-1A/N: I am so sorry for the long delay! I haven't had internet access for weeks- so although the chapter was finished, I couldn't post it. It is heavenly to be back! This chapter is a little bit different. It actually came about because I woke up one morning with a fierce desire to write something from Erik's POV. I intended to just get it out of my system and then delete it, but I ended up liking it so much that...well, here it is. ; )
Please- tell me if you like the POV change! If you guys like it, I might be writing a chapter in Erik's words every once in a while. (By the way, this chapter is in first person, unlike my Christine chapters. If I write more of these, all Erik chapters will be first person. All Christine ones will remain in third person.) Like it or loathe it, tell me! ; )

Darkness seemed not to touch her.

That was my first thought upon seeing her again. Of course, I had watched her over the years, watched from afar like the angel she had called me. Every day, I yearned to reach out a hand…to touch her, to have her touch me as she had that day, that blessed day that she had laid her perfect head upon my hideous breast- and she had not died. But she does not deserve me, throwing a dark shadow over her bright young life. It had been the right thing to do, to leave her. It was the only way.

But inside, every day, I ached for her. Her angelic voice and compassionate eyes, those delicate fingers that had touched a beast. I watched her as she grew, becoming the beautiful woman that had always lingered right behind her eyes. And I mourned the loss of her, dreamed of her as I played my music. Sometimes, I even imagined what it would be like if she could learn to love me, just a little…but not often, because I had long ago learned to uselessness of wishing for that which cannot be.

Though I may have removed myself from Christine's heavenly presence, I had by no means removed my influence over her career. The new managers had proven themselves to be much more difficult than their predecessors, and La Carlotta held a great sway over both of them. Christine was only given small roles, and even that only after much threatening on the part of the Opera Ghost. I had long ago secured her a room of her own, far away from the jealous choristers that would harm her for her talent and beauty. O.G. had insisted that she be given the room with the giant mirror. Through this window, I watched her, and it was through this, fittingly, that she returned to me.

I had insisted that Christine play Marguerite in that night's Faust. Several notes had been sent to both Carlotta and the managers, but both had defied my wishes. Carlotta had taken the role, (butchering it with her inane gesticulating and brazen singing), and the managers had smugly seated themselves in my box. Furthermore, they had fired my box-keeper (the invaluable Madame Jules) and intended to replace her with some foolish twat of a woman who had never seen an opera in her life. So, I did only what was necessary. Carlotta was made to croak, the managers were terrified (hopefully into obedience) by my voice and the falling chandelier, and that blasted woman was killed. Losing the chandelier was lamentable, and its fall might have frightened my Christine- but it was necessary.

All had been going smoothly. I followed Christine to her dressing room after making sure that my manager's were properly repentant. When I arrived behind the mirror, I had to catch my breath at the sight that shone through it.

My angel was sitting on the chair of her vanity, but she was turned into the room, staring at nothing. The dreamy expression on her face was accentuated by the candles that she was so fond of- there was some story about a dancer in the flames that Christine loved. I watched her perfect face, wishing that it was mine to see. I knew it was wrong to look at her so, I knew that I did not deserve her beauty…but I could not leave. Suddenly, her brow furrowed- it seemed her thoughts had taken a different turn. She looked down at her hands, and they curled themselves into her robe. She sighed, and I wanted nothing more than to run to her, beg her to tell me what was wrong. I settled, however, for reaching out one hand and placing it on the mirror. Almost as if she had seen, her eyes suddenly rose to her reflection in the mirror. Her arms were wrapped around herself now, and she shivered. I watched in awe as she unknowingly approached me, each step closer causing my heart to beat faster. She was staring into what I assumed were her own reflected eyes. I stepped back, afraid that she had somehow sensed my presence. Then- oh wonder of wonders!- she reached out to me. Her small hand touched the mirror, as though she wished to come with me. I stretched out my own hand (if such claws can be called hands) and met her own, with only the mirror between us. It was with that 'touch' that I made up my mind.

I admit that it was unlikely. I readily acknowledge that my thinking was perhaps less than lucid. But in that moment, I became convinced that she wanted to come with me, to the darkness behind the mirror. That she was, in fact, begging me to take her.

I can deny her nothing.

It was laughably simple, really. Christine had always been affected most strongly by violin music, presumably due to her memories of her father. My violin was with me, tucked in the small case that I brought to every performance. I quickly pulled out the instrument, and began playing a song that I thought most fitting: The Resurrection of Lazarus; like Lazarus, I too was to be resurrected, when Christine was with me again. Unlike Lazarus, however, I would not be restored to human appearance- I would remain dead throughout my resurrection. The dark irony amused me even as it hurt.

I never thought that Christine would recognize the song, so I was surprised when her eyelids so readily fluttered closed, allowing me to create for her the illusion of stepping through a mirror.

I think (I pray) that it was the cold that shocked her. She gasped and opened her eyes, blinking several times in the darkness. The violin had been laid aside and the mirror closed; there was only Christine and I, closer than we had been in over two years. I shook, overwhelmed with her nearness. She could not see me- it was far too dark- but my eyes are inhumanly luminescent. She met them, her own eyes focusing, then widening, then finally blurring with a strange distance. She began to fall, but I caught her. Frantically, I checked for a breath, holding my wretched hand only an inch away from her perfect mouth. I almost cried with relief when I felt her soft breath on my fingers- she had not died! Carefully, and guiltily, I picked her up and carried her to the fountain- a dilapidated structure whose purpose I cannot begin to imagine. I sat upon the low ledge, and rested Christine's head on my unworthy lap. I wet my hand and carefully let the droplets of water fall onto her forehead, hoping that it would be enough to wake her. She began to stir, and I held perfectly still. Every nerve screamed at me to get away, to move to a more respectable location… but I didn't want to jolt her or frighten her, so I stayed. She came to very slowly, with small, delicate movements. I was frozen beneath her- a statue until she reached one hand back and brushed my leg with her fingertips. I froze and harshly inhaled with the shock of her awake hands upon my person, and she jumped up (a bit woozily, it is true), with a barely contained shriek, and staggered into the darkness which must have been, to her, infinite. I kept my head down, gathering my far-flown courage. When I finally looked at her, however, she gasped again, and I quickly shut my eyes. The poor child must have thought that some great monster had abducted her- but then, she would not have been far off from the truth. I whistled for Cesar, and prayed fervently that the sight of the familiar horse would calm my Christine.

She seemed thrilled when Cesar, glowing white, emerged from the gloom of the opera underworld. As I watched her tenderly stroke that lucky beast's soft nose from beneath carefully lowered lids, the appropriateness of what I was seeing hit me like, if you will pardon the pun, like a falling chandelier. Cesar had come to her rescue, the shining white steed of fairytales, to rescue her from the darkness and the evil ogre who had captured the fair and lovely maiden. All that the scene was missing was a damned white knight to sweep Christine romantically off of her tiny feet. I shut my eyes again.

Any self-delusion that I had been stoking vanished at that instant. I knew that Christine had not, by any stretch of the imagination, asked to be dragged down into the dark and the cold, with only myself as comfort and protection. She belonged up there, amongst the warmth and the beauty of the opera house; not here. Never here. I was overcome with potent self-loathing, guilt, and fear. I knew that I should do what her eyes begged of me- set her free, send her home. But I could not. She had come so far! I knew that it was wrong, but I simply had not the strength to let her go now, when she was so close. If she never saw beneath the mask….if all she knew was my voice and my love for her, she wouldn't be too frightened, would she?

I knew one thing already- I could not touch her. If I touched her, I would lose all thought, and break into pieces. All plans would be lost then. So I helped her mount Cesar without touching her, even a little. My angel was obviously still a bit disoriented, and she sat in perfect silence as I led Cesar through the labyrinthine tunnels of my home.

The trip was a lengthy one; I had time to still my racing heart and gather my scattered thoughts. She knew nothing. The worst that she could possibly have thought was that my eyes were unusual, perhaps even disturbing, but not terrifying. Or grotesque. Or sickening. She could not know of that.

Or so I thought.

Her first word to me, when I had calmed myself sufficiently to look at her again and we had reached Lake Averne, was "Hephaestus".

Hephaestus. The pain of that one word nearly brought me to tears. She had dubbed me the god of the forge- the only member of the Greek pantheon who lacked beauty. The Ugly god, whom the others could barely stand to look at. He was disfigured- lame in one leg. Hephaestus sequestered himself away in the bowels of the earth, working in his hellish world of fire.

Why? She had not seen beneath the mask! How could she know? She could make the connection between my home and Hell easily enough I suppose, but then at least she could have granted me the beauty of the devil! Already in her mind, blind though she was, I was ugly.

A/N: Erik isn't thinking about it, but in Greek mythology Hephaestus, the ugliest god, marries Aphrodite, the goddess of Beauty. Just thought that you all would like that tidbit! ; )