Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride. I do own my computer, upon which I write this. Go figure.

musicallover: The Leroux love and comfort, in a sense, is something we all must have. Why? Who knows? It just is. Who can say what goes on in my mind? At any rate, never meddle in the affairs of fan fiction writers, especially the Phantom ones. They're not all that subtle. Probably more Leroux will come – though my Erik is handsome, he is a living corpse after all! Ooo, I love Dracula; it was one of the first gothic books I ever read! And after that I went on to read Gormenghast… Come back to life, so that you may read more!

Morianerulz: I'm not sure where I went – I was only five at the time. I remember going to a museum with dinosaurs and space vehicles, and seeing the White House – not much else. You provide me with inspiration, my lovely muse. A beautiful phriendship indeed, maybe. We must see.

Chantilly xx Lace: I would never have my Erik be so brutal as to practically rape the one he loves. No doubt it would have been interesting – but now this presents a new aspect of looking at things in their relationship. And yes, it is a relationship of sorts. Poor Erik indeed…then again, if his life was a bed of roses, we wouldn't love him so much, would we?

Polly Moopers: Who can say why? Never mind, you're reading them now, aren't you? Thank you indeed for your praise! And, I must say, it is nice to find someone who sympathises with Christine. The idea of 'fruit caking' her to death is interesting. Here is an update for you, fruit caker! I have written for you, as an angel – even though my name means 'princess', but what the heck!

Voldivoice: Top of the morning to you! Ah, dear Gatwick airport. Who can deny its charm?...Don't crowd now, one at a time! Umm…I was thinking more of you throwing rocks at Christine; but hey, if you want to throw bludgers at me, I won't sue, because you gave me a review! Hey, that rhymes! Imitating Mandarin Chinese, are you? Good luck received and utilized to great effect!

Mina: Welcome! I am glad indeed that you like it, and that you like my version of Erik. Yay; there's a new Erik in town. So much angst! And Leroux homage in the kissing of the skirts, indeed. A regular mix up of all the most beloved Eriks' results in he – only some bits got left in the blender. Tee hee. We must see about the last bit, mustn't we? Quite bespelled, aren't you? Enjoy!

Mominator124: Indeed. She is rather desperate. I for one wouldn't be too keen on the whole situation myself. I like the thought of this Erik – both attracting and repelling at the same time. Gosh; I'm making things for hard for dear little Christine, aren't I? Stuff to come will be good as well!

SimplyElymas: Leroux canon…lovely Leroux! Poor Erik. But it had to come, otherwise there wouldn't be a point to it, would there? And that will probably reappear later…

CrazyCarl: Maybe I will get it published one day, after I've had my actual books done? Maybe…wow, thank you very much! No one's ever said anything like that before…sniff…warnings; the trailer was just a little freaky in the dark, so imagine what the whole of the film might be like! I think it's quite original as well; everyone was doing Beauty and the Beast, and Kates was doing a Labyrinth cross-over; but I believe this is the first Corpse Bride crossover! And probably the last…Join the club in adding to favourites!

megumisakura: Keen on capitals, aren't you? Many thanks for the compliment. Updated soon enough for you?

So, we've had the meeting, the revelation, the unmasking; are we missing anything?...Possibly the Opera House. Oh well. Can't have everything, you know! What next?...

Best and dearest flower that grows,

Perfect both to see and smell;

Words can never, never tell

Half the beauty of a Rose –

Buds that open to disclose

Fold on fold of purest white,

Lovely pink, or red that glows

Deep, sweet-scented. What delight

To be Fairy of the Rose!

Cicely Mary Barker

The land of tears is so mysterious.

From The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Translated by Alan Wakeman

Teardrops on Roses

Tears…

So many tears…

When had he last cried? He had certainly been tempted to cry, if only a little, in the time since he had come down to the underworld, and in the years before that; the Fates knew that he had had plenty to weep at in his existence. But he had never let himself give in, never…

I cannot…

When had he last cried…? Really cried; lost all control; broken down completely; hidden his face even more than usual in his sorrow? He was not absolutely certain when, at what age; but he was all too aware that the last time he had cried like this, it had been a woman who had been the cause of his grief too, if for another reason altogether.

His beloved! His angel! She had ripped off the mask, his second skin, his protection from the world! Had screamed at him, struck out at him with what had been his protection, but had, for the moment been transformed into her weapon! Had fought and kicked; if she had been able to bite, he would not have put it past her to sink her teeth into his dead flesh without a moment's thought!

"I will not marry Death!"

But then again, she had not flinched at his touch when he had practically collapsed upon her – had not shied away from him…had let her arm fall across his shoulder; had stroked his hair, which was more than any other woman had done…save one…

The two might cancel each other out, mightn't they? But that still left nothing. Nothing…

All for nothing…

No! He could not let himself give in, not now. Even when he had broken down, had buried his face in her skirts, had kissed them, had sobbed, he had not given in; not succumbed to the darkness which he always knew had been there, right on the very edge of his consciousness; and had been evident more than ever in the hellish last while. He had not given in.

And I will not give in now.

So…she now knew what lay behind the mask. Where to go from here? What to do, what to say? He did not know. For the first time in his long existence, he did not know what to do.

At least he knew that, at the moment, he could not stay with her. She needed time.

And he had promised that he would visit Nadir.

Where is he?

Nadir paced along the banks of the river; as far as he could towards Erik's domain before the atmosphere adopted the consistency of tar, and he could go no further, however much he struggled to do so. The fog from the river only a few paces away curled around his feet, perhaps in a futile attempt to claim him; but he paid not attention to it – or at least tried not to. It was hard to do so when he could constantly hear thousands of tiny, miniscule screams in his ears; all minute, but together conspiring to be intensely annoying at least, if not terrifying.

And while it did not terrify, it all both astounded and deeply concerned him. How had Erik done this? All of it? What had he done, in the first place? How had he suddenly regained his body? And who was this girl; this beautiful, terrified girl, whom Erik claimed in matrimony?

Of that, he could make a fair guess.

Where are you, Erik?

As if in accordance to that silent question, he suddenly heard a splash behind him…

Splash?

He quickly turned around from his furious contemplation of the cavern wall, just in time to see a boat suddenly appear out of the swirling mist – or should he say a gondola, or sorts? At any rate, the abnormal mist swirled out of the way for both the boat and its owner, who propelled it through the water as if he had been dong such a thing all his life – and the time that came after it. Not only that, but at one point he took one hand off the pole – as far as Nadir could see, it was the one that alternately whole and skeletal – and made a sweeping gesture; swiftly igniting a torch upon the cavern wall that until then he had not noticed, with a great guttering of flame.

Always the theatrics, Erik.

Nevertheless, he was thankful for the light – until then, his only light had come from the water beneath the mist, and very weak and convoluted light it had been as well, having to make its way through the screen of subtle references to faces, eyes, mouths…

Another might have thought that the river was another addition of Erik's strange mind, but he knew otherwise; the river was not Erik's invention. It was far older than either of them.

It was disheartening that, after all this time in the afterlife, there were still things he did not know about the place. Especially rather large things like this.

But he did not show any of this concern, as he swiftly approached the boat as Erik grounded it upon the shore.

"So nice of you to join me at last, Erik. Now, would you mind telling me just what this is all about?"

For a moment the other being said nothing, as he carefully laid the pole with which he punted the boat down inside the craft; then swiftly he sprang onto the shore, making Nadir start back.

But the face he turned to him was not the self confident, almost smug face which had been Nadir's last image of him before he had been banished away from the lair. No; all the self-satisfaction was gone, to be replaced with…well, if a sigh could be formed into a facial expression, then that would adequately describe the look on his face.

"Allah, Erik; what has happened to you?"

"Oh, Nadir." With an actual sigh, Erik sank down to sit upon the edge of the boat, staring into nothing – almost nothing. Erik was never one, after all, to ignore his surroundings completely.

"Erik?" He felt as if his worst fears had just been confirmed. What had he done? "Erik, what has happened?" But truly his questions were not completed; what he was unable to say – could not bring himself to utter – was 'What have you done to her?'

Erik looked up at him; and now there was the faintest trace of sardonic humour upon what he could see of his features. "If you fear for Christine, Nadir, then fret no more. She had merely been granted a first glimpse of her spouse's face, upon the wedding night – however uninvited."

Oh, Allah.

He could hardly think of anything to say; words spilled out of him uncontrollably. "She…unmasked you? But how…?" The full impact hit him. Wedding night? "Allah, Erik, did you…you didn't-"

"What kind of animal do you take me for, Daroga?" Erik spat, his yellow eyes filled now not with quiet sorrow, but with fire. "Do you dare to think that I would hurt her? That I would force her?" He paused, then added more quietly, but with no less anger or danger in his voice, "Because if that is what you think, then you are wrong, Daroga. You are so very wrong."

"Well, what am I expected to think? When you suddenly emerge with both a body and a hapless innocent in tow – what is going on here, Erik?"

The other laughed, and sat back upon the boat. "Oh, dear, Nadir. You are very suspicious, aren't you?"

"If I were not, I would not be me, Erik." He drew closer. "What happened?"

There was another sigh, as if wrenched from the very bottom of the soul; then, surprisingly, he began to speak. "After she came to, we spoke for a while. I…I asked her if she could ever love me. She said that only if I gave her liberty back to her."

"Well, I suppose I must be glad that at least you picked a girl with some sense, if for nothing else." There was a pause, where neither of them spoke. "What did you say?"

"I told her that she could not expect me to simply deliver her back into the hands of her fiancée-"

"Her fiancée? So she is already engaged? Oh, that's just perfect, Erik; just wonderful!" He half-turned away. Allah give me patience! "And yet you regard her as your wife? And what led you to this revelation?"

The glint of the ring on the hand, as Erik raised it, silenced him; if only for a moment.

"Where did you get that?"

"She gave it to me."

"She…she gave it to you?"

"Placed it upon my finger, while I was…still in the ground. Said the marriage vows."

Oh, grief, he thought, even as he stepped forward to examine the ring. It did not look like a Christian wedding ring; those sorts of rings were plain gold bands and this one had diamonds upon it, many diamonds.

But it had more than an air of a wedding ring about it…

"I think I can perhaps guess who this was originally intended for."

"Can you, Nadir?" came the laconic reply.

"Are you doing this because of her? Or for other reasons?"

He knew, as soon as he had spoken, that it was a mistake; for the golden eyes burst with flame again.

"If you were not my companion, Daroga, you would most likely regret that statement."

"How? It is not as if you could do anything to me."

The fire receded, as he chuckled. "Touché. I forget sometimes that in this place, threats are of little use."

"But entreaties are." Nadir drew back, to stare at his friend. "Erik, please, listen to me. You cannot keep her down here. It is sinful; it should not be done. She will wilt; will wither away. You cannot do this to the poor child. You must let her go."

"I cannot, Nadir." Erik looked away; out across the mist laden river. "And don't start saying I must, because I simply cannot. I cannot let her go."

"Erik, apart from anything else, you are old enough to be her father, theoretically if not practically."

"I don't see what that has to do with it."

"I do. You must take her back!"

"I cannot." Again that quiet, stubborn phrase; so infuriating!

"Why not?"

"I love her."

Oh, Erik. He hated himself; hated himself for doing this; but it must be done. That poor child left back in the lair should not be subjected to this; and he knew, he knew, that this could not work, could not be, should not be.

"Erik, you kidnapped her; took her away from her world, brought her where no living being should come. You expect her to marry you, to stay with you. Can you not see how wrong that is? You say you love her – but does she love you? Don't you see that if you keep her here, against her will, that she will do nothing but fear and hate you always? You cannot do that to her, Erik. You cannot do that to yourself."

Silence once again reigned between them. He thought that he might have made some headway with his companion; and he was about to speak again when he suddenly noticed the brightness around Erik's eye…

The trace of something upon his cheek…

"Erik?"

"What, Daroga?" came the clipped, harsh reply.

"Have you been…crying?"

The other being said nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, a hand came up to the cheek – skeleton fingers monetarily visible, the ring gleaming upon an alternately bony finger – to touch the sticky transparent trail upon the cheek. He bent his head, his hand cradling his cheek.

"It was when she took the mask off," he said slowly, almost as if in a dream. "I screamed at her; she screamed back at me; she hit me; I caught her by her hair; she kicked me; I shook her. Oh, Daroga! If it had been anyone else, I know I might have killed them! But it was her…her! I looked down at her, as I held her; I knew that here was one I might kill – but the thought of it…the thought of it…" He broke off, then continued, his beautiful voice harsher. "I know that it was almost natural, what she did; I do not blame her for it now…and yet then I felt as if…oh, I can't describe it, Nadir. I couldn't take it; I felt like collapsing and I did! I fell to her feet, and kissed her skirts…and I cried. Yes, I cried, Nadir, I admit it! I wept; wept for all that I had lost; all that I could never have."

Suddenly Erik jerked his head up, staring at him; the force of his gaze made Nadir draw back further. "And do you know what she did, Nadir? Listen, I shall tell you! She did not flinch away! She did not try to escape any more! No, she just lay there; and let me cry and kiss her skirts, and she…she stroked my hair, Nadir! She stroked it; put it back into place!" He was rocking backwards and forwards now, however slightly. "And when I stopped crying, when I looked up at her, she spoke! She did not scream; she spoke! And…oh, Nadir! Do you know what she said?"

Nadir shook his head, unable to speak.

"She said 'Poor Erik'! That was all she said. 'Poor Erik'. With…with…I don't know what it was! And you tell me that I must give her up, Nadir?"

He said nothing, in the face of that vibrant emotion. What could he say? What could he possibly say?

Nothing.

At least, not now.

Christine had never seen such beautiful roses before.

There were roses in the de Chagny estate as well, to be seen when the ground was green instead of white; but even they could not compare to the flowers which bloomed upon the bushes; great clumps of pink and yellow and red and white; so bright, so luxurious; almost unnatural in their loveliness.

She drew a deep sigh, breathing in the wonderful, dusky scent of the flower that she so loved; a breath she would never be able to take had she been wearing her corset. It was odd, to wear a dress without a corset – she couldn't remember the last time she had done so; certainly not since she was a girl.

It was a relief, she found as well.

And it was strange as well, she also thought, that when she had put on the dress that Erik had given to her – for she had not dared ask for her riding suit back - it had been the first time she had ever dressed alone. Oh, she could certainly dress herself with aptitude – she was not so spoilt that she did not know how to do up buttons and tie ribbons and laces adequately – but ever since she could remember there had always been someone else with her; be it a maid to fasten the back of her pinafores, or Meg or Madame Giry to help her lace up her corset. Ever since she had been born, she had been dressed up; like a doll, a possession.

That was a sobering thought.

But this…dress, fashioned from some type of pale silk, was different. No aid needed to put it on, no corset required to wear it, the sash easy to tie into a bow at the back…it was a very curious garment. It resembled nothing she had ever worn; no style she had ever even seen, but rather a combination of past styles, to create simple but meaningful elegance.

Had Erik designed this? Where had he gotten his inspiration from? And…had he made the designs from life; observing her while she slept?

God, how that thought chilled her! But he had probably simply modelled it upon the size of her clothes. But in that case…how long had she been unconscious, for him to design and make it?

She both wanted and feared the answer to that question; for the moment the fear was greater than the desire; and so she contented herself with examining the roses, which Erik had indicated to her, perhaps knowing how to possibly remedy her desire, before he had left; without a word.

He hadn't said a word since he had wept…not even when she had spoken…

Poor Erik…

Perhaps she had meant nothing. She did not know. All she knew was that she was now trapped, for the moment at least, wearing a dress that did not belong to her, in an underground lair, while the master of it was away, taking her only form of escape with her – for she would not go into that water, that so terrified her.

And if he was the master of the lair – was he not the master of her too?

She hated that thought; and squashed it quickly – she could not think of it. She tried to concentrate on the roses; only the roses, which smelt so wonderful, and were so wonderful to look at as well. They were all lovely; but she thought the red ones were the most beautiful. They seemed to have the very colour of blood – so bright, so vibrant-

-and so chilling.

How could they grow underground, so far from the sun, so far from the light? How could they become so luxurious; so widespread; practically spilling out of the large alcove in which Erik had planted them?

And how could it be that though the thorns looked so sharp, so cruel, as she drew near to the plants they never once caught upon nor snagged the material of her dress?

How could they get water? For a moment, she had half a mind to get water for them from the lake; but the thought of coming into contact with the liquid and the mist sobered her giddy thoughts, made reckless by the exquisite scent of the flowers.

Or was it really so exquisite? Now that she concentrated, as she did when focusing on Erik, there was something oddly wrong about the scent. Yes, it was delicious; but there was an undertone in it which discomforted and concerned – that was not natural.

Is nothing in this realm as it seems?

She drew closer, leaning forward now, the heady perfume of the flowers assailing her senses – but she had another purpose than to enjoy the scent now.

Slowly she reached out; her fingers brushed the petals of one particularly beautiful bloom-

- and she felt the dryness, the thinness; almost like paper rather than petals; fragile, delicate - deceased.

She sank down, to sit beside the bushes; her fingers absentmindedly crushing the flower which had revealed the truth to her. Cruel, perhaps; but then again not so. They, like the one who had planted them, like their master, were beautiful, in a way – but, like their master, they lacked one thing to truly make them perfect.

And that was lost to them, forever.

Why should she have wondered how the flowers could grow, when the truth was so plainly obvious?

No living thing grows in the Land of the Dead.

She drew away from the bush; fragments of the flower, still as red as blood freshly spilled from the vein, dropped from her fingers to rain upon her gown; like splatters of gore. They quickly slid off the material to land on the ground around her, as she brought her knees up to her chin, and her arms to rest upon her knees; her hair fell down loosely upon her mostly bare arms, the sleeves barely reaching past her shoulders. She hunched into herself, her eyes still upon the roses; so lovely, so pleasant…so dead. All of them dead.

And she did what she had been forcing herself not to do for a very long time, but could not help now.

She cried.

She knew she had plenty of reasons to cry; she was the only living thing in this world of the deceased; she was trapped by him; she had no way to getting back to Raoul, to her home, her world, to everyone she loved.

But, somehow, she found herself crying for the flowers – so beautiful, and all for nothing! – and for he who had planted them, knowing all the while that their sweet loveliness mocked him, for no matter what he did, no matter how perfect to look at they became, he could never give them what gave a plant – any entity - true beauty.

Life.

She curled into herself, hugging her knees; feeling her tears fall from her cheeks and soak through the fabric of the garment, even as Erik's tears had soaked her chemise she didn't know how earlier, and sobbed aloud.

Oh Raoul! I miss you!

But Raoul seemed very far away, and long ago now…so distant…so lost…

She gazed at the roses, then buried her face in her knees. She didn't want to see them any more – their deathly beauty reminded her too much of he who had planted them, in such hope and despair…

She cried for Erik. For Erik and the roses.

Awww. Poor Chris. Let us all weep with her, and Erik, in the raging flood of angst. And let us be cynical with Nadir as well. Hopefully this chapter speaks for itself.Apart from that reference to The Sound of Music at the start - anyone get that? Hope you enjoyed it!

Review please; oblige a half-Irish seamstress!