Disclaimer: Erik is not mine. Neither is the opera house. (Pauvre moi!)

Note: Updates done on 4/13/2008 to include typo corrections and a few details. I don't think I changed this chapter, but I can't remember for certain.


It is hard to say exactly how long it had been between the time when Erik had crawled into the coffin for what he expected to be the last time and when he heard the weeping of the woman just outside, for he was in no condition to be aware of the passage of time. His first thought upon hearing in an unfamiliar tongue that which could only be a prayer based on the sound of it's incantation was that it was the voice of an angel; that he was, at long last, finally dead and free of his wretched body and face, and for a moment he experienced joy, but the joy fled instantly as other thoughts occurred to him. Foremost was the fact that he didn't really believe in angels or heaven or any of that other nonsense, and if he had, he'd have expected to have no chance at all of encountering either one after his death as he far more expected he deserved to end up in the other place. Further, he heard weeping—a very human sound indeed—so near to him as to be directly beside him only about a decimeter away. He heaved a heavy sigh. Ah, still alive, yes, to be breathing. And yet it was so difficult to move. He strained with the effort just of dragging his body to a sitting position. And then he saw her.

Dressed all in black, on her knees before him, sobbing disconsolately into a black-gloved hand was a slender pale-faced woman, and his heart leapt at the thought. She had come back to him! His living bride had returned to him while he was yet alive! And she was weeping—weeping for him, for his death, for his very soul. And it pained him greatly to hear her cry. He reached toward her with a trembling hand but stopped just shy of touching the side of her face. Mustn't frighten her, he told himself. Wait for the right moment, else she might run away again, and perhaps for forever this time. And then another thought stopped him. Had he not asked that when she learned of his death she come back to bury him? He had, indeed. Perhaps the daroga had contacted her and she had returned for this and this alone. Surely the daroga had placed the advertisement as he had requested when he received the package of papers. Perhaps she had come only to fulfill her promise. Perhaps Raoul waited for her across the room, or just outside the door, or even on the other side of the lake (the cowardly fool!). Perhaps upon learning he was alive she would think him a cheat—faked his own death to bring her back once more! Or worse, perhaps she had returned only to assure herself of his death and she was weeping with relief. And this thought so grieved him that he fell to weeping as well and to remembering the time they had cried together, before she left—before he'd released her and told her to go!—, their tears mingling together, how he had taken off his mask and she had not run away.

And he realized with a start that not only was the mask not within his reach, but he had absolutely no idea where he had last placed it when he returned, despondent, from his trip to see the daroga.

It didn't matter, though, for these thoughts flew through his head in a brief instant and were interrupted. At his first audible sob the woman started up, eyes wide and hand clutching at the place above her heart. She staggered back toward the wall, stumbling into the organ, terrified for the first time in many years.

Then she caught her breath. What a trick, she told herself. What a trick that was, and she allowed herself to smile. These theatre folks! So superstitious and so clever at once! Who would have thought that someone could create such a lifelike—or rather deathlike—figure to emerge from the coffin and weep in such a realistic way? Who would have thought, indeed! And she slowly stepped closer in the dim light, and the horror crept in again, for the—thing—she couldn't decide what to call it—the thing gripped the side of the coffin with one hand and reached out to her with the other and softly whispered "Christine? You have come back to me, Christine? Do not be afraid. It is only I. I am not quite dead yet, I think, my Christine. Do not be afraid. It is only I, your poor unhappy Erik."

In attempting to recover from her fear, she didn't hear all of it. She did discern the last few words and a name.

"Erik?" she whispered. Then again, softly, trying the name out carefully. "Erik?" It was a man, then, indeed, though the head looked shrunken and skull-like, the eyes mere hollows in which no light was discernible in the dim chamber, the nose curiously absent, and the mouth somehow twisted and lipless. The body appeared nothing more than a skeleton wrapped first in skin and then in fine but worn clothing. In her confusion at its appearance she struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation. It was surely starved near to death and had been terribly disfigured. Perhaps this was a victim of a failed murder then, mutilated facially then left to starve and die? It seemed the most likely explanation in light of its—or rather his—hideous appearance, his crying, his human name. What horrors must have occurred here! What suffering he must have endured! She put her initial fear behind her and stepped forward slowly but with resolve.

"Erik," she whispered. "Do not fear me. I won't harm you. The worst is over now. What have they done to you?"

"I will fear nothing," replied he, "now that you are with me." And he reached out his arms towards her.

She rushed to the seemingly near-dead man—it was merely two steps from where she now stood by the organ back to the center of the room to the coffin—and reached for him. The body, though frail and wasted, would be too heavy for her to carry any distance, she determined instantly. If the prisoner—or whatever he was—was to reach the ground level, he would have to be able to walk some, unless she could find something with wheels on which to convey him.

He gripped her hands in with his—which seemed clammy and yet bone dry at the same time—and she shivered. He clenched first her hands, then her shoulders, then wrapped his emaciated arms about her torso as a drowning victim clings to his rescuer, his head upon her breast, panting with sobs of relief. Her hands moved to smooth his hair. With a shock she saw the nearly bare scalp, and with a grimace that he could not see in his present posture, she placed her hands on his head anyway and stroked as though smoothing rumpled hair, feeling the strange waxy skin beneath her fingertips.

"There, there," she said aloud. "You're safe now. No one will harm you." She was about to tell him that she needed to get him up to the surface for medical attention, but she felt his body stiffen against her as she spoke the very first word, and as she was saying "no one will harm you" he tore himself from her arms with a strength that seemed impossible for one so frail. Before she could even begin to wonder what frightened or angered him, he roared, "Who are you?"


Oh no! Now what? If you haven't read this yet, what do you think will happen next? Any reactions? This is one of my favorite chapters... I feel so bad for him here... almost makes me feel guilty for writing it... But only "almost."