Disclaimer: I do not own Poto, or Corpse Bride, or blackberry ice-cream. Trust me. Wait and see and you'll know what I mean.

musicallover: It seems everyone is getting into this story! Morbidity is fun! Can't tell you who the person was, though. Mystery! Here is your spoiling chapter!

Erik'sTrueAngel: Quite a lot. Apart from a skeleton arm. Heh heh!

CrazyCarl: Mystery and suspense is just what I am aiming for in this, I hope. More for you!

Willow Rose Mysteries are the best. They are what makes life interesting. Here is more! Blessed be from your half Irish author!

SimplyElymas: Caught anything yet with your breath? Heh heh, just my joke. Enjoy!

Lydiby: Ooo, I feel for you! How potentially terrifying! No problems about no comments; they're not everything in life, you know!

Polly Moopers: Well, don't worry – so long as you enjoy them. Cliff hangers make it so much more interesting, don't they? Are we talking about Erik or Raoul as the wrong man? Loveliness continues!

Mystery Guest: Wow, thanks for the long review! I'm glad you like my characters; I try to make them believable. I thought; why not show what might have made Carlotta into such a cow in the first place? I am also very glad you agree with me on the whole Christine and Corpse Groom thing. Finally, someone who doesn't think they should hook up and have little zombie babies! Ahem, sorry Ripper de la Blackstaff. Aw, wasn't that bit fluffy? Hey, you have to have the fluff. That's what cushions you when you fall to the earth with a bump. I think everyone's a little bit insane, if only a very little. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Tee hee. We shall have to see about the pairing, and what happens to the characters! So let's not waste much more time on the replies, shall we? Here is your update.

Mominator124: Silly – but too much fun to leave out. 'They seek her here, they seek her there; they seek Miss Daaé everywhere! Is she in Heaven? Is she in Hell?' well, funny you should say that – I mean because they're under the ground, not because they're actually in Hell or anything. It will indeed be very interesting, as we shall see. Chips to you, Barb.

So, yep, more E and C. What can I do? I must write; for that is the means of my salvation!

Dedicated to Mademoiselle Phantom, for her wonderful story 'Cold Unfeeling Light', and because she 'absolutely'. What she 'absolutely's I don't know; but I am playing along the lines that it's good. Ha ha, only kidding Mademoiselle!

'I have shed my tears…and yet my heart is not broken. Do you think me wicked?'

Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow

Fire from Heaven

'Don Juan Triumphant…'

If she didn't know better, she might have thought that the words on the frontispiece of the manuscript, placed so carefully by the seat of the organ, written in a curling, flowing script, were escribed in fresh blood; they were such a bright, crimson red.

She automatically reached out a hand to touch the parchment before her; like a naughty child attempting to touch a candle flame despite all the scolding of their nurse, whose back was now turned.

And stopped the action as abruptly as the nurse seeing the danger in time, and seizing the wicked child's fingers away from a painful roasting.

Only this time the nurse was nowhere, except inside her own head.

She couldn't simply do what she wanted, now that she had no one to stand guard over her. For all she knew, everything in this lair was dangerous, to more than just her health. And she couldn't assume that she would just wake up and it would all turn out to be a rather violent dream. She had given up that hope a long time ago.

This was a new world; and the only thing which would save her from harm would be herself; the only thing she could hope to rely on to save herself would be her own self-control.

So; no more crying fits. No more breaking down; otherwise it would all break down, and she would be lost forever.

And no more concerning herself with that which she should have no desire to do so anyway.

So she withdrew her hand; backed carefully away from the manuscript, averting her eyes from the crimson lettering.

But it's just begging to be read! I can feel it!

All the more reason to keep away from it, then.

She turned her back on it; walked away; sat down on the ledge upon which the organ had been constructed; gripped the stone in her hands, and resolutely kept her gaze away from what lay behind her, on the table by the organ stool.

She looked out over the water instead.

It had changed, since she had last looked at it – she couldn't remember when, and she didn't want to. The light from the water seemed to have died; now all the light that there was seemed to come from the strange mist, which danced across the surface of the water, and sometimes seemed to be doing something far more grotesque than a simple dance.

Can you drown in the Land of the Dead? she wondered idly, as she absentmindedly kicked her heels against the stone of the ledge, feeling the tapestry which covered the stone beneath her bare feet. Since someone; anyone, who - she couldn't really say 'lived', so she would improvise with 'resided' - here didn't exactly need to breathe, the point of water as a means of taking away life was no longer an important factor.

What is it for, then?

Running water…the old legend that the dead could not cross it…perhaps there was more to that legend than mere superstition…perhaps the river, or lake or whatever it was, was not simply an illusion of Erik's fancy, but actually there for a purpose?

In that case, what is it keeping in?

Or keeping out?

Suddenly, she was very glad indeed for the water surrounding her, even though she felt she could well do without many of the things she was able to occasionally see in the distant mist. For the images, however gruesome they were, could not leave the water – and the water itself might be taken as a barrier of sorts against any – undesirable things.

But he has found a way to get across it.

As if in accordance with that thought, she suddenly heard it – or rather felt it - a subtle change in the texture of the air, or perhaps the silent sound of the water…the sound that denoted something was approaching.

He's back.

At once the hairs on the back of her neck rose; but she couldn't let herself be terrified again. Not again. No more weakness, or otherwise she would never escape. No more feeling sorry for herself. She had to be brave. As brave as she could be. And that started with her captor; she couldn't let him find her in this position; kneeling among the remains of a ruined rose, her eyes red and sticky with old tears. If she was to be kept here, then at least she should compose herself with some kind of dignity.

So, she slipped off the ledge, and stepped out onto the sandy shore; clasping her hands piously in front of her, but keeping her head well and truly up.

No more fear now.

Still, she could not resist a shudder as the boat silently slid out of the rapidly thinning mist – not even the faintest splash to give an impression of normality – and the figure within the craft became more and more visible; and unconsciously fixed her gaze upon the mist beyond the boat.

"Christine."

It was a statement, rather than a question, and both of them knew it. She kept her eyes on the mist, and did not even look around when she heard the boat grinding up onto the shore, or the crunch as he stepped out.

No sound. Except when he walks and talks, he never makes a sound.

There was a sigh, from quite close by.

And when he sighs, she corrected herself.

"What are you looking at, Christine?"

"The mist," she replied, still resolutely not looking at him, secretly delighting in her triumph.

See? I don't need to be afraid of you.

He made no reply; instead his footsteps crunched away.

But isn't that what he wants? For me to no longer fear him?

Oh, blast.

She sighed inwardly. Though she didn't look round, she still could not help guessing what he was doing. She heard him walk up the steps, shed his cloak, the sighing ripple of fabric betraying that particular action; cross over – she reasoned – to the organ…there was a pause…

"Well, well. It would appear that my manuscripts have attracted some interest…wouldn't you say, Christine?" There was hidden mirth in his voice.

Oh blast, she thought again, even as she resolutely did not turn around, even now. How did he know? She hadn't even touched the strange parchment, much as she had had the desire to do so.

"Would you care to come and see it again, Christine?"

Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him…

"Since it evidently fascinated you so, earlier?"

Did he read her thoughts or some such thing? She bit back a retort, but turned around nonetheless – after, she could not really do anything else – and stalked towards and up the steps-

-and, since she was deliberately not paying attention to where he was standing, nearly into his outstretched arm; the right one, fortunately, the sable leather clad fingers curled invitingly, calling her to take it.

She studied the hand for barely a second – well, it was not the first time she had held his hand, and at least there would be leather between her and him – and reached out her own hand accordingly.

But as soon as they were close enough to touch, she found herself hesitating for the merest instant. It was the first time she had touched him voluntarily, apart from taking off the mask, and he would surely know that – would he take advantage of this in some way? It would not surprise her if he did.

For goodness' sake! It's only taking his hand; it will not kill you. And if he is the gentleman he appears to be, he will not use it as an excuse for his own means.

So her fingers met the leather of his glove.

At once his fingers closed about hers; and gently, irresistibly, he was leading her up and towards him – and unlike the last time, she was fully aware of what was going on, and aware that her own gaze was now locked with his, instead of fixed upon something else. Damn.

But it was only a few steps; and then just as swiftly he released her hand, and turned back to the manuscript. And now that she was paying full attention to it, she could see what had betrayed her; a few fragments from the rose had evidently been left upon her hand, and had fallen off to land upon the title page of the manuscript, practically upon the letters; giving the impression that Don Juan Triumphant had truly been written in blood – and that the pen holding the liquid of life had leaked.

The new found morbidity of her mind was truly beginning to disgust her. She turned her head away.

"Did you read it?" came Erik's voice, practically in her ear. She almost jerked away, before remembering that he was standing a few paces away.

"No," she replied flatly. How could she have ever wanted to do so? It looked almost as morbid as the one to whom it belonged. Though she had to admit, Erik was beginning to look more and more normal…

You're forgetting.

"It is just as well. I have a…preference, not to let people see my compositions, until they are quite finished. Even Nadir has not been allowed a glimpse."

"Indeed." Her speech was a mere nothing; non-committal, or inquiring. She fixed her eyes upon an elaborate candlestick, a few feet away. "How long have you worked upon it?"

"I began this work ten years before my death," came his reply at once, with the obvious instant recollection of one who has thought of little else over a vast period of time, "and ever since I died, as well."

That long? Unconsciously, her eyes darted back to him. "That long?"

"Indeed." He fired her word back at her, shaped by a wry smile.

"And you still have not finished it?"

"No."

She considered this for a moment. "You must have worked at it as seldom as you could, then."

Erik actually laughed! "Well, I was a little hindered! When I first came down here-" As he spoke, he gestured at their surroundings, implying what 'coming down here' meant - "I had to copy it all out again, word for word, note for note – and that took much time indeed."

"Dying must have been a great inconvenience, then."

"It did set me back years," he agreed; and if he noticed the slight hint of sarcasm she had employed – which he almost certainly had, he was by no means a fool – he did not show it. He reached out and – almost caressed the pale parchment, gently brushing the pieces of petal off the page. "When I began to write it, I believed that I measured out my life span in the notes that I wrote and composed; in the music that I created. I fancied that when I had finally finished my work, the greatest work of my life, my life, I would take it into my coffin with me, and I would close my eyes forever." He smiled again, but now there was no mirth in him. "I would suppose that you would call my situation ironic – some might call this," and he gestured around him again, "my coffin – yet Don Juan Triumphant is nowhere near finished. Perhaps if I finish it now, then I might finally sleep forever."

He looked so mournful as he spoke, that she could not help saying, in an attempt to comfort him, despite her previous resolution, "Would you play me something from it?"

For an instant his golden eyes seemed to shine with an eager light; but then the fire was gone, to be replaced with emptiness – and flatness.

"Do not ask me that. You must never ask me that." And with that, he turned away.

"But why?"

Erik's great shoulders shuddered. She thought at first that he would not speak; but she waited.

And then he said, softly, "Because Don Juan burns, Christine. He burns; and yet he is not struck by the merciful fire from Heaven." He sat down heavily upon the seat in front of the organ, as if there was a sudden great weight upon his shoulders.

But you desire something other than the fire of Heaven to ease your pain.

Christine felt her heart melt within her.

Be strong. Be firm. You must be ice hard.

But he was so sad; so lost!

He kidnapped you, to make you his wife. He is a living corpse; an abomination.

She knew that all too well. Yet he had been a man once; was still a man. And she could not stand by and say nothing, while he was in such evident pain.

A deep well of pity rose up in her heart for this being – this man, who, in his own words, existed now only within his tomb, forever.

Keep away! You must not do this!

But she had to do something; anything.

For if she did not, then she simply would not be Christine, not herself…

Slowly, ever so slowly, she made her way forward; the rustle of her skirts now making the only noise.

Erik's head was bent, supported by his hand, the other clasping his knees – but he was not so sunk in his own contemplation that he was not able to watch her, out of the corner of his eye.

She stopped a few inches from him; grasping the keyboard she carefully lowered herself to the ground beside him, her skirts pooling onto his feet. She let go of her hold; and reached out with the same hand, looking up into his golden eyes; his blank, beautiful half face.

Her fingers met the cloth of his sleeve. She could feel the strength of the muscle there; but also the sparseness of the bone, seemingly at the same time. Her hand rested and stayed; not daring to grip, but courageous enough to remain.

"Erik…would you play me something else?"

And she marvelled that there was no fear, for the moment, there in her voice; no cynicism, no resentment. Internally she raged at herself; but she knew there was no undoing what she had done, now and in the time beforehand.

Once the fire of Heaven has been unleashed, there can be no second thoughts about its direction.

Her fingers, upon his sleeve.

The merest feather touch, it reached beyond flesh and bone; to his very spirit, and to the very strata and core of that.

She called me Erik…willingly…without fear…

"I would, if you could survive on poorer fare for the moment, Christine."

Regrettably, he had to take his sleeve away from her fingers, as he arched his fingers over the keys. He didn't know what he was playing; couldn't even remember its name. When he had Christine beside him, nothing else mattered.

He risked a glance sideways and down. She was sitting quite contentedly beside him, for the moment; her whole face shining with admiration.

For him. Him. No terror, no possible hate or resentment. She was so beautiful…

And never more so than when she smiled, however unconsciously.

It's a start.

Yay; more fluff for you lot out there who like fluff and stuff! Sorry to all those of you who don't. So; we have Christine feeling sorrier for Erik. But don't all you E/C shippers cheer and throw your hats, if you're wearing them, in the air. Just because she's overcome her instinctive and understandable nervousness for a moment doesn't necessarily mean she's willing to fall on him in fair frenzy.

Quite a bit of the dialogue is taken from Leroux. Go on, try and guess them. Dare you!

Well, I won't be updating for a few days, since I'm off to Venice on Thursday!Yes, we're visiting the City of Masks again – the last time I went, I was eight, so I can confidently say it was half a lifetime ago. I can't wait to revisit all the mask and glass shops; and our favourite restaurant last time we were there, and eat blackberry ice-cream. Seriously; you can get blackberry ice-cream in Venice; and in Italy as well, I suppose. Not sorbet, ice-cream. I long to taste it again.

So, as the Italians say – and as a lot of little glass ants set up on a shop counter are arranged to spell – Ciao for now! (The ants just spelled 'Ciao', not the 'for now' bit. Neither do the Italians say it. But you already knew that, I'm sure!

Review for the half-Irish seamstress, who will be in Italy until next week!