Christine

She woke alone in a cold bed; a shiver ran through her. There was no light; the drapes had been pulled earlier that evening, Erik's hands twitching them closed behind her back as he kissed her. She had laughed with happiness, the sound luring her husband's tickling fingers to her sides in an attempt to make her giggle again . . .

Where was Erik?

Christine shivered once more; she did not like the silence. She no longer knew how to wake alone in pure night . . .

Erik's voice, deep with amusement, came from a corner of the room, but his words were anything but reassuring. "Still afraid of the dark, my love?" He bit out.

There were dangerous tones behind the humor in his voice; Erik was almost never amused for amusement's sake. Melancholy, yes, she had heard that, and bit of pain and anger. Bitterness from that beautiful voice left her with a feeling of grime in her ears, as it always did; something so pure should not lend itself so well to his cursed spite. It was a black mood indeed Christine had woken to find her beloved in, and while she found herself hesitant to pry at it, neither could she simply turn away in ignorance.

"Only when you are not in it," Christine responded carefully, trying to keep her tone neutral.

She heard an exasperated sigh. "Go to sleep, Christine," Erik grumbled.

She paused for a moment to gather her strength, then quietly slipped out of bed and stood, peering toward the part of the hotel room his voice had first come from. "Where are you?"

"I'm here—" echoed maliciously from all four corners.

Closing her eyes, the girl tried to think of what might have slanted her love's mercurial temper into his current mood. He had been having fun, or as much fun as he ever had, tormenting the two French agents that afternoon; later, he had been entirely playful, a rare side of him she had enjoyed seeing. His merciless fingers had sought out all of her most ticklish spots; laughing, they had ended cuddled together on the bed, Christine abandoning her pillow-shield as his caresses became the gentle touch of a lover. . .

What strange twist was it of her Angel's spirit, that such joy as had caused him to murmur in her ear as he held her, "You, only you forever, and I would be happy the rest of my life," could drop him into such black melancholy? Or was this evil temper a nightly occurrence, something he kept hidden for her own peace?

No.

She listened; his breathing was coming from somewhere behind her. Knowing the devil in him far too well, Christine stepped forward, toward the corner his voice had first come from. "Erik," she pled softly, "don't shut me out. You don't have to tell me; you don't even have to talk to me, if you don't want to. I wish you would, but I know there are things still that you will not let me hear." She was close now, close enough to see the black-on-black shape of him in the armchair, close enough to notice the barely perceptible icy shimmer of the dagger he was toying with in the dark. She knelt slowly, resting her forehead against his knee. "But please, Erik, beloved, let me help you . . . let me hold you and know that you are real."

Even to herself, Christine had to admit that she was not entirely surprised to feel the cold steel blade against her throat. Trust, she reminded herself firmly, willing her body not to flinch. Trust. You know he would never hurt you.

"I should have killed you long ago, you know," he murmured. "It's what men like me do. That I would have to kill myself after your death at my hands is irrelevant; what is one more corpse, after all?" Christine didn't move; she did not blink. "Murderers do not marry the women they love, dear; it just isn't done. Never happens in the fairytales. The princess leaves with her Adonis and the dragon is rightfully slain, because his love would have killed her. Whereas if the princess had the common sense to stay with her safe prince, she would at least live freely." The bitterness was back in his voice.

"But what is a life," Christine asked, feeling her throat pulse against the dagger with each syllable, "when lived outside the consuming love of dragon's fire?" Nearly under her breath, she added, "You promised, Erik."

"I—oh, yes. I promised not to frighten you unnecessarily." The dagger disappeared and he gently pulled her to her feet. His tone was at odds with his tender touch as he waspishly continued, "Though to be perfectly fair, if you had just had the sense to stay in bed, you would not have been frightened."

Christine jerked to a stop, forcing him to collide with her. She looked up into where his face should be in the darkness and firmly told him, "That is a lie. I am more afraid of you gone from my side than I ever could be of you holding a piece of steel against my neck. Maybe you have not learned this yet, my love, but I have: no matter how dark your mood, I know you will not hurt me."

"Here," Erik whispered, touching a finger to her neck, "I have even put a knife against your skin. And yet you still persist in your incomprehensible faith in me."

She reached up and found his face with her hands; he was not wearing the mask. Christine pulled him down towards her, guiding him until his mouth found the spot where his blade had touched her. "No," she murmured back, holding him briefly against her throat. "Here."

Erik groaned against her and jerked back. She could feel his eyes staring at her, then he had lifted her into his arms as she had hoped. Christine let a tiny smile play across her lips; she knew where he kept that knife. Brushing her hands idly across his shoulders, she inched toward the sheath that hung at the back of his neck. "No, you don't," Erik told her grimly. Still holding her against him with one arm, he used the other to firmly trap her wrists. As soon as he had set her upon the bed, and keeping a tight grip on her with one long-fingered hand, he drew the dagger and negligently tossed it. A wince tightened her features as it thudded into the door. "Don't worry, my dear, it isn't the first such indignity that door has suffered in its lifetime," he informed her dryly. His hold on her wrists disappeared as he began to pull away; Christine twisted her own hands around to catch his. She felt more than saw him turn back to gaze at her. "You really don't know what's good for you, do you?"

Christine voiced the question that had plagued her since she woke. "Does my touch always send you into such a wicked temper?"

"Mon ange, no. Don't think that." He ran his fingers lightly across hers. "And you have seen me in a temper; this is not one."

"No, Erik. This is not a temper. It is just a painful mood that I wish I could ease away from you. And what did you want me to think, waking up to find you in this bleak mind frame that I do not understand?"

A persistent tug brought him back to her. In a deliberate reversal of their earlier roles, Erik dropped to his knees and rested his head in her lap. "Must you always understand?" He mumbled into her nightgown wearily before looking up at her. Gentle fingers found her waist, smaller than it had been a month ago; Christine knew that the dark circles she had worn under her eyes for the last week were still quite visible in good light. "You're going to get sick if you don't rest," Erik tried to cajole. When she did not respond, he stood, his hands trailing up her sides to hold her face. He kissed her deeply, then pulled away against her protests. "Never, ever believe that you bring me anything but happiness, Christine," he murmured.

She lay back, pulling him with her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Erik shook his head and eased her into the covers. For a moment she thought he would withdraw, but then he sighed and lay down by her side. "Not now. Tomorrow."

Her husband's arms around her, her eyes already nearly closed, Christine could only nod as she drifted off.

angelmuse: Just keep reading :)

KaterineKasdorf: Why, thank you! Wow—gorgeously written, huh? I'm blushing. Hope this is up to par—enjoy!

Mominator124: M'dear, you are rapidly becoming one of my favorite people on this site—thanks zillions for your faithful reviews of Beyond the Grave, and thanks even more for following me over to this bit of fluff! True, I agree—conflict does make the sweet stuff seem even better. Again, muchas, muchas, MUCHAS gracias!

PhantomLover2005: Don't worry, I shall tell you when it ends. A bit of an update here for you, and thanks for reviewing!