Okay, I know this chapter is short, so please forgive me in advance. I felt a distinct need to end the chapter there. Awful, I know, but a cliffhanger is just the thing to kickstart my imagination. ::Smiles cheekily::

I love all of you for sticking through. You're amazing. I really mean that. And I hope you enjoy this ridiculously short chapter. I'm starting the next one as this one uploads.

Enjoy!

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"But, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own."

- Eleonora, E.A.P.

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The grimy, slick surface of the labyrinthine walls of the catacombs were icy cold as Christine's pale fingers swept over them, their indifferent guidance aiding her from stumbling in the darkness. While she saw little, she was able to make out the rugged, uneven texture of the floor, her shoes making sickly squelching noises as she carefully trod, watching her feet every few seconds. Her eyes squinted pathetically, her sight no match for the veiled blindness that seemed to overtake one's vision within the underground realm.

Her silent companion, however, seemed unfazed by neither the bone-gripping cold, nor the impenetrable darkness, as his own mien was as frosty and stoic as the halls they swept through. He had uttered not a syllable since they had begun their ascension, and had continued to lead her in this manner, sweeping the both of them right and left, walking for minutes without turning and meeting several dead-ends, all appearing to lead in no direction. When he resumed his motion, however, he would still answer none of her silent questions, whether they were delivered in a silently pleading or glaring manner.

She had no reason to complain for his silence, yet she felt that even an utterance, tinged by bitterness and hate, would serve a far less harsh punishment than the one he was currently doling out. She was sure she would be fully inclined, if so commanded, to agree whole-heartedly that she deserved nothing greater. After all, she had, with little effort – or rather, she admitted to her own weak and foolish heart, a great deal of effort – thrashed another's dreams for happiness in order to pursue her own. Or, at least, what she would have previously deemed as her concept of happiness. Now, she was no longer sure of what true happiness entailed, or if any road would lead her to it.

It was with this dismal line of contemplation that they made their way, their manners both completely taciturn, to the surface. She noted, with what was hysterics and certainly a bit of shock, that she was not as elated to be returning to the world of demure hostesses and cheating gentlemen, of faux politeness and ostentatious culture. Though she knew this world was coupled with the certainty that she would be reunited with her darling Raoul, she wasn't sure if the joy in being with him outweighed the despondency of leaving behind Erik's world of beauty, music, and understanding. It was at this revelation that her heart began to hammer in her chest, her face began to heat, and her palms slick with not the moisture of the walls, but with her own perspiration.

What am I doing? I made this decision on my own! I rejected the man before me, the man who would have made my very dreams come true, all so that I could return to the world in which I am supposed to belong! …the world to which I do belong…

Even the voice in her head didn't sound certain. But it was too late for that, because they were before a door.

Only, it was not a door they were before, but a mirror.

Strange…that almost looks like…

She gasped, causing Erik to turn around, his eyes glittering with not merriment, but with challenge, as if goading her to try and be horrified by what she now realized. On her part, she did nothing, but merely met his gaze, looking properly guilty at her reaction, and by being there in the first place.

He turned back to the mirror, giving Christine not even the acknowledgement, and began to work at a mechanism that she would have never noticed, had he not began to fiddle with it. Once it was completed, the mirror swung forward of its own accord, in which Erik promptly stepped inside the room, looking at her expectantly.

She tentatively stepped over the threshold, looking over her shoulder when her feet finally met the carpet. It was a welcome relief to the cold, but a new type of cold replaced it. It was the cold of loneliness creeping back into her soul, the cold of dejection. She was being abandoned once more, only this time, she was abandoning another in turn. This time, the man in question had no heaven to go to, only a hell.

She moved a step closer to him suddenly, to which he sidestepped her and made for the entrance back into the catacombs.

"Wait!" she shouted pleadingly.

He stopped, his gloved hand a hair's breadth from the surface of the mirror, and turned his head to look at her over his shoulder.

"I know you can't forgive me, and I'm not asking you to. I just hope that you understand that I can't selfishly stay away when I know I'm causing someone else hurt."

He winced slightly at this, but made to cover it up by saying, in his most sure and compassionate tone, "I know."

She tried to smile half-heartedly, only causing a sob to escape her throat, unbidden.

At the sound of sadness, he immediately stepped closer to her, and when she did not flinch, move away, or look frightened, he rose his hand to her face and caressed her cheek, sighing contentedly when she leaned her face into his touch, her eyes closed. When they opened once more, she met what was surely the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, so beautiful in fact, that she knew that if she did not turn away, she would collapse into his arms and stay forever.

"I will never forget you. Ever." And she was gone.

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He followed behind her, simply because he had no other choice.

He had foreseen many possibilities, all leading to the inevitable chilling of his heart, the freezing of the lifeblood within his veins, the stopping of all feeling, leaving only the desire for revenge, destruction, and glory, the keys tools to his life that had helped him survive in the past. It was the former, or such a complete feeling of emptiness that he would surely wallow in the deepest regions of misery and madness.

Her parting words had changed everything.

He was undeniably certain that, after years of solitude and banishment from the human race, he was already irrevocably and poignantly bound to the girl….woman, as she had redundantly exhibited herself to be. He was her slave, her chattel, whatever she wanted him to be. And yet, as much as he wanted to be whatever she needed him to be, as far as he would go to make her happy and content, he wanted her too badly to truly let her go completely.

She was completely free, in every literal and metaphysical sense of the term. He was, however, by no stretch of the imagination, so.

He was as in love with her now as he had ever been. More so, if it were possible. And he would finally be able to rid himself to his infatuation by letting her leave him for good.

But she would never leave him, not as long as he lived.

Silently and stealthily, he finally departed from the dressing room, shocked minutes after she had said her parting words, and made haste for the Rue Scribe entrance. Like the bitterly cold air within the tunnels, the air before the entrance was just as, if not more intensely cold, sending a spray of cold mist before his eyes. Patiently, he watched, vigilant as ever, for any sign of danger that might upset his plan.

With a sinking heart, he watched as the love of his life entered the carriage that he had arranged, watching as her coiled hair caught snowflakes delicately in the bountiful mass of brunette curls, her pale, drawn face turned upwards wistfully, as if taking in the structure to remember it always, and remember could might have been.

Suddenly, a shot of hot, raw panic washed down Erik's throat, making his head spin. Desperately, he shook himself awake, watching as a figure, a figure he knew well enough to be wary, and even fearful of, clutch Christine by the waist from behind and shove her into the carriage. Erik strained himself from lashing out onto the street, but was frozen to the spot in shock and outrage. The man quickly followed her inside, and yelled to the driver to move on.

As the vehicle moved away, and Erik's senses were lost to him, he pinpointed the exact article of evidence that he needed to prove his theory. With a boiling hatred, and deadly thirst of blood, he returned to the tunnels of his haunted domain to fulfill his dark purpose.

The coat of arms on the coach…

She had been right all along. He had been a fool for not foreseeing this.

But he would correct the situation. And a woman would pay dearly for her crimes.