Author's Note:

My (brief and limited) return: I had time over Christmas and decided to see if I couldn't finish these up at least a little for you. Call it a late Christmas present, one that I hope you enjoy thoroughly. This is the end of Voice, posted in two parts.

If I hadn't mentioned it earlier, this Gerik belongs entirely to AWL, Joel S., and Gerry Butler—who, I think, understands Erik a lot more than we may realize.

Also kudos to Leroux and Kay for Erik's home, because (other than the candles) I am not a fan of the movie/play "lair" that is, in effect, a strange swan bed and an organ put on the shore of a lake. And Erik always uses a Punjab lasso in my stories, not a piece of rope(!).

Can you tell, as much as I love it, that I have issues with a few of the movie's details?

Thanks go to all those who have so graciously supported me in my decision to quit fanfiction and to you, the reviewers and readers, because you're awesome!

I responded to the longer reviews below, but general thanks—you guys truly do make writing so much easier, a hundred thankyous!—go to:

satinzevi89, grotto1, PhantomLover05, Pertie, blahblahblah27, onelastchance, Anacari, Angel or Demon, and miffster. Merci!

Computerfreak101: This one is for you. Thank you for your review; it gave me the push I needed to get the last little bits of this chapter written. Merci! I'm glad that you enjoyed this story so far. Since I am finishing the stories, I think I will leave them up as being complete, but thank you for the suggestion. And again, thank you so much for your praise; it's good to know that others like my writing. Thanks!

ChristinO: Sorry I couldn't look at the wallpaper! As for the eyes . . . I can't remember what I wrote grin This is the Gerik, so he has whatever eye color Gerry does—blue-gray, you say? It looked hazel to me, but okay. Thanks so much for reading!

phantomlovin4ever: Steph, thanks for the ideas and, as ever, for reading and reviewing. You've been great! (oh, I know, I HATE that part of the movie too! Why did they put that in? Grrr!)

angelmuse: My dear, you're going to make my head swell! What happened to your emails? I hope life didn't get too busy for you! (but then . . . maybe it was my turn to write. Oops! Sorry!). Yes, this Erik is quite possibly my darkest . . . and yet, I love him dearly. Darkness is part of his appeal, after all. And this is undoubtedly, in my opinion, my strongest/darkest Christine . . . he changed her, after all, for better or for worse; she is never going to be 'just Christine' ever again. Part of him will always be singing in her head. Thank you so much, m'dear, for your constant encouragement and help! Your praise means a great deal to me, because I know how much you mean it. Thank you so much! May a certain masked man always haunt your dreams . . .

seven-coloured-flower: Thanks for reading! I agree with you completely about Raoul OOC stories; unless Raoul's falling is done well (and there are a few of these out there), I don't really care for them (unless they're just plain entertaining; in that case, I just suspend disbelief). And thank you for comparing this Erik to Kay's! Kay!Erik is my favorite and is where a lot of my personal ideas about Erik stem from, so I guess that's where the similarity begins. Thank you! Cool username, btw; may I ask where it is from?

Terpsichore314: Thanks for the suggestions! Heh, I actually decided to keep them in the cellar . . . I can see Christine seeing it as a very sheltering place, somewhere she would not want to leave, and of course Erik is helpless against her wishes. And thanks for reminding me that I needed to tie back to the title; merci!

Lady Skywalker: Thanks for the suggestions! Thank you for understanding and being supportive. If I was leaving this unfinished, I might eventually have taken it down as you suggested, but I think it is finished now, so I believe that I will leave it up as a completed story. Thank you for reviewing!

Roselight Writer: Thank you! I'm glad that even an RC shipper has enjoyed this so far. Merci!

And now . . . I give you the part one of two of the finale to A Voice without a Soul.

Christine

I awoke comfortable and safe and alone. The door clicked shut as I sat up; next to me on the bed, Erik had left a hollowed-out place that was still warm. I groaned as I realized my dark Angel must have noticed me regaining consciousness and fled.

Biting my tongue to hold back a sampling of the words I occasionally heard Erik mutter under his breath, I swiftly stood and pulled on a light, lacy robe over my nightgown as I rushed to the door.

Locked.

"Erik!" Frustration sharpened my tone; I furiously bruised my fist against the offending door. Silence was my only answer.

I had been leaning dejectedly against the cool wood for nearly ten minutes when the door gave way. Startled, I stumbled forward, and only Erik's quick reflexes saved me from becoming an ungainly pile at his feet. "Christine?" he asked worriedly, holding me up by my elbows. His mask gave me a baleful stare; from his gleaming hair to his formal dress, Erik had turned his appearance from the gentle, human man who had spent the night at my side back into the Phantom I knew all too well. Behind the mask, his eyes were peering at me in shadowed concern.

If it had not been Erik holding me, I would have jerked away angrily. His fear-bred desire to hide upset me; it stung. But it was Erik with me, and I had realized last night as he held me that I would have to be very careful to not withdraw from him in anger or pain. My beloved had seen far too much of rejection in his life; it was up to me to teach him that I would not spurn him again. It would be a long and probably painful process, and it meant that I had to watch my actions much more carefully than most women in love, but I knew success would be worth every time I bit my tongue and, as now, stepped closer to him instead of drawing away.

"Erik," I murmured softly, and leaned up to lightly press a kiss to his cheek. I felt him sigh, unnamed tension flowing away from his shoulders as he pulled me close.

"I am sorry if I frightened you," Erik answered in a quiet voice, nodding slightly at my door.

Only when he had brought the subject up did I allow myself to gently touch his mask, and in the most tender tone I could manage, ask, "I thought we took the walls down last night, Erik."

Despite my efforts to disguise it, he turned a wry gaze down at me. "You're angry."

I considered that for a moment, my eyes fixed on his. Laying my head against his broad chest, I sighed and opted for honesty. He always knew when I tried to lie. "It hurt." Feeling annoyingly similar to a parrot, I repeated my concern from last night in a low voice. "It felt like you didn't trust me."

"Christine—" Erik paused to gently take my face in his long hands, forcing me to look up at him. "The mask is part of who I am." He seemed to bite back another comment; a wicked look passed across his features, and for no reason at all I felt warmth rising in my face. "Compare it," he said instead, "to Madame Giry going somewhere without her cane. Utterly out of character."

Curious despite my blush, I tilted my head to one side. "What were you about to say?"

This amused him greatly, if his decidedly heated smile was any indication. "Nothing your innocent ears need hear."

I hid, pressing my face into his shoulder and listening to his deep chuckle. Attempting to return to our original subject, I protested, "But you weren't going anywhere. You were here, at home, with me." Shy in the face of the playful mood he was in, I mumbled "I don't like it when you leave me," knowing his keen hearing would pick up the words.

I barely heard the quiet tap of the mask being set on a nearby shelf before Erik lifted my chin and warmly melded his mouth to mine. Words were ineloquent compared to the sweet fire of his kiss, both his gentleness and his passion assuring me of his love and understanding. And I had thought that, in leaving me that morning, he was the one in need of reassurance . . .

Pulling back just far enough to study my gaze, Erik raised his good eyebrow at me. I smiled in response, and was rewarded with a sight I had seen too rarely: Erik's beautiful mouth widening in a grin that held only happiness in place of his usual mocking cruelty or light sarcasm.

"Please don't lock me in my room again," I requested, stroking his scarred right cheek with my thumb.

He flicked a mischievous glance between me and the doorway open behind me; I berated myself for giving him inspiration even as I locked my arms tightly around his neck. "You wouldn't, Erik!"

Erik

"Oh, wouldn't I?" I teased, swinging her up into my arms and turning towards the kitchen. Absentmindedly, I replaced my mask. It was considerate of her, to cling so firmly to me; Christine was too light to be a burden, but her tight grasp did make carrying her easier.

Then again, her grip probably grew more from a desire to avoid becoming a prisoner in her chambers than from any consideration for me carrying her.

Settling Christine onto the table, I turned away from her to search through the cupboards. Not for food, however; when I faced her again, I had retrieved a small jar of bruise salve.

Tenderly, my eyes never leaving hers, I took her hand and turned it over to expose the purple marks I had left on her wrist. Christine flinched a little, when I began to lightly rub the salve onto her skin; I froze and watched her steadily, hoping that my eyes were telling her how much hurting her hurt me. She covered my hand on her arm with her own. "I'm sorry," Christine whispered. "Keep going."

I pulled away from her, turning to lean heavily against the counter. Without looking, I knew she winced at my sharp, bitter laugh. "You are sorry." I repeated disbelievingly.

Her bare feet made no noise as she slipped off the table, but I felt her warmth as she wrapped her uninjured arm around my waist and settled herself against my back. We stayed motionless for a few moments; then, my sweet young girl apparently decided that wasn't enough. Wiggling closer, Christine insinuated herself between me and the counter until she was contentedly curled up against my chest. Wrapping my arms around her, I sighed into her hair. "We have a long road ahead, don't we?" I asked softly.

Christine leaned up to nuzzle her nose against mine—or at least, the side of mine that was skin instead of porcelain. I had to smile; the tip of her delicate nose was ice cold. "Yes," Christine agreed, her lips brushing mine as she spoke. "But can't you see how far we've come since yesterday?"

Mmm. Yesterday. Yesterday, when we still hadn't admitted our emotions to each other, yesterday when we had fought, when she had chosen to stay . . . yes, we had made progress since she had questioned my entirely honorable intentions yesterday morning.

Well. Mostly honorable.

I glanced down at her and realized her pale skin had once more gained a faint red cast; she wouldn't quite meet my eyes. "Yes?" I asked, amused.

"Nothing," Christine replied too quickly, and I grinned. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who remembered how I had—albeit cruelly—teased her that past morning.

Turning us, I disentangled one arm from Christine's waist in order to reach the little pot of salve. She lifted her wrist, and again I began to gently rub the mixture onto her bruises, doing my best to ignore her wince. I finished as quickly as possible and leaned down to kiss her palm. "Better?" I murmured against her warm, soft skin.

"Yes, thank you," she answered, smiling up at me. Our eyes met and held; I immediately became aware, as I hadn't before, that Christine was wearing only a thin nightgown and robe. My traitorous gaze must have alerted her to the tenor of my thoughts, for she ducked her head to escape.

"Christine," I murmured, making my voice low and warm. Apprehension struggled against desire in her features as she lifted her head again to meet my stare. I grinned. "It might be best if you dressed, my dear, while I see if there is anything in this house passably edible."

"Oh. Yes." was Christine's only reply. Still blushing faintly, she quickly left in the direction of her room.

Christine

Scoundrel.

He was an utterly unrepentant scoundrel . . . and I loved it. The sparks in his eyes as he said my name had made shivers course down my skin.

When I returned to the kitchen, fully—even prudishly—dressed, Erik was sitting at the table picking at a piece of toast, his thoughts quite obviously elsewhere. I sat down next to him and reached for an orange, my eyes never leaving his face. When he didn't immediately respond, I smiled and contented myself with merely watching him. Erik had removed his jacket and shoes; I hadn't the faintest idea why he had even put them on in the first place. He sat barefoot in his beloved black trousers and a dress shirt exactly as pure a white as his mask. With his hair slicked back and his sleeves pushed up, he had a homey appeal that made me catch my breath; the mask added an air of reserved mystery to him, but even without it I realized I would have found him incredibly . . . attractive. Scarred, yes, badly . . . but there was no denying either the appeal of his forceful personality or the unmarked half of his face.

In the midst of my unabashed gawking, his gaze flicked to mine. The look of adoration on my face seemed to confuse him; therefore, he ignored it. "Christine," my beloved spoke slowly, "I wonder if you have . . . entirely thought this through."

I didn't like the stoic cast to his features.

Following his gaze, I glanced at the black-stoned ring adorning my wedding finger. The ring had become so much a part of me in the last two days that I had almost forgotten I was wearing it.

"No," I said simply. Erik raised his eyes to mine in question. "You don't get to back out, Erik. You asked me to marry you, and while it was a little belated, I accepted."

"I don't recall asking you," he retorted.

He was becoming entirely too ingrained into my personality; I could feel a twisted smile lifting the corners of my mouth. "Start a new life with me, buy his freedom with your love. Refuse me and you send your lover to his death. This is the choice; this is the point of no return!" I quoted at him. Erik scowled at me ferociously; I refused to acknowledge it. "'Start a new life with me' seems pretty clear, and you did put me into a wedding dress, if my memory is correct."

His icy glare was burning into my eyes; the arms folded across his chest indicated his stubborn refusal to see my point. Softening my voice, I added, "Anywhere you go, let me go too . . ." and reached out to lay my hand against his arm.

"Christine," Erik growled. We stared at each other; after a moment, he sighed and gently took my hand. "Christine, please. I'm trying to be—to do what is right."

Hearing what he hadn't said, I stood and closed the distance between us, settling into his lap. "You are good."

He glanced at me, a teasing smile briefly playing across his lips. "A task," Erik continued, "that you are constantly making difficult." His hand trailed lightly up my back, chasing shivers along my spine and making me smile sheepishly for a moment before refocusing on our discussion.

"Erik, why are you worried?" I looked down at him and gently ran my fingers along his cheek. "I trust you. I love you. I want to marry you. And I know," I added dryly, "that you want to marry me."

He had the grace to blush. Laughing softly, I kissed his forehead; Erik sighed and buried the unmasked half of his face into my neck, his arms holding me close. "Have you thought about it, Christine? Where we'll live, how we'll live?"

"Here, and very happily."

"You were not meant to live in a dank hole under an opera-house with a madman, Christine."

I shook him lightly. "You are not mad. And I love this house. I can keep my contract easily enough—the managers don't care what I do, as long as I sing for them."

"They should be grateful for the opportunity to have your voice gracing their otherwise talentless stage," Erik replied shortly.

Smiling at his defense of my voice—which was, after all, at least half his creation—I disagreed. "My voice caused them unending troubles. I was surprised that they still wanted me back."

The left side of his face still nuzzling my neck, Erik cast a flat look at me from his right eye. Since all I could see was the menacing white mask, his exasperated gaze was uniquely threatening. Undoubtedly, he knew this and was using it to his advantage, but I was powerless to entirely shake off the effect. "You misspoke, dear one. You meant to say, of course, that I caused them unending troubles."

I was silent. It was so easy to forget how little I knew of the man holding me; unbidden, Joseph Buquet's lecherous face came into my mind, twisted almost beyond recognition by the throes of his death.

"Christine."

Erik's voice pulled me from the horrifying image in my mind; he had drawn back from me, his even stare telling me that he knew exactly where my thoughts had been. The dual halves of his face seemed, in that moment, to reflect the dual sides of his nature; one cold and imperious, the brilliant, dangerous control of his mask against the equally dangerous darkness of his fierce and passionate soul. His eyes caught and held mine; trembling, I was unable to look away. I saw fire and sorrow in that brutal gaze.

They seared me.

He seared me.

Erik imprisoned me just long enough that we both knew I could not have broken away, and then wearily closed his eyes to release me.

I think he expected me to run from him.

He had not yet realized that the time for me to flee was long past. I had tried it once, and that solution had only caused us pain.

Erik

When she didn't pull back, I sighed. "So much for being good," I muttered caustically.

"Don't, Erik. Please."

I wondered what she had been thinking of—the grand tragedy of the "fallen" chandelier, or the more intimate sorrow of Buquet and Piangi's deaths?

Of course, the chandelier couldn't really be called a tragedy, as the thing was monstrous and deserved to shatter . . .

Regardless, I knew Christine well enough to guess that the single murders, the calculated deaths of men she had known, hit her far harder than the dubious misfortune of the chandelier. Never mind that Buquet had been a drunken menace to every girl in the dormitory or that Piangi had never treated her with anything less than disdain; Christine mourned them just the same.

I forced my voice to be as soft and gentle as I could make it, wrestling with my self-control to banish any hint of menace from my tone or the lines of my face; I even laid aside my mask. Reaching out to stroke her cheek—oh-so-lightly, the faintest of touches—I met her eyes and murmured, "Christine, you do know that you can ask me anything? I will not be angry with you."

She did not, to my surprise, ask the question I could feel lying between us—why—but instead did me the courtesy of first, so nearly silent that I almost didn't hear it, questioning whether or not I actually committed the crimes I was accused of. My girl—my brave, brave Angel—glanced away for a moment, but her eyes steadily returned to mine when she asked, "Did you kill them, Erik?"

We both knew the answer, of course. I closed my eyes to escape the battered hope in her gaze, then forced myself to open them and simply reply, "Yes."

Christine

I had known. Of course I had. I had always known, from the moment I saw Joseph Buquet swing down to the stage, who killed him. I had seen that thin, deadly lasso in Erik's home, and knew it was so curious a piece of workmanship that no other person in the Opera House could possibly possess one. I even saw Erik wield that lasso against Raoul, the night of Don Juan, after he had used it to kill Piangi; logically, I shouldn't have needed to ask.

Still, I had allowed myself to hope that, somehow, the man I loved was not responsible for those deaths.

"Oh, Erik," I whispered brokenly, laying my hand against the distorted skin of his right cheek. "Oh, Erik." His eyes were watching me, haunted, but I knew that he was only sorrowing for the pain his actions had caused me. Did he even feel regret for the actions themselves?

I started to ask 'why', but my vocal cords wouldn't obey me; instead of shaping words, my mouth trembled and my voice came out in a pitiful whimper. My vision blurred as enormous, painful teardrops filled my eyes, and I began to shake as the first hot beads of water flowed down my cheeks.

Erik

I watched, helpless, as tears ran from Christine's eyes; bitterly, I knew that it was not my place to comfort this grief. My poor Christine . . . she had wanted an angel to share heaven with, but all I could offer her was my inner demon, damned before we met for my crimes against the human race.

She sagged against me, her sobs coming harder now, and despite knowing my own unworthiness I wrapped my arms tightly around her. Comfort she needed, and I was all the comfort to be had. "Christine, please don't cry," I begged quietly, kissing her forehead.

Tears began to form in my own eyes as she wept; how I hated that my actions had hurt her!

I leaned my forehead against hers, my tears dropping to her cheeks. We seemed bound together, neither able to move as Christine mourned my soul and I grieved for her pain, until I broke the tableau by pressing my lips to her forehead again. I began to desperately cover her face with kisses, all the while repeating a stream of entreaties. "I'm sorry, Christine, please don't cry. Please, mon ange, stop crying. Christine, I'm sorry, Christine, please . . . "

Her breath hitched as I briefly touched my lips to hers, and I immediately pulled away. I had gotten lost in comforting her; of course she didn't want a killer kissing her.

Christine reached for me and held my face in her smooth, gentle hands. "Erik, why are you crying?" Her voice was hoarse, but steady.

"Because I've managed to hurt you. Again. Because I cause you pain." I answered quickly and honestly.

"Erik," she whispered, and I shuddered at the tenderness in her tone. "Oh, Erik. Don't cry because of me." Christine's eyes were locked onto mine. "Erik . . . cry for them. For the lives you took from them, not for the sorrow it causes me." Her thumbs lightly caught my tears in two loving strokes. The pain in her gaze was demanding an answer. "Erik, please, tell me why."

No.

She was wrong, when she said I wasn't crazy. I had been, then—out of my mind with fear over losing her. My excuses for killing Buquet and Piangi were paltry at best; Buquet had seen my face in an unguarded moment and was in my way, Piangi I needed out of commission so that I could perform Don Juan's role. The reason, the true reason, behind both of their deaths was simply that I had been consumed with fear over the possibility that I might lose Christine. I learned at a young age to translate my fear into deadly action; it surprises me still that the Vicomte de Chagny did not die by my hand during those six months.

And I would not tell Christine that my love for her had been the causes of those deaths.

Did I regret them?

Yes. Deeply. Despite my many attempts to assert the contrary, I was human; I knew how precious life was, even a life as tormented as mine. I had not spent all the time between Christine's leaving my home and her return to it mourning the loss of her. I had had ample time to bitterly berate myself for the atrocities I had committed. Buquet and Piangi were not the first men I had stolen life from, but they were the first I had killed in anything except what I considered self-defense, and I truly had grieved for them.

I told Christine this, in halting words, leaving out my reason for such depravity; when I finished, we had both wept again—me for the men I had so callously destroyed, and Christine for the fact that I could feel remorse at all.