—A/N—

My one and only disgustingly-frustrating cliff-hanger—I swear. However, as what was meant to be the second part of this chapter could take forever to write, I thought I would give you a little something to feed on before making you wait. The reason it could very well take a while is that I am getting help in writing it—a very, very close friend of mine, who is very well acquainted with Christine's character, is helping me to make a convincing Christine, and since it is often difficult for she and I to get together long enough to accomplish much... Well. You get the idea.

I'm going to take this moment to communicate with one of my reviewers, who does not have their e-mail listed on their profile but chose to ask me several questions in their review.

EriksIngenue:

Was Erik remembering sleeping with Christine? – No.

Did he beat her up or save her from Raoul? – She was running away with Raoul; he found out, killed Raoul, and beat her severely, and then strangled her with the Punjab.

So...Did they sleep together? – Kind of. He lapsed into insanity, hypothetically, while he was hurting/killing her, and then proceeded to make love to her as if she were still living, because he did not realize she was dead.

Did someone beat her up? Who? – Yes; Erik did.

Was he remembering or was it just a dream? – No, it was a nightmare. A terribly disturbing one at that, which was why it resulted in Erik having to shove his head out the window to gag. After all, not only did he make love to a corpse, but it was the corpse of the one woman he never wished to harm.

Thanks for putting up with that, and thanks to all my reviewers—I appreciate it more than you could know!

The Madman's Desperate Love

It was an awful thing, a terrible thing, a thing I should never have done. But I could not escape her—so, in my lunacy, it seemed only logical that she be unable to escape me.

—O.G.

Henri awoke to the sound of fists pummeling against his door. Elizabeth's voice called to him from without, begging—pleading—that he arise.

Slowly, he sat up, a hand rising in an attempt to smooth his hair back into decency. He of course failed, but felt somewhat better about it knowing that he had at least put in the effort.

It had been nearly a week since Erik had returned to them from the self-imposed exile into his Opera room. Only the slight disorientation he had appeared to feel, upon leaving the business engagement, was hint of any lingering weakness. He had thrown himself into daily life with a passion Henri had not known the man to have—at least, not when it came to anything aside from music, and her. Still, concern remained; Henri could see the insanity that danced in those eyes, whenever a quiet moment permitted Erik's thoughts to drift, and the idea that another lapse could be coming on frightened him.

Stumbling steps carried him to the doorway, and he unlocked and opened the door. Elizabeth, wrapped tightly in a housecoat, fell into his arms. Numbly, he held her, mind still fighting to comprehend what she was doing. He could hear her speaking, but could not discern the words between her broken sobs, and the muffling effect directly resulting from her face's burial in his neck. Gently, he sought to push her away from him, only enough to communicate with her, but she just clung all the harder. With a great amount of effort, he was able to draw her far enough into the room that he could shut the door; already, in his mind, he could envision the maids standing nearby and whispering about the sobbing girl.

When she had cried for nearly ten minutes, she at last fell silent, and took half a step back from him. "Oh, Henri," she wailed, one hand wiping feebly at her eyes. "It's terrible!"

"What? What's terrible?" he asked anxiously, lowering his head to look her directly in the eye. "Has something happened? What's happened? What's going on?" Blind panic was beginning to overtake the lingering sleepiness.

Those round eyes blinked, and glanced down at him. "...Why are you still dressed?"

Resisting the urge to throttle her, he replied with a shrug. "I was too tired to change."

"Henri, you're still wearing your shoes!"

"I was tired." And it was true—far truer than she could have suspected. He had spent every waking hour—and there were far more of those than there should have been—rushing around the house, trying to ready everything for the hunting trip. All other duties fell in priority, to give way to the preparations. And, once he had completed his work on those for the day, then was he forced to stay up through most of the night completing his other obligations.

Elizabeth shook her head, and raised her eyes to again meet his own. "Regardless, there is something quite important to discuss."

He waited, but she did not speak. He squeezed her elbows, lifted his eyebrows—and was rewarded only with silence.. "What?" he demanded finally.

"Well..." She fidgeted; her hands fell to smoothing out his shirt. It was quite wrinkled, from having been slept upon.

"What? What, what, what?"

She cast her eyes down to look upon his stomach, lashes batting against her cheeks. After a moment, she stepped closer to him again. This time, he was distinctly aware of each gentle curve that pressed against him, each cool inch of flesh that touched his own. Her hands came to rest on the back of his neck, and her face rose to press its lips against his in the smallest, most chaste of kisses.

When she pulled back to stare at him inquisitively, he could only blink.

"I am sorry, but.. I have been wanting to do that for a very long while." She smiled a bit, and retreated from him, moving to stand near the doorway. "Ever since I saw you with Erik, when he.. broke the mirror.." She shrugged, and opened the door. "Well... I just thought I should grant you the little joy of knowing my affection for you, before I brought the world crashing down around your ears."

He hefted one eyebrow. "What do you—?"

With a sigh, and the glisten of renewed tears in her eyes, she said, "Erik has vanished."