Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of Opera, or Phantom. In fact, I don't even own a copy of the book now, considering my cousin's dog ate my copy of it! That is so the last time I ever lend her anything ever again…

A/N: So! Here's the next chapter! Up pretty fast for me, but like I said, I've been inspired. It also helps that I've practically got the whole thing planned out. I've been trying to keep them in character, but its been kind of hard. Especially since I don't even have the book to look back through now. Stupid dog…stupid cousin…

And for my reviewers…

Mortal Phantom—Thanks. I've been trying keep them in character. I'm glad it moved you.

Soofija—Wow. Brilliant? Tears? Really? Whoa… Thank you so much. As to the spelling, "Viscount" and "Vicomte" are the same thing. Vicomte is just the French version. But I think, that in the book its "Viscount." So that's why I spelled it that way. I think anyway, as I said, I don't exactly have the book to look at anymore… sigh

PhantomObsessor—Thank you! I know when I read the "Poor, unhappy Erik!" part in the book I was bawling. I'm glad I kept that emotion in there.

the phantom's cry—Lerouxesque? Wow. Thanks. I know I kind of tried to keep to his style, but I didn't think I managed it. And I'm glad you think Erik is in character. It was rather hard to do from his point of view. I couldn't just cheat and list adjectives and go on about his wonderful voice. grin

Mimi90316—Yeah, I know. I kept having to stop myself from putting in things from the musical. And in this one a put a lot of stuff from Susan Kay. My excuse is that it goes along with the novel. Thanks for the review.

Paige Turner3—Wow. Thanks. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much.

And now! The second chapter!

All the Tomorrows

Chapter 2: Death's Embrace

Our engagement lasted for a week. I say engagement, daroga, for that is what it was. I did not intend to immediately force upon her the magnitude and duties of marriage, without being properly married. No, I wanted a real marriage, not a farce made up for my vanity or merely to lure the young Mlle. Daae into my bedroom. Though it was a custom in your country, I do not use women for pleasure and sexual release. You found that out when I refused the young concubine your king had offered me, much to the sha's and khanum's annoyance, if you remember. No, I wanted, as I always have, to simply love and to be loved. To have a wife that I could take walks with in the park, to picnic with and go to church with. Not that I am devout Catholic, far from it, in fact. But I intended to have a priest marry us all the same.

During the week of our engagement, our lives went on much as they had in the two weeks Christine had stayed with me. We sang together, duets from operas past performed, or some of the lighter, less painful compositions of my own. I could not bear to leave her side for a moment. I was, perhaps, just as she described me: a dog trailing loyally behind its master. Though I did not take off the mask and try to catch her eye, no matter how much she questioned and subtly urged me to do so. I remembered, you see, of what she had told the de Chagny boy on the roof of the opera house. How she had confessed to him, believing me to be underground working on my Don Juan Triumphant, the horror of my face and what she did to convince me that it did not bother her. For the sake of her freedom. No, there was to be no freedom now, and I would not horrify her with my face anymore than I had to. I know well what horrors the mind can create just from memories themselves. No need to inspire any more gruesome imaginings. I kept the mask on.

In the evenings she usually read, and I would stay with her, sometimes I would read also, other times I would play the violin or the piano, but mostly I just watched her. She was still pale, and sometimes the book in her hands would tremble, or a solitary tear would escape to be roughly wiped away. But there were times when she would look up, see me there, and smile. It was a small smile, usually strained. But she would smile, and not grimace and look away when my twisted lips, which could be seen below my mask, smiled in return.

When she grew weary of reading I would entertain her with stories of my travels. She was a great lover of stories and myths, and her eyes would grow wide as I told her of the gypsies and their superstitions. They would glaze over with wonder when I described to her the buildings and architecture I visited, and she would gasp in delight when I showed her my sketches of them. Those little gasps and expressions were more of a drug to me than morphine or opium, and I did everything in my power to keep her making them. I found myself once again the magician, the performer. And I had never been happier to be so.

The few times I did leave her it was usually to attend to my captive in the cellar. By attend I mean giving him food and water, making sure he was at least healthy if he couldn't be comfortable, tied and locked away as he was. I had no intention of killing him. Indeed, I have not had indulged in any sort of lust for murder since I made that oath to you many years before. But you do not believe that do you? You think of Joseph Buquet, and even the Count Philippe, who was found dead at the edge of my lake. The Count's was a tragic death, but completely accidental. He had met with the Siren and slipped into the water. He was dead before I had arrived. As for Buquet, he had somehow found his way into my torture chamber, just as you did. Only the electrical supply had not been cut off as it had been for you.

I must tell you, when I had come home one evening to find the alarm going off and someone in the torture chamber I had believed it to be you, daroga. In blind panic I turned it off and ran into the room. Ah, such grief, such fear, such utter horror did I feel when I saw what I thought to be your body swinging from the iron tree! I blamed myself, for I knew how curious and how meddlesome you were. And for minutes I just stood there cursing myself before I could gain the courage to approach and cut down the body. And it was a few more minutes before I could tell that it was not your body but Joseph Buquet's! You can see why that after this, his death seemed rather inconsequential. But to return to Christine, and our marriage.

The few other times I had left her were to arrange the details for our wedding. We needed a priest, and the paperwork, and a dress, for Christine would surely wear a dress. It was always one of my fantasies to see her done up in white, with a veil and flowers. And I intended for it to happen. For all this I went to Jules Bernard. You do not know of him, but he is an employee of mine. He is my contact to the world outside the opera, and anything I needed he obtained for me.

The details were soon worked out, and on the sixth night of our engagement I went before Christine to show her the dress. I had designed it myself. It was an off the shoulder cut, with sparkling beads sewn into gossamer lace and a full skirt. It was elegant and beautiful in its simplicity, exactly as I'd imagined. I was pleased with it, especially since I had only given the seamstress five days in which to complete it. I am sure that Jules was met with quite a lot of disbelief and anger when he relayed these instructions, but when one pays as much as I did, you can be forgiven your little eccentricities.

Her eyes were wide with both fear and wonder as she ran her hands over the material. "It's beautiful," she murmured. It was. And it would look even more beautiful when she wore the next day at our wedding. I told her so. "Tomorrow?" She looked up and the fear and apprehension in her eyes became more pronounced. Her hand on the dress trembled slightly.

"Tomorrow," I said. "In the evening." She nodded and lowered her eyes once more, silently caressing the dress. I went on my knees and placed my gloved hands on hers. I had taken to wearing gloves, even inside, for my hands are cold and smell of death, just as she told de Chagny. "Christine, it will not be so bad. You'll see. You shall not want for anything." What was I saying? I knew very well that it was indeed as bad as she thought. To be married to a monster? A demon? My mind went to the girl the shah had offered, who would have willingly chosen death than to lie with me. But Christine merely smiled sadly and whispered, "I know, Erik." My heart swelled with love for her with these words, with this acceptance. But the sadness did not fade from her eyes.

There were only four people at our wedding: Christine and myself, the priest, and Jules, who was our witness. The priest believed us to be an eloping couple, and Christine played her part well, locking her eyes on mine with a passionate gaze and then lowering them only to look at me through her lashes with a secret, shy smile. And I, I had no reason to act. She was breathtaking and I was so in love. My passion and wonder as I stood with her there were completely and absolutely real.

When we had said our vows and it was time for the kiss that would forge our union, I lifted the veil from her face and whispered the same words I had spoken to the girl in Persia. But they held a different meaning now. "I have seen what lies behind your veil, my dear. Come forward and remove my mask." Slowly, she did so. And ignoring the gasps and cries of horror coming from the two other people in the room, I kissed her. I kissed her with all the passion, fury and love I had in me. And then I pulled her to me, burying my face in her curls. She had told the Viscount, "If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips." She did not love me, but I had taken them. Knowing this, I wept into her hair. And when I held her that night—in the Louis-Philippe room, for the thought of her in the coffin in my room was abominable—I still wept. Her eyes were closed and she clung to me tightly, and for a moment I believed she thought of de Chagny. Until she answered my sobbing cries of "Christine," with a soft, barely heard whisper of "Erik." But when she trembled, I knew it was because of no passion for me, but because she knew, just as I did, that she was embracing Death.