Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom characters, mainly Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

I'd like to apologize for a few formatting problems that occurred when I uploaded this chapter. Some of the character's thoughts that should be italicized, aren't. Can't quite figure out what the issue is, yet, but please bear with it for a bit. Thanks!

Side Notes:
Yes, this is the chapter when our dear Erik makes actual, real-life appearance in the story. And he won't be ducking out anytime soon.

Please feel free to read and review. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

I am going somewhere with this; I have my research done, and an ending written! Of course, it will take a few twists and turns before we get there…

Thanks betas kimberwyn and barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they were!

Hansel and Gretel

How long had he lain here, waiting for the sickness to claim him? How had he even found the strength to carry himself away from his home, stumbling along the walls, to his final resting place? So pathetically, abhorrently weak.

"I truly am mad! It could not have been her voice that I had heard echoing through the caverns only hours earlier, hovering, haunting me one final time…Oh, to hear my Angel of Music's voice again, raised in song; its clear, perfect tone flooding my soul, filling this empty vessel that is my heart. She would take my hand and gently sing me to sleep…

My God, let me die. Grant me what I have begged for these past few years, too cowardly to do anything about it myself. I have nothing, not even my music, not her…release me from my pain, here in this darkness, where I belong. God, what have you ever given me, except for this horrid face and a life full of bitterness? Once you have blessed me—only once—and she was taken away from me. She left me, left with only the memory of a kiss…Please, grant a dying man his final request…"

Had he spoken aloud? He thought not, though in this floating state of consciousness, he could have been mumbling some secret language, for all he knew.

What was she doing now, as he lay in his cold, stone grave? Was it nighttime? Yes, perhaps it was. Nothing moved above him, no sounds of rehearsals, no painful screeching from the dreadful Carlotta echoing through the cracks of the opera house.

An unbidden vision came to him, often his uninvited guest…

Christine is stretched out upon a rug in the library, peacefully sleeping. One hand is tucked neatly under her cheek; the other, extended out, next to the book that has fallen from her hand. A low fire burns and flickers behind her, illuminating the contours of her face in warm contrasts and shadows. Her lips quirk at some secret pleasure, a soft sigh escaping them. Now she stirs slightly, turning to lie on her back, an arm draped gracefully across her waist. Glorious coffee-colored curls spill around her, over her shoulders, bringing out the creamy whiteness of her skin, rosy from the warmth of the flames. Her chest rises and falls slowly, softly; his insides knot with every inhale…exhale…

He looks to her face again. Her eyes are now open…hard brilliant blue, dark and glittering in the firelight…their depth a tumultuous sea, waves crashing upon his shore.

Eyes meet.

"Erik…" she murmurs.

He is lost…lost…

Erik exhaled achingly as he choked back a moan; a few tears had gathered under his lids.

No, his last desire would never be granted—to see her lovely face, to hear her song once more—not to a lowly devil like him. Her voice in the cavern; it had been the cruel, wish-fulfilling delusion of a madman. Three years ago, she hadn't kept her promise – to come when he was 'dead', to bury him with his ring. And now, she would never come for his final moments.

Accursed things; too weak to open my eyes to release them, too frail to even lift my hand to wipe the damn things away…

"Christine, how in heaven's name do you expect this to work?" Madame Giry lifted several pieces of shredded white paper above her head, letting them flutter to the ground. "They will all blow away with the first gust of wind, and you will be lost in the labyrinth. Couldn't you have found something different to use?" the woman chided, perilously close to abandoning the Comtess for the safety of lit hallways.

Christine let loose an exasperated sigh, her confidence in this task waning with every complaint from the ballet mistress. "No, see, the paper is very heavy; its my personal stationary, so its rather high quality. And look, the paper will cling to the damp floors." They both stared down at the snowy fragment gleaming against the dark stone of the passage, a bit of the gold de Chagny crest flickering in the lantern light. Mme. Giry felt rather unwilling to trust the small bit with her safety.

"It was all I could come up with, with the little time that I had. I just grabbed up a stack when I left, thinking about Hansel and Gretel…" Christine added lamely, her words dying away at the stern look from her former instructor.

"Please, Mme. Giry – I need your help. Whenwe find him, I rather think that he will need some sort of assistance. I cannot support him on my own." Her pleading eyes reached out to the Madame, all the fears of her nightmare present in their depths.

The woman's head fell slightly in defeat, relenting to the young girl's pleas. "Very well, I shall assist you," she said resignedly, feeling very deeply that the chances of their task ending happily were slim.

The two women once again wound through the tunnels, this time turning away from the lake and continuing into the maze of darkness to the left. Ever so cautiously, they silently made their way through the shadows, one holding a beacon of light high, dropping little white petals along the path; the other, desperately trying to stomp them securely into the ground.

Not a word was spoken, each set of ears turned to listen to the sounds around them; a squeak here, a whoosh there, the slight rustle of fabric, the quiet echo of their feet. How long did they wander about the maze, turning towards unmarked paths, steering away from the ones already flecked with white paper…hours, perhaps? In the darkness, all time was erased, only manifesting again when they began to hunger.

The two women stopped to rest their weary feet and munch the red apples they had packed. Settling down into the passage, each leaning against an opposite wall, they quietly whispered, reluctant to pierce the stillness that had surrounded them for so long.

"Perhaps we should begin searching in the other side of the labyrinth, when we continue," Mme. Giry put forth to Christine. The young woman nodded imperceptibly, her thoughts somewhere far away.

"Tell me, Mme. Giry, of Erik," murmured the Comtess. "I know of the mob that night, after the opera, and his flight from them. Not long after that, I was led to believe he was dead. What has happened to him since—since then?"

"Oh my dear, I hardly know," replied the older. "I have never really spoken to him, you know; except through his notes. And any activity of that sort ceased after the night of his opera. Every now and again I see a flash of his mask, or hear a sound in the wall. I know he is still there…sometimes I believe he wants me to know, perhaps to help him believe he is still there, as well. Such a lonely existence…" The woman's eyes misted in pity for the lost man condemned to the prison of his own making.

Christine quickly squashed back the lump in her throat at the ballet mistress' words, fighting back the guilt threatening to swarm up. She lowered her eyes, studying the contour of the path. "The body—when they never found one—did you already know then?" she asked, trying to avoid the course the conversation had taken. Madame nodded in assertion. "But you did not place the obituary, because you have not been in touch." Another nod.

"Mme. Giry, I do not understand! Someone has to have been helping him—he could not have rebuilt his-" her words fell away as soon as they left her mouth, forgotten, as something caught her attention. Mutely, she peered left, then right down the hallway, wide eyes struggling to fight through the blackness. An almost inaudible sound floated to their ears, an odd gasping noise echoing through the halls…

"Christine, what-"

The Comtess immediately hushed her, waving her hand frantically. Then, not waiting for the sound again, she abruptly sprang to her feet, grabbed up the lantern, and ran down the tunnel into the dark, turning a sharp left. "He's here! I can hear him, he's close!" she cried over her shoulder to the woman, forgetting all about her bits of paper.

Left, right, right again…the breathing was getting louder—he's here somewhere—another left, heedless of bruised shoulders and toes from invisible corners.

"Erik!"

She frantically called again, halting for some sort of response. "Please! Where are you!"

"Christine…"

The whispered name crackled in the air only seconds—left once more, and there!—

He was there around the bend, slumped against the wall, arms and legs sprawled out into the path. His head lay limply against the stone, black hair falling across the bare side of his pale, thin face, the contrast stark. The other side was still carefully ensconced in his mask. A raspy, wheezing sound barely emitted from parted cracked lips, chest rising and falling ever so faintly with every painful breath.

Christine flew to his side, taking in the state of his emaciated limbs trembling with chills and fever.

"Ah, mon Ange, vous vivez! I have found you at last!" she cried, flinging her arms about him. His flimsy dirty shirt, open at the throat, was soaked through with perspiration and the dankness of the tunnel. Her little hand cupped his forehead, then his cheek; her thumb brushed against the stubbled surface of his chin. The heat radiating from his feverish face almost seared her palm.

"Madame Giry, here! We're over here!" she called into the tunnel. Turning her face back to her Angel, she leveled soft blue eyes to his closed lids. "Erik," she murmured, willing them to open. "Erik…Erik…Erik, open your eyes." Her fingertips brushed back a lock of black hair. Ever so slowly, his lids fluttered open; his stunning, steely eyes mere slits of color in his face.

Christine smiled into them, joy bursting forth from her very being. "Erik, why have you not taken care of yourself?" she softly chided, stroking the back of her hand along the side of his cheek.

His beautiful eyes clouded over, a range of emotions conveyed in his piercing gaze. At first, confusion…surprise…and then something so intense that her eyes almost broke away from the strength of his glare. Anger…love…every pain known to man mingled there in the twin pools of gold, drawing her in… all other thoughts clearing away, save for the powerful pull of those eyes, her mind seduced by them, calling…

"Mon Dieu!" cried the ballet mistress, emerging from the darkness of the tunnel, breathlessly falling to the other side of the ill man, effectively breaking the force of the moment. Her hand pressed against his forehead, gauging his fever. Lifting the lantern, she pulled back the lid of his left eye, looking for any reaction to the light.

"He is far gone, but there may still be time. Pneumonia, I think—this damp cold cavern hasn't helped. He needs a doctor, soon!" Rocking back on her heels, she searched about the tunnel, as if expecting one to emerge at any moment. Her mind frantically looked for solutions, again taking in the state of the gaunt man. "Erik, can you speak at all?"

He opened his mouth, a hoarse sound emitting from his parched throat. "Water…" Christine grabbed up her satchel, dug through it, and pulled out a small, metal canister. She pulled off the cap, and gently raising his head, lifted it to his dry lips. A stream of water flooded into his mouth, cooling his swollen tongue and aching throat. A small bit trickled down the corner that Christine wiped away with her thumb.

Erik swallowed painfully, choking a bit at the long-denied liquid. Christine lifted the canister again, offering more; he shook his head slightly in refusal. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to speak. "How did you find me?" he whispered lowly, his voice cleared of some of the rasp.

Relief at the lucidity of her Angel's words flooded into the little Comtess. The fever was not wreaking havoc on his mind, yet. "When Mme. Giry and I did not find you in your home, we came looking for you," she smiled, her explanation short and sweet. She looked to Mme. Giry, conveying her unspoken question. What do we do? Do we dare to try and move him?

Mme. Giry nodded, and turned back to the sick man. "Erik," she spoke a little more firmly, serious eyes searching his face. "If Christine and I help to support you, do you think that you could make it back through the hallways?"

He paused a moment, closing his eyes. Ever so carefully, he lifted his hand to test the strength of his limbs, and nodded in consent.

Mme. Giry rose, taking her young companion by the arm to conference down the path, out of Erik's hearing. "The lake home?" the ballet mistress whispered the question to the girl.

Christine shook her head. "No, we cannot bring a doctor there. We might as well sign his death warrant," she whispered back.

"Where to, then? Surely not your old dressing room…" The women paused for a moment, racking their minds for answers.

Mme. Giry started. "There is a door to my chambers from the labyrinth, somewhere, but I have no idea how to get there from where we are."

"That should do well," assented Christine. "It may take some convincing on his side, but in his state, there is not much he can do. I can go for my personal physician, under the guise that you are sick."

"Yes," the ballet mistress agreed, continuing, "however, I am afraid we must then bring Meg into this. She will want to know what is wrong with her Maman." Mme. Giry saw a glint of worry cross across the Comtess' face. "Do not worry, she is a good little actress," the Madame smiled.

"I did not want to involve her in any of this," Christine sighed sorrowfully.

"Tut, she will want to help, and I dare say, can be very useful at times," the mother said fondly of her daughter.

Christine, relenting, turned back to Erik. "We are going to take you to Madame's rooms, but we don't know the way. Can you try to stay awake to guide us there?" Her eyes searched his, beseeching him to be strong.

Erik felt warm energy coarse through him, a last burst of stamina. For you, Christine, I would give my soul…

He struggled to sit up, every muscle in his body aching in protest at the movement. Eloquently, he gestured down the path, in the proper direction. Clearing his throat once more, he mustered up a steady voice. "Shall we?"

The small band made their way back through the darkness, Erik softly murmuring directions. "Left here, now right. Travel up, keep walking up…" he whispered to them, fighting the blackness that hovered around his mind, urging him to sleep. His arms were slung over his companions' necks, causing each woman to hunch over, the weight of his person pushing them down. Mme. Giry fought to keep the lantern high, lighting the way. Christine's arms clutched around Erik's middle every so often, struggling in vain to lift him; then she would fling out an arm to steady her balance, desperately fighting to keep from tumbling to the ground.

Faces were slick with sweat, clothing spattered with mud and grit. To an outside observer, the scene would have been almost comical, had not the man being carried been so gravely ill.

Despite all the pain, Erik rather enjoyed the feel of his beloved Christine under him, struggling prettily with all her might to carry him to safety. When her arms would fly around him for support, he almost smiled wistfully, enjoying the feel of her hands at his waist. The scent of her hair rose gracefully to him, filling his nostrils with each breath. He sighed. Lavender…perhaps there is a God…

Christine stumbled again under his weight, hissing harshly as her knee hit the ground. She pushed herself up, effectively jabbing Erik's ribs with her shoulder. The ailing man exhaled sharply against the blow. Mme. Giry halted and shifted the weight to help Christine regain her footing.

"I am sorry, oh Erik, forgive me!" the girl cried.

He could only nod his head "yes" in response, biting his lip in pain. So much for the blissful feel of her arms. He concentrated mightily on the ground running beneath his feet, the dizzy movement hypnotizing him, forcing back the waves of pain rolling through his body. Flakes of white leapt out here and there, amidst the black stone. He fought to focus in on the objects, steer his mind away from the torturous ache in his chest.

What the devil is all over the floor of my cellar? He peered more closely. Paper—that was it. Torn bits of paper scattered along the path, meant to lead them out of the labyrinth. He chuckled inwardly. Only his Christine would think of a fairy tale…

A glint of gold on one of the pieces caught his eye. Curiosity claiming him, he waited for the next one to pass into view. There was the rest of it…the letter 'C,' surrounded in an ornate circle…C for 'Chagny'. Jealousy and anger swept back into him, forcing him to remember who it was that not-so-carefully carried him through the passage. He grumbled in disgust at the sheer embarrassment and indignity of his predicament.

"What was that, my Angel?" came the sweet reply at his side, once again in-step with her counterpart.

"I see that you have littered my home with your calling card, Comtess," he hissed breathlessly, anger glistening dangerously in his eyes. "Do you now claim my cellars for the Chagny estate?"

A dainty little laugh reached his ear, a sound quite opposite to the tearful apology he had anticipated.

"I am sorry for the mess, Erik, but it was the only thing I could think to do. Would you rather I'd have trailed along little breadcrumbs to feed the furry inhabitants of your labyrinth?" she evenly retorted.

Erik seethed in anger at her impertinence, but said no more, not having the strength to uphold any semblance of conversation.

They slowly twisted and turned through the cellars, sometimes shuffling sideways through the narrow passages, many times stopping to rest and gasp for air. And then they could go no further. A stone wall barred the way to the other side of the tunnel, leaving them baffled.

"Erik, what do we do now? There is nowhere to go—is this the end of the path?" Christine shook him softly, trying to rouse him. His head rolled left, then right, silence his only response to her question. He was out cold, insensible to their predicament.

"Mme. Giry, he's unconscious. I don't think I can wake him to show us the way!" she cried piteously, her heart racing at the thought that they may never find their way out of the maze.

"It is best for him," the ballet mistress called over her shoulder, patting at stones in the wall, along the sides of the corridor. A rock shifted slightly under her hand. "Besides, we will not need his services any more. I have found the way out." She pushed down on the stone, and the wall slid gracefully into the side of the corridor, revealing the warm glow of Mme. Giry's chamber.