Disclaimer: Regrettably, I don't own Erik. I wouldn't want Raoul or Christine anyway.

Author's Note: Hey, guys, this story is also from my friend Rachel, like the other PotO one I have on here, called Wishes. So, read and review, let us know if you like it. I personally found it a bit creepy, but very good, still.

"You hear?"

"I dunno. What is it I'm supposed to have heard?"

"Rumors. You know the Countess de Chagny? The one that died a few days ago? It was all over the papers."

"Everyone knows about that. What's the rumor?"

"Well, Christoph told Dominique that Remy said the groundskeeper of the graveyard told him that this morning the Countess' grave was all dug up, right down to the coffin."

"Huh. Anything missing?"

"Dunno. You've seen the groundskeeper; if there are any shortcuts anywhere, he'll take them. He didn't bother checking, just filled the grave back in."

"Figures. So you think it was grave robbers?"

"Nope. Know why?"

"Why?"

"Christoph said there wasn't a shovel. Whoever had dug it up did it with their bare hands. And there was blood on the coffin."

"Creepy."

"Yeah. Real creepy."

"But everyone knows Christoph exaggerates. It can't be true."

"Nah. Can't be."

Night Before

Erik lay down heavily, barely restraining a grown of pain. His entire body ached; in his old age work that would have been a mere trifle in years past took hours, and left him strained and exhausted. His back throbbed, his arms burned, his legs ached. But the pain from all those was dulled by the searing, twisting pain in his hands. The tips of his fingers were worn away until he could see the white of bone. A few of his nails had been torn away completely. and most of the skin had been scraped raw.

At any other time he would have mourned the loss. His hands had always been the one part of himself he'd loved. They could create such beauty; poetry, paintings, music...But now they were ugly, like the rest of him. The sad, bloody stumps twitched convulsively, sending pain shooting up his arms. They would never create anything again, beautiful or otherwise. But it didn't matter.

None of it mattered, because he was finally with her. He smiled at her, stroked her cold cheek, kissed her lips, sewn together in a vague smile. It was a shame; she would never sing again. But that was okay. He loved her, everything about her, and now she was his forever.

"Mine. My love, my Angel." He caressed her lovingly, kissed her waxy forehead, her sunken cheeks, her eyelids. He covered her corpse with kisses and adoring caresses, everywhere he could reach without shifting his broken body.

Then he stopped. He'd forgotten. The rose with the ring, the ring that would bind her to him for all eternity, was lying on the rim of the grave. He should go get it. Their unity wouldn't be pure without a ring. But the climb seemed so long, so much more than six feet. Miles, surely. Hundreds of miles. And he was so tired.

"You don't mind, do you, Christine? We don't need a silly ring to show our love."

He tilted his head, listening to an answer that no one else could have heard, had they been present.

"No. Of course we don't. I knew you'd understand." He kissed her. "You know I'll love you forever."

He pressed closer to her, pressed his face into her neck as he'd longed to do for decades. She didn't shrink away, didn't whimper. He'd always known she loved him. No doubt the vicomt had forced her into marriage, and she had always longed for him as he'd longed for her.

With a contented sigh, he pulled the coffin shut over the two of them. The click of the latch seemed deafening in the womb-like darkness. He sighed contentedly and rested his head on the velvet pillow.

He was so ready for a long rest.