Christine gathered her courage. Judge him, indeed! She picked up Raoul's ring, rose from the table, and smoothed her skirts before walking sedately to stand before him. With one smooth motion, she twisted and threw the glittering thing out the door. They listened to it ring against the stone before it skidded into the lake.

When she turned back and her eyes met his, he took an involuntary step back. They shone with the same fierce love he felt for her. She still loved him, even now. And she was…touching him, holding him tightly. It was such a strange, safe feeling to be held. It was as though he were something precious to her. Erik felt the moisture of her tears through his dress shirt – the tears were not for Herroux, they were for him. In a staggering moment of clarity, Erik realized that she did not blame him for his past, that no story he could tell would sway her.

It was not enough, apparently, for her to wrap her arms around him. Before he had regained his equilibrium, her hands were busy taking off his hat. His mask. His cloak. Her fingers were on the buttons of his shirt, before he forced himself back to motion.

Instead of tearing her hands away from his shirt, Erik pressed them flat against his chest. "Have you heard a word I said Christine? I'm a monster inside and out. You have the opportunity to live an enviable life amidst comfort and luxury…"

"I'd prefer death to the silken bonds of that 'enviable life.' Forget Raoul, Erik." Christine gently freed one of her hands and lightly traced the bony ridge of his brow. "I have."

She was studying his face with such loving intensity that he was drawn helplessly into her gaze; her eyes, her voice – he was being mesmerized. "Once before, I asked your permission to do as I pleased with impunity. You granted it then, will you grant it now?"

"My angel, what is it you want?"

"I want to see the scars from your childhood." It was a direct, flat statement. "I want to see them and better understand what you survived."

"Why?" Erik could not look at her. He focused his eyes on the spot where Raoul's ring disappeared. "Am I not ugly enough without that added indignity?"

"It is no indignity when the beholder is one who loves you, and I do. Don't mistake me for those who tortured you. I could never scorn you. Please, Erik?" Whether or not she spoke reason, Christine's silvery-sweet voice overwhelmed any resistance he might have had, with one weak exception.

"Christine, it is not…proper…for you to…" he forced his leaden tongue to form the words, "for you to undress me."

"Then you must take your shirt off yourself." All her life, Christine listened to and obeyed the strict directives of her teacher. Now, she used his own commanding tones to bend him to her will.

He sat on the piano bench facing away from her and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. This was his last hiding place. He could feel her beloved presence close behind him. Her scent, her warmth, the quiet susurration of her breath wrapped him in a sensual blanket; a stomach-cramping wave of desire woke Erik to the novel and discomfiting suspicion that he wanted no more barriers between them. He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The silence was deep and thick. He began to wonder what she was doing, what she was thinking, but feared what he'd see if he turned to look at her.

Christine could not find her breath. Ancient scars and discolorations crisscrossed his back from the nape of his neck past the waistline of his pants. Some were as thick as her thumb, others were nearly invisible. She wondered that he could move so lithely considering the expanse of scar tissue. They had done this to him when he was only a little boy. Someone had done this to a child. It was no wonder he flinched when she touched him.

Light as butterfly wings, she slid her palms over the scarred flesh, trying to imagine the brutal treatment he had endured. At first, she wished she could have taken some of the punishment on herself to spare him the pain, but then realized that she would not have passed through that gauntlet unbroken. Again, she ran her palms down the length of his back with more pressure, feeling the honed strength of wiry muscles beneath the scarring. His body and his spirit were…

"So strong," she whispered, now sliding her hands over his shoulders and down the length of his arms.

Entirely unaccustomed to human contact, Erik's skin drank in her touch as dry garden soil drinks in spring rain. Instead of tensing, he found pleasure in relaxing under her exploratory caresses. He no longer questioned how she could bring herself to touch him; that was an enigma beyond his considerable ability to puzzle out.

"I will permit myself this dream." The memory of those haughtily spoken words brought the faintest of smiles to the surface. Had he ever really had any choice in the matter? I have been hopeless for so long…can this bright Angel give me rest? Dare I hope for happiness?

Christine stood back and shut her eyes tightly. When she opened them, she bid herself see her Angel as the fair-goers would see him, as Meg would see him. The grotesque scarring on his back, the few strands of limp hair hanging in scattered patches from his mottled scalp…she circled around to include his face in her scrutiny. His eyes were closed, hiding the only beauty his face could boast. That face was a demonic mask. Sharp bony protrusions erupted where the softness of brow and cheek should have been. They threw shadows over deeply sunken eyes. Humped and cratered twists of white and red flesh stretched itself over the nearly visible musculature. The nose was missing entirely except for a thin flap of skin covering the bony bridge of the aborted structure. She saw these things with torturous clarity, but despite her best efforts to see with objective coldness, she still saw her noble, gentle Angel of Music. He could never be a monster to her. Now, all she had to do was make him see what she saw. She almost laughed at the futility of it, but her resolve remained.

"Come with me, Erik, please?" Christine took both his hands and tugged.

Erik opened his eyes and stood. Christine was trying to lead him out the door; he pulled one of his hands from hers and snatched his cloak on the way out. "Where are we going Angel?"

"The Mirror Room."

Suddenly, it was not a willing Erik she was pulling, but the Phantom. He stopped cold and gripped her hand.

"What do you know of that place?" His voice was rumbling with anger. His grip on her hand tightened and became painful. "I never gave permission for you to go there!"

"When we came here, you left me standing alone and unguided!" she shot back, indignant. "What did you think I'd do?"

"You pry when you should not!" he snarled.

"You hide when you should not!" was her quick retort.

Erik suppressed a swelling urge to grab her and shake her. In a hissing whisper, he said, "If you know what lies within those walls, why would you drag me there like this?" He jerked his hand towards his maskless face and shirtless torso.

Christine used his merciless grip on her hand like a towline, pulling him on again unmindful of the wrenching pain in her hand and wrist. "To give you new eyes through which to see…"

They stood at the threshold, staring up at the door.

"Christine, you ask…so much." Suddenly, Erik realized how tightly he was gripping her hand. He felt her little fingers folded and crunched in his merciless grip. He dropped her hand and watched guiltily out the corner of his eye as she massaged it. "Do you know why I built this place?"

Christine winced as she slowly rubbed feeling back into her crushed fingers. "I have a suspicion."

"Tell me. Why do you think…a person…such as me would build a room full of mirrors?"

Christine tried to catch his eye, but he stubbornly stared at the door. She answered plainly. "To look at yourself, I suppose. To look at yourself and hate what you see…"

"Punishment, Christine. I suppose I left out that piece of the story. Listen to this, if you want a pretty tale: When I killed Thomas, I was seventeen years old. Seventeen years old, and I had never seen my uncovered face. When I killed him, while he was strangling to death – don't look away, Christine, I am telling you my story – while he was strangling to death, I took off my mask, knowing seeing my face would add to his horror. He was so terrified he stopped struggling against the rope that was killing him." Erik's voice intensified without increasing in volume. "He feared my face more than he feared death. That night I looked in the lake water to see what could so frighten a dying man. When I saw myself…" Erik stopped talking and placed his hand on the doorknob.

After an uncomfortable pause he continued, "I could not find breath to scream or cry. Until then, I only knew that I was ugly enough to be frightening. I had no idea that I truly looked like a demon. Once I saw my reflection, I knew how I could punish myself for every misdeed. I built this. For years, I have come here when I committed some wrong. Now, my Angel is dragging me here…naked to the waist. Even I never punished myself so severely! But see," he knelt beside her and tenderly lifted her reddened and puffy hand to his lips. "I have sinned unforgivably. I have hurt an Angel. Therefore…" He turned the handle and opened the door.