A/N

Thanks for the reviews! They're always, always appreciated.

Sorry it took so long to update; I had a little bit of trouble getting started with this one, but it took off quickly—and, it's a long one, so I hope it was worth the wait.

There has been a slight confusion, that is totally my fault. My Erik is a Leroux Erik, yes—but in one way, he is different. He has only a half-mask. It is unfair of me, I know, but I can't quite help it. The half-mask makes it more tragic, to me; the potential for beauty being so close makes his fate much more poignant than when he has no chance of conquering the physical beauty that he longs for.

Sorry if this disappoints anyone.

The New World

It was with heavy heart that I left my home of so many years. One cannot fully grasp the affection I felt for the opera house, for even with an understanding of all that it had done for me, it seems little more than a house to any other.

However, the era of my life in the opera house was finished. It was time for a new place, a new haven, a new cast of people to direct. Paris could not hold me any longer; I had grown tired of the city and her ants. I knew Christine had gone north, with her Viscount, to the lands her father had told her of. There was no desire to encounter them there, for what I feared more than seeing them was seeing a child with rosy cheeks and Christine's curls, with the voice of an angel—and the eyes of a Viscount. No, not to the Northlands. Instead, I would go west, to the land of the people the French so mocked for their morals and their prohibitionist thinking.

I would go to London.

-O.G.

Erik tightened his hand on the horse's lead rope, tugging gently to gain César's attention. The ivory stallion had not cared much for the journey across the English Channel, and upon reaching land had immediately begun to fight for freedom. With one hand continuously patting the horse's neck in an attempt to appease it, Erik led it down the dark street. The patting held a second element of convenience, for it supplied Erik with a way to steady himself whenever a slick patch was met on the street—and there were plenty of those.

It had been difficult to find a ship that would take him across the channel in the dead of night, but the money he had with him had been enough to persuade one shady boatman. It had been explained that the presence of the masked man was to be kept discreet, and the boatman had had nothing but reassurances to give Erik—in exchange for money, of course. Erik and César had kept beneath deck, Erik crouched behind the flank of the beast. Luckily, the horse had enough sense to keep still while his master was behind him, but as soon as firm ground was beneath him and his master in no danger of being trod upon, he had begun expressing his displeasure in an utterly obvious manner.

And now what? Erik had no clue. His plan had involved getting to England... and nothing else. His trunk and sack were stored away carefully in a room at an inn—César also had a stall there, waiting for him. Erik had only to get there, now, and slip up into his room without being noticed. He trusted that he would find his belongings there, trusted this because the men taking care of them had been paid handsomely—and there had been no shortage of threats, as to what would happen should the belongings not be there when Erik arrived. His threats had been somewhat less eloquent than he would have preferred; having not practiced English in so long, his use of it had deteriorated, and he did not have all the words at his beck and call that he would have preferred.

César nickered, and Erik looked up. Warm light spilled into the streets, along with the sounds of a few occupants; the clink of mugs, the scrape of chair legs on the floor, the too-loud laughter of those who had loitered too long in what seemed to be the inn's tavern portion. He led César past that, keeping his head ducked beneath the cowl of his cloak, and led him to the stables behind the inn. Sure enough, a large stall waited there for him; it was the size of a foaling stall, with more than enough space for the horse to lie down, pace, or otherwise make himself comfortable. It was also set off from the other stalls, as had been requested; a stallion had no place housed near other horses. Placing him near geldings would have been tempting Fate enough already. To risk having him placed near a mare would be... foolish, at best.

Erik coiled the horse's lead rope around a bridle hook next to the stall. He left the halter on; César could be ornery, sometimes, and Erik dared not risk having to draw attention to himself by arguing with the horse about putting his halter back on. He checked around the outside of the stall, searching for his things. As expected, César's harness and bridle had been stored away neatly, just where it belonged. The carriage, just as he had been promised, was parked in an out of the way corner of the stables.

With everything so immaculately cared for, he pushed aside his nagging concern, and turned his back on César's stall. Everything is fine, he told himself, a note of irritation ringing in the thought. The horse is fine, your belongings are fine—everything is fine.

"Sir?"

Erik nearly leapt out of his skin. With an angry whirl of his cloak, he turned to observe the tiny voice that had so rudely disturbed him.

The child did not shrink back from the dark man's rage, but instead widened both mouth and eyes, to peer upon him with something of a mix between shock and adoration.

"What?" Erik demanded. Too late, to attempt to cover the mask with a cunningly-arranged cowl; he would have to hope the child was just a beggar, and that his words would hold no true weight in the town.

The boy skittered forward, to peer at the man's face more closely. "Wow..." He spoke with the thick accent of a lower-class Brit; the strong, almost angry slurring of words that would be difficult to follow for someone who spoke English well; if the conversation became complicated, Erik knew for a fact he would be in an utterly hopeless situation. "What happened to your face?" the boy asked, with the sheer candidness of youth.

The left corner of Erik's lips curled upwards in something of a snarl, and he turned the right side of his face away from the child. "Not a matter for your concern," he replied simply.

"Well you're in my barn, so I'd say that makes it my concern." The child folded his arms on his chest, and moved around Erik to ensure that the man continued to look in his direction.

His singular visible eyebrow arched high on his forehead. The boy struck a chord; his declaration of ownership, when he quite obviously was far from such, struck a little too close to home. He shifted uncomfortably, and again attempted to fasten his gaze elsewhere. The boy merely followed that gaze, though, effortlessly positioning himself in its direct line.

"Well?"

He frowned. Impatient little urchin...

"See here, now. I'll just see to it that your horse doesn't get a bit o' dinner, and then we'll see how willin' you are to talk to us, how about that?"

One hand had the boy by the hair before the youth could even see it coming. "You'll see to it that no harm comes to that horse, if you are wise."

A look of concern crossed the boy's face, but he did not totally give in to the fear that must have been wrapping its icy fingers around his heart. "Ow!" he yelled, hands rising to clamp around the wrist of his assailant. "Lemme go, y' big oaf!"

Erik thrust him away, watching with no small amount of pleasure as the boy stumbled over his own feet and fell to the ground. He turned his back to the boy, and began fixing his cowl so that it would cast the half-mask into shadow. Because of this foolish err in judgment, he did not see the boy launch his little form onto Erik's large one. The shock of the impact, more than the force of it—the child could not have been more than eight or nine years—sent Erik to the ground, and the impact of that fall sent his mask tumbling to the earth.

One arm reached around behind him, its respective fingers wrapping around the boy's dirty shirt, and prying him from his perch. He clung like a monkey, but Erik had the upper hand, in that he was both stronger, and calmer. The boy was flung, as gently as possible, to the ground—in front of him, this time. His hand reached out to grope for the mask, but the urchin was already on his feet and scrambling for Erik again, all teeth and nails and pummeling fists. Already on his knees, Erik could not evade the child; instead, he blocked with one arm, while the other tried desperately to get a good hold on the boy.

"Nobody does Henri Goodings like that!" the boy yelled. "Nobody!"

Convenient, Erik found himself thinking, with something of a wry smile. For that is exactly who your assailant is, dear boy—nobody.

His hand finally found purchase, on the boy's collar; he used it to tug the boy in close, and locked him into something of a bear-hug, efficiently trapping him there. The boy writhed, trying desperately to escape Erik's grasp—and then, something more than writhing began to happen. The boy's body went rigid, and then began to spasm and convulse all over, with no clear goal in mind. Erik did his best to hold him still, to wait out the storm and protect the boy from the self-inflicted damage fits such as this could result in.

Or at least, so had Erik heard. He had not much experience with them, but he had seen a few—there had been a stagehand, once, that had them—and had read about them more than enough. When the boy finally went still, drooping like putty in Erik's arms, he allowed his muscles to relax.

He had not realized just how tight a hold he had kept on the boy, but now every muscle in his arms, back, and neck ached as if he had been indulging in difficult lifting work for several hours. With a resigned sigh, he lifted the mask from its hazardous position nearby. The hay scattered about the floor had cushioned its fall, and the boy had been polite enough to attack from a different side; in short, the mask was unharmed, though it was more than a little dirty. One edge of the cloak was used to clean it as best he could, before his hands pressed it into place on his face again.

Lucky, that the boy had been too preoccupied with anger to really notice the fateful unmasking.

Erik positioned the cowl carefully around his face, and then lifted the boy easily in his arms. He carried him to the main building of the inn, and carefully eased inside the common room. A few eyes lifted, but no one took much notice; the inn, while a good one, had been chosen for its unfortunate positioning in a rather seedy part of town. A "don't ask, don't tell" type of a place, or so Erik had been told.

He moved towards the innkeeper, who was positioned behind a worn bar. Erik cleared his throat, and the man glanced up from his newspaper. A frown creased his already rotund features, and he set the paper down in favor of crossing his arms. "What you doin' wif that boy?" he asked, obviously somewhat displeased.

So much for the 'don't tell' part. "He.. fainted." What had the name been..? Ah, yes. "I have a room, reserved for a Monsieur John Parkins?"

The innkeeper said no more, merely nodded and gestured towards a shabby set of stairs to the right. "At the very end. Biggest room we had, sir."

Erik nodded once, murmured a thanks, and shifted the boy's weight in his arms. As an afterthought, he added, "Supper would be nice. In my room. Enough for two."

The man's frown deepened, but he nodded to Erik's request, and moved off to see to it. Somewhat satisfied, he turned to conquer the imminent trip up the stairs. It was not as difficult as he had expected; he had underestimated his endurance after all, it seemed. When his room was gained, entered, and locked securely, he set the boy down at last—on the bed, of course. Though, I don't know that you could call it a bed, he thought, with no small amount of irritation. It was a tiny thing; there was no way that Erik would be able to sleep comfortably on it. Too short, too narrow, and too... Well. He did not know of another "too", but he was sure there was one.

"Mmf."

The boy was coming around. Erik moved farther to one corner of the room, quickly removing the cowl and allowing his face to be touched by the light once more.

The boy—Henri, he'd called himself—slowly sat up, big round eyes looking around questioningly. When he found the shape of the man, his jaw dropped open. "You didn't kill me?"

A sharp burst of laughter followed that ridiculous question. "Quite obviously, no. You had a... a fit. I thought it would be best if I brought you somewhere more comfortable than that barn." He paused, and smiled. "That, and I am no longer comfortable trusting you with my horse."

The boy watched him warily, as he eased out of the bed. One quick glance was spared for the door. "Are you always this kind to those who attack you, sir?"

Erik considered those words for a moment, and felt a wave of sorrow spill into his stomach. It was a question that was almost too personal. Of course, Christine had never attacked him, not the way that Henri meant, but... He shook his head, to clear his head of the foolish thoughts, but Henri took it as an answer.

"Oh." Silence yawned like a gaping maw, beckoning them to fall into its awkward entrapment. Erik was more than willing, but Henri fought it valiantly. "So.. What happened to your face?"

Erik migrated to a chair, set up near the window of the tiny room. His eyes drifted, until they had located the presence of the trunk in one corner, and the sack neatly set atop it. Good. Good, good, good. He had experienced enough betrayal to carry him over for a lifetime; he needed no more insult to be added to the injuries of his soul. He avoided Henri's question on purpose, instead making the quiet suggestion of, "Perhaps you should go down to the kitchens, and inquire after our supper."

The promise of supper was enough to distract the boy, who immediately unbarred the room's door and bounded off down the corridor. Erik raised a hand to trace his fingers across the morbid porcelain, and shut his eyes in a pained expression. Random selections of notes constantly flowed through his mind, bits and pieces of every opera he had ever heard, all combining into one horrifying medley. Part of him rejoiced in the loud, demanding presence of the music; another part of him mourned that only music previously heard could repeat itself in his mind, now; no longer did his mind formulate a pattering of notes for every sensation.

When the music ends, does my life then end as well?

"Sir?"

Erik started out of his miniature reverie, to find Henri standing uncertainly in the doorway, clutching a large tray of food. Two barmaids were staggering along behind him, with a table clutched between them. A third followed, with two chairs. Erik quickly turned his head to face out the window, and kept it there, until the maids had left. He heard the quiet thump of the tray being set down, and when he turned back to the room, Henri was setting each dish out and placing it as perfectly as if he had been trained for such a thing.

Curiosity piqued, Erik rose and moved to the table. He removed his cloak and took his seat, one elegant hand lifting the awkward silverware—though something told him silver was too flattering a term—and holding it, poised, above the dish of.. something. A stew, perhaps? Bread, cool and of poor quality, accompanied this bizarre dish, as did a block of cheese that looked none too fresh. He waited patiently for Henri to take his seat, and then began to apprehensively test the .. stew. It was not terrible, though neither was it something he would have requested a second serving of.

Henri did not seem to have the same pickiness of palate that Erik had; he had very nearly devoured his entire serving before Erik had even taken his fifth spoonful. Without a second glance at his host, the boy snatched up the bread, and practically crammed the whole thing into his mouth. The infamous left eyebrow was on the rise again, very nearly threatening to vanish into the crisp black hairline. When Henri extended his grubby hand towards the cheese, Erik leaned back, hands folding atop his abdomen. It was an interesting spectator-sport, observing the boy; he felt as if he should have been placing bets. When would the boy stop? Would he go after Erik's "stew" as well?

The cheese was quite totally gone. Erik was not completely sure that it was wise to allow the boy to eat so much, so quickly. Could not a man become ill, that way? He assumed the same laws would apply to a child.

When Henri had finished sucking his fingers clean of the remnants of cheese—and, Erik noticed with slight disgust, some of the filth as well—he looked unsure of what to do with himself. With one hand, Erik lifted his own bowl and held it towards Henri. There was almost no pause to speak of between the offer and the acceptance; almost immediately, the bowl was taken and drained of its contents.

"Hungry, are we?" Erik asked mildly.

Henri, still in the act of wiping his mouth with the collar of his shirt, suddenly flushed a bright scarlet. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean t—"

"It's quite alright, Henri," Erik assured him. The boy's name sounded much more elegant, when spoken with Erik's vibrant French accent.

The boy, still blushing, gave a slight nod. Without further ado, he stood and began to pile the cutlery back onto a tray. As he was walking towards the door, he paused, and turned back to face Erik. "Does the master care for more supper?"

Master...? "No, thank you. That taste of the inn's hospitality was quite enough." Erik dipped his head in a slight nod to the boy, who immediately slipped free of the room's confines, presumably to return the dishes to the kitchens.

A nice boy. Where did he acquire such impeccable manners—and why does he not make more use of them?

Erik stood, and walked to the window. He looked down on the city street, at the snow still gently falling. It would be spring, soon; already, the snow had lost its vigor, and now seemed to fall more for the sake of falling than anything else. In a way, Erik was glad for the changing of seasons. It would do him good, he supposed, to finally relinquish that fateful winter. Still, it seemed a shame, to finally admit defeat, and move forever into the loneliness of a new season. Letting go of winter was letting go of the dream of being loved—letting go of winter was letting go of Christine. Accepting the progression of the seasons was accepting that he would go on being the same way he had always been: alone.

Still, accept it or not, Erik knew it would happen; all his pain, all his sorrow, all his misery would not change the fact that the years continued to progress. For all the love that was in his heart—and the hatred, as well—it was not enough to stop time, and certainly not enough to rewind it, as much as he may have desired to do so.

"Oh, to rewind... If only I could go back to the times before..." He shook his head. So many things he would have done differently. So many other things he would try, so many things he would say differently. He would like to think he would not, in that alternate repetition of reality, exploit the "angel angle", but he could not have sworn to it.

"Before what, sir?" came the meek voice behind him. Erik tensed, but did not show any other sign of having been taken by surprise. At the opera house, he had never been so dull in his senses. Was it the unfamiliar surroundings, or had Christine's rejection and subsequent desertion really taken such a high toll?

"Before.. your face?"

Erik turned his head to the left, allowing his good eye to look across the room at the young boy who stood there, head ducked but eyes defiantly fastened onto Erik's, hands clasped tightly in front of him. Erik was considering how to answer him, but the boy interrupted his thoughts. "Forgive me, sir," he said quickly, moving to push the table and the pair of chairs off into a corner of the room, where they would be out of the way. "It.. was not my place to ask, sir."

That golden gaze was returned to the city streets, but it looked upon them with unseeing eyes. "You speak with such manners, when you think yourself to be in trouble." He paused for a moment. "Tell me, Henri, who taught you to speak thus?"

"My mam, sir," he replied sulkily. "She was a servant, for a duke. A good one, too, sir—perhaps too good."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "How so?"

"The duke took a fancy to her, sir, and she allowed him to indulge himself, because it weren't her place to turn him away." Erik winced at the boy's sometimes off-color grammar, but kept his comments to himself. No point in frightening the boy into a shell. "I came out o' that match, sir. I'd have a home there, too, if Mam hadn't have been so secretive about it. Wouldn't even tell the other servants who I come from. They all figured it were the baker, sir, or the butcher. Mam was always real friendly with people, sir, and the other servants thought that maybe she were a bit too friendly, if you catch my drift." The boy turned away from Erik. "The fits, sir. They didn't like the fits. When Mam died, the master said he couldn't have no boy with fits, that it wouldn't suit, so he had me thrown out."

"And you've been living on the streets, ever since?" Erik guessed; Henri's windowpane reflection nodded.

"Ah... How old are you, Henri?"

"Fifteen, sir."

Shock wrapped her fuzzy-numb fingers around Erik's innards. He had imagined the boy to be young, far younger than that. Henri seemed to realize this, and chuckled. "It is something of an anomaly, sir; I appear much younger than I am. It is as if my body reached a point it was happy with, and then.. just.." The boy shrugged. "Stopped."

A long silence stretched, then; neither of them had anything easy to say, and even the difficult things seemed trivial. It was a good silence, a comfortable silence.

But of course, as Erik knew—better than anyone in the world, Erik knew—all good things must come to an end, and this one proved to be no different. "You should stay with me, Henri."

The boy turned to look at Erik's back, brows knit in confusion. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, stay with me." He hated to use the word, but... "Serve me."

As soon as he had said it, he knew it had been as ill-chosen a term as he had thought it to be—Henri visibly bristled. "I'm not a poor, blind servant, like my Mam, sir. I'll not—"

"I do not mean to press you into slavery, Henri. I need.. someone I can depend upon. The arrangement would be quite simple." He still did not turn to look at the boy; some things were just more easily said while free of eye contact. "You would be fed to your pleasure, sheltered, clothed, and educated. Your every need, and most of your desires, would be met; anything that I could give you would be yours for the asking."

He could see the boy considering it; slowly, warily, the boy asked, "In exchange for what, exactly?"

"Unquestioning loyalty."

It was a lot to ask, but Erik had never believed in dancing around the subject, and that was exactly what he needed from the boy. He needed a man who would stand by him, who would do as he was asked, when he was asked, without doubt.

Seeing that the boy was still suspicious, Erik turned towards him. "As I'm quite sure you can imagine, Henri, I have a very.. interesting.. affliction. I cannot move in the world as most men can; I must stay hidden away." To point to the mask was unnecessary; Henri had already fastened his hungry eyes onto the porcelain surface. "I need a man who can be my eyes, my hands. I need a man who can accomplish the things that I want accomplished." He lowered his head, intensifying a gaze that could already lead men to tremble. Henri met it squarely. "I need you, Henri, as much as you need me."

The boy watched him for a long time, before nodding, and extending a hand towards Erik. "It would be my pleasure to serve you, Master."

Erik took the hand, and gave it a firm pump. "Please, Henri. My name is Erik."

Henri sat up in the bed, eyes searching the gloom for his new friend. The dark shadow was difficult to locate, but those inquisitive, sea-green eyes eventually happened upon him—there, dozing in the chair by the window. He was moving some, but from the soft keening sounds he emitted, Henri hazarded that it was a dream, and nothing more. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and quietly padded over to where his master slept. He had not wanted to take the bed, but Erik had insisted.

And, quite frankly, Henri did not have the willpower to argue the point very far.

It was on this fateful night that Henri first heard the name that would haunt the pair's years to come, that would plague him quite as surely as it plagued his master. As he moved closer to Erik's huddled form, the ghastly, skeletal half-mask gleaming in the light from the window, he saw that Erik's lips were moving. He leaned closer, bracing one hand on the window sill.

"Christine..."

Henri straightened, looking at the man again. Who was Christine? Certainly, he had no wife. Henri also assumed he had no offspring; he seemed far too alone, for such everyday things as this. An unrequited love, then? It was plausible that he, a man with a deformity dire enough that a flame leapt in his eyes whenever it was mentioned, would certainly have loved, and not been loved in return.

"Christine!"

Henri started, clenching his arms to himself and watching the man cagily. He had seen the faintest whisper of the man's temper, and never wished to see it full-blown; if he awoke from such a nightmare, and found that he was being watched, would it drive him to anger?

Erik twisted suddenly, bumping the right side of his face against his shoulder. The mask wobbled, and slowly dripped away from his face; it was not long until it was plummeting to the ground. Quick as lightning, Henri caught the object between his fingers, and set it on the window sill. Unable to stop himself, he looked to the man's face. With it turned so awkwardly, he could see only a dim line where healthy flesh was wrinkled... Erik's head twisted again, as if trying to escape some terrible sight. This time, it turned the right side of his face full into the light from the window.

Henri staggered back, one hand covering his heart. The flesh of a corpse! It was papery skin, of a yellow-brown tint. The man had no right nostril. Just above his lips, the flesh eased back into that of a healthy man; it explained why the man always appeared to be holding his lips in a strange expression. The skin beneath his eye was drooped, and his eyebrow was nothing more than an oddly shaped hunk of flesh. The skin looked not only decayed, but also as if it had melted, like that of a doll held too long before a flame. With a shuddering breath, Henri turned his head away from the sight.

Unrequited love was beginning to look like an explanation that was far more than plausible.

Shakily, Henri returned to the bed, and slid beneath the coverlets. When he shut his eyes, he could not rid himself of that face, but it was not pondered with just horror. It was pondered, also, with great amounts of affectionate pity. Henri had been thought odd, had been shunned by his friends, for the fits and the stunted growth. The marks of demons, they had said; they claimed the fits were his possessing demons showing through the façade of human skin. He could not imagine, even having that to base things on, what Erik must have gone through. He looked as if he could have been a demon. Had even his mother loved that face? Had she kissed its gruesome cheek? Or had she treated him the same way that all of society must have—as a terrible beast, to be avoided at all costs?

The final thought that drifted through his mind, before he drifted into sleep, was one that would define his relationship with his Master for the rest of their time together.

You had better not have hurt him, Christine.

Hot lips pressed to cold skin. His body covered hers, and blankets covered his; still, she was cold. Hands roamed, touching, caressing, heating. So long, he had awaited this chance to explore her body, with mouth, hands, and eyes. So long, he had dreamt of this day's coming, and always he had believed it would never come true.

"Christine," he breathed; he could feel his own hot breath against her neck, but her own body was still cold. Had she fallen into the water again? He couldn't recall, but the bed did feel wet...

One hand slid from breast to hip, moving along her abdomen. It felt.. wrong. He lifted his torso, trying to see it without removing himself from her completely. Her body looked powdery; her stomach was warped and bruised. He touched it; a broken rib moved beneath his hand.

Immediately, he was out of her and off of her and kneeling beside her. She was cold... Her hair was matted, but not with water. Blood. He scrambled from the bed. Her blood was everywhere; he was covered in it. Her blank eyes stared towards the ceiling, and the Punjab was around her neck. Flashes of memory clouded his vision. A man; he had beaten her, for.. talking to the man? For running away with him! The man... He turned, to find what he feared: the viscount's body, propped—posed—in a chair, eyes turned to watch the goings-on of the bed.

Erik staggered backwards, one hand pressing against his mouth. Had he...?

More flashes. Throwing her down, kicking her. Her head had slammed against the stone floor. She had crawled to him, hugging his ankles and begging forgiveness with a slurred voice. And he'd strangled her.

And he had liked it.

He stumbled against the wall, breaths coming raggedly, head spinning.

"What have I done?" he wailed.

Her head turned to look at him, neck cracking; it was bent at an odd angle. In a voice ruined by death, the demonic dead thing snarled, in mocking tones:

"To hell with you, angel!"

Erik woke up so quickly that he fell from the chair. Still breathing hysterically, he barely managed to thrust the window open and stick his head out before he began retching. It was naught but acidic phlegm that was thrust up his throat—the stuff provided by the body when one had not eaten, but when the body demanded to vomit nonetheless.

He spat, several times, trying desperately to rid his mouth of the taste, to rid his mind of the horrible dream. He could hear Henri's quiet snoring; the sound soothed him. He had not harmed his little songbird; she was far away from here, with her lover...

At that thought, he could not help but turn, to assure himself that there was no nobleman's corpse positioned in the corner, watching his every move.

So, what do you think? Was the dream a little too much? I like it, but.. I don't know. Is it too...?

Hm, I don't know what I'm trying to say, but feedback is definitely required for this one. Whether the dream-sequence stays or goes will hinge on the opinions of my readers.