A/N: Oh my gosh, those hours where I was finished with the newest chapter but couldn't update were torturous. Thank you for all your lovely reviews, as always. Have fun with this chapter!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

Your eyes they tie me down so hard,

I'll never learn to put up a guard.

So keep my love, my candle bright,

Learn me hard, oh learn me right.

October 1980

Erik was not woken by a soldier, this time; the sounds of shifting and men speaking at loud tones were enough to rouse him. It was early—the sun was barely visible in the sky, the camp lit in a dim glow. He could barely see the streaks of orange and blue that must have blended into the sky. Light streamed down onto the camp in sections, strands of brightness obscured by towering trees.

He stared at the spires of branches, the leaves that blew as a gentle breeze whispered by. It was truly beautiful, this piece of land within the mountains, and for a moment he imagined what it would be like to see it peaceful and undisturbed by humanity in their need for war. The sounds of soldiers packing and arranging faded into the background, a buzz of chatter and clinking tent poles, the rustle of plastic and canvas bags.

They were leaving, he realised, moving on to another piece of land, another place of shelter. He wondered if they would notice should he stray behind.

It would be so easy to lose himself, here. To give in and let himself be.

It was a wistful dream. His two guards, as expected, interrupted his momentary peace, looming above him and casting shadows upon his form. They were silent and gruff as always, hauling him to his feet once they noticed his state of consciousness. He stood compliantly, brushing the dirt off his slacks. He gave no snarky comment, no witty remark as they proceeded to wrap a thin coil of rope around his wrists, binding pulse to pulse once more. There was no need to waste his energy on such trivialities.

The rest of the soldiers were quick; fifteen minutes had passed and their packs were hoisted upon their backs, their uniforms arranged, the camp empty save for the faint hiss of firewood recently put out. All around him were visions of young men adjusting their straps, young men checking to see if they had left anything of theirs behind, young men laughing and joking and living each day wondering if they would see the next. An order was called out and then they were moving, walking out of the safety of their borders, venturing out into the woods. The sound of leaves crunched under boots filled the air.

His guards roughly pushed him forwards and Erik sighed irritably, jerking himself away from their grasp. "I can walk," he snapped at them, before putting one foot after the other, following the others and beginning their surely tiresome journey.

There was no blindfold, this time—there was no need for one. The trek was dizzying and unidentifiable. Upon the mountains they marched, crossing hills and slopes, occasionally stopping whenever the navigator needed to recheck their direction. There was nothing to tell him where they were, no significant marks or streams or hollows. The grounds were too shaded, so he could not identify their coordinates from the position of the sun in the sky. They walked on in circles, it seemed; there was no end, no stops. A few men lingered behind to keep a close eye on him, ensuring he did not stray anywhere, that he did not escape. Erik saw no point in trying to.

They stopped by a grassy bank in the late afternoon, when the sun rays were more prominent and the air warmer on his skin. Erik shifted in the loose shirt Khan had provided him with, hanging off increasingly bony shoulders. His old one had been damaged beyond repair, reduced to strips of cloth by Jalil's slicing knife. The overly tightly tied rope was cutting into the skin of his wrists; they would surely leave marks. He sighed—another scar he would need to see everyday, another mark branded upon his skin by these people.

An unidentifiable man announced a short break for lunch, and collectively, every chest heaved with relief. Around him, the men dispersed into groups and packs, choosing a spot to sit by. They settled upon the ground, pulling out packed wraps of food and drink. Their group was large, their and passed around a tumbler, tongues expertly weaving out a string of Farsi in their amiable chatter. It was like watching a group of children out on a school trip.

Erik walked away from his guards without another word, his eye set on a boulder that stood towards the side. His legs were more weary than usual, a result of a lack of exercise, the limited diet he was consuming. With a heavy sigh he settled upon the rock, relieved to be off his feet for a moment.

This was not what he had pictured when joining the army, and he'd had enough.

When he finally retuned to the Soviet Union, he would not wait another second before leaving the service of the government. If they proved to be difficult, he would take Christine away—bring her to the expanse of Europe, perhaps even South America. Travel somewhere they could both live without the constant worry of being watched, somewhere she could sing and he could design, somewhere they could compose and celebrate and make love…

Christine. He sighed, overcome with her image in his mind once more. The softness of her skin was a direct contrast to the hard, jagged boulder he sat upon, merciless against his tired body. Erik laid a palm upon the rough surface to balance himself and ran a hand through his hair, quite certain that if he were to look into a mirror, he would find himself dirtied and muddy, dried blood crusting against his chest.

He had once been the master of every craft, skilled in tackling and adjusting and adapting. Feared and respected by many, only to return home into the arms of the only woman who cared enough to love him. He had finally found everything he had wanted his whole life—everything that had existed within her, all this while...

He had felt full, unable to remember a time he had felt more content. Fate had been cruel to degrade him to the pathetic prisoner he was now.

His bitter thoughts were interrupted at the sound of angry whispers, voices rough and spitting. They were a little behind him—concealed within the trees, he realised. A look around the green field showed the soldiers still eating and talking, oblivious to the conflict hidden from their ears. He wondered what troubles ailed the minds of the men behind him; if they were personal or professional.

Careful to ensure his expression betrayed nothing to the soldiers around him, he inched towards the direction of the voices, straining to listen.

"…is not necessary!" the first man was insisting in an obviously lowered tone. "We have not caught a glimpse of the Soviets in weeks. It would do us no harm to move to another camp—"

"We have to take the necessary precautions!" he heard the other hiss. Unlike the first, this voice was natural in its low, deep timbre, a tone that had taunted and yelled and screamed at him many times before. Jalil. "One of them was incredibly close to discovering us, and I don't believe a single word that comes out of that Phantom's mouth about not knowing our location beforehand. We cannot allow them to come this close to us again. They will expect us to set up another base in the mountains. This will give us an advantage against them!"

"And put the lives of innocents at risk!" the first voice protested.

"There will always be casualties in war," he heard Jalil dismiss.

"They would be victims, not casualties!"

There was a frustrated growl, then the low snap of, "We are fighting a war, Khan. Don't let your weaknesses rule you."

"The want to protect innocents is not a weakness."

Khan's words rang in the air for a long moment. Then, "We have hidden amongst villagers before, Khan. You said yourself that the Soviets are unlikely to be near us. Why be difficult about it?"

It was so silent that Erik wondered if they had ended the conversation. A few moments later, though, Khan answered—so quietly that he had to mull over the words for a few moments before he could truly comprehend what he had said.

"Too many lines have been crossed, Jalil. I would have us stop before we cross another."

The two men must have parted after that, for Erik was not able to hear anything else coming from the direction of the trees. A deep frown marred his features as he sat by the boulder, considering what he had just listened to.

The mujahideen were locating not to another camp, but to a village. A village that, according to Khan, was the home of innocent people, women and children who were oblivious and unprepared should danger befall the camp.

Erik was no stranger to unjust situations, but this was, as Khan had quietly asserted, a line that should not be crossed. To put the lives of innocents at risk was something not even the Soviets had done or considered within their strategies. There was talk of the Viet Cong pursuing such a tactic in Vietnam, but after the massacre that made itself known to the media, he would have thought others would not take the risk.

He should have known that Jalil would never act according to his expectations, and that there was nothing he or Khan could do about it. It was the tragedy of power; this inability to do right without risking themselves. He wasn't quite sure if the man was heartless or paranoid.

The trek to the village was not as tiresome as the first journey. There were less uphill climbs now; instead, they followed a sloping path curving through hollows and littered rocks upon the ground. It was fortunate that his boots were sturdy and intact; if Erik had been forced to hike barefoot, his feet would be bloodied and fleshless by now. It was difficult to balance with his wrists bound, unable to throw an arm out should he stumble or trip. In a way, his guards were his saviours—they roughly set himself on his feet, ensured he did not hurt himself too much.

When they arrived at the village, it was nightfall.

It was not much of a village—more of a little town, quiet and unsuspecting. The hardened grounds were empty, the villagers already settled within their homes for the night—and even then, Erik suspected that more than half of the houses were empty. He walked amongst the group of soldiers, a silent observer of the still scene, devoid of anyone. There were no animals to liven the scene, no children running about. The empty town square was darker than usual, lacking the streetlights he was used to that would lighten the streets of Moscow.

The lit homes were the only indication that life existed within the still paths. As they approached the other soldiers who were now waiting for them, Erik caught a glimpse of several darkened houses, their doors weathered and unused. He looked up and met the eyes of a woman peering from a window, hair covered in a loose shawl, expression confused and afraid. She immediately looked away and boarded the window, shutting him away.

"They chose to flee," said one of the soldiers walking just a little away from Erik, his tone disgusted as he observed the abandoned homes, the village that was quieter than usual. "They chose to leave rather than stay in their country."

"They chose to save themselves," another retorted, and the others went silent. Erik trudged along without speaking, wrists aching but still standing tall, impassive and hardened.

They came to a stop upon reaching the other soldiers, gathering with the group of khaki uniforms, compliant and without individuality. Jalil stood in the middle amongst the other ranked men, his beard gleaming with sweat, his knuckles clenched into fists by the side. Erik recognised this mood all too well; the General's exhaustion almost always resulted in impatience, a frame of mind that had never benefited him during their interrogations. Charcoal eyes scanned and stared stonily at the crowd of soldiers surrounding him, inspecting them closely. A deep line marred his forehead, lips twisting into a scowl.

Erik scanned the crowd, looking for a specific face.

Khan was nowhere in sight.

"Find yourselves some shelter for tonight," Jalil ordered. "Take off your uniforms and leave them off. We want to be inconspicuous. Blend in with the villagers, do their chores, let nobody suspect anything. We will stay for a week."

With a nod, he dismissed the soldiers. They dispersed with a ring of murmured voices, low and controlled, dividing into small groups as they searched for empty homes. Erik stood towards the side, golden eyes scrutinising the scene critically when the General turned towards him, beckoned for him to come forwards. He felt a shove at his back and gritted his teeth, annoyed.

Long legs strode towards the General and stopped, bright orbs narrowed. His stance was still kingly, regal; power thrummed from his form even as he wore sullied trousers, black shirt that hung loosely off his shoulders. A chilly breeze whispered by, twining cold air into the holes of his shirt, icing his tattered skin.

Jalil regarded him coldly, no pretence of joviality or warmth within his black, soulless eyes. "Khan will attend to him, tonight," he said gruffly to the two guards behind him. "Leave him."

Without another word they obeyed, the heat radiating from their burly bodies immediately missing from behind him. Erik straightened his back, glared down at the man. He was grateful that at least, in their differing heights, he was far superior.

"Where is Khan?" he asked cooly, regarding the man with a hardened gaze. His vocal chords were strained with misuse since he hadn't spoken the entire day; his voice was rough and ragged, lacking its usual musical timbre.

"Who gives a shit," Jalil muttered before striding off in the direction of another home, leaving Erik in the middle of the village. The Soviet watched as the man gave two swift knocks on the door before he was admitted, a soldier with an unbuttoned shirt letting him in. The door closed behind him, its snap echoing in its resolution.

Erik pursed his lips, looking around the expanse of houses. He would not share with any of the other soldiers—there was no guarantee that they would not attempt to disrupt his sleep, to have their way with him. He could have easily overtaken them in his full health, but with his stomach empty, his throat parched and bones aching, he would not be able to stop any untoward advances.

Before he could resolve himself to another uncomfortable night upon the hard ground, he spotted Khan emerging from the shade of dim houses. He watched the man suspiciously, noting his wary stance, his careful movements. They were the features of a man who did not want to be observed, who was hiding something. Khan eventually spotted the pale man standing in the centre of the village, golden eyes trained on him and wrists bound, and immediately moved towards him, looking around with an unconcealed confusion. "Where are the others?" he asked once he reached Erik's side, voice low and controlled.

"Retired for the night. Where were you?" Erik shot back, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Khan merely shrugged and turned from him, a lazy hand outstretched in a beckon for him to follow. "Taking a piss. Come; I've found an empty home for our use."

Erik suspected he wasn't being given the truth but followed anyway, exhaustion ruling out his scepticism.

Khan led him towards a small wooden house. The door was almost falling off its hinges, the small front porch creaking below their boots. It must have been free for months, Erik mused as Khan pushed at the door which gave easily, groaning under the pressure. It was cool inside, the vestige of life echoing hauntingly within the home. The home was small, Erik noted as he looked around; no divider between kitchen and small sitting room, two chairs and a table furnishing the limited empty space in between. There were two other doors to what Erik assumed were bedrooms, so at least he could spare the embarrassment of sharing a room with Khan.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Khan turned towards him, swiftly undoing the ties, too quickly for Erik's tired mind to catch.

"I don't suppose you could teach me that, could you?" he questioned wryly as the man loosened the cutting rope from his wrists.

Khan looked up at him and let out a low chuckle. "That would defeat the purpose of the bonds." He tore the rope off, throwing them unceremoniously onto the ground. Erik immediately moved to rub the cuts on his skin, wincing at the soreness of his wrists. Khan walked towards the kitchen cabinets, opening them to check for any preservatives. "Have you eaten, today?"

Erik was far too starved to keep his pride, so he shook his head. Khan nodded. "Stay here. Rest."

Without another word, the man left the home. Erik wondered if he was venturing to the shelters of the other soldiers, requesting for food for himself. The men would surely not allow for him to take their food if they knew it was meant for their Soviet captive.

He sighed, wanting nothing more to settle upon the chair by the table but feeling to dirtied to do so. He moved towards the sink, hoping that the plumbing was still functioning—ah. A stream of water jetted from the faucet, icy against his already freezing skin, making him snap his hand back instantly. It took a little coaxing, but Erik eventually managed to run his hands under the faucet, washing the dirt from his hands, arms, face, neck. It was soothing as it was painful, the spray of frost upon his cut wrists, the bruises that littered his skin.

It was only when he had dried off that Khan returned, holding a bowl of hot broth. It was a testament to how tired he was that Erik didn't open his mouth to question where Khan had gotten such a delicacy—the soldiers would not surely have found enough ingredients in time to prepare themselves broth. Instead he accepted the bowl gratefully, placing it on the table before proceeding to consume it. He had to keep himself from devouring the bowl, knowing that it would only upset his empty stomach instead of sooth it, and focused on taking one spoon at a time.

Khan was silent the entire time, standing by the window and staring out of it. The man was not as built as Jalil, but not as lean as Erik; instead he held a quiet thrum of supremacy and agility to his form. He did not hold himself as Erik did—with back straight and tall, regal and impassive—but possessed something that seemed akin to... humbleness.

Not once did he turn to look at Erik, choosing to look out the window the entire time. Erik was so distracted by his hunger that he did not notice that the man had his eyes trained on a specific house. It was small and modest, a thing made of stone and wood and rock, directly situated in the abandoned home's line of sight. When he finished, he looked up to find the house—grey and nameless like every other house in the village—with its lights on, standing apart from the other darkened homes.

A woman stood directly in front of the window, looking downwards—she must have been washing her hands, the movement of her arms implying that she was scrubbing something. The sleeves of her kaftan were rolled up to her elbows to ensure she did not wet them. Her hair was falling out of the black shawl she wore, tied loose and draping over her shoulders. She had fierce features, one that reminded Erik of images of Afghan women he had been shown before: beautiful yet dark with long nose, sharp chin, thick brows. Her eyes were lowered, and he wondered at the colour of her orbs—would they be a mixed, dark brown, a light hazel like Nadir's, or blue with hints of emerald specks?

His gaze drifted to rest once more upon Khan. He could not see the man's face, but noted the alertness to his frame, the agitation that crept within his entire being. Khan held himself with a tension Erik had never seen before, a deep disquiet that left him completely, irrevocably still. It was obvious that he held a kinship to this woman, though Erik wondered at the nature of their relationship. Was she his sister, his wife, his friend?

It was then that the woman chose to look up, meeting the eyes of Erik's companion for the night. He watched as they held each other's gaze; he could not see the colour of the woman's eyes from this distance, but the same anxiety was clearly written in the worried crease of her kohl-rimmed eyes, the subdued part of her thin lips.

From the back, Erik observed as Khan's head lifted ever so slightly, his hands lifting from his sides to grasp at the windowsill. Man and woman locked stares for a long moment, a reflection of eternity within each other's gaze. It was then that Erik realised he recognised the look the woman held—it was the same look Christine had given him when she had sent him off at the airport, an endless yearning of hope and doubt.

The woman was interrupted by something, for she broke their gaze and turned sideways, lips moving in fluent Farsi. Her worried features softened, and then a mop of unruly, tangled hair came into view, its owner only reaching her breast. The boy tilted his head to look up at her, forehead furrowed in a frown; she smoothened his brow soothingly, catching his chin and smiling softly at him.

Khan's grip on the windowsill was so tight that Erik knew he would walk away with cuts upon his palm. The woman looked at him one last time, her gaze wistful and worried, and coddled the child to her waist, leading him out of the room.

Almost immediately, Khan let out a large exhale. He lingered by the window for a moment, taking deep, shaky breaths. Then he straightened, suddenly alert, and whipped around to meet Erik's gaze, silent and ever watchful.

The man's eyes were dark and anguished, betraying his fear, worry, helplessness. Love.

And Erik understood at once why he had been so reluctant to reside within the village.

A moment later he hardened once more, expression fixing itself into carefully concealed calm. Hazel eyes were shaded, haunted with the impossibility of his situation, the worry that plagued his mind—the only indication that he could still feel, that he was internally disintegrating.

"Get some rest," he said harshly, before storming off towards a dimly lit hallway, his steps echoing through the empty house. A few moments later there was the faint sound of a door slamming, resolute and ringing within the air.

Erik stayed for a long time before he finally retired for the night, watching over the house opposite them in the man's absence.

Present Day

It seemed like the longest time since Christine had felt this much hope.

Everyday with Erik was a step forward. He had revealed nothing to her since that fateful day, had remained hardened and cool as ever, but once in a while she would catch a glimpse of his softened expression as he gazed at her, the faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. She hadn't seen him smile in almost a year, and though his mouth never truly twisted into a full grin she felt thrilled, knowing that he was going to be all right this time.

They were showing the new production now, so Christine chose to spend her lunches with him before leaving for the night. Their conversations were not as forced, and she laughed more often than not at his unexpected sarcasm, his dry humour that would occasionally emerge to give her a pleasant surprise. He waited for her after every performance with a meal for supper, and she would beam at him appreciatively. It was refreshing to know that they were both—finally—reciprocating an equal amount of effort in mending their broken relationship, determined to fix their marriage.

He was quiet, but not reserved. He did not offer to let her see beneath his bandages, nor did she push him to. They lived in a calm harmony, content to be in each other's presence. Something had changed within him since she had confessed her powerful, encompassing feelings—he was lighter, now, more willing to ease back into their love. She breathed in his presence, his controlled, composed strength and wrapped herself in it, in him.

And there were touches, now. They were faint and not frequent, but still there. She would brush his hand with hers as she reached for a glass of water, would lean against his shoulder as they both settled on the couch at the end of each day. He flinched less at the feeling of her against him, and soon he did not pull away at all when she would touch him. She thrived at their slow move forwards, thrived at how he seemed to relax around her once more.

By the end of the summer, he had begun to take her hand while they slept, twining his fingers with hers.

But she could tell that he was still haunted, still scarred—both physically and mentally—by all he had gone through. He still had nightmares that left him shaking, writhing in his sleep. Christine knew there was nothing she could do to relieve his horrors, and her heart broke whenever she felt his body lift off the bed, when she heard the controlled slam of the bathroom door behind him. She knew that he had suffered from night terrors when he had first returned home, but were more conscious of them now.

It was impossible, during these moments, to refrain from kissing him. Their little touches, their tentative steps forward—they lit her aflame, desire and love burning so brightly within her that she struggled to contain herself when looking at him.

God, how she missed him.

Lovemaking had never been a necessity within their relationship, but their moments tangled within each other had always been passionate and warm, fire laced with the sweetest comfort. While they had lost their initial lust, her desire for him was still ardent and fierce. She had yearned for him—all of him—for so long, and to think that they were surely moving towards this comfort they had shared before he had left—it fuelled her to her core.

She thrived at their slow move forwards, thrived at how he seemed to relax around her once more. Determination was fierce and ever present within her thoughts, her every action.

Slowly, she would show him that his face did not matter to her.

Slowly, he would start to believe it.

She heard the faint clasp of the door as he shut it, felt his heat as he moved towards her. It sent a faint thrill shooting down her spine. She settled her bag on the counter and turned towards him.

As always, her expression softened at the sight of him—his bandaged face, his thin, parted lips, his beautiful golden eyes. She gazed up at him, breathless even after all this time that he was hers, that he had chosen her to spend the rest of his life with.

Her man, his woman. They were one and the same—had always been one and the same.

It was extraordinary, this rediscovered affection she now garnered for him since that day, thriving and soaring despite her basking in his love for years. It gave her faith, confidence.

"How was the performance?" Erik asked, golden orbs intense and burning. He stood still, back ramrod straight as always, and she marveled at how he chose to speak to her when he had not done so for months.

She smiled. "Better than yesterday's. The crowd was bigger too, tonight—I think our critics gave a good review."

"They did," he confirmed.

Her smile widened. Whenever the Bolshoi hosted a show, Christine had always made it a point never to read her reviews while Erik had always done the exact opposite. It was endearing to think that he was still maintaining the habit, even after he had left.

"I love you," she told him, unable to contain herself. She needed to tell him, needed him to know so he could be confident in her love for him. For so long, she had denied him—she would not risk his doubt in her again. Her heart fluttered as his gaze softened ever so slightly.

A yawn took hold of her, deep and long and interrupting their tender moment. "I'm sorry," she said apologetically, wincing internally at her sense of timing. "I don't think I can spend time with you tonight—I'm so tired."

Her husband nodded. "Of course, Christine," he intoned, gentleness lacing his velvet timbre. "You should rest."

She smiled softly at him. "Not without you."

Without another word, Christine turned and started to walk towards their bedroom, impossibly tired. Earlier, she had told Erik that it was not necessary he prepare something for their supper, and was immensely grateful for her hindsight. She was thankful it was Saturday—despite her lax in performances, she still found herself unimaginably busy, juggling between running through ideas with Anton, spending time with Erik and rehearsing on her own. Four shows combined with two matinees were enough to tire her.

Erik averted his eyes when she began to change out of her clothes, ever the gentleman—even if he had seen her body a million times before. Christine did not protest, simply moving towards their bathroom before she finally retired for the night, lifting his hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his palm before she let exhaustion take her.

She was woken by the sound of restless murmurs. Tired eyes blinked open, confused at first before settling upon the image in front of her: her husband, bandaged head tossing about and fingers gripping the sheets tightly, moaning out a stream of, "No, no, no," in his sleep.

Christine pushed at her elbow to sit up, still under the thick daze of sleep. Her nights were often late and tiring since they had finished rehearsals and moved onto shows, resulting in her immediately dozing off once coming home. With hazy, slow movements she dragged herself up, struggling to wake herself and focus on her husband.

There was not much she could see from his expression, since his face was covered by strips of bandages, but had a vague image of what she would see: forehead creased in an agitated frown, skin clammy with cold sweat. His mouth was visible and parted, eyes shut tightly, chest heaving in deep, uncontrolled breaths.

He was clearly having a nightmare. Her poor, unhappy Erik.

Forcing herself to keep her eyes open, Christine leaned towards him. "Erik," she said in a thick voice, still groggy from sleep. He didn't respond to her; his breaths were coming out in gasps now, his murmuring growing more distressed. Whatever was troubling him seemed to have intensified, and she was anxious to bring him back to consciousness.

"Erik," she repeated once more, watching his twitching form worriedly. She knew that it was not wise to shake him awake—it had only ever resulted in increased disquiet, before. She raised her voice, trying again. "Erik, please. Erik—wake up, baby, please."

It was no use—instead of inducing calm, her voice seemed to only worsen the situation. She dismayed, remembering how he used to immediately relax whenever she spoke soothingly to him.

This is something you can't fix, a voice in the back of her mind whispered. You're not enough for him this time.

Shut up, she told it firmly, determined to prove it wrong.

Erik cried out suddenly, beautiful velvet voice raised and contorted, breaking in the midst of nightmares, and she started feeling the slow inkling of panic seeping through her veins. She refrained from touching him, knowing that he would not react well to that. It was painful to watch as he clearly struggled before her and she bit her lip, her heart breaking at the sight of him.

But she threw all caution to the wind when he began to thrash. Acting on instinct, Christine threw out an arm to hold his own down, leaning over him and afraid that he would harm himself.

His response was immediate—a swift tackle of bodies so that she landed on her back, pressed into the mattress as he loomed above her, lips curling into a menacing snarl.

Vaguely she remembered when he had pinned her down in a similar way—when she'd had her own nightmare. She recalled his automatic response, her fear and confusion, his devastation when he discovered her nightmare was about him.

She was determined that the situation didn't repeat itself, this time.

Golden eyes seemed to glow within the darkness of the night, startling and vivid. He was breathing heavily above her, his weight firmly pushing her into the mattress, hands pinning her wrists by the sides of her head. Christine's heart thudded wildly as she stared up at him, cobalt eyes wide and alert, fully awake by now.

"Erik," she said urgently, unable to sense recognition as she stared into his haunted, amber orbs. His grip on her wrists were too tight; she could not garner enough strength to move them. "Erik, it's me. It's Christine."

He continued to loom above her, alert and unreadable. Bony shoulders thrummed with unconcealed tension, hardened and resolute. His body was still save for the quick, shallow breaths that shook his form.

"Erik," she pleaded, and he leaned closer, feline and powerful in his threatening gaze. His face was inches from hers, so close that she could taste his breath. Her gaze wavered for a moment, darting down to his lips.

She could kiss him right now. Tilt her face up and press her mouth to his, startle him out of his stupor. Unwrap the offending garment covering his face and drag her lips over every scar, crevice and protruding bone. Remind him who she was with touch and kiss and body, take him into her and give him what they both undeniably craved.

Because no matter how hurt Erik was, she knew that her husband was still attracted to her. She saw it in his burning gaze as she walked around in his shirt, felt it in the stiffness of his body when she sat next to him. There was no doubt in her mind that he still wanted her after everything he had experienced—perhaps all the more because of everything he had experienced.

But no—it would be too much, too soon. He needed the stability of a serene mind before she could offer him anything else. He needed to be comfortable enough to expose his face to her. They needed to rebuild their fragile relationship.

She could not act on her own desires without his consent. She wanted to guide them back to familiarity, but only if he was ready for it.

So Christine simply continued to speak to him, adopting the gentlest tone she could muster.

"You're home with me, Christine—your wife," she explained, peering up at him through raised lids. "You're not in the war anymore. Everything they put you through in Afghanistan—it's all over now. You don't ever have to go back there ever again. You're safe, you're with me, and I love you."

It was a relief to see that her words seemed to have a desired effect this time; his breathing slowed to a more controlled pace, his grip against her loosening. The wild, feral look that had overtaken his gaze seemed to melt away, replaced by confusion and gradual recollection. He stared at her for a long moment, hesitant and doubtful.

"Christine?" he questioned uncertainly.

She gazed up at him with wide eyes, firmly conveying all the love she held for him in her open gaze, bringing forth every surge of emotion he inspired within her, bright and ardent and tender.

A small smile curved upon her lips. "Yeah, Erik," she said softly, "it's Christine."

His response was instant. All the tension seemed to leave his shoulders at her confirmation, and he sagged against her, collapsing from the weight of his memories. Her body was pressed into the mattress once more, but this time his covered face was buried against her neck, his arms poised on either side of her head, his hands brushing the sides of her wrists as he released his grip on her.

Christine lay still beneath him, heart thudding wildly for an entirely different reason now. They often found themselves in this position after making love, with Erik tiredly kissing her neck and her softly stroking the hair by the nape of his neck. She was reminded of his graceful strength, his sensual kisses, the press of skin to skin, comfortable and feverish at the same time.

It was bliss to feel him against her once more, but her soaring step forwards was riddled with loss; he weighed barely anything above her, protruding ribs pressing sharply into her own, and the rough strips of bandage tickled her chin, an ever-present reminder of his suffering.

Her Erik, and yet he was changed.

She took a shaky breath before raising her arms to wind around his shoulders, threading fingers through his hair and stroking gently. A long exhale left her lips as she felt his arms slowly move to wind underneath her shoulders, holding her tightly to him.

It was a rare, tender moment to feel him responding to her, to feel her affection and love returned. She turned her head slightly to press a firm kiss to the hair above his ear, chin grazing the irregular gauze as she did so. She would hold him for an eternity if he needed her to.

Gradually, she felt his heartbeat slow against her own, warm breath no longer panting, now deep and controlled against the skin of her neck. She closed her eyes, savouring the feeling of his body against hers, her fingers gently massaging his head, him vulnerable and open before her once more. Buried her lips into messy raven strands of hair, deeply inhaled his rich, striking scent.

Nothing could match up to this, nothing could match up to him. His body pressed to hers, his arms holding her tightly against him, his love and agony written clearly within his bones. A disfigured face didn't matter anymore to her—not when it meant that she could still hold him, still have him with her.

Her husband. Her Erik.

She let her fingers trail from his hair to his neck, loosening the tension that still quivered within his flesh. She wanted to kiss away his anxiety, protect him from anyone who dared threaten her man.

Her thumb brushed his skin soothingly. "It was just a nightmare, darling," she murmured. Above her, he took a shaky breath and she tightened her grip around him, nestling him within the shelter of her arms. "Shh, baby. It's alright—you're okay."

His voice was surprisingly deep and controlled when he responded.

"I wasn't concerned for myself."

She immediately missed his warmth as he lifted himself from her. The mattress shifted under his weight and she listened to the rustle of sheets, felt the heat of his body move away from her. Blinking cobalt eyes open, Christine lay there for a moment, staring fixatedly at the ceiling. An empty, resigned feeling settled in her stomach.

They had been so close to reconciling, and she had driven him away—again. She had said the wrong thing, reminded him of his past, addressed something he wanted desperately to forget.

Erik had withdrawn into himself, again, and it was all because of her stupid mouth.

She sighed tiredly, resolving to follow after and console him. She was therefore surprised when she turned her head to find him sitting by the edge of the bed, back facing her and head bent forwards.

It was unexpected laced with the most pleasant surprise. Christine kept her eyes on his back, noting his uncustomary slouch, the outline of his spine clearly visible through the thin shirt he wore. He's so skinny, she thought to herself sadly, eyes tracing his bony shoulders, the thin muscles of his arms.

Still, she couldn't find it in herself to be dismayed—not when he was sitting here in their room, not when he kept himself from running from her once again.

Pushing herself up with her arms, Christine lifted herself from the mattress and sat up, legs curled underneath her. She remained quiet as she watched him, resolving that he would be the first to speak, if he wanted to.

For a long moment husband and wife were silent. The night was still around them, cool and calm in the darkness. The white curtain rustled softly as a breeze brushed by, gentle and light.

"When I was involved in the war, I was tasked with tracking down the enemy," Erik began after a while. His voice was deep and low, a resigned tone lacing his rich, velvet timbre. "The Soviets had tried many times, but were always unsuccessful. The mujahideen are cunning and had an advantage over us: they had lived among their lands. They knew the landscape of every mountain, every forest. They would hide from us during the day and quietly attack at night. We would often wake to find a few dead men lying by the border of our camp."

Christine held her breath, unwilling to interrupt him. The image in her mind was ghastly and horrifying—a thought that should have made her turn away with shock and revulsion. She forced herself to hold still, to listen to his tale. Erik had never diverged anything about his time serving in the war, and she was not about to stop him when he finally did so.

"So they enlisted me." The words were desolate, said without emotion or any hint of bitterness. It was as if he was stating simple facts instead of recounting his devastating experience in the war. "I was skilled in navigation and tracking. I had never failed to locate any of my targets," —save for Raoul, she thought to herself, though she knew that Erik had deliberately let her friend go— "and they assumed they could not go wrong with me."

He stopped for a moment, a long, drawn out silence echoing through the room. Christine inched herself closer so that she was directly behind him, tentatively reaching out to lay the lightest of touches upon his back. He stiffened but did not flinch.

"I must have spent four months or so searching for them," he continued, his voice a low murmur. "I used my skills to the best of my ability, but I was familiar with navigating through cities, not forests. The mountains were strangers to me. For a long time, I couldn't find them. Eventually, they found me."

She couldn't contain the gasp that escaped her lips. Christine stared at her husband's back, eyes wide and lips parted in shock at the revelation.

He had been captured.

It was obvious, now, if she thought about it—the scars on his back, the disfigurement of his face, the quiet bitterness he held for the Soviet government. There was no logical reason that an ally would destroy him in such a way, and she had known that he had gotten those scars from the enemy. But to hear that they had truly captured him, had taken him as a captive…

It was impossible, unheard of. She could not believe her ears. Erik, a prisoner?

And yet the proof of it was sitting in front of her eyes, head bowed and back turned to her, the image of a defeated man.

A rush of emotions flooded through her—shock, grief, heartache, devastation. But above everything there was a brimming surge of fierce, protective rage, ardent and glorious. She seethed at the men who had taken her Erik, who had damaged his face and body and left him hollow.

He hadn't deserved this—he hadn't deserved any of this. He had been a man following orders, spying because he was instructed to.

How dare they?

Rising up on her knees, Christine loosened her grip on his shirt to wind her arms around his shoulders, holding him back against her. He lifted his head and leaned tiredly against her own, propped by her chin on his shoulder. She trembled and tightened her grip, her breathing shaky and uncontrolled. Angry tears threatened to escape from her eyelids and she blinked them away, pressing her mouth against his shoulder to stop her lips from quivering.

"You're crying again," Erik said, blunt and straight. She felt him let out a sigh, heavy and weary against her. "Why are you crying again?"

Cobalt eyes disappeared behind closed lids as she pressed her lips to his shoulder. The resignation, the tiredness in his tone—it threatened to rip at everything she held dear, every positive belief she'd had in her life. She felt his defeat and held it within her, determined to remember what she was feeling—this threatening helplessness at being unable to help him—so she could use it to fuel her desire to love him with everything she had.

Inhaling shakily, she raised her head from his shoulder, leaning it against his own. "I'm angry," she revealed in a whisper, staring at the bathroom door directly opposite them with a hurt, fierce look.

Erik lifted a hand and trailed calloused skin across her arm, finally reaching her wrist and threading his fingers over hers. His grip was tight and unwavering, unforgiving against her own.

"So am I," he said quietly, strongly, resolutely.

And, listening to the controlled fury within his tone, Christine couldn't help but wonder if it was solely his personal suffering that fuelled his anger.

A/N: Leave a review before goes down again!