Author's Note: A friend reminded me that the review replies became illegal ever since it became possible to directly answer reviews. Somehow I must have missed that. So I will stick with the rules and do it that way now. However, I doubt it is forbidden to say thanks to all my reviewers, so this is what I'm doing here: Thank you all, and I hope the delay will be forgiven.

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VI. An Eternity of this

"You have kept me waiting."

He dismounted, absent-mindedly patting his stallion's neck before he turned to face her. Curse her, she really was beautiful! "I apologize."

"You apologize, but you are not truly sorry." Her eyes were like dark gems, gleaming under her smooth black brows. "You are a proud man, Lord Keeper of the Gates."

"I have come alone, as you asked of me." What should his feelings matter to her? He was there, that was what she had wanted. He stood before her on the dusty road under a blazing summer sun, just where she had expected him.

"So you have." Her smooth, even features betrayed nothing, nothing at all.

He decided to be blunt. "What do you want?"

Now she smiled, but it was a cold smile, a façade. It did not reach her eyes. Her spirit lay hidden behind a mask of beauty. "Do you not know it yourself? And why have you come if you don't?"

"I can guess," he muttered. That accursed woman had a tendency to take control of every situation, something he truly detested in some. But she would not patronize him, no indeed! Sooner he would play the same game with her.

"Have you spoken to the Herald of Fate yet?"

"Concerning which matter, precisely?" he asked back. She had called him here, so she should name the reason, and then he would decide whether he would stay or not. "And I bet you never mentioned to him you're trying to get me on my own."

Only a very short twitching of her lips told him that he was right. "I know he has arranged a meeting with you," she replied grudgingly. "And I know you two have met once before."

"Twice," he corrected. Not that it was any business of hers, but he liked her to be under the impression that she did not know everything. His horse whickered softly, and he took the time to give the stallion another pat before he turned to her again. After all, choosing between his horse and the Lady of Dreams, it was clear who was the more trustworthy.

"Which about equals the number of women you've had since this week began," she commented.

"I wonder why that should concern you." If you want to be counted among them, just ask.

"You rate pleasure higher than most of your brethren."

Pulling off his leather gauntlets – it was a hot day, too hot to wear them, but all had to be done with style –, he tucked them behind his belt. "Let's discuss this some other time. I'm open to the topic, but I would like to know about today's issue first." And she would return to that particular topic, no doubt.

Her eyes met his, attempting to delve into him, but he blocked her access easily. Again her lips twitched slightly. "Name your price," she demanded.

So now they were coming to it. "What is it you would offer me?"

"I'm sure the Herald of Fate informed you of that."

"We discussed some aspects of it, yes." They had spoken about what he truly wanted, about his innermost desire, but it was bad enough that one other knew about it already. He would be banished to the Abyss before he told the Lady of Dreams! Revealing his heart's one true desire, his one burning passion that haunted him waking and dreaming, would be making himself vulnerable. He felt that the Herald of Fate held one piece of his heart in his fist already, ready to crush it to dust if he chose to, but there had been no other choice. He needed that bargain. He hated the Herald of Fate, but he needed him.

The Lady of Dreams raised her elegantly curved eyebrows, lines of black on her bronze-coloured skin, and shot him an annoyingly knowing look. "You want more."

He chose to shrug instead of replying. How had she come here? The question only just now occurred to him. They were well away from their home, on the Road of Nerayamat that led to the Sanctum and then down to the Last City sprawling at the foothills of the sheer mountain range known as the Sundering Mountains; he had ridden four miles to this point, the place where the narrow path to the Ravines forked off. But she… there was no means of transportation to be seen, and he felt no living thing around him, apart from her and his faithful steed and some small creatures in the earth and the grass beside the road. Above his head, a lonely hawk was riding the gentle wind –

Of course. The Lady of Dreams rode the storm, so it was said, above the sea's foamy waves. Why should this skill not extend to the land?

Once again he realized how little he knew of his brethren, as she had called them. Having spent a dark, wild eternity at the margin of the world, defending it against what lay Beyond, he had returned as a complete stranger when he had been recalled at last after the Bearer of Light, greatest of their race, had been cast down into the Abyss. Away in his exile in the endless wastelands, nothing but vague rumours had come to him of the war waged upon the plains of his home of old. But then he had returned, bringing with him the most faithful among the faithful, the Black Legion, and he had fortified the dwelling of his kindred, manning it with those loyal to him to keep their unceasing watch, thus becoming the Keeper of the Gates.

Turning, he smiled as he beheld the gleaming white towers, enshrouded in and crowned with soft clouds, so radiant in the sunlight, the symbol of the unceasing vigilance of the Light – the Pillars of Heaven. The strongest fortress ever envisioned, the mightiest bulwark ever built. For many lifetimes of men workers had laboured under his guidance, until at last the sun had shone on its completed glory, on his great triumph.

His greatest, perhaps, though he had not yet decided on that matter. Among the things he had devised and built, certainly, but his greatest achievement altogether… After all, he had invented a new kind of trumpet which could not only be heard from very far off, but also possessed a considerably wider range than those instruments used by heralds before, he had painted the ceiling of the dome of the Sanctum – a nice distraction from overseeing the work on the Pillars of Heaven, though it had taken him two and a half decades to finish it –, he had written an epic he rather liked himself, though some of his kind had classified it as too violent and gory, and he had been the first to see every known part of the world. And he had composed the Hymn of Death.

While the Eldest King would call the Pillars of Heaven his greatest achievement, the Lord of Shadows would name the Hymn of Death.

A hand gently touched his shoulder, and a mind tenderly nudged his own. "I know what it means to you," the Lady of Dreams whispered.

Turning back to her, he muttered, "No, you don't." She didn't. She had no idea. Even as he stood here under the sun, his heart lay in darkness, and it was torn in two, bleeding into the shadows. Never, never would she understand.

When it came to a decision, where would his loyalty lie? And would there be any loyalty left, would this decision not kill him?

Was it not a curse to be deathless?

"I've never seen you so tormented."

"That would be because you have hardly yet seen me at all," he countered dryly. Tormented, yes. Tormented was the word. It was nothing but torment, choosing between his loyalty and his one true love.

"Really?" At once she smiled. "That means I should see you more often. You're a pleasure to behold."

"Am I?" All by itself, he felt the answering smile steal onto his lips. At least she might prove a pleasant distraction.

"Yes indeed. Do you always wear your jackets open like that?"

Looking down himself, he shrugged. "On hot days, yes. It can get pretty hot in velvet."

"And no shirt underneath?" she prompted. There was something in her eyes now, a certain sparkle he had not seen before.

"Well, it is a hot day."

She laughed, like the sound of a clear, cold well up in the mountains. "If you do this in honour of me, it is appreciated. Did you know that the Herald of Fate recently called you a vain pretty-boy?"

"I did not realize," he replied calmly, almost contemptuously, "that he is capable of jealousy."

"Oh, he is, and very much so. And not about not looking as good as others in black velvet and leather, mainly. You know what his designs are about, don't you?"

He nodded. "Yes, I think I've got a pretty good idea what he's up to. And I don't like it, to say the very least." If they wanted his help in this, then it should not be easy for them, not at all.

And maybe he would yet turn back. Maybe he would even go and seek an audience with the Eldest King, something he had never done before. He should. Part of him screamed out that he should, waking and dreaming, screamed and screamed and tore him apart. And always the same word: Traitor

And that knowing look the Lady of Dreams was throwing him… Anger boiled up inside him, but before he could snarl at her, she had already thrown her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder, just as if this were the most natural thing in the world to do. For a moment he hesitated, confused, but then he wrapped his arms around her waist in turn. Very well, he would see where this was leading. That she only just meant to comfort him he strongly doubted. Not someone like her.

Her hand came up to caress his cheek, and it almost surprised him that it was warm.

Warm… warm…

No. It was… cold…

Cold?

And then he felt a tentative, warm touch on his right cheek.

His mask! His mask was gone! The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning, every fibre in him convulsing as he sat up suddenly and pushed Valencienne's hand away to cover the marred side of his face with his own. No, this could not be true! It could not!

Valencienne's eyes were wide in the dim light of candles and braziers burning low. She had withdrawn reflexively as he had so suddenly moved, but her hand was still outstretched towards him. She had put on his shirt to cover her nakedness, he realized, like a nightshirt, and he would have laughed had he not been struck to the bone by the next cruel stroke Fate had prepared for him. This way, it was just another unimportant detail. Was that fear in her eyes? Disgust? Terror?

He felt he was shivering and hunched his shoulders, but the cold came from within him, not from without. It was all his own fault. He should have told her not to touch his mask, instead of trusting his manipulations. He should have asked her to. After all, she was bound to wonder why he allowed her to see and touch every inch of his body except the right side of his face.

He meant to curse her, but he could not blame her. She was curious, that was all. Just as Christine had been curious.

Christine… The moment when she had first taken his mask from him returned to his memory, and the pain was sharp and clear once more. Why was all happiness destroyed by his abhorrent features every time? Why was he cast out from Heaven forever?

A fallen angel, and far from Heaven.

Traitor…

No, I refuse to believe it! I will not!

And still he saw that face from his dream before him… the face of Niobe.

No. Please, no.

A sob was constricting his throat, and he fought it back, whimpering softly as he did so. He was a pathetic wretch, nothing more, and not worth to be still alive. He should have died long ago.

Valencienne's hand covered his, attempting to peel his fingers away. At first he resisted, hiding what had never allowed him to be human, but then he let it fall away limply. It did not matter anymore. It was in vain, anyway, too late to change what had occurred. She had seen him, and she knew.

It was over, and it served him right.

And then he felt her fingers tenderly stroking his burned, blistered skin. "Poor dear," she whispered. "That must have hurt a lot."

What…? Had Meg not said the same when she had first seen him unmasked? Meg had not screamed, and neither had Valencienne.

"Yes," he murmured, remembering that dread moment from his recurring nightmare when the flames enshrouded and consumed him, "yes, it did."

No, it's a lie! Nothing but a damn nightmare!

"Poor dear," Valencienne repeated tenderly. Then she leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on his scarred cheek.

Huddling against her like a child, the Phantom closed his eyes. He was dreaming. This could not be real. She was free of his influence, free to do whatever she herself would do, not what he wanted her to do, and still she did not flee in terror when she saw his face. A girl who hardly knew him! Meg had not run from him either, but Meg had already known him then. Whereas Valencienne… she had had no warning. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. "I should have told you."

She simply stroked his hair, but he was not quite sure if she had understood him at all. "It's alright," she whispered to him. "No need to hide it."

"But I'm –" Gently loosing her arms around him, he sat up and looked at her directly, feeling more naked than ever before, even more than he would have felt had she taken the blanket away. "I'm a gargoyle."

"No, you're not."

"I am," he insisted. "I'm a monster. My own mother hated me."

"Then your mother is a blind old bat," she said decidedly. "Half a handsome face is still good enough for me." Reaching behind her, half out of the bed, she fished his trousers from the floor. "Here, put something on, and then lie down and sleep, it must be somewhere in the middle of the night."

He would have preferred to be given his mask back, but he complied without protest. She had been so kind to him, kinder than he deserved, after what he had done to her, so he would not make her feel awkward now, even though it astounded him that it was not his uncovered face that unsettled her. After all, his body was just like any other man's.

Oh well, a young woman would view that from a different perspective, probably, since there was a good chance he was the first naked man she had ever seen. She might not even have known what a naked man was supposed to look like – though she probably had had a vague idea at least; nobody could remain that innocent at the Maxim. Whereas scars… she might have seen scars before. There were pretty bad scars he had sometimes seen in the street, so maybe she had just taken a practical attitude.

All the same, he did not understand. It was hard to find a man as hideously scarred as he was – apart from some of Créon's followers, but they did not count. He was more than just scarred. He was a monster, a horrible monster!

When he had finished doing up his buttons, she gently pushed him down and spread the blanket over him, and as she kneeled beside him he realized that she was not only wearing his shirt, but also his underpants. Hell, she had actually borrowed his underwear! Now this was a set of ears Claire might want to box!

After she had finished boxing his, that was.

"Look, I'm really sorry," he said as she slipped under the blanket and lay down beside him. "About last evening, I mean." And it was true, he was. He was an ungrateful bastard, rewarding a woman's open interest with what might well be considered rape. He was a beast, a creature, a fiend from Hell. "I shouldn't have made you do it."

"But you didn't, silly," she whispered in his ear as she cuddled against him and rested her head on his shoulder. "You didn't force me." One of her hands came to rest on his upper stomach. "You were a bit… vigorous, yes. Impetuous. But you didn't force me."

"I manipulated you," he admitted. Yes, just as I tried with Christine. I should have known it was wrong. I did not mean to do it again. I never wanted to do it again, not on another innocent being like her. And still I did…

"Don't be ridiculous." Her hand wandered a little upwards and tickled his chest. "Gosh, you're hairy."

Don't be ridiculous. She didn't believe him. She did not believe in his powers. So she would never know, if he didn't tell her.

Rolling over, he nuzzled his head against the side of her neck, found a comfortable position, with one arm around her waist, and closed his eyes. She might stay with him. She might even come to love and cherish him. She might want to be his forever.

It was too much to imagine. Too good to be true.

And it would all be built on a lie. For keeping silent was a lie too, wasn't it?

He would tell her. He had to.

But not now. Not tonight. Tonight, he would savour what he had for now. He would rest in Valencienne's embrace while feeling Christine sleeping peacefully above him, once again becoming one with her as they shared yet something else… In their sleep, their minds had always been interwoven to a certain extent, at first with the purpose that the Phantom could change her nightmares away. After Christine had found out that he was not the Angel of Music, he had still continued to do so, and later, when she had understood what it was that he did, she had allowed him to. It had just become a habit, nuzzling their minds against each other like a pair of tired animal cubs before they fell asleep. He was in her dreams, and she was in his. It was what they had always done, only that now Christine had learned to actively participate.

But what they had shared last night… He had not quite realized that she would be able to feel what he was doing, he had just not thought of it, though he had thought of her all the time. Only when he had felt her, well, answer, he had remembered, and though the presence of Raoul in this had given him a stab like with a knife… It could not have been, Christine and him, but at least in this way they had shared an intimacy now, shared what they otherwise could not have shared. After he had curled up by Valencienne's side, his arms around her and hers around him, he had still felt what came from Christine, and he had smiled to himself as he had closed his eyes and rested his awareness against hers…

"You know, I might be angry with you in the morning," Valencienne murmured, again stroking his scarred cheek. "You didn't even tell me your name. Your proper name, I mean."

"Call me Erik," he muttered. After what had happened between them, she definitely belonged to that category.

"Erik? Fine." He felt how she threaded her fingers into his hair. "Erik, you're a bit of a scoundrel."

Smiling against the warm, soft side of her neck, he answered, "I know." But you don't, you refused to know… Somehow his triumph tasted like ashes in his mouth now.

Valencienne laughed softly. "Ah, then it's alright…" And soon he could feel how her senses drifted off to sleep.

Lying awake, he listened to her calm, even breathing, and inside him a cold, dead voice whispered of treason, past, present and yet to come, of a lifetime, an eternity of betrayal.