A/N: I know, it's about time I updated, those of you who read this story. I apologize earnestly. Please enjoy.

Chapter Eight

So they talked that day, for hours, from breakfast, to dinner, to supper, to sundown. It was difficult at first, as they'd scarcely spoken in the past eighteen months, especially not of anything important. They started off discussing trivial things like the weather or the sea, all the while the impending serious conversation weighing on both their minds.

Gradually they made their way from the kitchen to the front porch which looked out onto the sea. They'd sat silently a moment, simply watching the waves crash to the sand, recede, then crash again, until Christine spoke.

"Erik...why did you kill Raoul?"

In a way she thought she already knew the answer, and felt a bit foolish for even asking him such a thing. She expected him to reply that he hated him, that he wanted her all to himself. But she was wrong.

She watched his masked face carefully. The shield of ebony silk protected his thoughts and feelings from anyone who might be curious, as she was, and left his visage a vague, emotionless field of blankness. It had frightened her at times, but now it only annoyed her, as her main goal was to understand him, so she could understand and heal herself.

After a few moments of stillness, to her shock she spotted a tear, unaccompanied at first, trickle down beneath the material of the mask, past his malformed lips, down his thin neck.

Erik, the omnipotent Opera Ghost, the mysterious Angel of Music, the Trapdoor Lover, the Angel of Death, wept before her, and for someone other than himself.

He met her eyes, then turned quickly away. Her gaze had burned him, and now he wept even more passionately.

Could it be he's remorseful?

"Erik..." She touched his arm just barely, and he crumpled further. From there, she allowed him to weep out his sorrows and guilt. Occasionally he'd breathe, "I'm so sorry, Christine."

Abruptly, after some time, he stopped. And as if it had been waiting long on call, his tale spilled from his lips, the sorrowful events of his past retold by his eloquent tongue.

He spoke first of his mother, briefly of his time in the gypsy camp, then of his sojourn in Rome, an edited version of his years in Persia, of his wanderings through Europe, his assistance in building the opera house, and finally his descent into seclusion.

He told her of his obsession with her in those times, his reasoning behind his impersonation of her Angel of Music, his plans for her after the performance of Don Juan Triumphant, had she not removed his mask for all to see.

And finally, he recalled the emotions that had driven him to killing the vicomte, and the madness of that night. He explained how it was not jealousy that had pushed him to that point, but anger, most of it at himself. He said it felt almost as if it was not entirely of his own power that he killed the boy, and what a strange sensation it had been, as if he were on the outside watching. He told her how sorry he was, and began to weep again as he vowed he deserved nothing from her, and how he had no further mission in life now than to protect her.

They lapsed into silence as he continued to weep quietly. It had not been easy, telling her the mangled inner workings of his mind during that time. He was ashamed of what he'd done and how he'd tried to justify it, but he'd owed her the truth.

Christine stared off into the sea, silent tears streaming down her cheeks, but who they were for, she knew not. Never before had she felt so utterly torn, not even when Raoul had courted her and implored her to run away with him, run from Erik. In her heart, her first impulse was to forgive this man for everything he'd ever done to her. He'd manipulated her, lied to her, controlled her, but as he wept so poignantly at her side for the death of a man she was sure he'd once hated, she could not deny his true remorse and true apology.

Arguments she'd once used against herself resurfaced once more.

He loves me so...he only doesn't know how to show it.

He's been alone all his life. Surely I could at least offer him companionship.

He killed only to defend himself. He knows the error of his ways.

He is -- at least was -- not mentally stable...

But now, however, she could not deny a significant change in his attitudes. Several months living among others, though still in reasonable seclusion, with her at his side had done him a world of good. He wasn't quite so thin and waxen, nor was his hair so thin or lackluster. Though she was no expert in such matters, Christine would dare say he'd become more sound of mind since they'd left, as well. He no longer stayed awake for many days at a time, and ate regular meals, even if they were small.

Save, of course, his mask, abnormally long, thin fingers, and disturbingly sharp mind, one might take him for a normal man. If not for the horrid circumstances of their shared lodging, he might have even been comfortable to live with, which truly amazed Christine, given not only their shared story, but his own personal antecedents.

Could it be that, under that fearsome exterior, there dwelled a normal man? A potential friend, brother, father, even lover?

It was a notion she'd before toyed with, attempted with all her strength to whole-heartedly believe in the time after he'd exposed himself as but a man to her, before Don Juan. She'd taken pity on him, and tried her best to indulge him and treat him as if he were any other man. She told herself everyday that he was like any other man, but she'd never really been able to take it seriously, until now...

And yet, there was a part of her that never wanted to forgive him. He'd destroyed her happy future with her childhood sweetheart, obliterated the peaceful life they could have led together, their possible children and everything else. Her final dreams of stability and normality had been murdered along with poor, dear Raoul.

Perhaps I'm not meant for a normal life, she thought, with no emotion in particular. Erik certainly wasn't...

The question that had haunted widows and would-be fiancées for ages crossed her thoughts: would it be dishonoring him if I...?

Would it be dishonoring him if I only spoke to Erik, and made things less awkward and cold between us, if we are to reside together? There is nothing more that he can say than he's sorry...and he is...I can truly tell. Though that does not bring Raoul back to me, it's all he can offer.

Another favorite: wouldn't he want me to be happy?

Wouldn't Raoul want me to be happy? And safe? I'll be safest with Erik...he knows the full history and how to deal with these things...but how can I live with my fiancé's killer, even if he will keep me safe, and even if he is sorry?

Christine buried her face in her hands. She did not know. She honestly had no answers for any of these questions.

She knew she'd be asking herself these things for some time come...perhaps for the rest of her life.