A/N - Poor Erik ... as if he didn't have enough to deal with at the moment ... :(

I know this has been a long time in coming, and it's still pretty short, and I'm sorry *mutters about Maths coursework and evil teachers* but I'm a little lost now, and I'm not quite sure where this story's going. All suggestions welcome!

Big hugs and lots of love to everyone who's reviewed :)

Christine

I heard a crash from Erik's room, sounding as if Ayesha had knocked something off a shelf (an event which was becoming ever more frequent as evidence of her displeasure at my presence).

Unsure whether or not Erik was actually at home, I hesitated outside his door for a moment, then tapped lightly at the door and pushed it open.

The first thing I saw was his mother's oil lamp, lying smashed on the floor. Oh, Ayesha ...

A harsh choking sound drew my attention to the coffin. I looked up, and my heart stopped.

Erik was on his knees before the coffin, the mask off, and his face white with pain. His breath was coming in shallow harsh gasps, one hand clutching at his chest, and I had a sudden flashback of the first attack he had ever had ... how could I have forgotten?

"Oh, my God!"

Shaking off my initial paralysis and shock, I ran to him and fell on my knees beside him. He shook his head violently, forcing one long, elegant hand up to cover his face, his breathing becoming ever more ragged.

I bit down hard on my fear. You've seen his face before! I told myself wildly. Don't panic now ... later, but not now! I shook my head hard, trying to clear my mind of the mad tangle of thoughts which were whirling round my head with dizzying, eddying speed. I forced myself to think clearly, silently cursing myself for not asking after his health before ... I should have known. I should have known!

I looked wildly around the room, and my eyes fixed on a small cut crystal glass on his mahogany table, half-filled with water and remembered that Father had always kept a glass of water by his bedside in case one of his "turns" came on during the night. With a speed born of desperation, I jumped up and held the glass to his lips, encouraging him to drink a little. My heart was still thumping painfully, and my head was beginning to spin.

He coughed violently, pushing the glass away and trying to keep his face covered in the same movement. I felt a sudden surge of intense remorse and handed him the mask in silence, fastening the straps gently around his head.

I sat there for over an hour, holding his hand and murmuring soothing nonsense as one might to a child, until the pain seemed to diminish a little and he regained enough control to stagger to a chair.

It was disturbing to see him so utterly helpless; throughout every crisis of my career, and almost every aspect of my life since our very first meeting, he had always been there, an angel in every respect except the most literal, shouldering the burdens of my world and caring for me as had the father he had replaced.

That afternoon was one of the most terrifying I have ever lived through, as I saw my world view shatter - again. I've always known he's not infallible ... he has always needed me desperately, even now ... but however fragile his mental state and emotions might be, his health has always been untouchable. I had seen him ill before, but even the first attack he ever had was nowhere near as serious as this. The realisation that his death was a very real possibility terrified me more than anything I could imagine ...

I sat up with him all night, until sleep came through the haze of pain and loosened his grip on my fingers. I looked down at him, and gently brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, running my hand lightly over his forehead and feeling the fever in him with a terrible cold fear.

Feeling suddenly very weak, I sat down on his bed and cried.

Erik

I can't believe it ... for months I prayed for another attack, for the final spasm of blinding pain fading into everlasting brilliance which would herald my exit from this world, and yet even this mercy was denied me. And now ... now that she needs me more than ever before, God sees fit to punish me and remind me of my place by dropping this on us.

When I awoke, she was lying with her head on the side of the coffin, her face white and pinched, her cheeks still glistening with tears, her eyes closed in an exhausted sleep.

I tried to stand, but the pain shot me again, forcing me back into the chair with an involuntary gasp of agony.

She jerked awake, instantly rising and moving over to me. She took my hand and passed her hand lightly over my forehead, brushing my hair back with gentle fingers. Apparently satisfied, she knelt down at my side and looked up at me.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly.

I almost laughed. Never better, my dear ...

"Christine ..." My God, such an effort to form the words ...

I gestured feebly at the glass of water she had set down on the side. I had an uncomfortable memory of pushing her away and knocking the glass over ... damn, I can't remember ...

It was the frustration which affected me the most; the pain was nothing and I did not fear death, but the frustration ... the humiliation ...

She held the glass to my lips, and I took a sip, swallowing the shame of needing her help in such a basic matter, and trying desperately to remember exactly what I had done last night.

I remember standing up ... taking off the mask to wash ... picking up the oil lamp to take it back out to Christine's room ... catching sight of my reflection in the polished brass of the frame ... a white-hot flash of pain, blinding in its intensity ... reaching towards the coffin for the mask ...

Oblivion.

The pain exploded down my chest again, whitening the world to an agony beyond expression, the light fading into darkness and I felt myself clutching helplessly at her as I fell, into a merciful black void where the pain receded into unconsciousness as a black velvet curtain fell, obliterating all conscious knowledge and shutting out the world.

Nadir

I entered the house on the lake cautiously; Erik normally came to meet me when I rang the doorbell. I had an uneasy feeling about the house today, it was too quiet. Normally there would be some sound; Christine humming to herself, Erik playing almost absent-mindedly on either the organ or his violin, or at least a slight hissing from the cat to register her irritation that I had returned. I had never recovered an affection for cats since my experiences with the Glory of the Empire, (A/N - the favoured cat of the shah, see Susan Kay's Phantom) and I sometimes wonder who that damned cat of Erik's hated more, myself or Mlle. Daaé!

The front rooms were deserted, and with an ever-increasing sense of forboding, I proceeded cautiously to Erik's chamber, hoping against hope that they had simply gone out ... that he hadn't done anything stupid ...

I opened the door slowly and peered in, stopping short at the sight that met my eyes. Christine was on her knees on the floor, tears streaming down her face, frantically patting Erik's hair in a feeble attempt to wake him, and I remembered with a terrible fear his grimly flippant remarks about his health ...why hadn't I listened?!

Recovering from my original paralysis, I moved over to Christine and shook her with as much gentleness as I could muster through the terrible, increasing fear.

She looked up at me and gave a sob of relief.

"Thank God!"

"You may tell me what happened later," I said grimly. "It is his heart?" God, I hate this bloody language ...

She nodded.

"Right. Help me ... where is there a proper bed?"

She glanced fearfully over at the coffin for a moment, then shook herself and rose, pointing out of the room and into a space I couldn't quite see.

"In my room ... shall we take him there?"

Somehow, we managed to get him from his chamber into hers, and settled him as comfortably as we could into her impressive, old-fashioned bed.

Christine, recovering from her hysteria now that there was once more someone to tell her what to do, fetched blankets and chairs for us to sit on while we waited. She sat with him all night, holding gently onto his hand and smoothing his hair back from his face.

I remember thinking, just before I dozed off, that they made a sweet couple ...

By morning, he was delirious.

I awoke in the chair to see Christine, her face white and pinched, squeezing water from a cloth over his unmasked forehead and stroking his hair almost distractedly. He was tossing and fighting against the restraining blanket, becoming more and more agitated as he sank deeper into the mists of his nightmarish past.

I stood up, every muscle in my body screaming in protest from the uncomfortable night in the hard-backed kitchen chair, and walked over to her. She did not look up, but when I laid my hand gently on her shoulder, she covered it with her own in a gesture of solidarity, stunning me with the realisation that I no longer hated this girl; joined too inextricably by this extraordinary man who now lay feverishly tossing on her bed before us, any ill-feeling between us was now quite impossible.

She passed her hand over his forehead, and I felt her whole body fall in rhythm with her anguished sigh.

"He's still so hot," she murmured. "I thought the fever might have broken ..."

I sighed slightly, remembering with a startlingly intense feeling of what the French call deja vu, the only time I had ever seen him like this before ...

Unbidden, my mind flew back to another time, another place, the hot, sultry courts of Persia where every friend is an enemy waiting for the slightest chink in your defences, and when a man's life is priced at the cost of a goblet of poison ...

The masked figure tossing feverishly on the bed, staring with eyes full of anguish at something only he could see ...

I was brought back to France by the sound of his voice. Anguished and desperate, yet retaining the inhuman beauty which set it apart from all others, he was calling with frenetic hopelessness for her ...

"Christine ... Christine ..."

She sat up straighter and took hold of his hand.

"I'm here, Erik," she whispered. "It's all right, I'm here ..."

He gripped her arms with the painful intensity I remembered all too well from Persia, staring unseeing up at her, and falling back with a soft moan of distress as his mind withdrew ever further from the physical world.

"Christine ..."

"Erik ... Erik!" I heard her voice rise with panic as he went still and I stepped forward with a sharp motion, betraying my nerves. I lifted his wrist and checked his pulse, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as I found it ... faint, and irregular, but there ...

She looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. She looked like a very frightened little girl whose world had been turned upside down in one night and had just about reached the limit of her endurance, and suddenly I felt an almost overwhelming surge of pity for her.

What would happen to her, if Erik didn't wake up?

A/N - So, what do you all think should happen next? I can't promise to use all the ideas, but my Muse has gone into major hibernation at the moment and isn't coming out, so I need all the inspiration I can get! :)