Author's Note: Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the first part of this story (Hands out doughnuts). I'm so sorry for the wait…I really don't know why it took me so long to finish this.

Lucrezia Borgia: I'm not sure whether I would trust Angel to deliver your doughnut. He would probably eat it on the way!

A note on the characterisations: I'm very pleased that so many of you think that my Erik is very close to the original Leroux Erik, and I have found your comments very interesting.

I have chosen to portray Erik the way I have because I believe he is actually the most childlike character in the novel. As some of you have pointed out, Leroux's Erik is very needy and pitiful. I find it interesting that Erik and Christine have exchanged some characteristics in many later adaptations of the story, with Erik being portrayed as the dominant, mature master and Christine as the weak, rather childish heroine, when in fact I would say that Leroux's Erik is more childlike than his Christine.

In regards to Christine's coldness, I believe that Leroux's Christine is quite cold, avoiding Raoul and lying to Erik. However, I do not think her coldness means that she is cruel and insensitive at heart. I think she is simply being cold out of necessity. She lies to Erik to protect Raoul and to guarantee her own freedom and safety. Erik, however much we love and pity him, is a very unpredictable, dangerous man.

Anyway, sorry about the rant! I just thought I should justify my characterisations after all the interesting comments I received.

A note about 'The Price of Fame': My parody has been nominated for the parody/comedy category of The Phantom of the Opera Reader's Choice Phan Phiction Awards. Thank you very much to whoever nominated my story! If you would like to visit the website for these awards, the address can be found towards the bottom of my profile page. Here, readers will soon be able to vote for their favourite stories. Not that I'm hinting that I want you to vote for me or anything ;)

I hope you enjoy the rest of this story!

"The Locket" – Part Two

Christine sat up abruptly, passing a cold hand over her damp forehead. Something had startled her from sleep, but she could not remember what it was. Perhaps it had just been a nightmare. This place was enough to give anyone bad dreams.

Feeling too disturbed to attempt to sleep again, Christine slipped quietly out of bed and lit the oil lamp on her bedside table. Donning an exquisite silk dressing gown which Erik had bought for her, she picked up the lamp in one hand and pushed the door open with the other. Then she stepped silently into the dark passage beyond.

She paused, shivering slightly. She wanted to venture into the drawing room, the most comfortable room in the house, and perhaps read through a musical score to banish her feeling of unease. However, the thought that Erik may still be awake made her hesitate. Christine had seen Erik's bedroom – the room with the coffin – but for some reason she doubted that he ever slept. His deep yellow eyes seemed permanently alert, and Christine had the unnerving feeling that he was always watching. Always watching, and never sleeping…

Christine shuddered, and cursed herself silently. No wonder she couldn't sleep when she was forever indulging in these silly, morbid fantasies! Anyway, there was no line of light at the base of the drawing room door. In fact, the entire house seemed dark and silent. Erik must be in his room after all.

Christine pushed her fears to the back of her mind and took several tentative steps along the passage.

Suddenly she froze, trembling with fright.

A soft sound seemed to be coming from behind Erik's door. Cautiously, Christine drew nearer to the door in an attempt to hear the noise more clearly. She realised instantly that it was his breathing she could hear. It sounded strangely laboured, an awful gasping sound which reached her even through the thick oak.

It occurred to her that Erik might be ill. Despite her fear and revulsion, Christine realised that she couldn't bear the thought of her monstrous angel suffering physical pain. With a determination which surprised her, she closed her hand around the brass doorknob and quietly entered the room.

Christine glanced fearfully around the darkened chamber. In the meagre glow cast by the oil lamp she could see that the coffin had fallen from its dais, and it was now lying upside-down on the floor. A shadowy figure lay curled up beside it.

Concerned yet fearful, Christine crept over to the figure and held up the lamp.

Erik was huddled beneath a thin white blanket. His arms were wrapped around his head, and he was shivering and sobbing violently.

"Erik?"

Erik shuddered, and curled into a tighter ball.

"Leave me alone!" he sobbed, his breath escaping from him in short, laboured gasps. "I don't want to see! I don't want to see!"

Christine realised then that Erik must be trapped in some awful world of nightmare. Fearfully, as if she were approaching some wild beast, she reached forward and placed a hand on Erik's shoulder.

Erik screamed, and sat bolt upright. Startled, Christine let out a cry and tore her hand away. Trembling with fear, she turned and fled towards the door.

"Chris…tine? The voice was tiny, bewildered. "Is that you?

Christine froze, and turned around. Erik was crouching on the floor, looking at her with a panicked expression. His yellow eyes glinted with unshed tears, and his thin chest heaved beneath his white nightshirt as he struggled to catch his breath.

Christine tried to calm herself.

There's nothing to fear. Just offer a few words of comfort, and he'll let you go back to bed.

She forced her trembling lips into a smile.

"Yes, Erik. It's me. Are you all right?"

Erik stared at her in disbelief.

"Christine, you didn't leave?"

"Of course I didn't. I've been asleep in the other room. I went to bed early, remember? You've been having a nightmare."

Erik stared at her pleadingly.

"Please don't leave me, Christine!" he cried, hysteria creeping into his voice. "I don't want to be alone underground anymore! I don't want you to run away with him!"

Christine stared at him in shock. She wondered briefly if he had somehow read her thoughts at dinner that evening, but she dismissed the notion as another of her sick fancies. She spoke to him as sternly as her courage would allow.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Erik? Monsieur de Chagny and I are just very old friends, no more, no less!"

"I don't believe you," Erik moaned. "How can I believe you, Christine?" He paused, a solitary tear running down his cheek. "But it's all right. I'm not angry with you. I understand why you want to leave me for your viscount. Oh, I'll pursue you when you try to run. I'll kill for you, if necessary. Poor Erik won't be able to help himself. But deep down I'll understand. If I was in your position, I know who I would choose. Raoul's handsome and kind and rich, and I'm just a monster who lives in a grave. I'm deformed and disgusting! You can't possibly favour me over him, Christine. No one can love Erik, do you hear me? It isn't possible…it isn't possible…"

Erik burst into fresh tears, his body convulsing painfully. Christine watched him, her own eyes filled with tears of sympathy despite his threatening words.

"Who told you that?"

Erik sniffed loudly, his nose-hole expanding ever so slightly. "What?"

"That no one can love you?"

"She did," Erik confessed, shuddering.

"Who did?"

"In the dream…"

Christine sighed. This was obviously going to require a great deal of patience on her part. Erik could be extremely inarticulate when he was upset.

"Who was in the dream, Erik?" she persisted gently.

"I don't want to talk about it," Erik whispered, fear shaking his voice. "It was horrible."

"I know," Christine crooned. "I know. Don't be frightened. It's all right…"

Erik looked at her. Or, to be more precise, he turned his big empty eye sockets towards her. There was no light in his eyes now, only a terrible, infinite darkness which Christine could not comprehend. When he spoke again, his voice was as dry and dark as a grave.

"No, Christine. It isn't all right. And you know nothing."

"Well, I'm sorry, I'm sure," said Christine, her annoyance overriding her fear. "I was only trying to help."

They sat for a while in uneasy silence, gazing at each other in fear, mistrust, and incomprehension.

"Look," said Christine, eventually. "I can't just leave you on the floor like this. Why don't you sleep in the drawing room? Bring that blanket, and I'll make a bed for you on the couch…"

She knew how ridiculous the suggestion sounded. She was actually offering to put the Phantom of the Opera to bed. But not because I care for him, she told herself. I just want to calm him down. I just want to go back to my room…

Erik looked at her suspiciously for a moment. Then he gathered the blanket into his arms and shakily rose to his feet.

Once in the drawing room, Christine lit the lamps and arranged some cushions at one end of the couch. Then she turned to look at Erik, who was standing in the doorway, clutching his blanket nervously. He looked more ghostly than ever in the baggy white nightshirt, his yellow skin glowing eerily in the lamplight. His feet, with their long, bony, claw-like toes, appeared almost bestial against the rich Persian carpet. He looked at Christine sheepishly, and for a moment he resembled a small child, scared of the dark and eager to stay up with his parents when it was past his bedtime. Despite his macabre appearance, Christine was filled with unexpected affection for him.

"I think you'll be comfortable here," she said, inclining her head towards the couch. "It's far more pleasant than your room. That coffin is enough to give anyone nightmares."

"I like my coffin," said Erik defensively. "It makes me feel safe."

Christine wanted to know how sleeping in a coffin could possibly make a person feel safe, but she decided it would be unwise to question him. She watched in silence as Erik lay down on the couch and covered himself with the blanket.

"Are you warm enough?" Christine asked. "Do you want another blanket?"

Erik shook his head.

"I'll leave you now, then. Goodnight, Erik. Sleep well."

"No!" Erik's voice was full of fear once again. "Don't go…please, Christine…"

"I can't be with you all the time, Erik," said Christine, as gently as she could. "Why don't you go to sleep? You'll feel better in the morning, I'm sure."

"No, I won't," said Erik miserably. "Don't you see, Christine? I want to go to sleep, but I can't, because the nightmares will come back!"

"You're still afraid?" Christine asked.

Erik nodded. "Down here, in the dark, I imagine terrible things, and they stay with me when I close my eyes to sleep. I can't escape from them, Christine! If poor Erik could heal his own mind, he would. But he can't, Christine! That's why he needs you! I love you, Christine. You bring me comfort. You take away the darkness…"

As she listened to his strange words, an idea suddenly occurred to Christine.

"Stay here, Erik," she said, rising from her chair. "I'll only be a minute."

Christine went to her room and picked up a small object from her bedside table: a little golden locket on a chain. She stared at it tenderly for a moment, and then returned to Erik.

"I've brought something to show you," she said, holding out her hand.

Erik's eyes glinted with admiration. Christine knew that he loved pretty things. The bizarre display of thimbles, pincushions, shells, and intricately decorated trinket boxes quaintly arranged on his shelves provided sufficient evidence of this.

"That's very pretty, Christine," he said, his eyes burning with curiosity. "My mother used to have one like that. What's inside it?"

Christine carefully opened the locket and brought it into the light, revealing two small photographs.

"Why, it's you, Christine!" said Erik delightedly, reaching out to take the locket in his large, bony hands. "When was it taken?"

"I was sixteen," said Christine.

"You haven't changed," said Erik tenderly. "Except perhaps you're a little thinner now."

Christine tried to smile at Erik's attempt at a compliment.

"And this is my father," she said, indicating the other photograph.

"He's very handsome," said Erik, staring at the picture in obvious admiration. "You really are lucky, Christine. I wish I had been fortunate enough to inherit my father's good looks."

"Do you have a picture of your father, Erik?" Christine asked gently.

Erik shook his head. For a brief moment, he looked unbearably sad.

"No, but I remember him very well. He was very tall, with dark hair and dark brown eyes, and clear, smooth skin," Erik paused, and bowed his head. "No wonder he didn't want me."

"But you're tall," said Christine, attempting to comfort him. "And you have dark hair."

Erik laughed bitterly. "Yes, Christine. I've just never had much of it. But please, why are you showing me this?"

"Because I want you to have it," said Christine quietly.

Erik stared at her in disbelief. "You're giving it to me? Why?"

"Because I think it might help you," said Christine simply. "If you wear my picture close to your heart, it will be as if a part of me is always with you."

"Oh, Christine, I can't accept this," said Erik. "It's got your father's picture in it. It must be very precious to you."

"I'm sure my father wouldn't mind," said Christine truthfully. "He was a very great musician who believed in my voice. You completed the work he had begun. I'm sure he is very grateful to you, as I am," Christine pressed the locket into Erik's hands. "Take it, and keep it safe."

"No one's ever given me a present before," Erik sobbed. "Well, apart from my mask. My mother said it was a present, but it wasn't really. It was something which she wanted," he paused, and wiped the tears from his eyes. "You don't know how much this means to me, Christine."

Christine watched as Erik fastened the locket around his neck with shaking fingers. Then he smiled at her.

"My dear little Christine," he said, clutching the locket to his heart with fiercely protective love. "Thank you so much. You're an angel. And Erik will be able to sleep now, because he knows that you're always with him. And tomorrow he'll take you back to the world above, because he trusts you and he knows you'll come back to him."

Christine lowered her eyes. Guilt gnawed at her insides, and suddenly she knew she couldn't leave him. Not tomorrow. Not when he trusted her so much…

"I think I can stay a little longer after all, Erik," she said slowly. "I don't think I'll be missed at the Opera. Not for the sake of another week."

Erik's eyes shone, and his deformed lips twisted into a hideous yet nevertheless heart-warming grin. For a terrible moment, Christine thought he was going to hug her.

"Oh, Christine!" he cried, clapping his hands together joyfully. "You'd be most welcome! My home belongs to you. Oh, we'll have such fun together! We can go out for walks in the Bois, just like a normal couple! Would you like that? Yes, I'm sure you would! You like fresh air, don't you? Perhaps we could take a picnic…a midnight picnic under the stars! Can you think of anything more romantic than that, Christine?"

Christine couldn't help but smile at Erik's excited tirade. Despite her lingering horror and revulsion, she knew she had made this poor, afflicted man very happy, even if it would only be for a short time.

"And Erik can cook for you three times a day!" Erik added cheerfully.

Christine went pale.

"Well, maybe not three times a day…" she said carefully.

"I have a delightful recipe for beef stew!" Erik continued, ignoring her. "Perhaps I could make that tomorrow."

"Couldn't we have something a little…dryer?" said Christine, trying to banish an alarming vision of Erik with gravy dribbling down his chin.

"Very well, Christine," said Erik, completely failing to identify the reason behind Christine's aversion to beef stew. "I'll see what I can do."

"Do you think you can sleep now?" Christine asked, standing up.

"Yes, thank you, my dear," Erik paused for a moment. "Christine?"

"Yes, Erik?"

"I love you."

To Erik's disappointment, Christine did not reply. Instead she simply lowered her eyes and turned towards the door. "Goodnight, Erik."

When Christine had gone, Erik lay back on the sofa and sighed. He wished Christine would not be so shy about expressing her love. But it didn't matter. She had given him her picture, and that confirmed her love for him more than three simple words ever could.

Erik smiled to himself in the darkness, and closed his yellow eyes. With one hand clasped lovingly around the locket, and the long, skeletal thumb of the other nestled comfortingly in his mouth, the Phantom of the Opera sank into a peaceful sleep and dreamed of midnight picnics.