Disclaimer: Don't own. Believe me, I really don't.

I am so sorry for taking so long to get this out. I've just been so busy. The last few weeks haven't been too good for me, I must confess. With all this college application preparation, I've been close to breakdown a few times. Now I know what Christine feels like, especially when I longed to pull my own hair out, strand by strand. I'm feeling better now, though.

I think this is a bit rushed, and I might go back and adjust it, but I have to say I am proud of the ending. I believe it will be a tribute to those of differing opinions concerning our favourite Vicomte.

Also, I think this is the first time I've actually used a pop culture reference as a quote to start off a chapter. (Yes, there was that whole 'Labyrinth' quote that had everyone squeeing with delight, but that doesn't count since that was in mid-chapter.) However, I do really love this song. Take my advice: go to Youtube and listen to this. The full thing is so sad, but so sweet. As for the title, it may be sincere, or may be taken as irony.

"Lucky", by Bif Naked

It was a Monday, when my lover told me,
"never pay the reaper with love only."
What could I say to you, except, "I love you."
And "I'd give my life for yours."

I know we are... we are the lucky ones.
I know we are... we are the lucky ones.
I know we are... we are the lucky ones, dear.

The Lucky Ones

It had barely been half an hour since Defarge's summoning of Nadir had finished, but to Raoul it felt as it was another hundred years in this everlasting, terrible night. They had hastened to get the items he had told them to use, in this, this summoning: a candle, a comb, and an apple.

All we really need now, he thought sourly, is a book and a bell.

"Are you ready, Raoul?" he heard Defarge ask softly. He had been both dreading and craving to hear those words, with an eagerness curdling with deadly apprehension. Nadir had been particularly specific on what could happen, or rather what would happen, if this went wrong. But he could not think about that now. He had to keep his mind clear. If he did not, and it did go wrong, more lives than his own were at stake.

"As ready as I will ever be, I would think," he said softly, rolling up his shirt sleeves, having stripped off much of the ridiculous outer layer of his costume. Cecile had, in a frenzy of nervous cleanliness, folded and placed the jacket and tunic on the outside of the un-complete circle Defarge had chalked out a-fresh on the floor. He wouldn't need them anymore.

He turned now to look at the others. It all seemed so dreamlike, so unearthly. Their faces were no doubt as pale as his as they gazed back at him, their expressions solemn. He drank them in, committing them to memory, something to hold onto when he…did this.

Meg, her beautiful golden hair undone and falling down to her waist; her blue eyes shining in the candle light, looking like the angel he knew her to truly be, the comb she had brought from her room ready to use.

Carlotta, the very image of pride and bearing, never once losing her composure, standing tall despite her fear and apprehension in this dread time; clasping an apple as red as her hair.

Cecile, small and slight, like his beloved but unlike; her terror quelled for the moment as she held onto an unlit candle and a match.

Defarge, the razor in his hand, his wrist raw, his face as drained as his forced smile; even though he would have no official part in what was to come, he would have to pour out yet more of his strength in maintaining the holy circle.

But even as he looked, he knew that he could waste no more time. He forced himself to smile in turn.

"Is everybody ready, then?"

"Oh, Raoul!" Meg burst out, unable to control the emotion that had filled her. "Raoul, if you fail-!"

"But I won't." He could not make himself sound convincing. "But, if I do, please, tell my brother and sisters-"

"We know," Cecile interrupted, with far more daring than she had ever shown before. "We'll do it. If we have to, we'll do it."

"Just go," Carlotta snapped, the sharpness in her voice belying her nervousness. "Go now, or you will never go at all."

Taking her advice, he turned his back upon them and walked to the mirror, hearing Defarge hastily chalk in the last of the lines that Nadir had instructed them upon. In their haste, they had forgotten to ask him once last time if he knew what to do. Just as well. He knew what he had to do, but being continually asked if such was the case rather lessened his enthusiasm to do it…

No. This is for Christine. It's for her. Do it for her.

Raoul looked at himself in the mirror, tracing the sallow, haunted contours of his face with his eyes. He made out the faces behind him. They were ready; all they were waiting for was him. It fell to him to start it off.

Hopefully, he would be able to finish this without losing something truly precious tonight – and this time, forever.

I wish I could go to sleep. And I wish to God that I could never wake up.

She dully watched the waters for Erik, seated at the foot of the dais rather than on it, right where he had left her. She had heaped her skirts around her like petals around as rose, but she felt less than rose-like, less than innocent.

He had been gone for so long now. Was that all she could do now? Wait feebly for him to return, with the answer to her fate? Could she only exist when he was present, cease to when he left? Could she only act like a wind-up toy when he was there to turn her key and start her mechanism?

Is that all I am fit for now? Am I merely his toy? His amusement? she thought, as she leaned her head back against the dais, and looked up at the earthen ceiling. Perhaps such was the truth. How could she do anything in this place which she feared and yet had grown to adore, when she could not even touch something without fear of breaking it, or, if it did not break, then what it would do to her? She was like a bird in a cage, singing only when its master came along. And every bar in the cage has a hidden trap.

God, how I hate it all. How I hate it here.

How she wished she cold turn back time. How she wanted to go home. Home. How she wished she had never come here. Had never been brought her.

But what could she do? She knew that she was trapped. Trapped under the earth, trapped by the will of the one who had brought her here, her manipulator, her keeper. And he was trapped too, trapped by his love for her, trapped by the powers that must be, that he must choose between her death, her destruction or losing her forever. In the end, who really was the toy, the keeper, and who was the master?

She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling apart the ringlets that no longer seemed to need combing or curling to retain their shape. She wrenched the strands, feeling the pain in her scalp only dimly. Even the feeling of pain was beginning to fade from her, along with hunger and the need for sleep that cruelly denied her an escape.

It made no difference. Either way, they were lost. For if he chose to keep her fully she died for ever, if he chose to leave her she was worse than dead, and if he chose to let her go – which of course he will not – then…then…that would be another kind of death.

She fell to her side, digging her fingers into her scalp, no longer able to hold back her tears that soaked her palms and cuffs pressed against her cheeks.

We are lost. God help us both, we are both truly lost.

It is time.

Raoul reached out his hands and placed them upon the mirror without hesitation, spreading his fingers across the cold surface, even as he knew that behind him Cecile struck the match and lit the candle she held, adding only little light to the shadows of the room.

Now, the words.

"I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but still has ties to this world of light. Show me my beloved."

The candle-light flowered, but his own face was still mostly in shadow. He preferred to continue in this fashion. Defarge's murmur as he rested his fingers upon the circle to maintain it, too low to make out, was the only sound in the room; until his own voice broke out of his mouth again, unwillingly. The longer he stalled the longer before he would have to go through with this. But then, the longer he would have before he saw her again.

"I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but is still of this world's substance. Show me my beloved."

Meg would now be beginning to comb out her curls, pulling the comb through the crackling clouds of gold, just as Nadir had advised them to do. But he could only concentrate upon the prickling feeling that was now beginning to grow around his fingers, as if the sparks that came with well brushed hair were now in them.

"I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but still eats of this world's food. Show me my beloved."

There was a saccharine crunch, as Carlotta's teeth bit in the skin of the apple. The strange sensation was creeping up his arms, as if they were being plunged into cold, cold water. He did not look forward to when it would reach his chest. But now it was his turn to speak, for himself, the final part of the summoning, or at least the final part in words.

"I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but whose heart still beats in accordance with mine. Show me my beloved!"

The last words turned into a half-scream, despite himself, as the cold stinging reached his shoulders, and clutched at his heart, squeezing it in its icy fingers. Oh God, oh God, it was so cold, it was colder than ice, colder than white fire. Dimly he felt his fingers contract, the nails scraping at the mirror's surface, before they straightened again involuntarily, pressing against the surface that he could no longer truly feel.

He knew that the candle exploded into flame in Cecile's fingers, causing her to shriek and drop it; he knew that Meg's hair crackled and then floated about her head as if she were drowning under water while she was too terrified to comb it; he knew that the apple was suddenly impossibly sour in Carlotta's mouth and she spat and coughed and coughed and coughed, trying to rid herself of the poison. They were all connected to him, in his moment of frost.

But the agony was rewarded with ecstasy, as he saw through the numbness that was now creeping over his face that there was another face over his shoulder, replacing those of the others, just as Nadir had said he would. A familiar face. An anguished face. A truly beloved face. The face he longed to see now more than any other, and in the flesh. The face of the one he would save, no matter the cost.

"Christine," came his voice, like a dead thing from between frozen lips, just before his hands plunged through the surface of the mirror.

"Christine…"

What was that? Was he back? Had he returned to her? What was his decision? She started up, looking out across the waters, staring with all her might. She felt her heart leap, treacherously.

But no, there was nothing upon the waters, nothing returning. Would he ever come back, since if he did not do so, he would not have to make a choice?

Stubborn…selfish…

Who am I thinking of? Myself? Or him?

Lord, I care not.

She cared for nothing any longer. She could do nothing.

No. there was one thing she could do. She could march into that water, filled with mist, trapped full of souls, and swim, or at least try to, until she reached whatever shore they had set off from, or until she foundered and sank, to add her soul to the whole. Perhaps that would be better than this, this terrible stalemate.

The water calls me, but I will not answer it. I cannot. I…I have to have hope.

She dug her fingers into her palm. She wanted to feel her own blood coating her skin rather than flowing beneath it. But she hardly felt anything now.

What can I do?

"Christine…"

There! There it was again, but no one in sight! No one at all!

Am I finally going mad, after all?

"Christine…"

From…the mirror?

Christine looked, and saw something very different from her reflection.

Yes! The cold washed over him, freezing his face and eyes and tongue and mind, leaving him a statue as the mirror pulled him in, enfolding him in grey as her sweet, dear face became clearer.

Yes! He ignored the screams that broke out somewhere in the distance behind him, from people he had once known; he ignored the still of his own heartbeat to a near standstill, a bare throbbing, as he saw only her. He would not, could not allow his mind to be distracted.

Yes! He stepped forward, plunging through endless chilling and silvery tunnels in a matter of seconds. Every step brought him closer and closer to her, and the slivers of ice that pulled at his head, pulling him backwards, were nothing to him. He stretched out his hand to her pale, drawn, darling face.

"Christine…"

She could not believe it. She could not believe what she saw. She could not let herself believe, because if she did, if she did, then, then…

Raoul?

She could not believe that she saw Raoul in the mirror. How could it be? Raoul could not be here. He simply could not. It made no sense. It was all too much. It was not true. It was another cruel trick in this tricky, tricky place.

And yet…

She reached out. It would do no harm to simply touch the mirror, would it? That would not be part of the trick, surely? Erik had done so, and contacted Nadir. Perhaps, perhaps the same would happen here. Perhaps it would.

"Raoul," she breathed, as her fingertips touched the surface. "Raoul…"

Christine.

Raoul?

I'm here, Christine. I am here.

Raoul? Where are we? What is this place?

The mirror, Christine. Nadir said that it was a bridge between this world and the next.

Nadir? You have met him?

Yes. And he told us how we might rescue you. It was easy, in the end, Christine. It was so easy…

Raoul? What has happened to you? Something-

There is no time, Christine. Can you not feel? He knows what is happening, he knows what I've done, he's coming back.

No. Oh no. I can feel him. He's angry. So angry. He's coming, Raoul! Go, or he will destroy you!

I will not go without you. That is why I came. Take my hand, come to me Christine!

But…I…

You can do it, my love! You are strong! Don't let his spells hold you back! Remember everything in the Land of the Living! Remember, with all your being! Remember that I love you!

How could I ever forget that?

Hurry, Christine, hurry!

Oh God, he's coming, he's so near!

Then come!

How?

Take my hand, come to me, I'll guide you back! Quickly, Christine, oh Lord, hurry!

I'm coming Raoul! I'm coming!

Don't let him-

Cold flooded her hand as it plunged through the mirror; she barely felt the impossible feel of the fingers of Raoul's outstretched hand tightly clasp her own. She hardly knew what had happened, but what she knew was the feeling of anger, so close, so very close, and the agonised fear and love mixed into a whirling torrent.

Don't look back.

She felt the tug upon her hand, pulling her forward, letting the cold run up and up her arm. Raoul, oh Raoul, poor dear Raoul, what had he done to himself? What had he done to get here? What would he do to get them out again? It was madness to think of leaving…

But it is madness to stay here.

So she stepped forward; her skirts brushed the mirror, and then began to be pulled in as well.

Don't look back.

Raoul's face in the mirror called to her, though she no longer heard his voice, the words were the same…but they came from another throat…

"Christine! Christine!"

Don't look back…

She could not help it. As long as some small part of innocence lived in her, it would do whatever it was advised not to. It would touch what it should not. It would stick its fingers in a flame. It would eat forbidden fruit. And it would look back.

So she looked back.

"Christine!"

No, Erik. No.

I am sorry.

I am so sorry.

And Christine tore herself away from his golden gaze, and pushed forward into the mirror, feeling the cold flood over her, feeling Raoul's hand upon hers, the merest brush of something like bone upon her remaining hand until she snatched it away close to her side, and then it was all gone.

Everything was falling away. All the weight that had pressed down upon her, all the weaknesses, all the things that had drained and pulled her life away; all were disappearing. Raoul's hand was growing more real by the moment. He was leading her. He was her guiding light. She felt herself rising and rising with every step, through earth and space and being.

And with every step she forced herself not to look back. With every step, she forced herself to try to forget her last glimpse of those golden eyes.

With every step, she forced herself not to care.

"Raoul! Raoul!"

The screaming was becoming louder again. He hadn't realised before how it made his ears ring, as the cold unplugged them, retreating from his face. It stung terribly. His body was aching and itching with cold.

"I'm here," he heard himself say, in a stupidly dreamy manner, and instinctively took a step back, pulling his hands away from the mirror with a ghastly sucking sound, as if he drew them out of the deepest, darkest, most deadly bog.

He pulled something else out as well. His cold arms came around her damp form as she shucked off the last restraints of the mirror. She collapsed against him, and he collapsed against her, and down they both fell to the floor, landing hard, the pain hammering through him.

But she was here. Here. In his arms. She was here. Every part of his body was screaming at him – his head especially, though heaven knew why, it had been his hands that had gone into the mirror, from what he could remember – but it was all worth it. The price was not too high, never too high.

"Christine?" he whispered, pulling her closer to him.

Her silken hair brushed against his face, and then her hands were on his cheeks and her lips were on his face, pressing them to him again and again, leaving her scent, herself. She was alive, and safe, and free. He had done it.

"Oh Raoul," she whispered, in between her hot little kisses, "I missed you so much, I, I love you so!"

She loved him. She loved him. It was all right again. Even as she cease to caress him and fell back in an exhausted faint, it was all right. She was safe. They were together again. He had done it. He had done it!

Thank you, God. Thank you.

He became aware of the others around him, but not because of their noise; they were silent, silent as the grave. He looked up at Meg, and all his elation drained away at the look on her face.

"Meg? What is it? What is wrong?" He looked away, disconcerted by her expression, and saw that she was not the only one who looked aghast. Carlotta's fingers clutched her rosary yet again and counted her beads as she stared at him, and Cecile's hands had gone to her mouth. Even Defarge was wide eyed, and gulped continuously as he slowly rose to his feet, rubbing out the chalk circle.

"Oh, Raoul…"

"What is it? Why are you staring at me like that?" He held Christine closer; surely they did not doubt it was her! "She's here! She's real! It is her! Surely you don't think that-"

"It is not that," Carlotta broke in, her voice low. "Raoul – look at yourself."

Some inborn trait within him made him say, "No. You'll tell me. Now. What happened? Why were you screaming?"

To his surprise, it was timid little Cecile who spoke when no other would, albeit with hesitations. "When…when you finished speaking, your hands…sank into the mirror, and frost crept up your arms. It was terrifying, we thought you would be sucked in fully, but Defarge wouldn't let us cross the line to rescue you, he said that if we did that you would be killed instantly. Then you started crying out Christine's name, and then, just before you came back…oh, Raoul…your hair…"

He hardly dared to turn and look at himself in the mirror, for fear of what he would see. He stared, and what he saw he could see made the colour drain from his face; to match his hair.

His hair had come loose from its tie behind his head, and fell to his shoulders; but it was no longer honey-brown. It wasn't even grey, like Grandpére's. It was white, pure white, the colour of snow, the colour of bleached bones, without a single speck of darkness left in any strand upon his head. It lay flat, dead-looking and lifeless against his equally pale skin.

"It suddenly floated out, as if you were under water; it started at your scalp and the colour just leeched out until there nothing left, nothing left at all," Meg said, just before she began to cry as she crouched down beside him. Then Cecile began to cry too, and even Carlotta began to sob and sob as if she would never stop, as they fell to their knees around them, throwing their arms around Christine and around him too, so that they were both enveloped in warmth; but nothing could ever take away the chill that had stuck in his heart…

…when for a moment he had looked into the mirror, and seen them both dead and cold in each other's arms.

You will be, Vicomte.

You will be.

The procedure used above (without the words, which were made up on the spur of the moment by me) supposedly works. Supposedly being the word, of course. It doesn't summon up your trapped lover from the nethermost depths of the Underworld, sad to say, but if you're a girl and on Halloween night you light a candle and then stand in front of a mirror brushing your hair and eating an apple, you'll see the face of the man you're going to marry over your shoulder. I repeat, supposedly. Of course, if you're already married there isn't really much point; and if you aren't married and you don't really like whoever it appears you're going to tie the knot with, you don't get a second go. Sort of like that red string Chinese and Japanese matchmakers are always going on about.

I have always, I confess, been rather interested by how hair can change colour, sometimes over night. Take my mum, for example. When she was little, as far as I know her hair was blonde (I say as far as I know, because all the photos of her at that time are in black and white.) Now, her hair's really dark. What is the point of that? And as for hair changing colour so drastically, I once read about a man in his early twenties whose hair turned completely grey over night! DNA has a lot to answer for. Not in this case though; Raoul just got a bit of life sucked out of him. Much more snazzy.

Reviews, please? Make the half-Irish seamstress feel better?