Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, or Crospe Bride. I do, however, own my fairly bought and paid for copy of Irish Ghosts and Hauntings. Yes, the ghost story fiend is back!

Top of the morning to you all! Or evening, or whenever you're reading this. I'm adjustable.

Well, here I am, back from the Emerald Isle! I had a lovely break, seeing all my relatives and staying in my grandfather's house, Kilmurry,in the country. And before you ask, no one killed Murry. It actually means 'Church of Mary', or something alongthose lines - my grandfather was very religious. I love it there; looking down into the garden - which is very big; although more of a wilderness than anythign else- and looking across to the mountains - not at the bottom of the garden; a long way away on the other side of the river, which is at the bottom of the garden; clambering over the stones set up on the side of the drive, skimming stones on the aforesaid river, fighting our way through the undergrowth until we either scared off or were scared off by a stag which had somehow turned up there, which doesn't surprise me...in short, I have been communing with nature, and I was really sad to leave; which I always am. But now it means I have a chance to further my book! I've had a truly wonderful idea concerning it – but since it doesn't have any relevance here, I won't go into it. I've also had time to think of what to come next in the story. Yes, I've definitely had a wonderful holiday! But first – some acknowledgments to my reviewers.

musicallover: I liked Kay's Phantom - another form of self actualization, I found out - but I don't have any particular favourite scene. Okay, don't tell. That was quite by accident; but I liked it just the same - it only just occurred to me. 'Fate links me to thee forever and a day!' Amazing what you can unconsciously think of, isn't it? I don't think she's going to be relaxed yet - after all, she's been abducted to the after life and has now found that Erik believes her to be his lawful bride. Would you be calm? No, don't answer that. I like E/C and R/C, but I am an E/C shipper nonetheless. But it's good that you are flexible. Chips for you. SB.

SimplyElymas: More confetti! Yay! (Gets top hat and dances in the streets.) Ahem. I thought that was a good idea as well. V. Erik, v. good. In run with the Master, whoo hoo! Thanx, faithful reviewer!

Willow Rose: It is, indeed, wonderful. Oh, the joy of reading it! Aw, don't poke Christine. It's not her fault she's a wuss. Well...not much. Oh, I'm sorry luv! So sorry! You're not a weed, you're a lovely Willow Rose! Don't sniffle! Don't cry! Don't make me feel guilty! You're lovely! You've lovely! Be happy! Here is an update to cheer you up!

MetalMyersJason: Indeed she is! Ah, muses - and basements. What a weird, exciting, wonderful life you lead. Everyone has a fetish - I'm just not sure what my one is yet.

Mominator124: Not really - I've been over there so many times it's lost some of its novelty. It's still nice to go there, though. I thought of when he trashes the lair when she takes off his mask in the film, and again later on at the end - and how cool and helpful it would be if the lair just learnt to repair itself, if he threw fits a lot of the time. I think you're right about the horse - he's never been exactly solid in this realm, so now he has to get used to walking everywhere - and punting; which, handily enough, he is very good at straight away. I went to Kerry, so I didn't get to see the stone - but I passed it on my way there from Cork, and imagined bending over backwards to kiss it, as you have to do. Do you think that's where the saying 'to bend over backwards' comes from? Thanx, Barb!

Voldivoice: I brought you some! (Virtual post of lucky four leaf clovers - so many times the luck!) I'm only half Irish, so you beat me there. May the clovers give you luck, and help you overcome writers' block if and when you have it. Isn't it amazing, the way Erik still manages to be sexy even after all I do to him? There is something uncanny about it all! Like I said, Hriviel might still be up on the offer, if you check out her story. Or something. Thanks for the luck, it hardly rained at all - except when we arrived. What a username! No doubt you're very pleased at how much scope your 'husband' (I guess?) got in HP and the Half-blood prince? Thanks again!

Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi there! Wuss...hmm. How best to explain? 'Wuss' is, basically, a not very complimentary name for someone who might also be described as a 'wet-hen' - a grown person who cries when baby birds fall out of nests and die, even though that is the fate Mother Nature usually reserves for such unfortunate baby birds. You get the picture. Not that I'm saying that we shouldn't be sad at the death of baby birds or anything...I'm really not very good at these explanations, am I? In a sense, yes, they are married. At least, he thinks they are - though she doesn't, by any means. Wedding night...the possibilities! Good idea about the singing; but there's a little thing called 'free will', which my Erik is an enthusiast of; strange but true. It is indeed the name of a painting, as far as I know; they did a play in my school about a year back, called by that title; and with a picture like that on the programmes - though the play was about something else entirely. You like necromancy, don't you? Have you seen the 'Anita Blake' series? Woah, don't try to kill Raoul just yet! I understand your desire to avenge Erik, but there's no need to plan out a massacre just yet! I know - I feel for poor Erik. He loves her; yet at the moment he can't have her. Why? Because I'm mean! Remembered what you were going to say yet? Cheers to you too!

Lydiby: Umm...yeah. How does that connect? Never mind. Why would you explode at the thought of me going to Ireland? I'm not annoyed, I'm genuinely curious. Somehow I don't think I'd be able to top that French kiss of all French kisses - or would I want to? Something to think about...again. Made me think of things other than summertime as well. No problem about the review thing. I should have reviewed more often, I think; please try to forgive? Bitter Chocolate Death? Have you ever heard of Death By Chocolate? I'm not sure what it is myself, since when I went along to some such thing all they had was melted dark chocolate; and I hate dark chocolate. But you might like it! I've never read Sunshine - is it good? And don't worry; believe me, I've gotten more than flecks of blood on my copy of HP and the Philosopher's Stone - great gouts of the stuff, in fact. Don't ask, 'cos I won't tell - unless you're very interested. I would dearly love to join this 'Sexy Librarian's Guild', if you will give me the address or something. I've never heard of the Bloomsbury group, but yours sounds very interesting; with morbid tea-parties and discussions of what would happen if you kissed someone rotting and everything. Sneezing blood is not a requirement? How about weeping blood? Bet that made you start up, didn't it? Seriously; I don't actually weep blood as such(you know, out through my tear ducts, because if I did I would be very worried) but I somehow seem to have developed this weird tendency to have nosebleeds whenever I start crying heavily. For example; at the end of Fellowship of the Ring in the cinema, I was crying quietly to myself (oh, everyone's going to start calling me a wuss now - but it was just so sad!) and suddenly I found out that I was crying and bleeding all over my fleece top at the same time. Which made things rather difficult, as you can imagine. I now tend to set by a store of tissues whenever I watch a sad movie, like Titanic - for my eyes, because I know I'm going to cry, and for my nose, because I fear it will bleed. What have you gotten yourself into, you might well wonder?

Rikku Ree: What can you indeed? Well…things come to mind…and there they shall stay. I suppose it does have some originality, since this is probably the first time someone has done this…maybe. What does XD mean? The thing with me is, I tend to spend time describing people's actions, and than the next paragraph starts with something someone says, and so on…just my little thing. Too far in to change, perhaps, perhaps not, but thanks for saying it. Being a vampire might be an asset; but I don't really think I'd like to get bitten on the neck. I mean, it would hurt! And it would kill me as well. Which would kind of be the whole point of the thing, I suppose. The stake, cutting off head and sunlight I could do without though. Like I said on POTO: What 'they' didn't want you to see, I don't like the sun too much. HISS! IT BURNS! Strength would be good – then I could beat my sister at arm-wrestling and get her in head locks. But all in all, a living corpse does have some originality – because after all, as Lydiby said, it's so much harder to be physically attracted to a man whose face might come off as you broke off from kissing than to a sexy, sexy vampire. Here is my update – and a really big reply to you!

Tiny Toni: Nice that you reviewed as well. (Sorry you didn't get as big replies as those above, but – and no offence meant – you didn't write much for me to reply to. Don't worry, I still like you!)

Well, time for some normality - of sorts - to encroach upon this lovely scene, don't you think? Oh, before I go any further, I must say that for a while a certain system regarding the scenes will be set up; there will be a couple of Erik-and-Christine-in-the-lair-scenes, then a scene up (really up, you could say) in the mansion; then another few scenes down in the lair...and so on. This is more to suit the story, as no doubt you lot will find out in time; but for now I'll simply say that it's to please all you Erik nuts out there.

Besides, we're on Chapter - what is it? - Seventeen; and we haven't had an actual appearance of Nadir yet. Well, technically we have, but not from his viewpoint. But that can be easily remedied, with merely a click of the key board. And a little imagination. Whee hee!

While you here do snoring lie, (1)

Open eyed conspiracy

His time doth take.

If of life you keep a care,

Shake off slumber and beware:

Awake, awake!

Shakespeare's The Tempest

((1) Wouldn't it be so funny if Christine actually snored in the film?

Awakenings

Something has happened...

He forged his way through the darkness; through the sudden walls that had sprung up seemingly overnight - if there was such a thing as night in the Land of the Dead. Since he had last visited Erik, then; and that had been quite recently.

But now, suddenly, something had changed. He had felt it, far away in relative terms as he was; and it had shaken him.

And now new solidity had come into the way that Erik's realm worked...

Erik...what have you done?

For he had no doubt that Erik was behind whatever had caused all this unbalance in their world; behind the tremor that had run through the Land of the Dead, and every being within it. Others might not be so suspicious; but he knew Erik. Or rather, he did not know. He did not know what Erik might have dared, in the new recklessness that was his, as he was strengthened by that voice from above.

He shuddered, as he tore through yet another opposition; feeling his very being shudder, in discomfort of a sort. How has he gained this power? What has happened?

Whatever had happened, it was his business to find out. And to rectify it, if at all possible.

Oh, Erik...you do like to make my existence difficult, don't you?

Slowly, deftly, Christine fought her way out of the dream which could almost have been fashioned for her - a cocoon of delightful nothingness, in which she could float forever and never have to do anything, ever again; where she could sleep and think of nothing.

Except the song...

And that face...

At the thought of that, she struggled even more. She would fight, rather than be shut in the dark with that - with that face. She would rather wake, even-

And with that, her eyes opened - not exactly snapping open, since she had had to fight against some of her natural lethargy still present; but still opening, rather than remaining shut. A feast of colour met her eyes, almost making her close them again in dizziness.

Was she sick? Was she drunk? Had she had too much wine the previous night? No...she didn't even remember eating anything...

Involuntarily, her eyes opened again; and looked up at a ceiling which was not by any means the ceiling of her room; for that ceiling was not constructed out of rock; nor hung with black lace.

Oh, no.

Once again memories flooded in to fill the gap in her memory. Somehow, they were much worse now than when she had first woken - how long ago had that been now? How could she know? - for now she had the remembrance of what had been said.

He thinks I am his wife...

The sick feeling was still with her; it would not go away. Now she really felt as if she might vomit.

Don't - think of that.

Trying desperately to focus on something - anything, rather than that - she became aware, for perhaps the first time, of the opulence, the almost luxury, of her surroundings; the ruby red of the velvet coverlet which covered her, the softness of the cushions upon which she lay, the tapestries which hung upon the walls - but she was tired of awakening in strange places, in-

Only now did she realise just how she had been able to feel the velvet of the coverlet against her skin - namely because there was practically nothing between them; her arms were bare. In a sudden, almost panic, she realised that she was she didn't know how unclothed under the coverlet - a sensuous and defenceless delight, at the same time.

Now truly in a deadly panic - what if he had decided to consummate the marriage, or something to that effect? Would he? Would he dare? - she ripped the thin coverlet off of her; and breathed a sigh of immense, everlasting relief as she saw that she still at least wore her corset and petticoats, and felt the chemise under them - though her deep corset certainly felt much looser than it had before she had fallen asleep, at least as far as she could recall - and her legs and feet were shamefully bare under the folds of her chemise.

Where were her clothes? Her jacket, her skirt, her riding shirt; her stockings and boots? Where had they all gone? She was - she began to giggle, almost hysterically - practically undressed, in a man's bed...his bed...

She dug her fingernails hard into her palm, to dispel her hysteria. She couldn't stay here, like this, in this position. And she couldn't stay dressed like this either. I can't go around the underworld half naked!

Carefully, she slid from between the sheets; her bare feet meeting a wonderfully soft, fluffy carpet, which tickled their soles and warmed them instantly; she stood up, and even that simple action made her want to fall to the floor to quell the feeling of nausea in her gut. Tentatively she took one step forward, and then another; all the while expecting to overbalance and fall and bring him running.

That thought was enough to sober her at once; and send a shiver running through her frame. She had more than half a mind to throw the velvet coverlet around herself - at least it would do something to keep her warm, and shield her bare skin from an undesired gaze - but as she turned back to the elaborate bed, to do just that, her eyes caught sight of something else, laid on at the foot of it, half covered by the thrown back coverlet - something black...

Curious, she moved the red velvet aside, and her fingers met black velvet, much thicker than the coverlet; as she picked it up and held it up to the dusky light overhead it fell down to pool at her feet; a strange garment, like a slightly macabre version of a dressing gown, only clearly meant for someone much taller than her - if the length of it was anything to go by - and larger as well.

Was this meant for her?

Could she wear it?

Was she expected to?

The very thought of such a thing made her feel cold all over; but there didn't seem to be anything else she could wear with relative ease. So she shivered into the garment; sliding her arms down the sleeves and letting the material settle on her shoulders; pulling her free-flowing hair out from beneath the robe so as to decrease her discomfort. It was surprisingly warm, and delightfully soft; and instead of the death smell she had secretly been dreading she found it gave off more a hint of spices than anything; certainly not decay, at any rate. The whole thing dwarfed her; but at least it covered her, if she held the edges of it firm around her.

Aware of what a fool she must look, although now suitably covered, she found herself looking around the bedroom - if you could call it that - which, to her, looked more like an ornately decorated cavern; very ornately decorated. Why, the tapestries on the walls must surely be worth a fortune, let alone the bed and its coverings! And the carpet upon which she stood, which seemed to be made from fur, fluffy white fur, or fleece - she wasn't really in a position to tell the difference - would probably be costly even in the de Chagny household. But for all these items, there were more outlandish items - a bronze working of some kneeling Hindu god; a strange music box, with a model monkey set on top, dressed in strange, Oriental seeming robes...

What sort of person is this - man? Where has he been? What must he have seen?

As she thought this, she continued her tentative inspection of her surroundings; her eyes turning towards the entrance to this cavern-room-

- through which was coming music...

And what music!

She felt her jaw drop, her fingers slacken and loose their grip on the robe, as the music assailed her ears. Truly, what music! Though it was only one violin, she knew that one violin was held in and played by the hands of a master - a true master, a master of music itself. Do those skeleton fingers truly hold genius?

Yet for all the beauty of the music, she was not so overcome that she could not recognise the piece which was being played. She could recognise it, all right. She had heard that music before...

Slowly, carefully, drawing the folds of the strange gown around her once more - feeling the edges which trailed on the floor trail after her like a train of sorts - she crept towards the entrance to this cul-de-sac cavern; and towards the source of the divine sound.

He lay back in his chair, lounging against the back of the seat, gazing up at the ceiling. It was the deep breath before the plunge, which he had always experienced, even when he was alive - that pause, before he launched into something - anything - that he knew would be good; would be more than good - would be great; would be marvellous. It was glorious; truly glorious - because he knew, he knew, that this would be more wonderful than anything else in his existence...

...and this time, it will last forever.

A hand reached out, stroked the feathers on the quill pen nearby...

...would that it were her curls under finger...

The thought made him smile, and then chuckle uncontrollably. It was funny - and here was he who had believed he would never laugh again...

With a louder chuckle, he swirled around in his seat-

Well, what a pleasant surprise, he thought, with an added mental giggle that would certainly have made him blush when he was calm - if he had been capable of blushingThere stood Nadir, on the shoreline on the lake once again, as if he had never left from that last visit - except he looked as bedraggled as it was possible for a spirit to look; and he was wearing an expression of such incredulity on his face that, if he hadn't wanted to collapse in laughter before, certainly made him desire to do so now.

"Nadir!" he called out, shooting up out of his chair; barely able to conceal his mirth, almost his hysteria. "Pray do not stand on ceremony! Sit, kneel; anything, rather than stand!" The laughter gurgled uncontrollably from his throat as he saw the other being's eyes only widen, and his jaw drop still further, if that was at all possible.

"My, my, Nadir; what ever is the matter with you? You look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

Abruptly the older being's mouth clamped shut; the shock was swiftly banished, to be replaced by guarded anger. "Erik..."

Oh dear, he thought, without much dread. Nadir's displeasure inspired no fear in him in any case, and even less so now. Who cared about anything that the Persian could inflict upon him, when he had Christine?

I certainly don't, for one.

The very thought of her, lying asleep in the chamber 'upstairs', so to speak, filled him with an elatedness which almost made him giddy; made him able to ignore Nadir's disapproval even more so than he usually did; to seize upon his violin, and fix the Daroga with a none too gentle grin. He was aware that he wasn't acting normally, but...

But I am in love.

"But what am I thinking of? You must have some music to welcome your arrival!" Fingers that, to his eyes, were both flesh covered and skeletal, at the same time, positioned the violin under his chin; his other hand swept up his bow; all customary actions, and yet all a new delight to him - because he now had a body with which to perform them. "So, what will you have, Nadir? I am open to any request!"

If it were possible for the weather to be imprinted upon faces, he thought idly, then there would definitely be a storm brewing between Nadir's eyebrows.

"Erik..." The Persian's voice came like the growl of some beast. "What have you done?"

He shrugged, secretly delighting at the further fury that was now being imprinted upon Nadir's face. "Really, Daroga, you must let go of your policeman tendencies! Remember, it was you who told me to forget the world above?"

"Erik, you-"

"No desires, Daroga? Then I shall just have to choose a piece myself!" He raised the bow to the strings. "What shall I play you, Daroga? I know, I shall play you The Resurrection of Lazarus!"

He felt rather than heard Nadir give a splutter of rage as he began; no doubt at his choice of music as much as anything else. As the bow raced across the strings, as the music spilled from his fingers and streamed out from his mind, he lost sight of Nadir's outraged face; the music drowned out the Persian's protests; drowned out anything but the sheer joy with which he played the piece; played the music that brought Lazarus back to life – and brought him back to life, and love. For he was in love; and if the one he loved heard his music, surly she would forget her fear; forget everything, except love.

But he thought nothing of that now; all he could do was play.

What music!

She had crouched half way upon the steps leading up to the bedroom; her corset allowing her to do so now, and for that she felt faintly grateful, despite the outrage she obviously felt at it having been loosened at all. She felt like the child she had once been; escaping her sleeping nurse to sit upon the stairs and listen to her father playing the violin to his guests in the evenings; the sheer thrill of both being out of bed at such a late hour, and the joy she felt at listening to her wonderful, talented father, as well as the applause that had come after the music, made up some of her most cherished memories.

The situation she was in now was similar; but the emotions she felt were far from childish. An exquisite turbulence of wonder, awe, doubt, and that cold dagger blade of terror roiled within her heart, as she huddled into herself, her arms pulling the robe tighter around herself, even as the music sent chills up her spine, and flowed into her ears like – oh, she didn't know what, except that it was pure, liquid gold; like heaven condensed into the music of one – man.

Yet she knew that piece – had heard Papa play it; many times before his death.

The Resurrection of Lazarus.

What does that mean? For him? For me?

At that thought, she awoke from the ecstasy of the music she heard. True that he played and sang like an angel – but the one whom she looked upon even now, his violin under his chin, his hand soaring and taking the bow with it; his dress suit – a suit fit for a wedding, she thought, with a fresh surge of dread – shed – mostly; his coat and extravagant waistcoat throw aside, his white shirt open, and to her relief his well muscled chest showing no alternative signs of the corruption that had claimed his leg and arm to her eyes; why was she thinking of that? – his near perfect face raised to the candlelight, his eyelids closed over his yellow eyes, the warm light tracing over his cheeks –

Stop that, you little idiot! most of her mind reprimanded the tiny, treacherous part that seemed for that moment to have taken over. What are you thinking?

And indeed what was she thinking? Erik, if that was his name, deserved none of her admiration; none at all, only her fear and dread. He had kidnapped her against her will; brought her down to the underworld, to this place…

And he meant to marry her.

At that thought, all the old horror reclaimed her.

He is a corpse – I cannot marry him!

I don't want to marry him!

He can't make me!

Armed with this childish resolve, which stoked new fire in her – I hope – she shot up from her seated position; the robe rippling around her. She had half a mind to tear it off her frame, but for the fact that this would allow him to see more of her exposed flesh.

I will not remain here. He cannot keep me like some sort of pet.

But her attention was distracted in the next moment, as a movement to her left rattled through her; swivelling like a top she saw with horror that in her swift action she had somehow jolted and overbalanced the elaborate candelabra against which she had rested her head, as she had crouched upon the steps, out of sight. She had assumed that the thing was so heavy – when she had leaned her full weight upon it – that there would be no danger of her upsetting the thing.

It seems I was wrong.

Before she could do anything, the massive ornament had toppled off the edge of the stairs, the candles dislodging from their holders as if to escape the fate of the great structure which until then had supported them – but to no avail; candelabra, candles and all, disappeared over the edge; and a moment later a splash, vast and booming, echoed through the cavern; wildly she heard the music jerk to a halt; expected any moment to see his face bearing down on her, filled with outrage-

Desperately she looked around for some means of escape – but instead her vision was filled – obscured – by a figure; quite far away, and yet filling ever part of her gaze. Another person – she hadn't realised that there had been someone else with him. There had only been the music – and then her fears and determination. But now she could see that there was indeed someone; dressed in dark, exotic looking clothes – a man, she could see his face, his eyes, wide with surprise – oh, this power to see every detail, even though he was so far away! – and the moustache above his lips, and the dark beard below it, which did not quite reach down to his-

His…

Oh, my God…dear heaven…

It was as if a veil had come down over her senses; finally shutting out the horror before it wrenched her stomach and innards; for which she was profoundly thankful. Dreamily she felt her face slip from its frozen rictus of what she didn't know; the nauseous feeling in her stomach swept through her…

She leaned instinctively against the candelabra…

…which wasn't there…

I wish, she thought critically, detachedly, as she undoubtedly began to follow in the candelabra's wake, that I could go for more than a little while in this realm without fainting.

The splash had brought him back to his senses; broken him off from the world of music which he had inhabited, regardless of Nadir's shouts, or almost pleas, to be heard. Perhaps not even that would have worked, but for the sake of the one who had made the sound.

She stood upon the top of the stairs, his robe around her, gracing her form however large it was on her; suiting her and her pale colouring, to his eyes, far better than it had ever done for him; her face a mask of horror yet again – yet it was not because of the candelabra which she had obviously unwittingly sent to a watery grave, nor even now himself.

No, her eyes were trained on Nadir; her mouth not now open, as it had been when she had first seen him, but her lips firmly clenched shut, as if to stop a scream – or something else – escaping from between them.

It was Nadir who caused her to shrink back – Nadir who caused her to lean over in faintness…not he, but Nadir…

Well, that certainly makes a nice change, he thought, even as, in a wild state of horror, he dropped the violin and bow, flew up the steps and caught her in his arms and…she's safe. Safe…

And she moaned, and buried her face in his shoulder…admittedly probably to stop herself from being sick, but still…

A very nice change indeed.

She was so young, that was what struck him about first. So very young. As he had seen her, standing at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide, her hair falling about her face in tangled locks, her pale hands drawn to her face half in horror of what she had done, and half in horror at him, no doubt – for he had no illusions about what he now looked like – he was struck not so much by her beauty, though that was truly very great, as by her general air of innocence, of purity – and alarm, almost desperation…

Damn you, Erik; why have you done this?

He knew why; he had seen Erik's face as he had dropped his precious instrument without a second glance, and hared up the steps without any of his usual dignity or reserve; caught the girl up in his arms – the solid arms of a body – and how he had bent over her, with such concern, such attention…and when he carried her down, and placed her so carefully on the chaise lounge, and then knelt at her side, without a second glance at him!

That…that monster! That utter demon! How could he, how has he done this-

"Daroga," he said, without looking around, "there is some wine on the table. Get it at once."

Instinctively he opened his mouth in indignation; but there was something in his companion's voice, despite his own outrage, that made him obey – once again.

How does he manage to do this? How can he make me do exactly as he wants, at a time like this? And how…how has he done…

Unable to speak, he brought the wretched bottle of wine; snatching it from his grasp, with a rasp of alternately bony fingers, he un-stoppered it and held it first to the girl's nose, and then to her lips.

"Erik-"

"Don't interrupt, me, Daroga." Once again without even looking round at him. How he dared, after all that he had done!

"Yes I will, Erik! What in the name of sanity is going on here?"

His reply – which he was sure would not be the answer to the question, but something far ruder – was interrupted in its turn, by a groan from she, the young goddess, who lay upon the sofa; a splutter as the wine made her cough-

"Back! Back, I tell you! Back!" In an instant, he felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer, both in his gut, and much more in his mind – Allah, that hurt! – and almost driven back to the edge of the water; how he could not tell, by some great strength and frenzy on Erik's part that he had never known to exist – until now. He fought and mastered the waves of – not exactly pain, but certainly extreme discomfort from whatever Erik had done – and shot out his arm, grabbing Erik's wrist – so solid – and miraculously holding it, by some strange chance.

"Don't you dare, Erik," he said, as calmly as you could. "Or it will be you going into the lake, not me."

The whirlwind around him decreased, and he was able to once more see Erik's face. If it were not for the flash in his eyes, one might think there was nothing the matter with him at all. Allah give him patience, he did not even pause; simply said, as if nothing at all had happened, "Forgiveness please, my friend. But I will not have you walking around here to frighten her. I would not do that to her."

"Do that to her! Look at you; you're practically a living skeleton! What have you done to yourself, Erik?"

Laughing as if he had not even heard the question, the other divested himself of his restraining wrist as easily as if he were no stronger than smoke; perhaps he was, compared to him now. "A living skeleton I may now look like, Nadir, if I did not look like one before; but at least I do not go walking around the Land of the Dead with my throat slit from ear to ear. That is a sight, I will warrant, that would put a female off even more than the sight of my face. But still, I will not have it in here." He pointed towards the distant mouth of the cavern; more for effect than anything else, he suspected. "Now, go, Daroga. I will come to you later – but not yet. Not now."

Damn you, you...you…

"I won't be sent away like a dog, Erik. If you think that, then you must truly have given up your sense for this new form." And this new power of yours, he added mentally.

Erik's smile faltered for a second – only a second; and then it was revived, but not with as much intensity. "I would not wish that on anybody, Nadir. Least of all you. But I ask you now to respect the privacy of my home; as well as my affairs."

The quietness of his voice managed to quell him, as it always did, no matter how angry he was at the time – though, he admitted, he had never been as furious as this. But he could not resist the jibe. "And she…is she another of your possessions? Another trinket to join your many treasures?"

"Indeed no, Daroga." Erik's voice was so low now, that it sent a chill even through him – and Allah knew he had seen a lot in his life that had conditioned him to whatever he might encounter in death. And he shuddered as the other looked up; the whimsical candlelight shining in his yellow, tawny eyes; his smile now bright and all the more unnerving. "She is my wife."

And before he could say anything, do anything, unfreeze his mind, even react, Erik added, as pleasantly as could be, "Be careful how you go, Daroga."

And in the next instant he was gone from the cavern, the lair; from Erik's realm; he knew not how. He was left alone, in darkness, with those words echoing around and around in his head; and the image, just before Erik had somehow banished him…of she, pushing herself up on the sofa, her eyes half open but nonetheless turned to him, and a pleading expression on her face – saying, without words, do not leave me…

She is my wife…

…my wife…

Oh, Allah…oh, Erik…

…now that I know what you have done…

…what will happen because of it? What will happen to you?

What will happen to all of us?

Poor Nadir! He never seems to get a break, does he? But at least I've dealt him rather better than Leroux did – the first time Nadir saw Erik with Christine, he got hit over the head for his trouble. At least he got through this without any injuries – except to his pride. And now you all know for certain how he died! Everyone still in love with him?

I decided for Erik to play The Resurrection of Lazarus for two reasons; one because there wouldn't really be an opportune time for Christine to visit the graveyard to hear her 'Angel of Music' play; and two, to slightly mock Nadir, and rub it in his spectral face that he's been resurrected – in a manner of speaking…

I've always liked the little bedroom in the lair in the film, and the candelabras; and I liked Erik's robe in the film as well. Why should he have to wear a silly Chinese hat? But all the same, I thought the robe would do just as well for Christine – why should she have to wear lacy nightgowns all the time? Equality for divas!

And yes, she is behaving like a wuss again – and even she admits it. But really, would you react to seeing a man with his throat slit from ear to ear with joy? One again, don't answer that – unless you're feeling very strongly on the subject.

Read and review! Oblige the half Irish seamstress!