Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Not even Susan Kay's Phantom – which I've finally read! Yay! Thanks, Hriviel, by the way!

musicallover: Thanks…what was I talking about again? Remind me. I love Leroux's book as much as the stage show – it's one of my favourites. Although I am, in a sense, an E/C shipper, in there I want it to go both ways – even though Raoul can be a bit silly in it, bless his silly little mustache. True, Victor would probably have a heart attack or something – if you can have a heart attack down there? You want E/C? Then you shall have it; damn the expenses!

Moonjava: Glad you do.

Voldivoice: E/C goodness you shall have! Well, if you think about it, my Erik's no worse than Leroux's in some ways – he was practically a living corpse, and at least I've had the decency to make my Erik decent looking, even if he does have most of an arm and a leg missing half the time. I think you're only a necrophiliac if you like to have sex with dead bodies – which is a bit hard when you're a girl; but in this Erik's case – I think we'll pass, okay? Thanks for the luck! When I come back from Ireland, I shall bring you a four leaf clover in return – if I can find one in all the rain that will inevitably fall as soon as we get over there.

MetalMyersJason: Well, I see that you are able to look beyond ugliness, to the beauty that resides within. Good for you, you little necro. Can she stay? Hmm; well, we'll have to see, won't we? One thing is for certain, she's not going to forget Raoul just like that.

Morianerulz: Of course you may have my Christine! I shall be honoured to provide you with such a gift – if, of course, I believed that women were objects and stuff. Nah, just messing, you can still have her. I've never read that Wheel of Time Series – I'll have to give it a look! I don't have a muse at the moment, but that doesn't mean I'll get writer's block! If you want a copy of Susan Kay, check out Hrivel's A Perfect Cage if you haven't already done so – she's made a offer to email copies of her version to all who ask, and I think the offer is still standing – but be quick! Postcards are good; but I always seem to get back before the ones I send! HP and the Half-blood prince was good – my sister still hasn't finished it, and I've promised not to tell her what happens. I went to Italy twice; and I'm going again in August, to Venice – again! Maybe I'll see your muses there, if they haven't already come back!

Mominator: Yeah; she's not sure what's holding her, so sticking with 'it' for now. I always love it when the men are carrying the women around like that – so romantic! Although not in Christine's case, I should imagine. You know, I thought of the horse of a different colour as well, although this isn't intentionally meant to be that – this isn't a normal situation, so it's not a normal horse. Or maybe it's not even a horse? Anyway; yes, I wasn't taking any chances with the colouring. My theory about Erik's changing form is; in my version of the Land of the Dead, the 'occupants' – such as they are – keep the shape they had when they died, e.g. Erik died in his dress clothes and with a gash in his side, so that's the form he now wears in Death (this is where the movie goes off on a different stem – quite a lot of people 'down there' have turned into skeletons and such, without minding too much). However, since Erik is now in possession of his mortal body once more, and he's back in his 'home', his spirit tries to influence the way he looks – with mixed results, meaning that he flashes back and forth between the forms; and doubtless gives poor old Christine a right headache. I got the idea of the souls in the river from Disney's Hercules; but thought it was more creepy to have the water a clear blue, and the faces only visible if you concentrated, and all that. More E/C is yours!

Willow Rose: Well, whatever it is, I warrant he won't be too pleased. I wasn't worried – the Willow Rose always comes back. Like a weed, only prettier, and less of a…weed. Um, yeah. Anyway, love to Kate, Kathryn and Kat. Blessed be from the divine seamstress to you.

Ripper de la Blackstaff: I like Andrew's version; but Leroux's seemed more appropriate for the situation – not to mention slightly more in tie with 'going down to the underworld', so to speak – not to mention abduction. No objections? Yay! I mean, really? I'm not even going to begin to talk about the 'urophilia'. You are right, of course – I just don't trust myself to talk on the subject. No offence meant. (I can think of what you're thinking as well. Let's just think to each other, rather than write it down and grossing everyone out, okay?) Enjoy!

Lydiby: Yeah, I know. My mum was all sad when I told her. Hasn't read the books, but still, she knows (generally) what happens. Made her promise not to tell Lucie. I think that the changing form thing would freak me out just a little as well. Or just make me go cross eyed. The leaning-in-to-kiss and then suddenly all-change-to-corpse in the facial department wouldn't be very nice; but what if…what if…you were kissing him, all right, everything was fine, tongue was in his mouth (not that I've ever tried that…eww…) you pull away at last; his face stays where it is – but you take his tongue with you? In your mouth? Do I earn a biscuit for that? I love morbid tea-parties! One thinks, when considering said being in distress, almost unconsciously, of Meg in Hercules… 'Aren't you a damsel in distress?' 'I'm a damsel, I'm in distress…I can handle this. Have a nice day!' I've always wanted someone to say that to me; so thank you. And have a crumpet!

SimplyElymas: The world's about to end? Wow. Suddenly I realise how futile, puny and pathetic our meagre existences really are. But then I snuggle down with my favourite movies, and forget. It's like going into the army – only less dangerous to a degree. Indeed. He is, indeed, Erik. Like I said before, whatever Nadir says, I doubt he will be very pleased. Oh, wow! Did you see it on the web, or in the cinema? In the cinema it's much cooler, because the dark's all around you, and it's more freaky! And yes, it is amazing – I just can't wait!

More E/C goodness for you all. You didn't think I'd leave you with just that snippet, did you? I'm not mean. So, she knows his name, he knows her name – they're off to a flying start!

Gloster: Your beauty was the cause of that effect;

Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep

To undertake the death of all the world

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

Lady Anne: If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,

These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

Shakespeare's Richard the Third, Act One, Scene Two.

Death and the Maiden

"What are you?"

What am I?

I am a ghost…a Phantom…a genius with no other way to express myself…a murdered man…and your slave.

He gazed at her beloved face; her mouth still open from her hesitant, whispered words, her breath coming in short gasps from between her pale lips; not unlike when their eyes had met for the first time, though perhaps she had conquered her fear more successfully this time. He had hardly believed that there could ever be bliss like this before, as he knelt at her feet – her little feet; so small; he had, for a moment, seen them, when first he had stopped to remove his cape from around her, when she had whimpered at its heat in her sleep. So small, like a doll's – her hands were still red from where they had been frozen by the snow, but quickly they were turning back to cream; and he held them in his own. They were so soft – and yet they felt so strong; felt so powerful; the lattice work of nerves and tendons hidden just beneath the pale skin! He could feel her pulse beating in her wrist against his fingers – oh, the joy of feeling such a beat! The joy of it! Surely better than any music he could ever write or compose; the true blood music of life.

Her life.

I have no breath, no beating heart to swear by – yet I am yours forever.

But above all that – what am I?

Erik.

And so the words came from his mouth.

"I am Erik."

At first, she said nothing; closing her mouth so suddenly that her teeth clicked together, like a box being snapped shut. Her eyes, if it were at all possible, grew even wider; the swell of her chocolate brown irises seeming to contain the whole world, as she looked down at him; a child with a dead man seated at her feet. Then, her lips parted again; but now her voice held no fear; like a breath of pure wonder came his name back at him, falling like a blessing upon his ears, his mind, starved too long of such a dream.

"Erik."

He felt his hands tighten involuntarily on her wrists. Oh, if only he had the courage he would take her into his arms again; hold her close to him, and feel not her pulse but her actual heartbeat again. Only the small whimper – whether from pain or sudden shock at his closeness, he was not sure which – prevented him from doing so; brought him back to himself. Swiftly he let go of her, and drew back, though still he knelt before her; like an adoring prince before a beautiful princess.

She is certainly a princess; but I am no prince…

She rubbed her wrists – he tired to reassure himself that her protest had come from pain, as exhibited by the redness of the skin, though he hated indeed to have hurt her – almost absentmindedly; but all the while her eyes were fixed upon his face, with an intensity which would have made his heart, had it been beating, almost stop. There was fear in that gaze, of course; he would have been surprised if there hadn't been; but there was also wonder, dismay – a whole melting pot of emotion, of intrigue, of passions…

Let me lose myself in your eyes, forever…

She clearly shrunk under his own gaze, mouthing wordlessly; the colour coming back to her lips and cheeks despite her evident shock and timidity.

"You fear me," he said simply, not sadly. People had been afraid of him throughout his life, and he was used to fear. He might have been upset now that she feared him like all the rest; but it was all right, he would have so much time to teach her otherwise…

Gulping back what might have been tears, she nodded. Just once, but enough to show her timid assent.

"Why do you fear me?" The words came flowing from his lips; gentle; inviting; teasing an answer from her own rapidly flushed lips – a gentleman's request, a lover's request, shaped by a demon's lips, to entreat an angel. He held her gaze in his, and he credited her all the more – her resolve, her backbone – when she did not look away in defeat, even though he was perfectly aware of what she was probably seeing.

He hated this – hated himself – but he wanted her to answer. Wanted her to say what she felt, so that he would help her conquer her fear, and so she would, could, love him; could look beyond his new form and see himself.

And he was prepared for her answer. "You're the living corpse."

He nodded calmly. In life he probably would have struck out with deadly precision and accuracy at whatever cretin had dared to throw that insult at him, like a clod of earth at a dog; but now it was no more than the truth.

"I see Buquet keeps my old name alive still." With that he got up effortlessly, and drew back from her. He heard her give an almost inaudible, minute sigh of relief, even as the next second she asked, hesitantly.

"You…you knew…know, Buquet?"

"Not personally. But a Phantom must have knowledge of his empire, and all those who dwell within the said empire." He felt the muscles of his face spread, in another smile. "Even their names, Christine."

"And…how do you know my name?" came her sweet, musical voice, gaining strength with courage.

"I have known it for ages untold; knew it since the moment you opened up your heart to me, and let me into your mind, and shaped my words with your voice." For this was only the truth. The way that he had been brought back to life.

She was silent, her lovely face frowning; and then it was as if a light had suddenly blossomed in her features, her eyes – not of joy, but of revelation. "It was you. You wrote that book?"

He inclined his head, and felt a great surge of pleasure rush through him at the fresh wonder that rushed in turn across her lovely features. "I am glad indeed that you enjoyed my verses."

"They were so beautiful!" she burst out; now longer a fearful, cowed young woman, out of her element in this new world, but filled with enthusiasm for the beauty which he had created. At last, he had a purpose; his work had a purpose! No longer would he create aimlessly; in Christine he had found a wife, a muse, an idol…an angel.

"No more beautiful than the mouth that shaped them; that found music to sing them to."

Once again the roses appeared on her cheeks; but now it was more the flush of a woman to whom a compliment from a dashing suitor had been paid. For the moment at least there was no fear, no horror in her face, her eyes, as she looked at him. For the moment, she had forgotten what he was, if only for that moment.

In time, he would help her to forget altogether…

But then the roses disappeared – or were perhaps simply replaced by white ones. She gulped again – almost a sob – and bent over her hands, which clasped so hard in her hands that those two were in turn going white, as she squeezed the blood out of them.

"I know what you are saying," she said flatly. "And you must not say such things to me."

Such boldness! But he had expected nothing else from her. At least she was speaking to him now as a proper being, instead of a dark, threatening figure to be feared and hated.

"Why?" he asked softly, drawing closer again, closer to her. That she was aware of his closeness was evident, for her breathing increased rapidly, as she hastily brought her head up again; her eyes suddenly filled with fear again.

"I know what you want! I'm not so much of a damsel in distress that I can't remember anything! You want me to marry you! You want me to be your – your bride!"

He had to at least be pleased that though there was evident terror accompanying that last word, at least there was no disgust – at least, not yet.

"Would that be so wrong?"

She stared up at him as if he were mad as well as dead. Perhaps he was. I've certainly been accused of it in the past.

"You're dead," she said, after a few deep breaths – here for the first time he felt a twinge of annoyance; she sounded as if she was explaining something to a mere child. As if he didn't know that! – "you're dead, and I'm alive. The living cannot marry the dead; can you not see that?"

"Then whoever made up that rule is mistaken."

Her brown eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

For an answer, he raised his hand which, at the moment, seemed to be melded between skeleton and flesh; showed her the ring, which encircled his finger – that circle of gold, which bound him to her, like fate, forever and a day.

"And thereto I pledge thee my troth," he said, casually; and watched her blanch to hear her own voice coming out of his mouth. "With this ring, I thee wed. I would say that is fairly binding, wouldn't you, mademoiselle?"

She stared at the ring, her mouth open. Then, she abruptly began to shiver; with a gasp as if in pain she brought her hands to her cheeks, her eyes now staring into nothing. She moaned, and then moaned again; she rocked back and forth on her seat, in a paroxysm of seeming grief.

"Oh, no…no," she muttered, sounding strangled.

He was back on his knees before her without realising it; his arms were around her despite that she flinched at his touch. His annoyance was long gone, to be replaced with concern; with fear, even. For what had suddenly caused this change in her?

What is it, my angel?

How ignorant was he? Of course he knew what it was – the thought of marriage to him.

He felt her body shudder with unwept sobs in his arms; her hair trailed across his face as she unconsciously buried her face in his shoulder; but then she jerked away, away from his shoulder and his arms and his embrace, away from him.

"No…please!" she whispered, tears now leaking between her eyes. "Please, do not do this to me! I cannot bear it; I cannot!"

Obediently, he moved away from her, to a respectful distance; he did not blame her for her horror. Any woman would have most likely have been horrified to be wedded to him in life; it was only natural that she should be even more horrified at his state in death.

But she will see, she must…

What was she saying now, in a voice choked with tears?

"Oh…oh, how will he ever forgive me? How can he?"

He froze. His thoughts froze. The world froze. Everything froze.

He?

"He?" His voice might have cut ice, steel; it was so cold, so sharp. She looked up involuntarily from her hands, terror now in her eyes, in her open mouth, in her short, anguished breaths.

"Whom do you speak of?" He expected to be obeyed; and she obviously recognised that, since she did not hesitate, though she faltered.

"My…my fiancée. The man to whom I am engaged. The…the ring I put on your finger was to be his at my - our, wedding."

Coldness was flooding through him, through his long dead veins, into his still heart, though whether it was from fury or something else he did not know. He felt himself smile again, though there was no mirth in him; and heard himself say, "Well, you may have to disappoint him, my dear. A woman is not allowed to have two husbands; such a thing is called bigamy in the church, I believe."

She gave a hoarse moan, and fell limply back against the cushioned back of the chaise lounge; but she was still refusing to cry; he could see the tears grouped at the corners of her eyes, but she would not let them fall.

"Who is he?" he asked, unable to prevent himself from tormenting her further; trying to make light of his horror concerning the situation. "Might I know the name of my…I would call him my rival, but he isn't really, is he? Nonetheless; his name?"

She looked up at him, as if hardly able to see him through the veil of unshed tears that doubtless clouded her eyes. "What?"

"His name."

She looked away from him, as if wishing to see him no longer; filling him with yet more coldness towards this, this man, who already had her love.

"Raoul. Raoul de Chagny."

And if he was ice cold before, now he was boiling magma.

She seriously thought, for an instant, that he might actually kill her. Certainly when she looked back at him, limp with horror and despair, after saying Raoul's name, she could not help the cry that had spilled, uncontrollably, from her mouth; could not help screaming like a little girl, at the look on his face, in his eyes. If he had been angry before – and he had been angry, no doubt, very angry; the way he had set his mouth, the way he had unconsciously clenched his hands when he spoke of Raoul in that way – then now he was virtually insane with fury; his teeth bared, his face shot of all colour; his eyes, and what else she could suddenly see in the full scope of his rage, oh God-

She had never considered herself particularly brave; but she was no coward either. Yet it was all she could not to do not to follow that scream up with a mad dash for the boat, the river; anything rather than that terrible, harrowing, demonic face; those yellow eyes which burnt with an unholy fire! Or maybe it was simply fear that made her remain where she was; unable to move for terror.

What have I done? What have I done? Oh Raoul, help me! Forgive me!

And then, just as suddenly as the burning rage had come, it was gone; the mad fire died in his eyes, the rabid look disappeared from his face, which had settled back at once into normality. If he were alive he might have taken one or two deep breaths before speaking; as it was he merely sighed, then spoke again, quietly, melodiously; but with an evident trace of anguish, melancholy, in his voice.

"I have frightened you. I am sorry."

She didn't know what to say. What could she say? Words could never do justice to all that rushed through her mind, as she half crouched on the chaise lounge, looking up at him with terror, dismay; enough fear to last her a lifetime; ten lifetimes? She wanted to run and hide, to escape, to do anything but remain here, in the presence of this corpse, who called itself – himself – her husband.

He stretched out a hand towards her, as he had done the first time she had seen him; unlike then she did not shrink back – she had nowhere else to go now, nowhere to hide.

His gaze was filled with sorrow immeasurable; full of countless unwept tears, as he looked almost pleadingly at her.

"Please. Do not fear me."

How it was she did not know, but her hand was suddenly in his; and she was on her feet and being led – wherever she was being led; but before she could look around at her surroundings – which she had paid no attention to, with him in her immediate vicinity – there was his voice; and then his voice raised in song –

And once again merciful, blissful darkness claimed her, as fear and exhilaration and weariness once more demanded their inevitable toll of the shutting down of her senses.

But even as she sank into that delicious, oblivious embrace, she remembered the face that had, for a few scant seconds, gone with the voice, and the words that the voice had spoken; and wondered that she was able to sleep at all; wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again.

He had controlled his emotions until Christine was safely asleep – he cursed himself for frightening her so; truly he deserved such knives carving at his mind and soul for such an act; though there had been a smile upon her face as he had sung her to sleep (though he privately felt that it was more relief at escape from the waking world on her part) - before he lent vent to his fury; his rage; his screams of impotent madness.

De Chagny! De Chagny! That name in his mouth again; like poison; pure poison! The bitterest of biles; the vilest of tastes! At the very thought of it, he felt sick to his stomach, his real one now as well as his metaphorical one.

Candles burst – or exploded – into flame as he passed them, mirrors cracked; the very waters of the lake seemed to boil, heated and fuelled by his rage.

De Chagny!

But Christine might be woken. He could not wake her now; after he had laid her in his bed – or rather a bed, since he had never slept in it – with a smile curving her lips; with her hair tangled about her face in a glorious mane, her cheeks flushed in slumber – laid her at peace. No, not at peace, at – oh, he didn't know what to think anymore!

No, she must not be woken. With difficulty, he managed to control his fury; gradually the candle flames died down, the waters settled, the mirrors repaired themselves. As the master gained control of himself once more, so hiss abode, his creation, his masterpiece calmed down with him, until it was no longer a seeming inferno but beautiful, glorious, once more.

De Chagny!

After so long, it had come back to haunt him. But he would not let the rage overtake him like that. Not again.

Not like this.

It was ironic, he supposed. Almost fated, if he believed in fate. I make my own destiny, he had always said. And look at where it brought me.

He walked back to where she lay; beautiful in slumber, every breath a gift to him, every sigh nothing but an everlasting joy to his ears; one pretty girl, in a new world of magnificent morbidity; a bright flower among so many – however beautiful – weeds.

And he would make sure she would not wither.

That – de Chagny, will never have her.

He shall not have her.

But, at the same time, he could not have her either. No; she was not his, he was hers; forever and a day, no matter how much she denied it.

He turned away – though he felt he could never tire of her beauty, he should not over indulge himself.

One pretty girl, in the house of a dead man.

Death and the Maiden.

How appropriate.

No references to the bit in Labyrinth between Jareth and Sarah, please!

references to the bit in Labyrinth between Jareth and Sarah,

I'm so happy! I've finally read Susan Kay's Phantom – thanks, Hriviel, I owe so much to you! – and I see just what all the fuss is about. It really is so good. And so hopeful at the end. And full of such good quotes. Sigh. I can die happy. Not that I mean I want to die now, I just – oh, forget it. Also, I can see why quite a lot of people are calling Kay Christine a wuss – I thought, she can't be that bad – and then I read it. And now I must agree that yes, she is a bit of a wuss, heaven help me. She can't help it, but she is. Oh, dear. There goes another of my fantasies. I fear my Christine is a bit 'wussy' now as well – well, she's all despairing all over the place. I'm sure a lot of you would die to be in her place – considering the circumstances, I think being dead would be a useful asset.

Read! Review! I'm going to Ireland, so I want lots of reviews when I get back!