Author's Note: This story was written for the third Morbidity contest on PFN, where it did much better than I ever expected it to. A thanks to any who enjoyed this story during the contest and to the Scorpion for putting the whole thing together. If not for the contest, this wouldn't exist… and credit should always be given where it's due. Speaking of credit, I do not own PotO in any way, shape, or form- save for these words in this particular order.

Ebony Doors

Like a priestess, she had devoutly lit every lamp in the main room, bathing Euterpe's hidden temple in all its forgotten glory. She could see each small detail forgotten since her hasty departure only weeks ago, yet, Christine Daae's observant eyes also picked up slight adjustments, such as the thin blanket of dust obscuring the once glittering decor. The place had a feeling of finality, accentuated by its stale, unliving air, an ancient structure breathing its last. Her sole task was to give her beloved maestro a proper burial, and to act upon her one promise, to commit the last honor she could humbly bestow. She had only to find where he lay, to slip an inconspicuous ring upon his smallest finger, and to lay him beside the well for eternity, as was his last wish. Oh, how her heart bled for poor, unhappy Erik- never to be remembered even among the Dead.

Finding him, however, was proving to be an insurmountable task in itself. He was not in any of the main rooms, where they had passed so many days, thus leading Christine to believe he was entombed within his own quarters. And so, with much trepidation, she made her way to that wing of the house, where all but one dark angel feared to tread. For this wing was bleakest of all, containing few lamps and numerous shadows entwined upon patterned walls. She vaguely recalled that his room lay behind an ebony door, which mirrored the frightening darkness within. However, when she finally came to the portal, she found not one but two doors shimmering darkly. Her hazy memories only recounted the one door, though she could have been mistaken. She only now wished she hadn't erased so much of this place, with its aura of death, from her mind. For now, she truly was in a predicament. Which room was it? Right or Left? Left or Right?

Instinctively, she placed her hand upon the right door, feeling the cold brass beneath her fingers. Yet as she did so, the dusty air seemed to swirl about her, reflecting and refracting in the lamplight. And she could almost hear a voice, oh so majestic, whisper harmonious secrets in her ears.

Remember where you are, it said, remember that in this place, nothing is ever as it seems, never as you think it should be.

Her fingertips felt numb upon the handle as her mind pondered the silent voice. Erik's world was a façade, always concealing the deadly truth with gilt and gold. She could never quite decipher his truths from his ideals. Thus, she removed her hand from the right door and pushed the left open with determination.

Stepping inside the dark room, only the dim light from the hall as a guide, she felt around for the lamp she knew must be somewhere nearby. One sat by the door in every other room, so why should this one be an exception? A draft ran about her feet, and suddenly the heavy door shut unbidden behind her, shrouding her in Night. She was blinded by the dark, her mind quickly descending into panic. Groping frantically, she made her way around the room, which seemed much smaller than the last time she had entered Erik's quarters. Hadn't there been thick drapery along the walls then? Hadn't an enormous, opulent organ held command over one wall? Why then, did this room seem so bare? Why were the walls smooth as glass beneath her touch? How could she be so mistaken when the image was burned forever in her mind?

Her question was answered moments later as a blazing shattered the gloom. Blinking back tears, she took in her surroundings with amazement. She had somehow plunged into what seemed to be a tropical forest! But, why would such a thing exist beneath the Opera House? A movement caught her eye, and she spun quickly, fearfully, for who else could have found Erik's home? The being revealed to her was far from the intruder she had expected, for a young woman, with flaxen curls unfashionably cascading from her quite fashionable updo, gazed back at her with a mix of fear and relief within her eyes. Unconsciously stumbling backwards from the walls, Christine realized there was not one woman, but two, four, no, six women, all staring back at her. Mirrors. Millions of mirrors reflected her as well as the mystic forest. This room was so familiar, so utterly familiar-- a memory from a horrific dream.

Continuing to move away from the shimmering surfaces, she felt her back collide with something. A muffled cry escaped her lips as she turned to find herself staring directly into the intricate coil of a rope, swaying methodically from her impact with its artificial tree. Her mind suddenly beat frantically, screaming for her to flee. That was no ordinary rope; it was a noose. This was the very room, which she had seen that night when her fairytale fell apart. The night he had threatened to destroy the world for her love. Raoul. The Persian. Fear. Heat. Death. The images flew at her mind, sending her racing to the walls, pounding upon each, screaming for someone, anyone, to save her. Yet she knew it was in vain, for who would hear a lone woman, five stories beneath the surface, in a house that shouldn't exist, trapped within a room which could have been devised by Satan himself.

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The heat was unbearable, especially in the fine dress she was wearing. Yet, this thought barely occurred to Christine, whose mind was slowly evaporating into the oppressive air.
Water… why hadn't she thought to take water?

She was wandering a vast, tropical desert. Walking, walking, searching for an oasis. There had to be an oasis, hadn't there? Every tale of the desert always had such a holy place, or so Erik had said.

Erik.

Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she remembered that he was the reason she was here. To bury Erik. But, when had such an exotic place appeared between Lake Averne and his strange underground Palace? She couldn't remember, though she was quite sure it hadn't appeared overnight. Had she been gone so long? She couldn't remember…

As she walked on, she passed that damnable tree with the impractical rope hanging from it, again. What good would a rope do her? It certainly wouldn't quench her cracking throat or cool her fevered brow. Such an unhelpful tool. A sign towards that oasis should rest there instead. Yes, that oasis! Was that the sound of trickling water within her ears? No. Only the rustling of her skirt's hem. She decided that the skirt was quite damnable too. Modesty would help her about as much as that rope would. But, Erik would not appreciate such irreverence, should she appear sans proper clothing.

Erik. Yes, he would be quite annoyed with her. He would not appreciate being late for his own funeral, now would he? A dry laugh escaped her throat, making her wince from the rawness. She passed the tree again. Damn tree! How could she be walking in circles? She was positive she had been walking in a straight line… or was the tree trying to trick her? Damn the tree! There was no use being subtle, for scheming trees did not listen to demure words, did they? Therefore, she gave the tree a good kick, a good shove, before collapsing in a bundle of satin and lace beneath it.

She gazed upon that intricate rope, swinging lazily before her eyes. Back and forth, back and forth, blocking out the shattering rays before revealing them once more. Obsidian shadow upon Ivory light. Back and Forth. Shadow and Light. Watching, watching, watching…

A melody reached her ears, softly lilting in time with the dancing rope, infused with inviting darkness. Oh, how she wished for night, the cool moonlight upon her face. She closed her eyes, imagining a world without heat, without sun, cold as death. A cool breeze blew against her face, contrasting the dire heat. Oh, so cool. Opening her eyes slowly, she unfocusedly stared ahead and found, to her surprise, a shadow hovering just behind the tree. Blinking rapidly, her eyes focused and she could make out the shape of a man. A man bathed in the cold night, comfortable away from the unforgiving sun. Oh, if only she could be in those shadows, in that welcoming blackness!

The lyrical song within her mind returned in full force, leaving her fixated upon that single shadow in the distance. Was he reaching towards her? Would that outstretched hand relieve her from the cruelty of the Sun? Willing her body into motion, she slowly reached for that outstretched palm, inky and welcoming. Yet, from her position, she could not quite grasp it, leaving her fingertips to brush the coil of rope before her. Frustrated, she tried repeatedly, always falling just out of reach. Would she never be saved? The warmth was finally bearing down upon her in full force, leaving her faint and ill. Yet, she continued trying, inching forward every so often, desperately trying to reach that hand which would offer her salvation. Yet, he always seemed to be farther and farther from her grasp. The song became fainter, and she knew she had little time left. Pulling together the last of her strength, she jolted forward, pawing at the air, feeling nothing in her grasp. Her vision hazy, she felt her hope begin to give way only as she felt smooth leather beneath her palm- cold as ice. And, falling to the floor, she was barely aware when the darkness claimed her.

She only fancied that she had found her oasis, cool and comforting, as an eternal chill settled in her bones.

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A frosty sensation upon her brow was the first she felt as her mind returned to the world. A cool wind blowing through the balmy air of that tropical jungle. Did she even now lie upon that earthen floor, mirrored suns surrounding her? Although she feared the sight of such a place, she wrestled to open her gaze upon the blazing beams. Yet, what she found before her was not the horror she had feared, but two pieces of shimmering amber, stars in their own right. As he observed her fluttering eyelids, she felt the cool cloth slip from her fevered forehead. And, no matter how many times she blinked, he still remained. An angel from heaven, nursing her wounds.

Feeling the tangible air brush her bare arms as he sat back from her, she became aware that this was no figment of her imagination, but that he truly sat before her. Her lips parted to sing her savior's praises, but was quickly silence by her caretaker's stern glance. Instead, she took a moment to view her surroundings and discovered herself to be in Erik's own room, behind the second ebony door, upon a plush, velvet chaise. As if answering questions yet unformed, he replied in his melodious voice that, although he knew how she hated this room, it was the closest place for him to lay her unconscious form.

The simple sound of his voice after so long was enough to jolt her into a sitting position, her face merely inches from his own. She would have embraced him for joy had he not chosen that exact moment to stand, gazing down upon her with veiled eyes and heart. The mask he still wore effectively shutting her off from any emotion he might be feeling.

"Oh, Erik! It does not matter whether I like this room or not, for you have saved my life!" She stood, albeit a bit unsteadily, and looked upon his looming form, eyes glassy with emotion. Perhaps she should have been annoyed, should have been simply infuriated that he would lie about his own demise simply to return her to his side. Yet, in this exact moment, she did not care. For, how can anyone hate a friend returned from Thanatos' embrace?

"Not only that, but you are alive, my angel! Truly alive!"

"Do you not remember, my dear," he softly inquired, "that I have never been anything but a corpse?"

He said nothing more, only glanced towards the object in the center of the obsidian-draped room. Allowing her gaze to follow his own, her vision came to rest upon the ominous furniture she had always found so displeasing. For there, encased in gauzy curtains dark as blood, sat a mahogany coffin- barely visible in the low light radiating from the lamps. A strange magnetic pull came upon her, aching in its intensity, and she slowly, hesitantly gave in, making her way to Death's bed. She ran slender fingers across the curtains before courageously pulling them back to view the sunken tomb. A harsh gasp escaped her lips as her eyes grazed the contents.

There, nestled before her in velvet lining, was a body she knew far too well. It was skeletal without the ravages of time and the eyes were hidden from her own, sunken deep within their hollows, though it could not have been dead long. Unbidden, one of her perfect fingers reached out to touch the corpse's own slender hands. Hands she had not seen upon any man save the one who had been standing only feet behind her.

"Oh, Erik…" she murmured, "You would protect me even in Death?"

Her heart brimmed with emotion at the thought that her dear angel would watch over her even as his body lay cold. The thought of such love was unfathomable to her, even as she reverently caressed the lifeless hand. Yet, as she pulled away from the dead skin, a line of shimmering blackness appeared where her finger had recently tread. Blood upon a corpse? She held her hands up close to her face. She examined her hands and, even in the dim light, she could see every perfect detail. Her eyes widened as she surveyed them, a cry welling in the back of her throat.

Her lovely alabaster skin was covered in deep, red blood which welled within the creases of her palms. Uncaring, she wiped frantically against her fine dress, ridding herself of such coloring. Yet, as she raised her hands once more, she watched in horror as the whiteness was once again tainted. The vermillion pigment slowly permeated her skin once more, emanating from her pores and traveling down to her wrists in writhing crimson rivers. A horrified scream shattered forth as she obsessively wiped her hands against her dress, against the bed curtains, even against her own skin- as if the blood could be reabsorbed. However, no matter what she tried, it would always return. She traversed the room in frantic steps, not knowing or caring where she walked, only needing to be rid of this stain upon her.

In this state, she didn't hear the living, ghostly angel come up behind her. Only when he grasped her wrist did she silence herself, staring into molten orbs. Though he released her immediately, he continued to stare, making her squirm under his scrutiny. Unable to focus upon his disconcerting eyes, she lowered her gaze toward her wrist. Yet, that sight caused her even more fear. For there, a crimson mark rested upon her skin, which revealed itself to be shaped like long, grasping fingers.

Her eyes snapped immediately to Erik's hands and the thick liquid which seeped from his own pores.

"What… what is happening!" she implored hysterically, "What is this!" She flung her hands to his eyes, as if showing him for the first time. How could he be so nonchalant, especially when he was afflicted as well?

Seemingly undisturbed, he raised his hands at his side, palms cupped, their secretions dripping slowly to the richly carpeted floor.

"This? Why, this is the mark of the murderer, Christine. Charged forever to exude the blood of one's victims."

She gazed at him in disbelief. "But Erik, I have murdered no one!"

He gazed at her sardonically, turning, beckoning her towards a certain area of drapery. She followed closely behind him, and as he pulled back the heavy material, he motioned for her to look through the small window concealed behind it. Curiously, she stepped towards the glass to gaze upon the scene presented. Nothing innocent met her eyes, however, and her own bloody hand upon her lips smothered her horrified cry.

Beyond the window was paradise lost, and a single inhabitant basked in the warm glow of the artificial sun. She reclined in a rather uncomfortable position, her arms thrown out at strange angles, hands clutching for some unknown object just out of reach. Lacy fabric and fair, satin curls were splayed about the body, making for the illusion of a soft, eternal bed. And, oh, the jewelry that creature possessed! For upon her slender neck rested a coil of rope, pulled tight as any of the chokers currently in fashion, bruising the skin around it an exotic shade of violet- fit for the Queen of the Dead. Yet, perhaps the most frightening feature of the woman was her eyes, vacantly wide, allowing all to see the jeweled sapphires within. Christine Daae stared into her own gaze with morbid fixation until Erik dropped the drapes before her, concealing the sight once more.

She turned towards him slowly, eyes unseeing, her face smeared with blood and tears. He took in her appearance and loosed an ironic, echoing laugh.

"Come now, Christine, it isn't quite as horrible as you make it out to be. You must admit, my dear, that an eternity together is much preferable to eternity alone!"

He moved away from her, sauntering to the large organ against one wall. Sitting in one fluid motion, his hands poised, waiting.

"Let us sing something from the Opera, Christine Daae!" he cried, the phrase sending a shudder through her heart.

And, with one deep breath, he set his fingers dancing upon the keys. She watched as his fingers left a tangible, crimson testimony upon each he touched, his hands still graceful even in death. Yet she couldn't take up her cue, couldn't bring herself to let joyous melody burst from her lungs. For he had lured her, trapped her in his world once again, and this time there would be no escape. For who can escape Hades himself?

Fin.