Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. Or Corpse Bride. ButI do own my Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. And I've finished it! So good! Not that there's any of this in this chapter.
Moonjava: Glad you do.
musicallover: I see you understand. Yes, Meg's annoyed at Christine; but she's only using that annoyance to mask her fear of what could have happened to her friend. The dream was thrilling – but also very scary. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I love Nightmare before Christmas as well. I don't know why, but my sister and I would always have this tradition that, the day we broke for the Christmas holidays, we would watch it as soon as we got home from school. We won't be able to do that anymore, unfortunately – because Lucie's going off to university in the autumn! Waaaaa! Sorry, was that diluted or deluded? Or both? Happy reading!
Ripper de la Blackstaff: And hi to you too! Meg isn't exactly envious of Christine – just more of the fact that Christine's always been able to have everything, while she often gets left behind or looked over, compared to the Daaé heiress. Nice suggestion – if totally improbable, namely because Christine isn't in love with Erik at this point (does the wetting her knickers suggest nothing to you?) and she's fainted; so I wouldn't really say she's run off with him – and I don't really know if zombies can have babies. I'd say Meg's thinking more along the lines of 'Remember your fiancée? Well, she went off riding all by herself last night, and she hasn't come back, and by now I'm really worried that she might have frozen to death or been raped and murdered or something like that – but no worries, okay?' So, here is more to quell your little necrophilia mind. Enjoy!
Kat097: Nope, not really. I don't seem to give any of my characters a break, so I'm not really singling Meg out for punishment. At least, I don't think so. Aaaa! Not the puppy-dog look! I get enough of that from my sister! Here, here is more! Be happy! Just don't look at me like that!
MetalMyersJason: I suppose it says a lot about my writing prowess that I manage to create a zombie Erik that everyone still wants to sleep with. Well, except Lydiby. Whatever makes you happy. You're all impressed by the smell of death, that's fine by me. No offence, I'm just writing this for laughs. Well…maybe I'll just grant your wish?
Morianerulz(no other muses? Oh well.): I agree, Prima Donna is fun! Like I said, drinking out of the shoe for luck. Or something. If I've lived with my sister, I can live through anything. I could list the reasons why living with her is hard…but that list would be far too long. I was actually slightly thinking of Susan Kay – even though I've never read it, I know his mother was called Madeline or something like that; and she had a friend called Marianne, or something. But, since you're such a nice reviewer, it now will be based off Moriane as well! Tell her while she's on her vacation, won't you? Hope your muses come back – it's always useful to have muses!
Mominator: That's exactly what I wanted you to think! Damn, I'm good! Can you feel it? Or maybe you're clairvoyant. Anyway, you got it exactly! Here is the next chapter! Enjoy, and then some!
SimplyElymas: Well, that's very comforting, except she doesn't know that yet, does she? She thinks Christine may be lost or kidnapped or dead – so she's just a little clueless, not telling anybody, isn't she? Then again, if Christine does come back, she doesn't want to have gotten her into trouble, see? And I'm not helping either. Okay, let's just drop it.
Musique de la nuit: Cool username! I'm being really mean towards all my characters, aren't I? Oh well; enjoy! (I use that phrase way too much…)
Willow Rose: Poor Meg indeed. And hello to you, Kathryn. I was wondering when you'd show up. I mean, after I read The Further Adventures of… I was wondering, is this my reviewer? Guess it is. I mean you are, of course. Good luck on resurrecting her. You can have my exclusive copy of 'Necromancy for beginners'. And the shovel. The shovel's always important. Blessed be to you too.
Lydiby: I'm glad you agree with me that it wouldn't be all that much fun to be chased through the woods by a rotting corpse – even if that corpse did have a pretty face. I would normally have her screaming with terror as well, but my Christine is sensible. She wants to get away; she doesn't waste her energy on screaming when she could use it to run faster. Though maybe in that situation I could have had her hurling obscenities at the horse, pretty little heiress though she is. But I didn't. And now Erik has her. Sigh. What will happen to our beloved, terrified little heroine? Wait and see…and thanks for the review.
Anonymous: Thanks…whoever you are? Some crossovers are just confusing, but I liked the thought of this one, so I did it. Here is more for you!
So, I've decided not to be cruel to you lot. You want E/C, so I shall give you E/C. Here's, in essence, a jolly little boat trip – only Christine's not enjoying herself at all…
"Then wipe the sweat from brow and cheek."
It runneth forth afresh, my lord.
"Uphold me, for the flesh is weak."
You've finished with the Flesh, my lord!
From Heriot's Ford, by Rudyard Kipling
Phantom of the darkness
She didn't want to open her eyes. She felt so odd, and yet so at peace; so quiet and calm. It was as if she was at the bottom of a deep, dark pond; supported by warm water, and yet not wet; cut off from all sound, except the dull, steady beating of her own heart, that echoed through her and around her and within her.
She liked it here. No worries, no thoughts, no cares. Nothing but peace. She would have been happy to spend all existence here.
Goodbye, world.
But, against her will, something was happening to her; something was drawing her up, out of the pond; up towards the surface, and a light-
The odd thing was that it wasn't bright. Not bright at all. Perhaps even darker than her surroundings.
Why is it a light then?
She didn't know. But she could not help floating up towards it.
Oh, I am waking. I can't help it…
For some reason, she didn't want to wake. Why? She could not remember. She just didn't want to. Something in the waking world had made her pass out; made her come here. That hadn't been so bad; but she remembered that whatever it had been that had caused her to faint, it hadn't been good at all. She had no desire to face it again.
But she could not help it. She was waking, she knew it...
She reached the un-light, her head broke the surface-
And her eyes opened.
Or at least, she thought her eyes opened. Truth to tell, it was so dark now that she could not tell the difference between her dreaming and her waking.
Or maybe she could. It was still dark, but the air around her was now much colder. Before she had been as warm as toast; but now a chill wind was blowing around her; tracing across her face; making gooseflesh rise upon her skin, even under her clothing.
And she was no longer floating – something was supporting her; bearing her up; and her cheek was pressed against some strange surface; it felt like stitching, and as she breathed in her nose was flooded with the smell of earth, of decay-
Oh, God no. No…
Memories came flooding back to her. Memories she didn't want, but which she could not help recalling – that terrible hand, the shape breaking out of the earth; fleeing through the forest – the half rotted figure, standing over her – the hand upon her mouth, her lips, a hand that had smelt of death…that must have been when she had fainted.
Oh, let me faint again. Let me faint, and let me never wake up. Let this be a dream; a horrible dream. Let me wake up, or let me sleep again and never wake up; but do not let this be true!
But was it true? Was this all just another of her dreamings?
No. This was no dream; she could tell that from the – thing, which held her; encompassed her unresisting shoulders, and supported her limp legs under her knees; pressing her tight against – whatever she was being pressed against; probably a waistcoat. Someone - something was carrying her along, to somewhere.
I'm being carried by a corpse. A corpse. A corpse with part of its arms and legs missing is carrying me down – a flight of steps, it would seem. I am in the arms of a walking body. I'm being carried by a corpse. The living corpse.
She was going to be sick. She knew it. She was going to be sick; she could feel her stomach churning at the very thought of what was going on around her; any moment now it would be coming up out of her. Or at least, it would be if she had eaten anything in the last few hours. As it was, all she could do was feel the illness within her; clawing at her insides; curiously detached from what was happening.
I can't even be sick. I can't do anything. Oh, God, why can't I even try to get away, instead of lying here as if I were some damsel in distress?
But her limbs were still weighed down by the lethargy of her unconsciousness, and she doubted that she would be doing anything at all soon. Why didn't she feel more afraid? By all rights she would be sick with fear by now – should be. She had never even been too keen on seeing dead mice that the cat in the kitchen back in Paris had caught, when she and Meg had gone down to Cook's domain to beg some biscuits or treats; and now she was being held by a – she hated to even think of it – something that was not only dead, but missing much of its flesh, and also probably rotting, judging by the smell which had made her faint.
That smell…it was all around her now; permeating the air she breathed in. She almost felt herself gagging, despite her still evident lethargy; and tried hard to breathe only through her mouth. Her breaths came harsh, and shallow; almost more panting than inhaling and exhaling. The air was too thick; the smell too much, even after her switch to mouth breathing, it was too much-
Abruptly, the motion of her captor's walking stopped. And suddenly she was being set down upon – she did not know if it was the ground, or one of his knees, or anything; the whole world was spinning around her again. Her shoulders were still supported by something…but what? Oh, Lord, she was so tired; so weak! And the darkness clouded in and all around her; and she could see nothing; the air was so close, and she could hardly breathe, and-
Something was near her face. Something was tracing across her forehead.Something was lifting a lock of hair away from her skin – something cold, and grating…
"No!"
Instinctively she tried to thrust whatever it was – though she had a fair idea – away, with both hands; her strength suddenly coming back to her. She hit something rather more solid; the weight shifted under her and she took advantage of it to attempt to jerk away; to try to escape; anything, rather than lie back in that terrible embrace. And it must have worked, in part, because she fell hard on her front on what she fervently hoped was the ground, her chin banging on the hard surface; even before she could attempt to get her breath back she was scrambling along, in a strange half-scuttle, half crawl; her knees landing painfully against the ground, hardly cushioned by her skirts; her unseen hair trailing across her face; her fingers desperately searching out the ground in front of her, since she could not see in the blackness. But the blackness held no horror for her at all now; it was what lay behind her that she feared. She didn't care where she was going, as long as it was far, far away from that thing…
Something that felt as if it were made of iron wrapped itself around her stomach from behind, and another caught her outstretched arm; she was lifted off her feet and upside down or the right way up, she didn't know-
"Nooo." The wailing shriek was torn out of her throat as the grip pulled her back against that solid object again; her back against it, the iron grip around her waist and pinning her arms to her sides. She could feel hot tears of – of what she didn't know, streaming down her cheeks; heard her breath coming in panting sobs, as she wriggled and kicked, trying to break free, though she had no hope left in her.
Daddy! Daddy! Help me! Somebody, anybody!
"Be still," came the voice – that strange, angelic voice, more like singing than speaking; not enraged at all, but as if the owner of the voice was merely – surprised, that she was struggling so much, that she was putting up such a fuss.
Somehow, she had stopped moving, locked into place by the sound of the voice; her fear for a moment quite disappeared. But the next instant she was fully aware of her terror again.
I'm being held by a corpse…the living corpse…
"Be still," whatever was holding her repeated. This time the voice came very close to her ear; and with a thrill of fresh horror she felt no breath upon her skin from whence the voice came.
Well, I wouldn't, would I? Oh, help.
"Please," she managed to whisper, hardly daring to breathe. "Please, don't hurt me. Please let me go. Please."
"You will not be harmed. I swear it," came the voice, like a beautiful whisper from beyond the grave.
This didn't make her feel any better, though she knew it should have, considering the circumstances.
"Oh, please," she blurted out, trying hard to control her tears – what a silly, crying little baby she would look, if there were any light to see by! "Please, please let me go!"
This time there was no answer; simply a deep sigh. Then, without any warning, her legs gave way underneath her.
Oh, no. Not now. Not again…
She slumped in the tight grasp, but at once she was swept up again into that embrace; and once again her captor set off with her, down wherever they were going, be it passageway or underground tunnel or-
Or was it dark? What if she had gone blind? Oh God, what if she had somehow gone blind? The thought overwhelmed her; and combined with her already present terror served to make her lose the last of her brief spurt of strength and nerve; she slumped back into the clutch around her shoulders, and her head lolled back against – against – something she didn't like to think of; and in doing so must have swivelled so that she happened to be looking in the direction she was being taken; and up ahead she could see strange things; like huge red furnaces, which opened and shut like slowly laughing mouths; and…shapes that scampered between?
And when her head swivelled again, as the one who held her readjusted their hold, she found herself looking up to where the face of her captor would be…and how could she tell, but that two pinpoints of gold flashed where his eyes would be…
Yellow eyes…yellow as a cat's…
She must have blacked out or something, because the next thing she was aware of was that she was being supported in a different way; the strange, bony grip was still about her shoulders, but now something was underneath her – something large, and strong, and alive…
Not, not alive. It could not be…
The light had changed; it was no longer red, but a strange sort of blue, and growing lighter all the while. Gradually she was able to muzzily see around her; see what was happening; see the ceiling of the seeming tunnel above her, as it passed by; her head lolling back against whatever was supporting her shoulders, almost as Raoul had laid his head in her lap once or twice. She was also able to see, faintly, the shape upon which she was now half lying – a horse, a black stallion. Or was it black? Now that she looked at it again, it seemed white. Or grey? The creature's skin seemed to shift and dance under her eyes. She felt dizzy, and closed them again; grateful somewhere within her that she was still able to do so.
Why wasn't she dead? Why hadn't the creature killed her? For what purpose was she being kept alive, unharmed? Why…
"May I kiss the bride?"
More memories were coming back…of her flight, and what had caused it…of what she had said…
What have I done? What have I done?
Abruptly, the creature carrying her – she didn't like to think of it as a horse, somehow – stopped; she slipped back so that her head lolled back against whatever supported her neck, and found herself gazing up into the face of her captor; the white, masked side of the face obscuring all else in her vision, which looked down upon her with golden eyes. She could not bear it; she thought she would faint.
And perhaps she did, since the next thing she was aware of was the now absence of the grip around her, and instead the gentle rocking motion that cradled her. She was on her back, she knew; lying upon something wonderfully soft, instead of being cradled in that dread embrace – but the change of support did not comfort her at all.
She opened her eyes, to see the ceiling above her; and thought for a moment that they had left the underground, and gone back outside; outside, where the stars shone in the velvety black night. But no, she was still underground, she could tell; though how she could she did not know. She felt that if she only reached up, she would be able to touch those stars; draw them to her, hold them close. But they looked so cold…surely they would freeze her fingers solid if she so much as tried to touch them.
Tiny gems of ice…so cold…
She heard the familiar sound of water – not running, just moving – nearby; so close to her; yet she was dry, and safe – relatively speaking. So, she was in a boat. She managed to raise herself a little on her elbows, carefully, though the actions made her feel faint, to look around her. The sides of the boat rose gently up on either side of her, almost to her mind like – she swallowed to think of it – a coffin. From what she could see there was nothing around the boat but water – impossibly blue water, like the sea was always painted in story books or paintings, but never was in real life. The boat seemed to be cutting through a thin layer of mist which hung just above the surface of the – river? Lake? Ocean? The floating wisps of the mist, sliced by the prow, drifted up into the air, above her-
One wisp, floating directly above her, almost seemed to hold a face, with wide, staring, sightless eyes, and a screaming mouth-
She shut her eyes, and shook her head; but this only served to make her feel more nauseous. She opened them again; and resolutely looked away from the water – only to look up at the one who propelled the craft.
The black being stood in the stern of the boat, holding the pole with which he punted the craft through the water. Both his hands were on the pole, the gloved one and – she looked away, to avoid looking at the skeleton hand; and instead was caught in the heat of the eyes in what she was able to see of that terrible, beautiful face; one peering through the bone white mask, the other glittering freely. She felt her very mind and soul shake at that gaze – a gaze of pure power, and at the same time complete surrender; a gaze that both adored and possessed her – a gaze which would surely shrivel the mind and soul of any other, but simply focused upon her. Why? That she could guess.
Oh, God help me. She shut her eyes, so as not to have to look into that terrible, wonderful gaze anymore; though she felt that the images of those eyes would never leave her. But the eyes were still looking at her, this she knew; and they continued to look for a long while, until they at last turned away – however unwillingly – for their owner to focus on some other reason.
Much against her will - let me go to sleep, and never wake up – she forced herself to open her eyes again. This time, however, she did not dare meet the dark one's gaze again. Instead, with a great effort, she swivelled where she lay; one hand grasping the edge of the boat, the other pushing herself up on the cushions; turning and supporting herself so that she was no longer lying on her back, but looking out across the prow, to attempt to see where she was being taken.
Where am I going?
Through her faded sight, which was growing more faded by the minute – why did she feel so tired, even in this situation? – she could see that there was not much ahead; just that strange eerie fog, floating on the surface of the water, and darkness up ahead. It was as if a light lingered about the very boat itself, which only penetrated a few metres ahead of the craft, and dispelled the mist about the craft, so that she could see the water. She looked down at the water by her side; though it was blue it was also clear, and she could see the sides of the boat go down below her. She could even see the pole, as its owner dipped it into the water, to push the boat along. But along what? As far as she could see, the water went straight on down, with no visible bottom – an endless sea of forever lasting blue.
Where am I?
Maybe if she jumped off the boat, into the water, she could get away? If she dived down deep enough, and swam, he might not be able to catch up with her, even if he did go in after her himself. But her velvet clothes would be too heavy; they would drag her down. And in any case, she couldn't swim anyway. Oh, why did I never learn how to swim?
And, if she concentrated on the little eddies and ripples that came off the boat as it passed through the water, really hard, she fancied that she could see faces – faces like the one in the mist, with wide eyes, screaming mouths, looking up at her, staring, glaring-
She gulped, and shut her eyes, and rested her forehead on the edge of the boat. Even if she could swim, and was wearing lighter clothes, she still would not wish to dive into that too blue water. For all she knew, there were worse things in there than there was in the boat with her.
I can't bear it! She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, so tight that black and white patterns seemed to trace and spark across the insides of her eyelids; clutching the railing on the side of the boat.
I must be brave, she thought desperately. I must be strong. But I don't want to be brave, or strong! I just want to go home! To get away from here; from this terrible place! From him!
I'm so afraid…
Yet in a strange way, she wasn't, at the same time. Most of her fear seemed to have drained out of her when she had collapsed the second time. Now she felt a little as she did when she had been out cold; calm, and peaceful; her cares and worries still there, but not having sway over her as they might have done in other circumstances. As she unwillingly breathed in the mists that swirled around the boat, she felt warmer, and sleepier. Her vision was clouding…
No! Something was happening to her; something because of the mist! Forcing herself upwards with both hands, she scrambled awkwardly backwards from the prow, from the mist which was now pouring over the front of the boat – but now it was no longer mist; the pale, almost transparent faces she had seen earlier, in the eddies and ripples around the boat, and in the far off mist, were closer now, much closer; she could see them so clearly-
A wide eyed, silently screaming woman, with blood running down from her temples-
A man's face, fixed in an expression of pure terror, his eyes seeming to look beyond her-
A little girl, surely no older than five, her eyes squeezed tightly shut; a trickle of blood running down from her nose-
They were coming nearer, closer; pale hands were reaching out to grab at her – she felt so cold, all of a sudden; as if she were surrounded by chilling mists and the only warm place was her heart – and that was fast losing its heat; the air she could not help breathing was cold and icy, and seemed to be freezing her insides…
"Don't let them get me."
She was hardly aware that she had spoken out loud until she heard a hissing intake of breath from above; tearing her eyes away from the terrible mists she saw, with a fresh stab of terror at her heart, that she had unwittingly backed right up against her captor; whose eyes glittered strangely as he seemed to notice the encroaching, threatening mists for the first time; and whose mouth was set in a grim, harsh line, for a moment robbed of all its unnatural beauty, and terrible in anger.
At once she shied away from him, though she didn't know where to go – either the corpse or the mists or the water - but he paid no attention to her, as he took his skeletal hand off the pole, and swept his arm – or what's left of it, she couldn't help thinking – in a sweeping arc; the bones of the fingers at first splaying, then gesturing. At first she had no idea what the gesture was meant to do; but as she followed the being's gaze she saw, to her amazement, that he actually seemed to be commanding the mist – repelling it, forcing it away from the craft, somehow. Even as she watched, her heart hammering, her breath coming in choking gasps, the mists began to retreat from the boat, from her; the faces fading – but the expressions on some of the faces as they disappeared were not something she was going to be able to forget for a very long time – if she ever had a chance to forget.
But she had no time to think of that; for it seemed that her captor's gesture had done something other than repel the terrible mists; there was light up ahead now – and not the eerie glow of the water around the boat, or the pale gleam of the stars overhead, but a different kind of light – warmer in colour, though not warm to her at all, and growing brighter. As she strained her eyes, she could see the faint shapes of…
…candlesticks, rising out of the water? What the-
And suddenly the light was all around them, blazing into her; so bright she had to shut her eyes and bury her face into the cushions upon which she lay again, to try to get rid of the scorching blaze which threatened to burn out her eyes even with them closed – and then the light stopped as abruptly as it had started; before she had a chance to get a grip on herself and her surroundings the terrible grip was around her once more; pulling her off the cushions and into the embrace again, though she had half-heartedly tried to grasp the rail on the edge of the boat in an attempt to prevent it, but had lost her hold in an instant.
And then there was light…again…
He had half feared she would kick and struggle again, as she had when the journey had first begun. It had pained him that he had had to restrain her, but there was no other way. He would not let her go now.
I will never let her go…
The horse was, basically, a bit of a surprise, when he had come across it, but not much – he had, after all, desired something to carry her so that she would not struggle – she feared his grasp, yet he knew she could not walk all the way down to – wherever they were going.
The boat, too, had not been expected; but swiftly made use of – for he knew what the river had been, and now that he was weighed down by a more solid form he could not simply skirt over it – why had he never noticed it before? Why did he not assume that there was more to the lake
Now they were in his home – or what one might call his home; and she was once more in his arms – and she did not struggle, though she was awake! He felt her heart beat against his; rapidly, out of fear – but she was no longer attempting to escape! Soon, soon she would no longer be afraid…
Now she would see. And she would understand…
And all at once the light was gone again, leaving her blinking in the aftermath; everything was a hazy blur around her. And she was aware again of the position she was in; of the firm grasp around her yet again – compared to this, the boat was almost a relief. She closed her eyes again, trying to quell the unconscious tears streaming from them, more from the brightness that had threatened to blind her than any emotion. She felt drained, as if all the rebellion had been burned out of her by the light.
But as the one who held her started forward, the rebellion suddenly came back.
Run…
She did not act at once, but stayed limp in the clutching embrace, until she felt the arms around her relax a little – only a little! – but enough for her to attempt what she planned. With a sudden, violent wriggle she struck out against the grip; broke it enough for her to slip and fall to the floor, hard; her eyes opening; the world was a blur around her as she scrambled up from her sprawl; her eyes centred on the boat, left on a seemingly sandy shore a little way away, hardly aware of her surroundings.
Run.
But even before she could jump to her feet and attempt to reach the craft, the grip was around her again, pinning her thrashing arms to her sides; and somehow she could feel that the being was now – not exactly angry, but annoyed; irritated at her repeated, silly attempts at escape.
I'm useless…
With seemingly no effort she was plucked off her feet once more, and swept through the air; and in the next instant she was set down, none too gently, on something both soft and hard – an armchair? she thought dazedly – and she felt that her wrists were still held, and, as she focused, she saw he who was holding them…
He was so close…too close…yet how could he be? He – it had loomed over her like a tree, a tower, before; how could it now be so close to her?
Then she realised with a rush; she was sitting, though on a type of chaise lounge rather than a chair; and he was on his knees before her, her hands held tightly in his…in his…
She looked down in panic; but to her intense surprise his hands were no longer the dreadful claws that she had so come to dread…at least, the left one wasn't. Somehow, something had changed, had happened. She knew the hand was skeletal – she had seen it, felt it on her – and yet the hand she saw now was simply a normal hand, graceful yet large, enveloping her hand like a great paw. No visible bone, just simple flesh and skin…or was it? It was the oddest sensation; she felt as if she were looking at it with both eyes, but seeing a different image in each eye; melding together to create a riddle of whether the hand was truly there or not at all.
Gaining courage from some unknown source, she forced herself to look beyond the hands that now gently held hers – or rather her wrists – and along the arms. Everything was different. What had happened? This was not the terrible, half corpse that had so terrified her, that had caused her to flee through the woods in fear – why, it was simply a man! A man on his knees before her, clad all in black, in clothes that were not stained or rotted but whole and perfect and seemingly new, as if he had only just put them on; seemingly long out of date but nevertheless stylish and well fitted on the strong, muscled form – or at least on the form that she could see, for his cloak was still around him, obscuring much of his outfit from view. She could see a waistcoat, the embroidery of which she must have felt earlier; whole, undamaged trousers, through which she could see no bone – or at least, as far as she could see – perhaps tight fitting around powerful thighs; as her eyes travelled upwards again she saw the solidity, the strength of his form, his arms under the sleeves of the coat he seemed to be wearing under the cloak…
But all the same, despite this rather surprising and more pleasing aspect, a tiny part of her mind was whispering to her that this was wrong. True there was a well built, tall man kneeling at her feet, like a courtly lover of sorts – in a situation not unlike some she and Meg had envisioned when they were younger, though she had never dreamed that such a thing would come to pass – but the whining part of her mind was telling her that it was false, not true.
It's a corpse. A corpse is kneeling in front of you. Can you not see the state he's in? You can see his bones; the places where pieces have fallen off! He's not a man, he's a corpse! A corpse!
And, if she focused, as she had with his hand, she could see that this was indeed true. Through one eye she saw the new image, that of the seemingly ordinary though extraordinary man, in his perfect, albeit slightly scuffed with kneeling, clothes; with the other, the being that had so terrified her; the being with the skeleton arm and leg, and – if she really concentrated – the stale smell of death; the two crossed over each other, in a way that shifted under her gaze and made her dizzy. Which was the real one, and which the illusion? Or were they both illusions?
What is happening to me?
But, somehow, she did not feel afraid any longer; as if the being's obvious act of humility – that he did not stand over her as before, but now knelt – had taken away her fear; that he had humbled himself before her, in obvious adoration, meant that for some reason she could not feel her fear any longer – or at least, not for the moment.
Gaining further courage from this, she raised her gaze further; up his chest, his neck – at which there bloomed a black cravat, spilling out of a white or yellow shirt, depending on the moment – to his face.
His face…
That was the one thing which did not change; if the earth had attacked the corpse's body, at least it had had the decency to leave it the angel's face. She could not help giving a sigh, treacherous though that simple exhalation was towards Raoul – Raoul? She had almost forgotten him, in all the excitement and terror - as she looked in wonder at the face that was turned up to meet hers; the face of an angel; of a god.
As if in a dream, she let her eyes range over his features; taking in the chiselled jaw, the elegant arch of the cheekbones; the seraphic curve of the lips, which brushed the edge of the mask – hurriedly she looked away from that, she wasn't ready for her dread again – the lustrous ebony blackness of his hair, slightly ruffled or impeccably smoothed back she was not sure, in length almost down to his shoulders-
His eyes; two orbs of tawny gold, flecked with brown; almost yellow; and gazing at her with an intensity which made her draw breath hurriedly, for she felt as if she had been struck across the face by the force of that gaze. She had never really believed, despite all the books that she and Meg had read together, that you could read emotions in a simple glance; but this seemed to defy all that in a moment. In that gaze she had seen so much; anger that roiled within a soul, sorrow a hundredfold, and, melded together, so closely they could hardly be distinguished as separate, hope and adoration; so strong she felt it might overcome her altogether – hope and adoration…for her.
For me…
The eyes seemed to fairly blaze with passion, in that strange, angelic, demonic face glowing like fire…like stars…
And the mask shone like white bone, like the moon…
What am I doing here?
She opened her mouth; she was not sure what she meant to say, but what came out was a hushed whisper. "What…what are you?"
At first, the being kneeling before her said nothing. Then came his beautiful, unnatural voice; sweet and low, but at the same time filled with raw, full desire for she knew not what – though she could easily guess.
"I am Erik."
Here for the first time (perhaps) is where I am treading on (fairly) uncertain ground. To tell the truth, I have no idea exactly how the Corpse Bride takes Victor down to the underworld in the film; though in one of the trailers is a shot of the wind blowing up around them on a bridge as the camera circles them rapidly…your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, since this is a Phantom of the Opera crossover (well, duh), I though I might as well stick in the boat sequence and everything – only, you might notice, this scene is more based on Leroux than anything else, mainly because I can't really see Christine singing a romantic, powerful and searing duet with Erik when she's being abducted down to the underworld. Can you? Although, I must admit, Erik waving his hand about in the air to repel the mist and light the candlesdid come from the stageshow, sinceI was rather impressed with the way he caused all those candelabras to come up with simply a gesture.Also, the idea of Christine being boated – or rather punted - down to the Phantom's lair has always, to me, been rather interesting; taking into mind the Greek legend of Charon, the ferryman, who ferried souls across the River Styx, to the Land of the Dead – even though, theoretically, there were about nine rivers of death, according to certain mythology – guess I'd better get on with that Latin AS level, hadn't I? Anyway; can you see the connection? Only Erik pilots his beloved across – or perhaps along – the river; since our beloved Phantom has always been known for doing his own thing. I find there's nothing creepier than simple things – like a certain shade of egg-blue, which happens to be the colour of the river cum lake. That colour gives me the shivers whenever I see it.
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