A/N: Due to a request from Senna Whales, this is now more then a one-shot story. It won't be too much longer, probably one chapter after this, but I decided to continue the story. To my wonderful reviewers: Senna Whales: Thanks for all your comments. As you can see, I made the editing changes. I decided to keep my strange tense change, because, believe it or not it was intentional. And absolutly love "Little Lotte of the Shade"! Phantomy cokkies: Glad you liked it. As you can see, I changed the catagory. Madmoselle Phantom: Glad you enjoyed it.

Siren

Erik sat at his organ, but he could not play. He could only listen to her voice, day and night, morning and evening. He did not eat, nor sleep. For her voice was always there, haunting him.

If for nothing else, the beauty kept him from doing anything else but listening. Her voice had enchanted him in life, and now, in death, it seemed to have become even more beautiful. He could now have the voice without the woman, and the voice held all the perfection that the woman could never achieve. He could sit and gaze across the lake, and see her silvery form, singing. Always. She never tired.

But even aside from the pure beauty of the voice itself, the sadness it conveyed kept him there, listening. Often she sang from Othello, and it broke his heart to think of. She sang Desdemona's song as she begged for mercy from her husband, her lover. And she had found none. Desdemona…Othello…. Christine…Erik…. the names strung together pained him, struck a blade of white-hot iron into his heart to think of.

His hand darted across the keys of the organ, playing. His notes merged with hers, melding, combining. He was playing Othello, the last scene. He pulled his hands from the keys as if they had burned him. What had he been doing? He could not play with her, could not play that of all things. He was playing to his own death. His own tragedy.

He felt dizzy, confused. His mind was bound up with the lake, with the singing, and he was not thinking of anything else. It was probably lack of food and sleep that was doing this to him, he tried to tell himself, but he could not think rationally. Her voice haunted him. It followed him as he wandered his home, for he always returned to the shore of the lake where he could hear her voice. For her had to hear it.

He caught his reflections as he past one of the mirrors in his home. Aside from his face, for he had put aside his mask now that there was no one to see him, he was skeletal and haggard, his clothes hanging on an even more lanky frame then ever. There were dark circles under his worn eyes. Or course, for he had not eaten nor slept.

He realized suddenly that he was dying. He had thought that hearing Christine's voice like this would help him to live.

But it was killing him.