"I think that love is stronger than habits or circumstances. I think it is possible to keep yourself for someone for a long time, and still remember why you were waiting when she comes at last... I would enter your sleep if I could, and guard you there, and slay the thing that hounds you, as I would if it had the courage to face me in fair daylight. But I cannot come in unless you dream of me."

- Peter S. Beagle

…

The Burning Cage

Far into the bellows of night, he awoke with Christine curled tightly in his arms. Her breathing was so soft and slow; it reminded him of autumn wind that swept up leaves into swirls, causing them to fall daintily back down to earth in mismatched smears of paint.

There had been a release in his heart before sleep had taken him; something infinitely larger had consumed him, debating and pushing the darkness out of the edges of his spirit. Was it freedom that he finally felt, or was it merely another tightrope he must cross, eyes closed and wrists bound?

When love had entered Erik's heart again, he hadn't been afraid. He had dared it to step closer and closer, urging it forward with his fingers poised like talons – reaching, stretching, wanting! And it had come to him willingly, a strange sort of bird that gave up its home within the sky, fluttering down to settle in the palm of his hand.

Yet something still stirred restlessly within him; something he had left silent when he had entered Christine's moonlit threshold. The exchange of power, the deal he had made with Ryker…oh, how it ravaged his mind, clogging his thoughts with fear and blood…oh, how it reeked of singed skin and compressed memories of his large veined hands covered in new scars, tissues that would grow and mold into his skin like maggots, eating away at his empathy, his compassion, and his identity…

Panic was not a beast he could scare off so easily. He had felt such bliss with Christine, such beauty and acceptance as he had unwrapped his bandages. Even now, as he lay close to her with his hands bare, the open scabs seemed strangely bold against her smooth pale skin. You will damage her. It's what you always do.

The anticipation of going back to Germany with Ryker sent his thoughts into a crazed sort of circus; the kind where wild animals gnawed upon the flesh of the onlookers, and the ringmaster's cackle resounded again and again, a howl that was devilish and filled with blackened spite. But underneath the truth of it all, Ryker had taken torture in his place. Erik tried to block the memory out of his mind, but the appearance of Ryker's scars left him trembling, bringing his old life back to light…and all of the horrific images that came with it.

It had been a cage. A looming iron cage with a long rope coiled inside, a sandy yellow cobra waiting to flare its magnificent and terrifying head. There had been no time – there had been screaming all around, and gunshots that seemed to be only seconds away from where they were crouched, frozen with the fear of failure, the panic of being caught upon a job. Once Erik had seen the cage before them, he knew the kind of torture that might await them, and he had begun to shake uncontrollably. Ryker had grabbed him by the arm, digging fingernails into his flesh that he still could still almost feel…

Go, Erik…Go now!

Erik had shaken his head feebly, refusing to submit to the terrors of being trapped, of his mother holding his head down into the fireplace where there was no escape. His fingers had quivered so badly that he had dropped his knife; the silken serrated blade that had been his right hand. Ryker snatched it up within his mind's blurred eye, shoving it into his hand and pressing his fingers around it violently.

Erik, go now. I will escape…just leave, now! You have a woman, a future…leave while you still can. Consider this my gift to you brother…stop thinking! Stop thinking and go! RUN!

Erik had nodded numbly like a child given instruction by a father. The screaming still filled his ears as he looked into his brother's emerald eyes one last time – would it be the last time? And why couldn't he stay and fight…why couldn't he have fought for Ryker's freedom?

It was he who had taken Erik's place in the cage. He, who had lived with a rope as a collar, he who had sported the scarring of the choking and pulling…he, who had taken disgusting humiliation upon himself when it should have been both of them…

It should have been me.

The thoughts would not stop, then. Once the memory had slipped its forked tongue into the recesses of his mind, his breathing would not slow down, and he could not stop shaking. He was living the nightmare again, now…over and over, played in a pathetic and horrifying loop. He began to imagine himself with those same scars, and suddenly his throat was covered in them, and he was clawing at his neck trying to rip them away…

"Erik! Erik, look at me!" Christine's face was swimming above his, as if he were deep underwater, nailed to the ocean floor and left to drown. He gasped for air, prying at the skin on his neck repeatedly, whimpering and crying when he could not get those scars to come off! They lived in the very recesses of his soul, now!

"Erik, my love, breathe…" he felt her voice close to his ear, and then he was rising to the surface of the water, he would breathe, yes…He would live, but not without burden…not without those terrible worm-like scars that plagued the depths of his heart.

He sat up abruptly as if waking from a dream, looking wildly around the room. Christine had her hands within his, and her face was bone white with beads of sweat lining her forehead. "Erik," she spoke gently, lifting a hand to stroke his forehead. "I am here, with you…you are safe, my love…"

He looked down into his lap to where his arms hung uselessly, and his fingers were covered in blood. "How…" he asked softly, not even daring to look into her eyes. "My, my throat…" he stammered, reaching up to touch the skin. He pulled his hand back and found more blood – he had ripped his throat open with his fingernails, caught in the midst of his own living nightmare made of scars that should have been his…

"Christine," he murmured quietly, suddenly embarrassed of his fit, of his terrors that had come alive in front of her…had he not shown her enough darkness? Would she lay with him longer, would she blot his throat with her love…or would she cast him out? Would she never again wait for him at the threshold of the moon where he would emerge from the forest, a living shadow formed from Hell?

"What is it? Tell me, please, love…you had a nightmare," she explained patiently. Oh, what kindness he could feel in the honeyed tone of her voice! What soft and ardent love he could feel, what unconditional and savage love she showed that ripped his heart into pieces!

Erik laid back down into the sheets, finally meeting her eyes with his own. Those eyes of hers, those gorgeous and precious stones of dark amber; they seemed to hold all the love and sadness in the world. As she ran a hand over his chest, he could feel power within the simple touch of her hand…power that could take his own away.

"I must speak of something," he rasped, breaking the steady contact of her eyes to stare up at the ceiling. It had ridges within its surface, he noticed…similar to a painted mountain on a canvas. He willed himself to breath steadily as she let her hands rest upon his chest, trying to undo the tangled lines of string that were thoughts now flitting about freely in the night air.

"I know I promised you something. But I must take that promise back."

There was a silence that stretched out into darkness as he waited for her reply. His heart pounded in his chest still, afraid to even explain the things he had seen while awake, afraid to admit to her how very deformed and twisted he felt inside, even after all the time that had passed…

"What…what promise?" Her voice quivered. "The promise to…to love me?"

He sat up violently then, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Her hands were forced to leave him, and he whirled upon her in anger, clenching his bloodied hands in front of his face like the irrational beast that he was.

"Do you doubt my love for you?" he snarled, his words whipping the smooth of the air as he paced the room back and forth. "Do you think me a liar, now? My promise to you will always remain. I speak of my past, my old life…why would I wake with blood at my throat for your love? Or do you truly think me vindictive or sinister? Did you lie when you said you would stay no matter the cost?"

Christine's face fell as his words sliced into her, and immediately he hated himself for what he had done. He had defiled her sweet bed sheets and perfect skin with his own blood – wherever he went, there always seemed to be blood!

"You do not have to speak to me that way," she finally spoke, furrowing her brow at him. "Erik, please come sit next to me…just come breathe. You had a nightmare, let me calm you, please…"

"I am calm," Erik retorted, continuing his pacing. Pacing was something that straightened his thoughts, that cooled the mind like a splash of gin mixed with morphine…he grasped his hands behind his back, shaking his head as he walked the entire length of the room, and back again, over and over…her concern and the soft curve of her body made him loathe himself further…if he had only stayed, if he had suffered with Ryker, he would not have a deal to uphold…he would only have Christine! But his nerves controlled him like his mother's laughter, and his hands had shaken so hard he had dropped his blade…never once had he let it fall from his fingers, before…

"My brother took torture in place of me! Can you believe it?" he muttered angrily, running a bleeding hand through his tousled hair. "He took it, he told me to run, to leave…I smelled smoke in the air. I smelled it burning in my lungs, Christine…as if she was still there, behind me…waiting to push me into the coals!"

"Erik, love…" she responded slowly, her form glowing against the rise and fall of the white curtains hanging from the open balcony. "Please, come sit with me, lay down with me…and tell me everything…please."

He stopped his pacing suddenly and glared at her; how perfect she was, how simply elegant and beautiful and compassionate! It angered him further to think that she had loved another…another that had fathered her children, another that had given her life! How could he, the coward who ran from the smoke and the screams; how could he, the man drained of all power in an instant, the one who left his brother behind to be caged and pulled by the neck…

How could he ever deserve her love?

"I'm not good enough for you, I never will be! You deserve a man who does not falter, who does not flee, Christine…I ran when he told me to run, don't you see? He has taken humiliation that should have been mine! And he came to me with scars on his throat…I should have had those scars too! But I was a child, a little boy with fear in his heart. I will never be whole. I will be broken, forever…" he slowly began to crumble to the floor, unable to stop the flow of tears that now blurred the entirety of his vision. "I have to go back," he sobbed, biting his lip to ease the pain of his heart. "I have to make things right. I have to do this for him, please understand…I have to…"

She had flown to his back, wrapping her arms around him to hold him, to make him safe, to make him feel whole again. "You are more than enough for me," she whispered, kissing his neck, behind his ear; pressing her lips to his flesh that crawled with disgust, with hatred of himself. "I do not care that you left, Erik…I care about your heart. I want you to make things right, if you need to. I want you to feel whole. But never believe that anything might tear us apart; never believe that I will suddenly stop loving you. I cannot," she breathed into him, rubbing a hand down the expanse of his wide shoulders and back, "and I will not ever stop loving you. There is my promise. And remember it when you are frightened, when you look around and all you see is darkness. Remember these words, my love…remember my spirit that is bound to yours."

Erik's tears had slowly subsided, and he turned toward her where she sat nestled into his back. "My temper is like the devil," he whispered shamefully, pressing his head into her breast. "It will damage you, and…and I am afraid."

Christine held his head to her chest, letting him breathe in the sweet scent of her peace. "Nothing is more damaging than hating who you have been, Erik…than loathing the things you have done."

"Please," he whispered, a single tear dripping down his damaged cheek and onto her thigh. "Let me make things right. I must do this. I cannot change the past, Christine…but I can right the wrongs that I've done. Perhaps it is just a small drop in a large pool of it all…but still. He comes into my presence and all I see is my failure. All I see is how I left him alone, I left him to be caged…please…I know I promised you, I know…"

"It is all right," she murmured, kissing the edge of his chin that was wet with tears. "Let us make this the last promise of your past. Once you have righted this wrong, it will be the start of our new life, together…and Erik, I still have one more wrong to make right as well. You forget," she smiled at him, touching his bottom lip with her forefinger.

"No, I have not forgotten," he answered, nuzzling his head into the crevice of her neck. She rested her chin in the smooth velvet of his black hair.

"Go, my love," she whispered. "Do what you must do. But please…let this be the last of it all. And before you go…I wish to sleep with you, just one more night. Let me memorize the taste of your skin, let me remember the feeling of your arms wrapped around me. So when you leave, I will still have you with me, around me…I will remember the sweet savor of your love upon my heart."

Erik nodded, his eyes swollen and his lips bitten up. He kissed her then, and her compassion ran through him like a powerful current. Her fingers touched and soothed when he had tried hating; her words had stayed calm and soft when he had been snarling.

Could there be a love more divine, than this? For she took the parts of his soul that were misunderstood, that were hateful, and loathsome, and terrible…and she stitched them up, a seamstress of God…pressing parts of him back together, running her fingers over shards of his flesh that deserved scarring and torture, giving him hope that some things could be everlasting, that some things could truly be made anew.

…

Author's Note: I apologize for the long expanse of not updating! I hope all of you out there enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free to leave feedback :)