A/N: Title taken from a misheard line in Loreena McKennitt's 'Dante's Prayer' - what I thought was "etched with tears" was "patched with tears", but I find "etched" makes for a better title. This fic is very much a work in progress, and so updates cannot be promised to come frequently, but I do have a plan for it.

He breathes his last in Christine's arms. She is holding him, rocking him back and forth, her lips pressed to his clammy forehead as she hums. And she feels him gasp, once, twice, great gasps that shudder through him before he lies still, so much heavier, now. Her eyes sting hot and she swallows against the aching tightness in her throat, shifting to rest her cheek against him though she does not stop humming. If she stops humming the pain will come back and bring the nightmares, and he will wake thrashing, his eyes wild. It is her duty to keep him safe, to keep holding him and humming. Her heart twists painfully and she tightens her grip, squeezing her eyes shut.

Her fault, her fault...

They were not married in the Madeleine, nor even before a priest, but here in this very room the night she returned to him. (He stared at her, eyes trailing over her dress and her face and the distinct lack of a wedding ring or invitation. He swallowed hard, eyes watering and fingertips ghosting over her cheek as if he were not quite certain she was there. "Why are you here?" His voice pitched low thrilled through her. "It is much too soon." And she smiled at him, her eyes stinging. "I could not stay with Raoul." She did not whisper, nor murmur, though her voice was soft. "Not after everything.") He slipped his ring onto her finger with Nadir the sole witness, and kissed it gently, and kissed her cheek and her forehead and as tears trickled down his cheeks she softly kissed his lips and they stood in each other's embrace for an eternity.

She should have seen, should have suspected...

Five months. Can it only be five months? Surely it is a lifetime of having him in her arms.

He is not moving. Why is he not moving?

She is dreaming. She is surely dreaming. She fainted in rehearsal and dreamt Darius' arrival, the mumbled excuse and the news spoken in the passageway. His jaw was clenched tight; it should have been the giveaway. She should have known the moment she laid eyes on him, because why would Darius come to her in rehearsal? (Of course it was Erik.) And her head spins, the whole world tilting, falling, but if she is dreaming, why does it feel as if a train has ploughed through her chest, leaving only a haemorrhaging hollow where her heart ought to be?

But he was still breathing. Still breathing as she ran to him through the tunnels, almost spraining her ankle when the folds of her dress tripped her and Darius steadied her. And she found him limp on his black couch, lying against Nadir who had tears in his eyes and was holding him up to help him breathe, Ayesha curled in a ball at Erik's waist and his mask thrown aside, face slack in unconsciousness. She swapped places with Nadir, and gently took her husband in her arms, wrapping her fingers tight around his cold ones and softly calling his name. His eyelids parted, just a fraction, just enough for her to see a rim of hazel iris before they slipped closed again. And she kissed his lips and prayed that he could feel her, though he could not kiss her back.

His fingers were always so cold...

He was quiet the last few days, and tired, though he waved off her concerns. It was she who insisted that Nadir come to play chess while she rehearsed. She did not want him to be alone down here while she was away, though he protested that he had been looking after himself perfectly well since long before she was born, thank you very much. She did not argue with him, simply patted his hand and kissed his forehead and left their bed to go and make breakfast. (He hugged her close, afterwards, and made her promise to "hurry back," and she could feel his heart beating in his chest, the same heart that's betrayed him now, and she promised "I'll be as quick as I can" and kissed him and she never stopped to wonder that maybe he knew something that she did not.)

She should have stayed, today. Should have skipped rehearsal and stayed in their bed with her arms wrapped tight around him and his head pillowed on her chest. He would have enjoyed that, however much he protested that she should not miss rehearsal on his account. She could have sang to him, instead of holding him with a throat so tight that she could barely speak. Another wife might have suspected and insisted on staying, but she was too blind to him or else he was too good at hiding how truly ill he was and now-

She can't breathe. It's crushing her throat, a noose tight, squeezing so that her lungs burn for breath but she can't breathe, not with him lying in her arms, heavy and cold already. How can she breathe when he is not?

She gasps, and swallows, the stinging tears bursting finally free from behind their barricade.

What feels like many hours later and is certainly uncountable minutes, she composes herself, catching her breath and choking back her tears though her throat still aches. Her vision is blurred when she opens her eyes, and she wipes away the remnants of her weeping, sitting up straighter, careful not to jostle him. He does not protest as she moves. She did not expect him to.

(And somewhere deep in her heart the small flicker of hope withers and dies.)

Nadir, faithful dear Nadir, is still sitting on the edge of the couch, Erik's left hand held in his. His eyes are heavy, face pale and pinched and when he catches her gaze he sighs and swallows and murmurs, "My condolences, Christine."

(Monsieur Khan kisses her hand, and smiles. "May I be the first to offer my congratulations, Madame." Beside her Erik giggles like a child. She never imagined that he could make such a sound. "And likely the last too, Nadir." She feels herself smile at this dear old friend of her husband's and says, "Please call me Christine, Monsieur.")

It feels like someone has knocked all of the air out of her lungs and she has to gasp a breath, her eyes threatening to sting again. Condolences. Of course. And yet the word carries so much, weighs so much and she can't bear it. She heard too much of it before, after her father, and now it rings so very different, cuts a little deeper and she gasps a breath, her heart pounding.

Her voice is rough, not her own as she speaks around the aching pain. "And mine, Nadir." He knows - knew - Erik so much longer than her, so very many years, knew a whole world of him so different from hers of course she must offer-of course.

He gives her a watery smile, places his free hand on top of hers. It is so warm, so soft, so utterly different from what she is used to, his dark skin startling beside her smooth white. "Anything you need me for, I am at your disposal."

And she doesn't know what to say, because how can she? Erik is dead in her arms (it will take some getting used to, those words, Erik is dead) and he is not yet quite cold, still a trace of warmth lingering. How can she know what to say? She nods, and manages a soft thank you, and he nods in return and stands, murmuring "I will...leave you alone a little while." He shuffles out before she can thank him, again.

She surveys the room, at once so familiar and strange, and wonders where Darius is. It matters not, not now.

Swallowing, Christine looks down at the still face of Erik in her arms, and raising his hand to her lips and kissing it. And he might be dead, but if she could she would hold him close to her, like this, forever.