Disclaimer: Still applies. I do not own POTO, or the song "Cry" by James Blunt; only the storyline and the unaffiliated characters

Wow. Thank you for the fantastic response on the last chapter- you guys are wonderful and deserve all the chocolate, cookies, etc. I could ever hand out- and more!

Also, thank you for your patience. I realize I am posting a bit late. Unfortunately, exams are sneaking ever closer and I was doing volunteer work at a farm over the weekend. It was incredible and I enjoyed it beyond belief. Two of the goats went into labor and guess who got to play mama for the day :) ? All in all, a very lovely- if busy- weekend. Again, thank you all for being patient with me. Hopefully this will make it up to you.

cookies, hugs, etc.

Lee

Alight

Christine

She closed her eyes in the sudden stillness of the night, feeling the strange moonlit currents moving within her, pulsing with her breathing. They moved in synchrony, their breathing, the weaving waves inside of her.

The voice within pressed upon her again. It recalled the first night she had heard him sing- and done nothing. The yearning and fulfillment as she listened to the music in the night. The reassurance, the content she had found in the circle of his arms. The time it had moved her to bring him back from the ice and the shadows. When their voices had soared in an ascension of pure beauty. The fear she had felt as she saw his bloodied wrist and frozen eyes.

She had not listened- not fully. She had never fully listened to the presence that urged her to him, never completely comprehended what it had been trying to tell her. She had never quite understood the purpose it gave her.

This time... this time she was listening.

Christine opened her eyes to look into ones as lost as hers had been, a tempestual maelstrom, brilliant and blazing, shivering her like a gale through a willow grove. He held himself still, so still, as though a single motion would shatter the fragility of the moment and take her from him forever, Sadb to his Finn, stolen not by any dark sorcerer, but the greater magician of fear.

Yet it was not her own fear she felt in the silence, only his. The air was troubled by his fears. She looked up at him. His breathing gave the lie to the calm, statuesque stillness of his face, tremoring, ragged. Her heart went out to him. Erik.

Christine stepped toward him.

This time she was listening.

Erik

He held himself in place as she came toward him, heart racing like wildfire through dry brush, adrenaline nearly consuming his senses. The breath caught and tore in his throat. Her mahogany eyes were intent on his, brilliant. There was no distaste, no rejection in them. He did not know the name for the way the moonlight struck those autumnal, endless eyes.

He actually felt himself freeze as her arms slipped around him, a slim young woman that pressed herself against him and lay her head over his heart. His arms hung limp at his sides, numbed by the warm and slender body, the light that seemed to emanate from her where the moonlight struck her skin, blinding and bewitching as any Sahara mirage.

The lights on her coppery hair wavered as she looked up at him. Her eyes were endless, questioning. It was the look of a homeward traveler, turning her eyes to some guiding light.

It was the look of faith.

"Why did you run from me?" she asked, eyes searching his. Her voice was soft, a gentle query, the wondering caress of a light wind. This was the last thing he had expected to hear. The pearlescent gleam of moonlight upon her face made him wonder exactly what embraced him. Was she a dream, to fade away with the coming of morning? Was this no more than an illusion and she no more than a night-bound angel to evanesce in the light of dawn?

He sensed her reaching out to him, to find the man she had drawn back from the shadows. It was a tenuous bridge she built between them, a weaving and entwining of the fabric of their souls.

It was more than he deserved. He turned the ravaged side of his face from her, suddenly unable to bear the idea of her eyes upon it. "Didn't you see my face, Christine?" Disbelieving bitterness rose against her warmth, a sickening poison invading his body and soul.

Her next words caught him completely off guard.

"Yes, and?"

He blinked at the disregard; started when he felt her fingers trace his jawline, turning his face back fully to hers. Her hand lingered for a moment before it fell to his chest in what seemed a cascading trail of glowing light. "Do you think my father was particularly stunning as he lay dying?" she asked. Her slim hand tightened, knuckles pressing against his skin through the fabric. Her eyes were firm on his; Erik had seen that look in her eyes before. Conviction. A fierce determination overlaid her voice. "Do you think that it made me love him any less, whether he was or not?'

'It's not your face that worries me, Erik." she continued more softly. Christine pulled back his sleeve to expose the bandaged wrist, her touch tender, cradling. Her head fell back against his chest, her voice fell. "It's this. I don't understand why."

"I wouldn't expect you to." His voice came out a little colder then he had intended, but still, how could he expect her to understand, much less empathize? Christine had never had the misfortune of living her life with half a face.

Her eyes lit with something like anger, stormy. "Try me." He heard challenge behind her words.

He shrugged, repressing the memories. His words were short, unadorned. Time had not diminished the sting of the memories and he was reluctant to recall them. "I was born like this. I never knew my parents, Christine. I... was told that they couldn't afford to keep me... but I doubt that was the case." His breath caught. "People were- and are- afraid of me. My own fiancée... What do you think I feel like, Christine, after another day of fear and shame? After one more day when I am forced to realize that I am anathema?"

One more day when I must hide from the world?

He continued, a tremor underlying his voice. "I could never control what lies beneath the mask. This, this I could..."

This way... only I could harm myself.

Christine

"My own fiancee..."

The woman in the photo, Christine realized. An emptiness filled her as she remembered the blithe and brilliant embrace. "My own fiancee..."

Had she left him because of his face? It certainly explained his reaction after she had accidentally knocked off the mask. But was it possible for a woman who loved a man so clearly, so deeply, to leave him for the sake of his appearance? Was it possible for a woman to break the love of that man into such dark bitterness?

Apparently it was. Or at least it was to him. She recalled the sudden remote light in his eyes the day she had caught him looking at the photograph, his distance with her when she inquired about it. The seraphic voice drained of any emotion as he laid the photograph facedown.

Nadir's words came back to her. Life has not dealt gently with Erik, Christine.

No. Christine thought as she looked up into the brilliant eyes, lit with a painful kind of hope, a strange clarity. Her hold on him tightened involuntarily. No, it hasn't.

"Christine," he began haltingly. She had no idea what he meant to say, but it didn't matter.

She leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

It was a light touch, chaste, but it was enough to set her aglow, a thrill racing up her spine, warmth flooding her body like the healing heat of fire to the cold traveler. There was a sweet, nostalgic taste to it, something that recalled both summer and sea. At first he was still under her touch, seeming more in shock than anything else. Then his arms came around her, one hand tangling in her hair and cradling her the back of her head. Christine found an inexpressible longing in their touch, a desire and a comfort found with every sweet breath. Her fingers strayed to the hair at the nape of his neck, caressing, twining through the dark strands, soft as night. Light seemed to rush through her body, the golden infusion of brilliance let in by petals opening under the sun. Where their bodies touched, there was fire, a questing flame as she pressed herself closer to him, intoxicated by the rush of their combined pulse, craving, needing it beyond reason. The heat of summer was upon her, a warm promise hanging in the air amidst flickering fireflies and the humid, heavy warmth of the storm.

When she pulled back, she saw his eyes shimmer briefly. They blazed like midsummer, wondering, awed. The light of hope gleamed in them now, and something deeper, something that it astounded her to see. She basked in the radiance of it, the light beyond the broken darkness. "I don't see anything to be ashamed of, Erik." She trailed a hand down what he would have called the marred side of his face. He flinched and she snatched her hand back with a trace of embarrassment. Had she made him uncomfortable with that caress?

"Sorry-"

He caught her hand. "No. No, Christine, it's all right." He spoke her name in what bordered on reverence, looking down at her in amazement.

"Oh." The aftereffects of their embrace made her feel slightly lightheaded. "In that case." She reached up and traced his brows, then her hands slid down to cup his face and she kissed him again. The touch was dizzying, exhilarating, and yet they had barely brushed the borders of this discovery. The sun had barely cleared the horizon and they hovered on the brink of its rays.

But it was enough that she finally had this.

It was enough to know that she could begin to love and be loved again.

Erik

"Christine," he began. He had no idea what to say to her, but the sound of her name was a sweet melody he could not refrain from speaking.

Her eyes flickered up to his and he lost himself as she kissed him. The blood sang through his veins, a reverence overtaking him at her gentle touch. He could feel her heart beating against his, a thrilling melody that raced beneath the fair skin. All of the senses had been heightened, and yet he was only aware of her, the scent of some flame-crowned apple grove in her hair, the taste of ripe autumn on her lips, rich and full as honey. There was an innocence in the way she held him, and such a comfort, a safety and a sanctity, as though he were in the cathedral of some kinder God, the high, vaulted ceilings an echo of celestial majesty, stained glass windows evocative, incandescent with light. It evoked, even as it sated, a yearning stronger yet.

He held her closer and deepened the touch.

A rush of gratitude, something akin to awe, overtook him as she replied in kind, her body molding almost instinctively to his. Erik could feel music stirring in him, a swelling crescendo of light and sound, epitomized where they they touched. He could scarce believe the moment, but there she was, clinging to him as though she meant to never let go, almost desperately, as though this were all that mattered, what she craved above all else. It was a desire and a longing equal to his own, sheer need that bound them under the moonlight in his sanctum.

His darkness fell from him and he surrendered to the rapture of their embrace. The sea and the shore rose around him again, a fantastical world that was silent but for them. Under the blazing starlight, the velvet sky, he found a brilliant rhapsody and a rekindled hope, growing in synchrony with the beat of wave and heart.

And, all too soon, she drew back. The remnants of that kiss lingered still, a remembrance of flames burning bright, now faded to glowing embers.

There was a strange, sweet smile on her lips. "I don't see anything to be ashamed of, Erik."

He started as her fingers ran over his ravaged skin. "Sorry-" she said hastily, withdrawing her hand. She looked up at him as though she expected a reproach.

He caught it in his, caressed her palm. Who was this mortal angel? It was almost impossible to believe that he held in his arms what had for so long been but a dream. "No," he breathed. "No, Christine, it's all right." How could she think she could offend him with her touch? Don't let go, Christine.

Don't ever let go.

She released a soft "Oh." He saw the hint of a smile trace her features. "In that case."

He felt a tremor that shook him to the foundations of his spirit as she began anew.

"Christine, how-" he whispered when she broke the pattern, not trusting his voice to anything louder. She pressed her fingers to his lips, stopping his words. And then, to his astonishment, her voice came softly, surely into the starlight, so that its brilliance was but a chorus in the wake of her melody.

"I have seen peace. I have seen pain

Resting on the shoulders of your name.

Do you see the truth through all their lies?

Do you see the world through troubled eyes?"

Her eyes shone with the force of her words, the forces of humanity in all its terrible disillusion and great compassion. She blazed underneath the moonlight, seeming almost to embody its subtle feminine power. It was the sunrise over the midnight battlefield that lit them, the breaking of winter, an emergence of warmth and understanding. A hand to rest upon his shoulder, to take his and lead him from his darkness.

"And if you want to talk about it anymore,

Lie here on the floor and cry on my shoulder,

I'm a friend."

A selfless offering of comfort without judgment or reservation. An empathy he had not expected to find within the wide expanse of the cold world, much less his own home.

Yet there it was.

"I have seen birth. I have seen death.

Lived to see a lover's final breath.

Do you see my guilt? Should I feel fright?

Is the fire of hesitation burning bright?"

He paused, unsure, before the light of her eyes convinced him to continue. Christine...

His Christine?

"And if you want to talk about it once again,

On you I depend. I'll cry on your shoulder.

You're a friend."

Is this real? His answer was far less certain than hers, for even now he hardly dared believe. What person had never hoped for bright sunrise only to find the pale grey of a false dawn? But, as she did not move, as she remained there in his arms, the doubt wavered, like shadows under the noon sun, subsiding, fading into nothingness. And as she remained with him, questioning, offering still, he dared to answer.

Christine

The hesitant question in his voice pulled at her. The look of incredulity in his eyes, as though he hardly dared believe the moment to be truth, the tentative hesitation, spread a bitterness through her, a wave of empathy that radiated from the core of her. What kind of life had he known, that, even now, this might be but a dream to him? Only a false comfort before he was confronted with his waking nightmare once again?

This is real, Erik.

I promise you, this is real.

"You and I have been through many things.

I'll hold on to your heart.

I wouldn't cry for anything.

But don't go tearing your life apart."

Never again, Erik. I don't want to see you in pain ever again. She could feel the beating life under his skin, sustaining a soul of such powerful and yet such fragile beauty.

She did not ever want to see that skin marred with scars of his own making.

I won't let it happen again. She would not allow the light that shone now behind his eyes to be diminished by darkness.

No. The light of summer would blaze unclouded.

"I have seen fear. I have seen faith.

Seen the look of anger on your face.

And if you want to talk about what will be,

Come and sit with me, and cry on my shoulder.

I'm a friend."

His voice, gaining in surety, sent a ripple of emotion as he offered his own comfort. She felt hope begin to bloom, growing from pale seedling to tender sprout under the steadying light of his eyes.

And if you want to talk about what will be... A thrill traced its way up her spine, she was acutely aware of his arms around her, his heart beating against hers. What will be... What did the world offer with this opportunity? What limitless discoveries, what unspoken secrets would they learn?

The light of his eyes was brilliant upon her, warm, reassuring as the arms around her. Christine smiled in answer to his song, a joy that was almost painful, coalescing into a single point of focused intensity. It was that connection she sought to communicate, the wordless bond between them, not the effect, but the cause, the need for one to hold and be held by the other.

"And if you want to talk about it anymore,

Lie here on the floor and cry on my shoulder,

I'm a friend."

Her voice evanesced and fell to the moonlight-streaked floor. She reached up, trailing her fingertips over scars and skin alike. There was no difference to her. "It doesn't matter, Erik." He covered her own hand with his, carefully, delicately; she twined her fingers with his. "It never mattered." Moved by some unknown impulse, Christine led him over to the windows. Beyond the park, the city was lit like an inverted sky, constellations of vast buildings in unflickering brilliance.

Christine leaned back against him, looking up at him. She caressed his cheek, savoring the warmth that washed over her, the steady support of his body against hers. Christine turned her eyes to the sea of lights, something akin to wistfulness stirring. "Look at it, Erik. It can be cruel and cold out there, when you're constantly forced to the darkness."

She smiled faintly and glanced back up at him, settling against him. "But- in that darkness and that loneliness, there are a thousand points of light. An infinite amount of goodness, if you only know where to look."