A/N: This is a weird chapter. Sorry in advance if you don't like it.

Modesty: Just read your update, will probably review tomorrow! Thank you.

Amber: I hope you're feeling better and that it is nothing serious. Thanks for the great review.

Ahomelesspirate: Thank you as always for your wonderful reviews! I think Christine would watch Erik sleep… I know I would!

Countess Alana: Thank you for your review, I hope you stick with this and have patience, I am trying to make a slower build than my last fic. I'm not sure how it will work though…

Erikmylove: Did I thank you already? Thank you anyway!

'I'll paint a sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we'll never part
That's the colour of my love

I'll paint the truth
Show how I feel
Try to make you completely real
I'll use a brush so light and fine
To draw you close and make you mine.' – Celine Dion.

Chapter 30- Colour of Erik

The morning was cold but bright, the sun casting long shadows across the landscape made for beautiful viewing and for a moment Christine felt almost at home. Erik had been up and down the stairs, the occasional word had past quickly between them when he was there and when he wasn't she slowly plodded through reading his books. There was not much else to do if he wouldn't let her out of the house.

Still, she didn't feel like a prisoner and deep down, through her isolation, she appreciated his efforts in regard to her safety. At least he cared enough to want her safe.

It had been a few days since the incident at the top of the stairs and somehow, though she didn't quite know how, she had managed to not say his name. As she gazed out of the window and the ever brightening sun she imagined a paint brush in her hand and a canvas in front of her. She almost felt the texture of the paint as she thought about mixing it and gently flicking it to the paper. But then suddenly her mind drifted back to Erik.

How would she paint Erik?

She would simply paint Erik as colours. Not as a man or even a ghost, she would cover the canvas in an array of colours. The colours that she thought of when she saw him. She would paint a base of yellow, so bright and vibrant, so full of life and happiness. She would paint yellow because she remembered how it felt when he sang to her. She felt like yellow when he sang to her.

Then she would splash orange on the yellow, deep glowing orange like the sunset. The sun set which equalled his favourite time of day and his most wonderful mood. The one where he felt free and full of spirit, when he knew that he was the master in charge of his own destiny.

Then, she would mix a deep red. No, not a deep red. She would mix a vivid red, a scarlet red. The red that she saw engrossing him when his temper flared and his anger crushed all that was around him. She hated the red in him but she was aware of it, she saw it often, she knew it was there. The red should take a good part of the canvas, she thought.

And then she would make a blue. The blue would also be strong, like him, like his arms and his body and his soul. Blue was the strongest colour she knew and it represented the man he was, the man he could be, the man he should be. But what blue also represented was the feeling in his own heart, that cold senseless feeling about love and life, the depression that overwhelmed him once. Blue was so many things in Erik.

She frowned at the canvas in her mind.

Then she would take her brush and paint over the whole thing in black.

Black.

Black was the strength, black was his heart, black was his feelings and emotions, black was his music- powerful, true. Black was his hand on the noose around Raoul's neck, black was his kiss when she felt his lips. Black was his goodness, his badness, his everything. Black for the dawn, black for the dusk, black for his face and his muscles and his smile. Black was his love for her, so dark yet so strong. Black was the look on his face as she disappointed him and black was the look he wore when she didn't. Black was his history, black as his future, black was his all. Black was his command and black was his weakness. Black was that feeling when he touched her. Black was the feeling when he didn't. Black as the room he walked in, black was the house he lived in. Black was the caress on her back when she walked through a room, black was his protection, was her protection.

As black as a ghost, as black as a man.

Black was his day and night and everything he was. Black encompassed him and black was all he needed.

Black was good on him, she thought.