Ten

"We shall find Nadir," he said. "I dare not ask anyone else."

"Nadir? But, Erik—"

"Do not fear, dearest child. It was Nadir who buried me when I was dead— don't you know?— and he should be the one to join me to the one I love best, most, and only." He let go of her and stared at her keenly. "You never wanted a big wedding, did you?"

She laughed. "No, Erik. Never. And I never will want one, what is more. Only two are needed, Erik, when it all comes down to basics—"

The meaning in her eyes and voice was clear, but Erik only shook his head in response to it.

"No, no, Christine. We will be wed. It will be a reality. It must be a reality for it to feel right. I would not have it any other way."

She smiled bravely. "Then neither would I."

He looked at her a moment longer, then managed to smile back.

"And your young man—"

"Raoul will have to wait," she said, very clearly.

Erik laughed gleefully, a sound like nothing she'd heard before. It thrilled her to her very soul.

"Raoul will have to wait!" he repeated. "Raoul will have to wait, alone, and you will be with me!"

"There is one thing, Erik—"

All the madness in his eyes had gone when she told him she loved him, hidden behind joy— some of it now returned. Things were not final, nothing was final until you were dead, even at the altar she could leave him, even on the wedding night, leave him behind—

"Erik— I refuse to marry a man in a mask. It is either that or I— one of us may last, perhaps, but not both."

Erik stared at her. Slowly he stood and left the room. Christine fought back panic— surely he would not choose—

He returned a moment later with a small, thin knife in his hand. He held it out to her.

"I cannot bear to lose you again," he said. "If you are sure the sight of me will not— will not harm you."

She looked at him and knew how much this hurt him, how much even now he worried that his face would send her away from him. She guided him to a chair and, standing over him, began to loose the mask from his flesh. The dusty brown of dried blood was revealed as she pulled at the sutures; quickly joined by a thick dark red as scars and flesh were disturbed. The stitches were thankfully not tight, but both of them were crying as she pulled the thread from his face.

The visage under the mask was every bit as horrific as she remembered, a strange miscarriage of creation— she dropped the knife and the mask to the floor, knelt besides Erik's chair, and kissed the twisted, deformed skin on the right side of his face. It was cold and clammy, but warmed beneath her lips.

Erik's eyes were closed, blood joined the tears that continued to trace their slow way down his face— she kissed them away, his blood on her lips, his tears on her tongue. She would not speak, let her silence be her witness, sought to bring Erik back to her, to replace the pain with love.

Finally he uttered a last choking sob and turned his head—

His lips met hers with all the force and urgency of years.