends of the world if you will! Please, Erik, kill me no further."

Outside, the rain had stopped. Voices sounded in the gardens, as the servants moved to make final preparations, and the guests began descending towards the pavilion.

A single word passed Erik's cruel lips.

"Why?"

Christine regarded him steadily. Then she slid her hands towards Erik's bony shoulders. She felt him inhale sharply.

"Because… Because this is how it is meant to be. Because I no longer fear you. Because it is you, Erik. You, who have stolen my heart when I had rather you take my life."

"And now?" He asked warily, understanding full well the games of words.

"Now? Now I'd rather you kill me then reject my heart."

Another pause.

I am too late! Fool! Now he will not forgive me! Her mind screamed.

People outside the door, her mind faintly registered.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Christine, dear, it is time!"

"Christine, you must come downstairs!"

"Christine!"

Still no answer. Knowing there was no way back for her. Christine took the only and most frightening way forward. Before she could talk herself out of it, the singer stood on her tiptoes and gently kissed the phantom's cold lips.

He did not react, suspended in his disbelief. Christine refused to give up, though, and thin arms snaked around her waist unsteadily. Christine could feel his deathly cold hands on her back through the thin material of her dress and his gloves. He was reluctant to touch her, fearing she would shatter around him at any moment, and he would know that she was nothing but a dream. Slowly he responded to the kiss. His cold flesh upon her warm lips, and the smell of death surrounded them, but neither cared.

"Christine, open the door! Christine!"

They pulled apart, doubt, fear and passion fighting for dominion of their souls. Christine was still shocked at her own daring, but she pushed it away.

"They will open the door." She whispered, watching the dark passion in Erik's eyes. "Take me away Erik. Living or dead, I am your bride."

He let her go, hands shaking.

"Be certain Christine, for if you with me, Christine you can never return." He warned. Still, he doubted her.

"Damn you, Erik! Damn us both!" She cried suddenly. "It doesn't matter. None of it does. Your darkness no longer scares me. I will go with you, for there is no other way I would now pick." She took one of his gloved hands in her own small ones.

"The let us depart, dear, for we have certainly outstayed our welcme." He pulled her along towards the beautiful iron balcony doors, which he threw open. Erik lifted her up easily into his arms. Christine marveled at her own lack of fear, as he stepped over the old railing. They were shadows now, in the dawning light. He covered her white dress with his cape, so as not to catch anyone's attention. His love in his arms, Erik leapt from the ledge. Their eyes met, both knowing there was no going back.

When the thin white door was finally opened, they plunged hurriedly into the darkness of the room. Someone lit a candle. There was a gasp from one of the Comte's sisters.

The room was empty and silent, except for the music box on the desk. The girl in the dream-like gown continued her ghostly dance to the unearthly tune.

They scoured the room. Nothing was out of place except the crumpled veil on the cold floor. He picked up the fragile material in unsteady hands, staring at it in silent sadness and disbelief.

"Comte? Shall I send out the guards to seek out the mademoiselle? She would not have left, and whomever took her cannot be far."

Raoul shook his head. No, he had a clear idea of whom it was that took her. He had watched her for days, his darling Christine, and for weeks he had seen her belong to another more and more. He knew whom she had left. And they would have fled to the ends of the world by then.

Alive! How could he have known? And now he had lost his battle of love for good!

"No. There is nothing anyone can do for her now. Leave me! Leave!" he ordered his staff. Silently, they left, wondering at the strange happenings.

The music box played on, mocking his silent sobs.

It still played when he cried no more.

It still played when he met his Comtess.

It played and the story traveled of that strange day and that strange bride who wore black the day before her wedding.

The end

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