Disclaimer: I don't own it. But I don't mind, because I am still happy to write it.

All right, so I was late for the story's birthday. So sue me. I'd like to see you lot remember stuff about teleological arguments and the like and the whole of Shakespeare's The Tempest and most Virgil's Aeneid Book X off by heart and have the time to write two chapters for one updates, let alone all that Latin grammar. Thankfully, I don't ever have to do it again! Yippee!

What's that, I hear you say? Did you say two chapters? In one update?

Oh yes. Ahem:

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, L'EPOUX CADAVRE!

Rejoice.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

-- Robert Frost

Frost

He was so light in her arms. He felt more like a child than a grown man, really. A half decayed child, but a child nonetheless. His weight reminded her a little of that of Ayesha, but there was no chance that she would let him into her lap.

When had he last moved? Certainly it had not been recently, unless she counted the way he had pulled her close to him – a shocking breach of propriety, some damped down part of her mind whispered; but then again when it came to propriety she did not particularly excel herself, now.

He really was very still. He had even stopped crying. His shoulders no longer shook. He really was a – she hated to think it, but it must be said – a dead weight.

Carefully she lowered her head, so that her voice reached his ear. "Erik?"

She had not been expecting the answer that she did not get in any case. He did not even give any sign that he had heard her. His head slid against the front of her bodice as she carefully lowered him, stray hairs catching on the still damp material. His arm dragged on her waist, meaning that she had to bend over him more than slightly as she laid him down on the floor.

She thought about checking his eyes, to see if they were in focus. But what's the use of that? In any case, his eyes were tightly closed, as if he had only stopped himself from weeping by simply refusing to let them out, and without her help at all.

"Erik?" she repeated leaning down towards her ear, and hoping he didn't open his eyes too soon – she was, after all, giving him a rather good view of her bosom, since it was practically brushing his own chest. She steeled herself then – Dare I? – and reached out, and touched his face, and was shocked to feel just how very cold it was. Even when she had been pressed to him before, he had never felt as cold as this. Then again, it was probably the first time she had actually touched him skin to skin. It was a sobering thought.

Probably…

But even that failed to gain any reaction from the one beneath her, who really now did look very much as if he were asleep, besides already being dead.

It was so hard to tell if he was actually aware. No breath to listen to, no rise and fall of the chest, no heart beat, no pulse – if you cared to put your fingers to his throat, that is. Nothing.

Her fingers moved up his face, tracing the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his temple, to rest upon his forehead, close to the white porcelain of the mask. Not a quiver, not a twitch, not a sigh. His skin was like ice against the soft fleshiness of her fingers; she could actually feel the heat from them turning to water against the impossible bone-dryness, making him clammy to the touch.

"Erik?"

There was even a chill emanating from the arm that was still wrapped around her waist, pulling her down towards him. As gently as she could, she detached it; resisting the almost absurd impulse to lay it across his chest, in the manner of a body in a coffin, she instead placed it gently by his side. Then she examined his face again, hoping for some, any sign, of awareness, if not life. But there was nothing.

Feeling excessively foolish, she prepared her voice, and then softly sang his name. "Erik…"

What she had been thinking that would achieve, God only knew, but again there was nothing. She hissed through her teeth and sat back on her heels, so that she could think. But she over balanced slightly, and in putting out a hand to steady herself her fingers met something even colder than Erik's skin.

She looked carefully at the rime of frost that had formed on the candelabra at her side, and then at her own red, sore fingers. The metal had been so cold, it had burned with cold. Then she looked around the rest of the lair, to see that frost had formed on all the candlesticks, on the various mirrors situated about the place, on the pipes of the pipe organ; on everything. Even as she watched the mirror opposite her and Erik, situated next to the steps that led down to the docking point, slowly iced over, obscuring her shape, her face, her staring eyes, and finally Erik's prostrate form as well.

Christine bit her lip, hard, and looked down at the body in front of her again. Why she didn't know, but her memory was suddenly drawing forth images of that first night (if she could call it that) when Erik had been murderous at the mention of Raoul's name. At the time she hadn't had eyes for anything but his face, but now that she recalled, she remembered that various things had been happening around them – mirrors smashing, candelabras flaring with huge flames, tapestries ripping and tearing themselves. And then, all was mended, or at least mending itself, when he had calmed down.

Only, judging by the catatonic state the master was now in, the lair would not be repairing itself any time soon.

She turned to look at the mirror again, just in time to see a crack slowly running up its frost-covered surface, growing up like a young sapling and spreading out steady jagged branches of other cracks, until even if the mirror had been clear, the reflection it would give would be destroyed.

As she watched it through to the end, she now realised what was happening; even if Erik's grief was delayed, it was still destroying him.

She remembered a time when the world was dark to her, when it had seemed as if the sun would never shine again, and it would be winter in her heart forever and evermore. And she thought that perhaps she and Erik were not so very different, after all.

What shall I do?

What could she do? She was effectively trapped here, in surroundings that, even if they did not affect her so much, were still slowly decaying. Who could help her, help them? At once she thought of Nadir, but he was in the Necropolis, and she had no idea how to use the boat, nor how to get there – she didn't dare risk tipping herself or him into that terrible blue water, or spend the rest of eternity pushing that boat along until she fell in simply out of weariness. They were alone, trapped in the lair.

Well, being trapped is no new experience, surely. The only real difference is that he unaware.

For one thing, she was not about to leave him by the water, like an ugly toy dropped and forgotten. She had to get him to the bed, if only because that was the only place she could think of to put an unconscious being. But how to get him there? He was at least a head taller than her and heavy into the bargain; she could hardly drag him up the steps, and there was no way she could actually lift him.

But she had to try, so she sighed and slipped her arm under his shoulders. But to her astonishment, there was barely any weight now as she lifted, barely any at all. She found it disturbingly easy to raise up his torso, his head lolling backwards like a drunken man. After that, it seemed to be the easiest and simplest thing in the world to lift and pull him onto her back, then straighten up to adjust her load, to adjust her breathing for what was to come next, to make sure that she was holding on to both his arms. His feet dragged on the floor so she was still slightly bent over, but there was hardly any weight there to cause her discomfort.

As she made her way towards the steps, half dragging him behind her, his legs catching in her skirts, she could feel the mask, rubbing against her hair, her neck. She had never wished for him to breathe as much as she did then; it would have made the disconcerting effect of carrying an oversized bolster around much more easy to accept. She also wished he would not be quite so cold. It sent chills through her.

They made the stairs with surprising ease, although his feet kept banging against the steps, and reaching the bedroom she lowered him non-too-gently onto the bed, practically falling on top of him as she nearly overbalanced after tipping him off her back. She tucked her hair behind her eyes, as she viewed his comatose form. His eyes were still shut.

Now what should I do?

On impulse, she felt his forehead again. It was even colder, if that was possible. Frost was forming even on the mask.

What to do?

She did the only thing she could think of; she pulled the tapestry off the wall, tugged down the dark hangings above the bed, she found the black velvet robe she had put on when she first woke up; she piled them all on him, layer after layer, and as a finishing touch pulled the velvet coverlet up to his chin. Perhaps that would keep him warm?

She spat at her own foolishness, but what else could she do? In two minds she reached forward to pull the coverlet off again, but the chill of the material made her draw her hand back again.

Good grief, it's only been on him a few-

She gasped as she saw the coverlet splinter and burst into fragments, like ice did when broken on the surface of ponds. The items beneath them were already lying in pieces on Erik's motionless form.

Frozen. Just like that, they froze! But Erik wasn't that cold, was he? When I touched him…

Carefully she pulled the pieces of icy cloth off Erik's body, letting them fall to the floor. She made sure not to actually touch him. If he could destroy the garments so easily, she didn't like to think what he'd do to her flesh.

If I can't keep him warm this way, what can I do?

She knelt down beside the bed, avoiding the frosty remains of the erstwhile covering she had provided, her head down on a level with Erik's own, turned towards her as it was. She rested her arms on the edge, careful not to move too close to him, and she rested her chin on her arms. She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say, but her voice worked.

"Erik? I don't know if you can hear me…but I will try nonetheless. I…don't know what else to do. I've gotten you here. I tried to keep you warm, but somehow I don't think what I did was enough." She cast a wry glance at the fragments beside her knees. "I don't think I should sing. That wouldn't work. Not here. Not now." She struggled for what to say next. "So…perhaps…perhaps I should…tell you a story. To help you to wake, instead of helping you to sleep."

And, much to her surprise, she did.

She spoke of the beginning of the world, according to Nordic legend – of the icy realm of Niflheim and the fiery realm of Muspell, and how when the two met they formed the first giant Ymir, from whom all other giants came. She spoke of Audhumla, the great cow and the second being to come into existence, who licked the salty ice around her for nourishment and uncovered Buri, the forefather of all the gods. She spoke of how Odin, Vili and Ve, sons of Buri's son Bor, finally killed the cruel Ymir, and used his body to create the world; his bones for mountains, his blood for the oceans, his hair for the trees and his skull for the heavens. She spoke of how the brothers created humans from two pieces of wood they found on the sea shore, creating the man Ask from an ash log and the woman Embla from an elm bough.

Then, since there was no opposition to her words, she found herself carrying on, repeating the age old tales told to her at bed time by a Swedish father, despite the misgivings of a French mother, who would have preferred ordinary fairy tales for a growing girl.

She spoke of the noble gods of Asgard, naming each in the distinctive way her father's tongue had shaped the title. She spoke of their foes, the brutal, savage frost giants, who brought ice and night to the world. She spoke of the Vanir, the shining, beautiful race of higher beings, born out of the upper air. Looking into Erik's face all the while, never taking her eyes off his masked visage, she spoke with no fear of retribution of Hel, the daughter of Loki, the god of mischief and cunning, half beautiful and half decayed; who ruled over the underworld and feasted on hunger and thrived on sickness. She spoke of dwarfs and elves and trolls, and the men who had lived among them, and the heroes who had battled them and won the right to feast with the gods.

When she ran out of her father's legends, she looked again at the one in the bed, and saw that he still did not wake; and she slowly began to bite the back of her hand, thinking all the while.

Should I?…

At length she rose, and walked around to the other side of the bed, and clambered up onto the sumptuous mattress, struggling a little, like a child trying to enter a parent's bed. She wriggled closer to Erik.

Should I?

But she only hesitated for a breath before reaching out, her fingers ready for the slightest chill, the slightest hint of pain. But her fingertips touched his neck, and there was nothing, except the chill that she had felt before. Not burning, not scorching cold – just chill.

So she moved closer, closer, and gathered him into her arms, and pulled him close into her embrace so that her chin rested on his shoulder, and his chin on hers, their bodies entwined though not quite enveloping each other. She held him tight to her, trying to give him some of her warmth, some of her life.

Erik. Don't you dare leave me alone.

She spoke again, to help her mind ignore the cold that was gradually seeping through her from the cold, motionless thing in her arms, of a young man from the cold north who was captivated by a young woman in the capital of France, and took her back with him to Sweden to be his wife. She spoke of the loss of the wife, so long ago that there was barely more than a memory of loveliness lost for her only daughter. She spoke of the clear blue skies and clear cold lochs of Sweden, soon lost when the father obeyed the mother's wish and brought the girl back to France, to her second homeland, leaving her first behind. She felt her voice choke as she spoke of her home, that was lost to her, as, it seemed, was everything above the earth.

God help me.

She spoke, forcing herself not to stutter, of the sickness of the father, of the swift decline, of the deathbed, where he had spoken his last words, told her a great secret. She sang softly the melody her father had whispered before he had fallen into his final, greatest sleep.

"Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel!"

Do you hear me, Erik?

"Erik!" she said softly. "Do you hear me? I said that before my father died, he told me that one day I would meet the Angel of Music. He told me that the angel would be both great and terrible, and my life would never be the same after I met him. He told me he would bring music back into my life. Do you hear me, Erik? Erik?"

She loosened her grip on him slightly, so that his head fell back. His face was almost serene now in his misery. His tears were still upon his dark eyelashes.

"Erik, you are my Angel of Music. Perhaps I hate to admit it, but there is nothing I can do about that. So wake up and be my Angel of Music, do you hear?"

Suddenly Erik jerked violently. She could not help gasping – she hadn't expected it to actually have an effect – but at the same time she focused herself on what his abrupt sobs, as he wept into her shoulder again.

"Mama," she heard him whisper, muffled by her flesh. "Mama."

He was delirious. It was like a fever. If I manage to get him to be sensible, perhaps it will be over.

"No," she said, as firmly as she could, while she pulled back slightly so that he could see her face. "No, it's not your mother, Erik. It's me. It's Christine."

"Mama," he whispered again.

"Christine," she insisted.

He murmured something she had to struggle to make out. "Christine."

"Oh, Erik!" On an impulse she hugged him to her again. He recognized her. He was sensible. He was going to be all right.

"Christine…" Slowly, he raised his head from her shoulder, and she saw that though his yellow eyes were swimming with tears, they saw her and were aware of her. "Christine?" he asked, softly slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her even closer to him.

"Yes, Erik?"

"I will be your Angel of Music – but only if you are mine in return."

You're probably all either squeeing or screaming in rage, so I'll just take a moment to acknowledge all those people.

To those who are squeeing, You're welcome.

To those who are screaming, Why?

Is it perhaps because you are thinking that there's no way in hell that Christine would be able to lift Erik, who is much taller than her, and drag him up the stairs? Are you screaming at the physics of it, that Erik can nitrogen freeze the stuff on top of him but leave his clothes and Christine (and her clothes) untouched? Or are you just enraged at the way Erik would take advantage of Christine like that?

To answer those questions, I give these answers. I plead the theory in some circles that when we die, we all lose twenty one grammes (some report it to be the soul, but there is no definite explanation) so that means that however strong he is, our boy's still much lighter; concerning the freezing I remind you that this is my story, and I say Erik can freeze what he wants, even if he isn't aware of it; and as to the last one…

This is Erik we're talking about. Would you really expect him to do anything else?

Those who've read previous chapters in this story will by now know who Hel is, but Erik doesn't know that, does he? Christine must have had an interesting childhood, judging by what her father used to get her to sleep at night. Oh well, at least the Norse gods weren't like the Greek pantheon, always committing incest and bestiality. I would imagine all the women in those legends would develop some strange phobias.

Now that this chapter is over, you can skip straight through to the next one without having to wait! Enjoy!

And also give me some reviews.

Would you expect a half-Irish seamstress to do anything else, either?