A/N: A huge shoutout to all of my brilliant lurkers and readers. You all make me excited to be an author. Here is the chapter you've been waiting for…Enjoy, my darlings.

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"I'll tell you a secret, something they don't teach you in your temple. The Gods envy us. They envy us because we are mortal. Because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. Because we will never be here again."

- Achilles, "Troy".

…

Queen of the Nile

Spending the day at the Linwood's was a mismatched and magnificent curse; it filled Christine's heart with oppositional beauty. For as she looked around at the smeared, child-like paintings and felt the warmth of a loving family, she was continuously reminded that she would never possess such a thing…that she had doomed herself to live alone, burying all of the good inside of her heart – a betrayal of her very spirit.

She sat at their table for supper, listening vaguely to the chatter about Swan Lake, of how Rosie's mother was tired of the old, elitist women who kept ancient secrets, and the laughter that always ensued, above all. Christine could not help but harbor a venomous envy for her friend that evening, for Rosie was allowed to be happy, and Queenie, although blind, was allowed to see. The joy that came through the strange, modernized lamps and brassy chandeliers grew warmer and brighter as dusk swept in through the windows, and even though it was the coziest she'd felt in weeks, she knew she must go home. The predestined thoughts of returning to Erik's doors made her anxious beyond repair – she wondered still, although the day had been spent, if he had received the note after all…or did he still wander in the outside world, somewhere lost and mask-less in the bowels of the city?

But even now, the tiny sliver of evening sun slipped below the cool metallic frames of surrounding buildings, and Christine knew she must take her leave.

By the time she had said all of her goodbyes, the sky had turned itself black, and the wind grew harsher and heavier against her cheeks. It was unusual to walk home with a shard of hope in her heart, yet she still was uneasy of what she might find. She replayed Bruce's promise in her head, over and over…trusting his words as if he were a god. The irony of her faith in a man she barely knew made her grimace, a doubtful smile that was numbed further by the course of the wind. Here she was, believing things again that were empty and lifeless, for there had never been a man in her life that had told any truths at all.

It made her angry as she ruminated, walking stiffly through the crowds like a spirit that meandered through purgatory. Christine was always dancing in the in-between; she could never dwell fully in heaven or hell. She was a pretty doll who danced every movement perfectly, kept tied and hidden inside of a children's music box. Everyone loved to see her dance, everyone worshipped the memorized movements that she made; but at the end of all things, when the night grew cold and black, everyone would always leave, and she was alone once more…with no one to wind the golden key.

Was there even a God? And if there was, did he turn his face away from the cruelty against children – did he know the horrors of his mortals, did he know the pain that they felt? As Christine pushed open the heavy doors to her apartment building, her eyes were already red and welling up with tears. Beastie, Beastie, with no hair…where was he when she was humiliated as a child…where was he when her heart was obliterated…so many years ago?

There is no God, she thought bitterly. And if there was, then he was a cruel master, a savagely uncouth spirit that fed on the suffering of humans…that never intervened, even when a tiny orphan's life was at stake.

Christine wove her way through the crowded lobby that smelt of leather and bourbon; smoke rose up in billows, the storm clouds of men discussing investments and women.

All of it suddenly seemed too rich, as if each person she passed held onto a written script, repeated memorized words from their mouths, hypnotized by their own fortunate careers, basking in their own spoils of war. She knew poverty, thus the higher society often disgusted her…for she had woven her way through the labyrinth of white cots, choking down pills that had no name. And when she was forced out into the world, freed from the rectangular, ivory prison – a beautiful, blonde haired and blue eyed man spun her around in his arms, only to let down his charade six months later. Christine could not even decide what was worse, anymore, for it all blended together in one sickening heap – Raoul, the pale and vindictive demon, or the headmistress who locked her in the closet and shaved off her hair.

She gave a half smile once she reached the foot of the curved staircase, expecting to see some residual blood from what had transpired the night before. Yet there was nothing but her fleeting dreams, and the sinking feeling that told her she was a fool for believing he might have grown fond of her, that he would return, just as Bruce had promised. Perhaps Rosie had been right in her assumptions; perhaps rumors bent themselves into truth, this time. Christine trudged up the staircase, still clutching her woolen coat to her breasts for comfort. As she reached her floor, she saw something, again, quite out of place; a tall figure leaning beside her apartment door, with tendrils of smoke swirling around him, frozen in the stagnant air like wisps of cloud on a starless night.

Christine's hands fell to her sides, immediately numb with exhilaration. She opened her mouth to speak, to perhaps whisper his name aloud, something that would solidify him in reality, something that would ensure she was not dreaming. But he spoke before she could form any syllables, his deep voice a pleasant rasp that filled the dim light of the landing.

"Little dove," he murmured, letting his cigarette fall through his fingers to the ground. The silence was so loud that Christine could have sworn she heard it crash into the carpet, fizzling out like a small fire in a stone hearth. Erik was dressed in dark dress pants with satin, crimson suspenders, and his starched white shirt was left open at the top. She could see bits of black hair growing between each scar, a haphazard and bizarre trail of the hands who had burned him. He stood motionless, his hair slicked back, curling at the bottom edges of his ears…and he wore a new leather mask; one without scratches or snares upon its smooth and crisp surface.

"I…I received your letter. Forgive me for…for my absence. I was dealing with business all day…" his eyes seemed to plead with her, begging her to step closer to him, to trust the finality of his leaning against the wall – right next to the brassy handle of the door to her apartment. Did he beg her to understand…and had he waited for hours just to catch her, just as she had planned to do for him…did his shoulders grow weak against the brightly painted walls?

Christine's heart was wild within her chest as she registered the soft ecstasy of his voice, of his casual excuses that made him seem so normal, as if nothing had happened the night before…as if he hadn't thrown his mask and been covered in his father's blood…

She parted her lips to speak within the silence, to perhaps be angry with him for leaving after he had held her in his arms…but the words would not come out. Her purse slid from her fingers and hit the floor gently – another quiet sound that made the silence between them scream.

Erik adjusted his shoulders awkwardly, his eyes dancing up and down her visage, her casual slacks and her pearl buttoned blouse. He seemed suddenly embarrassed, as he lowered his eyes quickly, staring at the space on the carpet between them. His scarred up hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, as if he were choosing the fate of the world…she wanted to run to him, to cover his lips with her hands, to tell him that everything was all right…but still, she could not move. She continued to stare at his eyes through the mask, willing them to meet hers again, that he might understand her joyous heart, that he might see her fondness of him through the windows of her soul.

"Would you…do you…" Erik cleared his throat, shuffling his feet, "Would you like to come up? Perhaps for some tea?"

Could a human heart burst from bliss…could the soul break open from elation and longing? She licked her lips slowly, urging herself to form words in her throat, all the while staring into his eyes, those sorrowful, golden eyes that beseeched her; he, a wounded animal…

"Yes, it's…it's quite chilly out," she forced out quietly, leaning down to snatch up the handle of her fallen purse. "I would love some tea."

Erik seemed to be relieved, as the corners of his cheeks dimpled, and the stitches moved slightly on the edge of his mouth. He held out a hand for her to take – it would close the distance between them. Christine remembered the same moment he had offered his hand the night before; the hand that led her into the black car, where he traced gentle patterns up and down her bare forearm…

She settled her hand into his, as tenderly as she could. His hand was warm and rough, a strange juxtaposition against the slender, unsullied skin of her own hand. He pulled her along ardently toward the staircase leading up to the penthouse, turning his head slightly a couple times as if checking that she was still there. Christine lowered her eyes from his, afraid that he might see all of her weaknesses laid out in a linear fashion – as if he might know she had cried on the brittle walk home.

He let go of her hand once they stood in front of the double doors, pushing them open by the lion knocker's golden heads. Christine wandered in with euphoric sense of purpose; and it was not a dream, this time. She surveyed the contents of the sitting room with awe – most of the wallpaper had been stripped from the walls, and there were boxes piled up in every corner. There was a velvet black couch that sat in the middle of the room, with a mirrored coffee table in front of it. She slipped off her coat, draping it over the sofa as she sat down carefully, crossing her legs as Erik made his way into the other room.

An open pack of cigarettes lay next to a clear, shell shaped ashtray on the coffee table. Christine noticed small bits of glass piled against the boxes, as if they had been swept up hastily. "Erik, do you mind if I smoke?" she called out, her heart fluttering in her chest at the nonchalance of her tone. She had only seen Raoul smoke, and the end of a cigarette fall through Erik's fingers as he waited at her door…how many hours had he stood, how many cigarettes did he fretfully smoke while watching the staircase for her return?

Erik returned from the other room, with tendrils of curly hair falling from behind his ears. "Smoking is such a dirty habit," he quipped through a smile, bending to slide a cigarette from the pack. He knelt down between the coffee table and her crossed legs, offering it up to her lips. She opened her mouth slightly, allowing him to slide it between the edges of her lips. Erik watched her with fascination, moving again to raise a lighter to the stiff end. Christine inhaled the pull of the little flame, blowing a small stream of smoke into his face. "I like the way it feels," she said slyly, relaxing into the back of the couch. Erik stayed on his knees, lingering as he watched her…and the tea kettle screamed from the other room. "The tea, Erik…" Christine whispered through a smile, puffing again upon her cigarette, smoothing her slacks with her other hand. Erik stood up slowly, his lips parted as if to speak again, but the screaming became louder, and he shook his head against the noise, hurrying across the carpet to take it off of the stove.

A few minutes passed once the screeching of the kettle had subsided, and he entered the sitting room once again, carrying a tray of various cups and containers. He set it down onto the coffee table, settling himself at the opposite end of the couch. Christine stared down at the space he had put between them as he leaned forward, pouring her a cup from a china kettle. "Do you take cream?" he asked politely, his body still bent toward the table as if bending to her every need and will. "I do," she responded with a foreign sense of confidence, flicking the ash from her cigarette into the curve of the shell.

She took the cup from him carefully, noticing how small it seemed in his hands. He then leaned forward again, unscrewing the top to a small brown bottle that sat against the china cups and the kettle. "Do you take whiskey in your tea, little dove?" he asked playfully, pouring a shot from the bottle into his own cup. Christine smiled at him, at the sweet nickname he had made for her, tucking a wave of hair behind her left ear. "I've always heard it compliments the tea," she responded gracefully, holding her cup out to him. He averted his eyes from her as he poured the amber liquid into her glass, and she observed how the two liquids seemed to form into one – as if there had never been anything added: only tea. She sipped this new mixture with pure delight, scanning her eyes over him as she sat comfortably; the Queen of the Nile.

Erik let out a deep sigh as he sat back, his golden eyes searching the room absentmindedly. "I wanted to apologize, to you…for last night. I…I don't know where to begin…"

"For catching me as I tumbled down the staircase?" she watched him intently from the lid of her teacup, taking another generous sip. "I should hope you don't regret that…"

Erik looked at her, a coy smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. "You tease me," he murmured, tapping the side of his cup with a finger. "You mock me, Christine."

"How would I mock a man that is filled with such valiance? Surely you're mistaken…"

His smile grew wider. "I believe you know to which part of the night I refer to."

"And…?" Christine blew a small cloud of smoke in his direction, and he showed his teeth; the most genuine smile she had ever seen upon his face.

"And…I acted foolishly…I lost my temper…I allowed someone, someone who has harmed me many times to dig at this rip in my heart…I should have known better," he finished, downing the rest of the contents in his china cup. He looked at her meekly through his mask, hoping that the silence would be filled with her forgiveness. Christine nodded slowly, setting her china cup back down upon the coffee table.

"Will you pour me another, please?" she asked, leaning back into the black velvet, running a hand through her hair. Erik did so without another word, eyeing her as he added the whiskey. She reveled in his body language, in the way he twisted his torso uncomfortably to please her; it was just as he had turned to look at her face through the skylight. Christine took the cup again and drank eagerly, riding an elation that danced upon the very surface of her skin; a warmth that prickled through the nipples of her breasts, all the way down to the bottoms of her feet. "I don't know what has happened between you and your father," she began, "so I will not cast judgment on what you did. Though I was hoping you would not leave…and you did, you left. You left me there, alone."

Erik ran a hand through his hair, dipping his head low as if ashamed. "Yes, I did…I did and I shouldn't have. I should have come back for you."

"Or let me follow," she said calmly. "You could have let me follow."

His head slowly fell into his hands. "I was a fool," he whispered, raking his fingers through his waves of unruly curls. "Forgive me…if anything, I will leave you alone…but please, Christine…forgive me."

She sat lounging for a moment, taking a long drag upon her cigarette. "If you promise me something, then yes, yes…I will forgive you."

Erik's head shot up, his eyes brightening through the edges of the mask. "Anything. Ask anything of me."

"Don't leave again. Please." Her voice had fallen into a whisper, and she blinked away the sudden course of tears that threatened to fall. "Please." She looked away from him as he stared, shocked by the raw feeling of the promise. Had he expected her to rebuke him, to cast him out…did he think she would not forgive him, not ever?

"I promise, I promise, I promise…never again," he repeated quietly, reaching his hand out to touch her, closing the distance between them. But his hand fell short, and he recoiled it back into himself, as if distrustful of his own movements. "Say you forgive me. I must hear it."

"I forgive you," she finally looked back into his eyes, a shard of her heart sewn up, no longer bleeding all over her white shirt, so thick and red that it must have stained the floorboards. "I forgive you."

He let out a long sigh, as if the same had happened inside of him; something had staunched his bleeding, his melancholy heart that soiled everything, that moaned in its darkened depths. Christine leaned toward him, wanting to get closer, to feel his warmth upon her skin…a warmth that she had envied, earlier that day…the spark of longing to love, to truly love…deep inside of her heart.

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A/N: Please don't kill me for the cliffhanger…Love, L.