"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."

- Pablo Neruda

…

A House of Glass

It was in those subtle moments that he realized how truly breakable she was. He held her close to his chest; the way a man might hold a child close, pulled from a burning house. He could almost smell the soot upon her skin as she cried into him; he could feel the flames eating away at the hairs on the nape of his neck…singeing their ends into a thousand handfuls of ashes.

Erik did not know why she cried for him; it was a simplicity that he could not understand…a simplicity that was built of a thousand different branches. She had told him why, of course…love had softened her eyes when she had been angry. Love had soothed his skin when she'd gripped the front of his shirt, wanting to know why someone, anyone might carve such a vile word into his upper back; stretched across his flesh like vines that wriggled beneath his skin. It was a disease, an infestation of his very being…and he had shown it to her. His mother must have been laughing somewhere, howling with pleasure at his humiliation. Yet Christine did not laugh, she did not mock…she did not even dare run her fingers over the damaged and scarred surface. But she had cried.

For him, and only him.

The ride back from the tavern went as smooth as a needle might stitch up the skin; Evangeline was careful with every golden hoof, trotting lightly upon the edges of cobblestones and mud. Christine clutched onto him the entire way, sobbing silently into the sweat soaked fabric of his shirt. Her hands were tight around his waist; and as he steered his mare with one hand, he kept his other hand, still tightly bandaged, softly upon hers.

Questions had been stewing within his mind since the confrontation at the tavern; inquiries of his own brokenness, his own loss of freedom. He rode atop his horse with intensity and power, yet inside he felt weak, saddened, and uncertain.

He had threatened Anias; he had seen great fear in her eyes. Once, he had been the one to protect her from such fear. From a knife to her very throat; from her husband who choked the air from her bitter lungs. Erik had been the one to tame her demons as she came to him, late in the night…where the darkness had surrounded them, protected them.

Was he now as despicable as her Duke had been? To evoke such fear within her, even if she had killed the only life they had made together…which evil was lesser? Which one held power over the other?

Or, were they both of equal stature? Were they both unspeakable, were they both unruly; filled with hatred and blood that leaked in dribbles; a thread that could not be traced back to its very creation?

His thoughts were tumbling over and through, taking control of his breathing and quickening his heart. He bit down into his lower lip, focusing on the warmth of Christine's hands against his torso. There was love that he could feel resonating from her fingers; a note at the end of an aria that resounded out into the atmosphere, past the stars and the moon and the sun.

Evangeline, the golden arrow in the night, finally came to a steady halt at Erik's stable. His mind had been tossing and turning like the waves of an infinite storm; where the water had no end and no beginning. Everything seemed a blur; everything seemed to smear itself within his minds' eye.

"We're here, my dear," he murmured gently, squeezing her hands that lay rested against his naval. "I'll lift you down." And he pushed away his thoughts, he shoved at them until they receded into nothingness. He was home, and with a woman whose heart bled equally with his; and the feeling of this sudden warmth gave him a sense of strength, of hope that maybe, just maybe…everything was in its right place.

Erik slid nimbly from the saddle, letting Christine's hands slide from his waist. There she sat perched atop his glimmering steed, her hair wild from the wind's touch; her face puffy and reddened like cotton stained with blood. It seemed to him that she had finally stopped crying, but her eyes looked distant, as if perhaps she were somewhere else…and not truly there, with him.

"Sweet rose," he spoke gently, reaching up to her to where she sat enthroned. She was the epitome of sadness, and a moment struck him blind when he realized that she was not crying for her own pain, but for his.

For him.

Christine's eyes finally fell into his, and she obediently slid into the fortress of his arms. He lifted her tenderly from the saddle, and the folds of her dress crashed all around him like pale streams of moonlight. Erik set her on the ground, bending down to smooth the wrinkles in the satin of the dress. He felt her rest a hand on his neck as he did so, and shivers danced up and down his spine. Her touch was inconceivable. Why was it so healing? Why did it hold back the thunder of his thoughts; why did it make him forget?

As he stood up to face her, he saw that a smile had touched her lips slightly. She was gazing at him in wonder now, through the swollen pink skin of her eyelids. His breathing was steady as he looked back at her, and in a strange moment of complete silence, both fell into one another's soul.

For the soul could always be seen through the eyes…if one was willing to simply look.

Erik smiled at her. He felt his eyes crease, and the dimples in his cheeks showed themselves to the barren air of the night. It wasn't just her beauty that bound him to her; no…it was so much more than that. It was the spirit that lived inside of her that drew him so close, that penetrated him with every thought of her. In the moment where the air was still, he could hear her breathing. He could feel the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood that coursed through his veins, making him feel very much alive.

"Come…I wish to show you something. Another place where you can be free…where the world can never find you."

She smiled wider at him, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. "But I already have such a place…for I feel this way whenever I am with you."

Erik chuckled. "Then I suppose my presence will…enhance the experience."

He held out a bandaged hand for her, and without hesitating, she slipped her hand into his. It was a completion, the act of a silver key sliding perfectly into its darkened and jagged keyhole. It was the opening of a door in the darkness. It was his own personified freedom.

Her. All he could see was her, in that moment. Her strength grew as she walked along beside him, leaving all doubt of broken threads and shards of glass behind her with every step. Christine was not a shattered woman; for she grew impossibly strong with every look that they shared, with every touch of the hand; with every kiss that he dare steal. And his heart pounded continuously, wishing to steal another, just one more…that it might be enough.

But it would never be enough. He wanted her; all of her. He would love her deeper than she had ever been loved; this, he knew. The irony of her gliding into his life began to prickle at him, and as he led her in the darkness around the backside of his house, the image of seeing her for the first time, desolate in the marketplace, flowed into his mind.

She had been so afraid. She had been a gorgeous creature that he knew he must touch, that he must see, and understand…for her eyes betrayed her when she lashed out at him. Her eyes had always told him the truth; that she had been begging to be heard for years, only to be shut out, to be ignored…and she could bear it no longer.

Erik pulled her along gently, guiding her with the strength of his hand. Suddenly he stopped, and he slowly released her hand from his. "Close your eyes," he whispered.

"Erik, I cannot even see you in this darkness!" she laughed, but she obeyed him nonetheless. "All right, they're closed."

She heard the click of a lock, and the creak of a door being opened. "Can I open them now?"

"No," Erik's voice was distant, as if he were much further from her now. "Not yet."

She felt an illumination against her eyelids, then. It was as if the sun had been born in the midst of the night, and now glimmered its brilliant hue across the soft skin of her face. "Oh!" she gasped, turning her head against the sudden emergence of what seemed like millions of bright diamonds that plucked themselves against her closed lids.

She felt Erik take her hands then, and he began leading her forward, steadily.

"There's a step, be careful," came his soft murmur once more, and she slowly stepped up as he had instructed. A humidity could be felt then, all around her, as if the atmosphere itself had morphed into something new. The smell of lavender and roses filled her senses, and she clutched his hands, waiting desperately for his words to release her sight…so that she might see, once more.

"All right…now."

Christine slowly opened her eyes. She surveyed the room that he had led her into, yet it was not a room, for the walls and the vaulted ceiling were made completely of glass. It was a large room that existed, yet did not…for its walls seemed to be made of the darkness of the forest; of the vines that clung to the outsides of the panes, and the tree branches that whispered against the clear and water-like surfaces.

The glass house was filled with tiny pin-pricks of light; they filled the vault of the ceiling like fireflies that obediently danced to the humming of the crickets outside. They moved and swayed in the humid air, as if they danced to their own song; a melody of the house of glass.

She looked around in wonder at the room's contents; never had she seen so many wondrous flowers all growing harmoniously in the vicinity of a single room. Scarlet rose bushes shot up against the walls, nearly overflowing from their wide clay pots. There was lavender too; bright purple splashes that looked as soft as a lamb's ear. Each plant in its pot seemed so overgrown; they were fingers that sprawled against the glass walls and curved up towards the summit of lights that shimmered inside of the ceiling.

"Well?" Came Erik's gentle voice, kissing the side of her neck from behind her. "Do you like it?"

"Erik," she breathed, walking up slowly to a rosebush that gleamed in one corner. "It is…by far, the most incredible place I have ever seen. And the lights…what…what are they?"

"Hmm," he commented, wrapping his arms around her waist. "They are my fireflies. They light up the greenhouse at night."

"But they cannot be real fireflies…can they?" she asked incredulously, watching the corners of his mouth twist mischievously.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," he chuckled, sweeping a bandaged hand through her tousled hair.

The fireflies seemed to crown her shadow and wild chestnut curls as he whirled her around. Her eyes were dark with passion, dripping with fire and soot and the burning away of his past that screamed. Of his past that maybe, did not have to exist, anymore…for his future stood in front of him, glimmering with starlight; with twinkling lights that moved against shimmering glass windows and doors. And there were many ways out; there were thousands of exits that led to the outside world. But he did not want to take them. He would leave everything behind, if only it meant he could take one more breath in her presence…in the ardent stillness that captivated his very being. Her spirit danced before him like wildfire, just as the fireflies sang; a new song that he had never heard before.

"You know that…I…" he began, running his hands down the bare skin of her arms. He felt his face flush; the scarred side of his face turning an angry red with the sudden rush of blood.

"Yes?" Christine whispered, standing upon the tips of her toes to kiss him lightly on the chin; a ballerina once more. She stood waiting as his fingers traced the flesh of her forearms; her eyes shining with an eagerness, a stunning reality of hope and love.

"Well I…it seems as though I have…been bound to you. I have not done it myself. It has been you. You have…you have put me under the spell of a Queen," he finished hastily, dropping a hand and running it through the slick of his hair. His heart pounded faster within the confines of his chest. His throat felt choked up suddenly, as if it were harder to breathe.

"A spell, you say? And what makes you think that I am capable of such witchcraft?"

she countered, a smile brushing her lips like the sweetness of a rosebush; the tenderness of the lavender that grew all around them.

"No, I didn't…what I meant was that…simply…you…I…"

Christine was silent, yet her eyes continued to glow in the dancing light. He licked his lips, feeling new beads of sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades.

"I am aware that you…you are…still…married," he finished clumsily, dropping his eyes from hers. "But I…I wish for you to know that I…I…"

"Yes…?" she whispered, moving closer to him in the stillness of the glass house…pressing herself against his chest, letting his own sweat seep into the softness of her breasts.

"I am desperately in love with you. And I…I do not want you to…to destroy your family, because of me."

"You took no part in the destruction of my family. My husband…that was purely his doing."

"Yes but I…I consider myself…well, now…I do try to live honorably…and…and yet…"

Christine pressed herself further into him, now seeming to merge into his very spirit, his very soul...

"Yet I…I cannot stop myself from loving you. I have tried, I…I cannot stop it. I am in love with a Vicomtesse. And I desperately need her. So…very…desperately."

"Well," she spoke gently, running a hand along the scarred side of his face. "The Vicomtesse wishes to renounce her title…a Vicomtesse she shall be, no more."

"And then what?" he breathed, now looking back into her eyes. The fireflies danced crazily above, as if fueled by the fire that seemed to ignite a torch within the humid air.

"And then…I shall be with the one that I love," she whispered, tilting her chin up, waiting for his lips to envelope hers.

He crushed his lips to hers, tasting every part of her tear soaked skin, delving into every secret piece of her spirit. And for what seemed like forever, in the deep of the still, they held each other with a desperation that could not be ascertained. A woman's spirit merged, after so many years, with the spirit that had longed to find her. And there they stood, engulfed in the intensity of an arduous love…surrounded by vermillion roses that grew up towards the sky, blooming with large, heart-shaped faces.

And the fireflies danced, humming a melody that could not be heard, yet resounded through the windows and walls and out into the atmosphere…where the Angels of the heavens danced a similar rhythm, an analogous song…

And all was faithful, all was desperately true…all that was broken was fixed, for a moment…a single moment that stood still in time. A moment that was written within a house of glass; where purple flowers stirred and whispered…the same hue of a daughter's face, the face of a girl in the marketplace…the face that made a man part the seas of a crowd…the face that drew a man to the other half of his spirit.

And all was still, all was quiet…and love blossomed upward, forward and through…

Inside the house made of glass, where rosebushes bloomed.

…

Author's Note: Thank you to every single reader who has continued on this journey with me. I do, once again apologize for the late update. Any feedback, emotions, or comments are highly appreciated.