A/N: Phantom of the Opera, so not mine, I'd be running about touting myself as a genius if it was.

Chapter Two, still continuingwith our featured pair. The story is going to change a bit come chapter 6, but Ididn't think it was worth making two fics out of. It's just the way life goes.

Flashes of light in the darkness, like a lightning storm; a murmur of voices that all seemed to blur together. Pain, he was in pain. So much that he could feel his strength waning from him. No, he had to keep moving, if he stopped now then…

"Monsieur, you must lie still."

Who was speaking?

"You must let me bind the wound. Calm yourself, you are safe."

Wound? He didn't understand what was going on. He fell limp and felt hands on him. Someone was there with him. That was all that he understood.

"Rest monsieur, you are very ill, you need to sleep."

The voice was comforting. Like the sound of music when silence was all that was expected. Slowly he let go and drifted into welcome darkness.

Katerina sat in a chair by his bed and fidgeted. She was staring at his mask. It seemed to be made of thin porcelain. Of course that was simply what it looked like to her. She swallowed and went over the thoughts in her head again.

The Opera Ghost.

She had heard of the opera ghost, there wasn't a soul in Paris three years ago that didn't get some gossip about the entire scandal. Murders, chaos, and an unrequited love. It gave Katerina a shiver just to think of it. It must have been a very exciting and scary time. She signed and looked over her patient. He was breathing easier now although his skin was still chilled. Katerina sighed and adjusted the blankets around him for what must have been the thousandth time.

Quietly she stood and went to check on the teapot. She didn't have the heart to tell her brother where she had been living. He would have had a fit. This part of the theater was relatively undamaged in the fire. The walls and foundation were solid, solid enough to accommodate her and her meager belongings. She believed she was living in the old prima donnas dressing room. She had removed a very large painting of the Diva Carlotta from the wall after it had given her nightmares her first night in the room. The gilded gold and white room, it was a place of beauty for Katerina. Too used to sleeping on a sack of straw over a loft that held six very loud children she was astonished to find the room untouched. The large four poster bed still made as if it was expecting its owner back any day. A feathered mattress with a down comforter; Katerina knew it was too good to be true. She knew that one day the owners of the land would come and she was just an unwanted squatter. Still, she stared at the man who slept fitfully in the large bed, what was he? A squatter like her? A ghost that haunts the ruins of a charred opera house?

Carefully she took the teapot off the hearth in the corner of the room. The water was warm enough for her needs. She took the teapot to the vanity in the corner and set it on a folded pink scarf edged with mink. She had carefully stitched the wound in his wrist closed and bandaged it with strips from a linen apron she had found in what she imagined had been servants quarters. The blood loss and shock hadn't helped circumstances. She imagined he must have been ill for some time to be in the condition that she had found him in.

Katerina frowned and crushed herbs into a teacup, followed by the steaming water. He was off in a bad way; she supposed he was lucky that she found him. He would have either collapsed from exhaustion or the addict would have killed him for his coin. He did have an awful lot of money on him for a ghost and very fine clothes. She had almost felt bad that his cloak and shirt were stained with blood. Still, they were but clothes and the important issue was that he was being looked after. She strained the herbs from the now tinted green water and sighed at the situation she found herself in.

He moaned in his sleep and Katerina looked up. He had lapsed into some restless dream after she had bound his wrist. He had murmured something to her and tried to take his hand away but he had been easily stopped. She cradled the teacup in her hands and went to his bedside once again.

"Monsieur," she breathed, "what has happened to you these last years?"

A hushed voice was speaking softly, asking lilting singsong questions of him. Someone gently wiped his face with a cool cloth. He couldn't tell where he was. It was too much work to open his eyes. His wrist ached. He vaguely remembered a knife, some annoyance yelling at him. In the fog of his mind he couldn't remember exactly what had transpired. A woman's voice, frantic and begging him to speak.

"Monsieur, can you hear me?"

He could hear but he could not respond.

"Your breathing has changed, you are almost awake. Come Monsieur, you must be made to drink a little. Come, it will ease your fever."

Something was held to his lips, and a cool bitter liquid was in his mouth. He swallowed twice before it was taken away and he nearly fainted from the effort. The voice came back to him, praising him, soothing him. Who did this voice belong to? Was it just a voice, to be gone when he woke? If he woke, the darkness captured him again and the voice faded into nothing.

A/N: Well? Am I doing good so far?