The Frost

Diclaimer - I don't own Phantom or any of its adaptations. This fic is for entertainment purposes and not for profit.

A/N – Hey all, sorry for being late again. I suck at sticking to my own deadlines. So without further ado here is chapter ten. I hope you enjoy it.

They slept back to back that night or at least they started out that way. For hours Erik felt her warmth as it radiated across the few inched between them, or perhaps he was only imagining it as he had never let himself get so close to her for so long. With the exhaustion from the day's fevered withdrawals, the arousal he would normally have felt in such a situation was blessedly absent. In a way he felt thankful for this, that he could simply enjoy her presence without distraction, and remember every detail of the night before the dreaded talk they bound to have the next morning when they had come to their senses.

There was no chance of him succumbing to sleep that night, he realised as he rolled onto his back and stared at the white cotton canopy that hung above the bed. It felt as though he was defiling the House of the Vestals by being in that room. This space that he had designed specifically to feel safe and feminine, was not for him. But then he was still getting used to having a bed, having spent so many years nesting on old mattresses thrown out by the dormitories. There was no damp here, no distant sounds of rodents and dripping pipes, only warmth and the scent of lavender and roses.

He glanced at the elegant white shape of her back. Her hair that had once been the colour of aged gold as a child and had darkened to a mass of rich brown curls lay in disarray across the pillow. The neckline of her nightgown stretched down slightly to reveal the beginnings of the scratch she had sustained during their escape, although in the gloom he couldn't make out how much it had healed since he last saw it. He was surprised at how quickly she fell asleep, seemingly unconcerned with having a murderous phantom in her bed. Perhaps she had simply exhausted herself with household chores and from being kept awake at night by his screaming. The house was far too large for one person to take care of, and he knew that Christine was rather particular about keeping things tidy. Even two people sharing the housekeeping was a bit of a stretch. He would have to contribute more once he recovered, provided she still wanted to stay of course. He would have to subdue his untidy ways and do everything to make her comfortable, to make her feel that she made the right choice in coming here.

He flinched slightly as she rolled over in her sleep. Her nights had always been restless ever since she was a child and he had always sung away her nightmares. He dared not move a muscle as she fidgeted in her sleep, somehow letting an arm fall across his chest and wrapping itself around his middle. To his surprise she did not move away again but settled down snuggling closer until her head rested on his shoulder. He had never felt anything like it before. She had taken his hand a few times and because of regrettable circumstances he had needed to carry her, but that innocent contact was nothing compared with this. Even tending to the cut on her back seemed mundane in comparison, when he could feel the warmth of her skin through their night-clothes and her breath against his neck. He couldn't help but pull her closer and realised that this was the first time he had touched her waist without the steel barrier of a corset. She was so small and soft, so delicate with her thin frame. And while he wished he could cherish the feeling for a few moments longer, he found the pull of sleep grasp him for the first time in days. Sleep without dreams or pain.

"Well I can't say I'm completely shocked." Meg said with a sigh, putting down the hastily scribbled note. Mother and the slightly dodgy policeman she'd hired were beginning to investigate the cellars. She hadn't eve needed to contact the young man, as since Christine's disappearance, the viscount had been treating her like some sort of agony aunt from a magazine.

"How could you not be? Do you even know what this means?" the young man cried and the ballerina felt the beginning of a headache coming on.

"No Raoul, my frail female brain couldn't possibly understand something like this, please explain it to me, and don't use too many long words." She said sarcastically, earning herself a glare in return. "The truth is I've been seeing this note in my nightmares for some time now, Monsieur. So no, this doesn't surprise me, it just makes my blood run cold."

"It was in her cloak, she must have had it with her that night in the graveyard. To think if I hadn't arrived when I did she might have gone through with it?" The viscount said miserably. "Do you think that's why she let him take her like that; do you think she wanted to die?" he sighed "When she told me about him that night on the roof, she was standing so close to the edge. She was convinced that this man was out to kill her, she was terrified, but she gazed at the streetlamps below as though they were calling to her."

Meg bit the inside of her cheek nervously; the thought of her dearest friend wishing for oblivion seemed so repellent that it almost didn't bear thinking about. But the idea had taken seed in her mind ever since the night of the gala when Christine had disappeared for the first time and if even a dolt like Raoul could notice it then it must have been serious. Christine and her father had always had an air of melancholy about them. As a child she hadn't understood their sadness, but upon reflection these had been the signs of dying man and his grieving daughter. Her playmate had not fared well after his passing. She never complained, in fact she never talked much at all after his death, but Meg could hear her tears and her nightmares in the dark.

Then as if out of nowhere she had bounced back and Meg had caught a glimpse of the girl she had loved so dearly. The sadness was still there, but for a time it had been put aside. That had been before there had been any mention of an angel, but perhaps he had been responsible for that change in her. Perhaps the phantom had saved her from self destruction. The Opera he had written certainly drew a comparison to her character, albeit a highly dramatised one. The first act began with Don Juan mooning over his beautiful new maid Aminta. She is repulsed by him because he has arranged to have her father arrested to get him out of the way so he plans to seduce her under the guise of his manservant. The plan is successful and the first act ends with the two lovers singing a rather scandalous duet. In the second act, Aminta is horrified when she discovers her paramour's true identity but Don Juan keeps her trapped as his mistress by threatening her father's life and she is torn between her hatred of him and the lustful feelings he inspires within her. Passarino, Don Juan's manservant, is remorseful for the part he played in the plot and takes pity on her and offers to help her father escape from prison and get them both to safety, but Don Juan, driven mad by his own obsession, discovers their plan and locks Aminta in a tower in his house. In the third act, Passarino and Aminta's father return to the house only to find Don Juan waiting for them. A fight ensues; the old man is stabbed, Aminta is freed by Passarino but upon discovering the corpse of her father is driven mad and kills herself, leaving Don Juan and his mutinous servant alone with the guilt of what they have done.

"Well she had a very difficult time." Meg could only say, not feeling comfortable betraying her friend's secrets when she didn't even know them herself. Yes, maybe the Phantom knew something they did not.

"Yes, I suppose being shut up down there with that thing all night would drive anyone to suicide." Raoul said bitterly. "I knew I should have had the doctor check her, but she was so frightened I couldn't go through with it. Maybe I just didn't want to know; I'd never be able to marry her if a scandal like that got out."

"Pardon?" was he really saying what she thought he was saying.

"Forgive me, this is hardly a decent conversation for a Lady, but you've seen that opera, surely you must have some inkling of what it was implying."

"I think perhaps I do." Said Meg, now thoroughly convinced that while she understood the significance of Don Juan, the viscount certainly did not. She had always known Raoul DeChagny to be a selfish man, not so much out of any fundamental character flaw but from his privileged upbringing. He simply wasn't used to putting other people's needs before his own. Now at least he seemed largely remorseful for his part in the current tragedy even if his paranoia was making him assume the worst.

"That loathsome beast made you all perform his sick little fantasy, but now he's acting it out for real and Christine is the one to pay the price."

Meg bit back a groan of frustration. "Perhaps, if you're truly serious that is, because it seems to me that you're acting like a headless chicken, you should stop thinking such things and concentrate on finding her. It's all we can do right now or else we'll all go quite mad."

Christine awoke once more to the faint sound of church bells, discovering that they began every morning at six then every half hour to alert people of the time. It was still dark outside and she longed for the nearly endless days of summer again, without the darkness and the cold. But for once she wasn't cold at all, quite the opposite in fact as she was lying next to something incredibly warm. She cracked an eye open to see the faint outline of Erik's profile in the gloom. It all came back to her then, the ending of an evening so bizarre she might have dreamt it. How something had snapped inside of her and forced him to tell her what had made him so ill and what he had done. She hadn't known whether to be relieved or horrified and ended up feeling a mixture of the two. But relief had won through because she had wanted to hold onto him and never let go once she learned that he would recover. She should have been horrified at her own boldness. Good girls didn't ask men to share their beds, even if all they did was sleep. But instead it felt like the most natural thing in the world and while it might have only been a coincidence she had never felt so well rested. Erik also seemed to be at peace.

She sat up carefully, untangling herself from his unconscious embrace and lit the lamp on her bedside table feeling her arm and shoulder throb with complaint from sleeping in such a strange position and the scab on her back was still sore and healing. She felt sick and light headed, since all she had to eat the day before was a few spoonfuls of jam after her fainting fit. Looking over in the dim, sputtering light she realised that she had never seen Erik asleep before, and could never have imagined him so if she hadn't. His troubles were still there upon his brow, for a lifetime of horror could not be erased in one night, but in the early morning shadows there was a softness to his features that she had never encountered. Even his deformity, that had seemed so terrifying in the tomb-like shadows of his lair, seemed almost completely normal. Perhaps it was only in contrast to the inhuman white mask, or perhaps it was because in sleep he was revealing himself without shame or anger. Perhaps she was simply growing used to it to more she saw it. He was hardly handsome, at least not in a conventional sense, but there was something about him, some kind of intangible charisma that fascinated her and the deformity was somehow part of it.

But now her most fearful suspicions about him were more than just rumours or accusations. He had openly confessed to murder, although with such anguish and remorse that it pulled at her heart like a tuning key. She was truly at a loss, not knowing what to do or think or feel. But she had always been that way. Always clinging to the past and making the wrong decision, be it coming here, or agreeing to marry Raoul or never quite having the strength to end it all. Maybe all decisions were wrong in some way. She needed to get out of that house, if only for a few hours. She needed to relieve the ache in her limbs.

She dressed quickly in the bathroom, in the same black dress she had worn the day before. Her period of mourning for her father had long since ended and yet she had always favoured wearing black when she wasn't working, before she started seeing Raoul at least. She had felt out of place in the colourful lacy concoctions she had worn when they dined together, feeling painfully aware that each gown was worth more than a year's wages and not wanting to move for fear of tearing something. Poor Raoul, how very wicked she had become. She rifled through the medicine cabinet in the hope of finding something to banish the galloping in her head but found nothing she recognised. Madame Giry had always taken care of such things and she found herself deeply regretting not asking her about the many tinctures and pills she handed out for sprained ankles. She missed the older woman very much. Perhaps one day it might be safe enough to write to her. She seemed to know about Erik after all, but had always brushed off her questions like snow on a fur coat, so perhaps they could trust her with their hiding place or even just to tell her she was safe. Finally she decided to go with the bottle marked Chevalier's Restorative Oil, whose label boasted the ability to relieve rheumatism, sprains, strains, bruises, soreness, stiffness and sore throats. Since she had most of these things, she emptied a pipette of the tonic onto her tongue and grimaced at the foul taste.

The house was still stuffy and oppressive after three days with the smoky and unreliable range and the condensation of her breath on the windows, all the dust and fluff she had forgotten to sweep up (where did it all come from) and the steam of the scullery. She really felt as though she was growing quite unwell from being cooped up the little house. Surely no one would notice if she took a short walk to get some fresh sea air and clear her head. If she was going to think over all that had happened the evening before, she would need to be alone for a while to gather her thoughts. She slipped on her coat and boots in the entrance hallway, the ones she had arrived in. There was also a deep red woollen scarf and black leather gloves which she assumed belonged to Erik, but surely he wouldn't mind if she borrowed them for an hour or so, and the black veiled hat from their journey here with her wild uncombed hair hastily twisted underneath it left her ready to brave the outdoors.

The sky had cleared overnight and a heavy frost had descended upon the garden making it glitter like diamonds. The lawn, the bare flowerbeds and the old swing she had taken a liking to all sparkled as the sky turned red with the approaching day. The blades of grass crunched beneath her feet as she crept through the large walled garden and out through the back gate. If she had been any other girl she would have run as fast as her legs would carry her, and find someone, anyone who could help her. But she wasn't any other girl. She had not been taught the black and white code of morality but a more ambiguous set of ethics in shades of grey. Not to say that she didn't know the difference between right and wrong, but her father and later Mme Giry had always taught her to look at the causes of the wrongs before condemning them entirely. Perhaps Madame had known Erik better then she thought, perhaps that was the reason behind those grey areas. If only she knew the answer, but it felt as though her mind was beginning to unfold itself, just behind her eyes and all the thoughts were flying away into nothingness like smoke.

She walked down the dirt road they had taken on the last stretch of their journey, avoiding the frozen puddles as she went. Tall trees surrounded her on both sides, a lot taller than she remembered. In fact the whole place seemed so much darker than usual, the holes in the ground much deeper. Each rustle of a leaf or flap of birds' wings startled her sending her off the path and across the forest floor. Was she being followed? She always had the feeling of being watched, and to her surprise this intuition had been right. Now she had that feeling once again. He was there, she just knew it, and he was angry. And she was nothing but smoke. Her vision blackened, the thump of her heartbeat resounded in her head making her whole body throb and she upon the snowdrop covered earth and into nothingness.