The Mask and Mirror

Watching your eyes
As they invade my soul
Forbidden pleasures
I'm afraid to make mine

At the touch of your hand
At the sound of your voice
At the moment your eyes meet mine
I am out of my mind
I am out of control
Full of feelings I can't define.

(Dangerous Game, Jekyll and Hyde)

Am I too lost to be saved?
Am I too lost?

(Tourniquet, Evanescence)

Chapter 27

Christine awoke the next morning in her own bed. Then immediately wished she had remained unconscious.

The glare of morning sunlight fell directly across the bed and hit her aching eyes with brutal intensity. Her entire body felt as though it had been turned inside out. There was a tight knot of nausea in the pit of her stomach and a bitter, acrid taste in her mouth. She stared blankly at the tangled bed sheets with heavy-lidded eyes. When had she gone to bed? How had she gotten to bed? The whole evening was a vague blur of incoherent images and sensations. She couldn't even remember what they had talked about.

She did remember having some rather wild dreams, however.

Christine groaned, placing a hot hand on her aching brow. Her head was pounding with a dull, throbbing pain. Through the dim, murky haze of her thoughts, one prevailing idea emerged. Get to Erik. Surely he would be able to administer some remedy. Humiliating as it was to face him in such a state (and why could she not remember the night more clearly?) it wouldn't be as humiliating as throwing up in the room he had so thoughtfully furnished for her. His room was only down the hall. She could manage that. Small steps. Just lift the head, raise the body -

Oh -

Her stomach roiled in protest. She buried her head between her knees, not moving until she was certain the lurching sickness had subsided. Inch by slow inch, she managed to heave herself from the cloying tangle of sheets and placed her unsteady feet on the blissfully cool stone.

She immediately noticed that someone - me, I hope - had removed her outer corset, as she was dressed only her undershift. The dress she had worn last night lay discarded on the floor as though someone (again, she hoped it was her) had flung it there. The delicate material was coiled in a tangle of dark silk that would crease unless hung up, but she could not summon the energy to do it. She did, however, have the presence of mind to drape a light robe around herself before venturing outside.

She near-staggered down the corridor, every movement causing a wave of sickness to overcome her. It was cooler here, at least, the dimness a blessed relief to her intense headache. The sun's merciless heat did not penetrate here, and she clung to the wall, taking quick, shallow breaths through her mouth. The smell of dust with a tinge of incense, that constant desert aridity, went some way to abating the immediate urge of her body to rid itself of the previous evening's excesses. Erik's room was visible now, and Christine dragged herself the remaining distance. Bracing herself, she knocked once. Twice.

There was no answer.

Her fingers curled around the ornate bronze handle. Tentatively, she pushed open the door.

It was the first time she had ever seen him asleep. One of his arms was flung wide, the fingers closed in a subliminal defensive gesture. He was lying on his side, the scarred part of his face pressed into the pillow out of her sight. Even in slumber, there was something powerful and fearful about him, a kind of animalism. Her eyes traced the wide forehead, the strong nose, the sensual mouth, its cruel lines softened slightly in repose. Heavy lashes brushed his cheeks that were several shades darker from the heat of a foreign sun. The tossed black hair was rayed across the pillow carelessly. His arm traversed the width of the bed, she could see the plane of muscles in his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. There was something both magnificent and repellent in the image. She had always known he was a powerfully built man, and his being at ease by no means diminished that effect. She thought of the annihilating power of those muscles and shivered. Did it frighten her? His strength? In such an amoral man it was a dangerous combination. It should frighten her. Yet she did not move away.

Even now it struck her as odd that someone so elusive and mysterious as Erik could do something so ordinary as sleep, and there was something rather intriguing in being able to watch him with his being entirely unaware of it. How strange it was to see him devoid of all his finely cut clothing, whether it be silk or leather or velvet, each garment allowing him to play the part of the aristocratic gentleman, even if in reality he was something very different. Without those pieces of finery, he was something else entirely. Now he was suddenly very real, very physical. Very much a man. The sight of him reminded her of a proverb she had once heard about sleeping lions, although the exact wording of it escaped her.

But she was fairly certain it was something about not waking them.

She could easily back away and leave the room with him being none the wiser. Not only was her being here so, so… inappropriate, the prospect of actually going to his bed and physically waking him was not something she was entirely sure she wanted to do. To lay her hands on the bronzed expanse of his bare skin, to touch the hardened muscle and feel it tense beneath her tentative hands… no, the very idea was unthinkable! She could not possibly awaken this dark man who was wrapped in nothing but a thin sheet under which he might not be wearing anything at all… heat flooded her face at the thought.

Erik gave a muttered groan and moved slightly, causing Christine to back away in alarm. Nausea roared through her stomach at the movement. That settled the decision for her. She could bear his taunts and disgust and condescension if it meant no longer feeling like this. She crept forward again. Closer.

"Erik." Her voice came out a hoarse groan. The back of her throat felt like it had been scratched with sandpaper. Never in my life will I drink again... "Erik."

Memory stirred in the back of her mind, vague and fleeting, of candlelight and a tight hold on her shoulders, and… but it was gone. She reached out an unsteady hand (just an inch closer) -

He turned over and Christine swallowed down a gasp.

The entire stretch of his back was a riddled mess of scars. She put a hand to her mouth, all thoughts of her own discomfort chased from her mind. My God…

In some ways, it was worse than his facial disfigurement. Terrible as his face was, it was at least something he had been born with, it was something beyond his control. But those white-hot lashes of the whip that had left such brutal scars had been done to him. Again… and again… and again. She shouldn't have been surprised. She knew his history. But knowing and seeing were two very different things, and this was… unbearable. How could any human being show such cruelty to a fellow man? Her eyes stung with tears. The knowledge of his past was a constant wound in her heart. No man should have to undergo such torture. She sometimes wondered how he even managed to get through each day with the memory of it haunting him. Had he succeeded in suppressing it, she wondered, burying it so deeply he no longer gave it any thought in his waking hours?

No. She saw the defiant bitterness and raw emotion too often in his eyes to be convinced he was as indifferent as he would have her believe. She had to do something. She wanted to run her hands across the inflamed skin to soothe the hurt, she wanted to press her lips against it to counter the cruelty done to him… she wanted…

She should leave.

Instead, Christine leaned over closer still, her faint exhalation of breath ruffling the ebony hair. I have to help him. I must help him. Not because of guilt, or duty, but because in my heart, I truly want to. She was trembling as her outstretched hand hovered over his bare skin, near enough to feel the warmth emanating from his body, and she stared half-fascinated at the trickling distortion of red and white scar tissue that endlessly crossed over itself, the occasional flashes of unbroken skin showing itself that made the mutilations all the worse by sheer contrast. Were it not for those brutal lacerations, his body would have been perfect; masculine and magnificent, so vital with its sheer force of energy and life. Like his face that could so easily have been strong and beautiful, that potential had been snatched away, trampled upon, destroyed. Her heart broke at the sheer injustice of it and she longed to communicate those feelings somehow… No. He hates pity. You of all people know that.

"Christine?"

She gave a soft exclamation in surprise. He was awake. His face was still averted but he was watching her suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

She was bent over him like some administering angel, dark curls tumbling down to kiss his neck and bare shoulders. Erik closed his eyes, hard, then opened them again. No, she wasn't a dream. Still staring at her uncomprehendingly, his hand crept outwards, groping for the mask on his bedside table. It was only when his fingers had closed around it and pressed it securely onto his face did he raise his upper body and turn to look at her fully.

She had retreated slightly, an anxious expression hovering on her face that was several shades paler than usual, almost pallid in the unmerciful morning light. Ah. She was starting to feel the repercussions of last night, then. "I'm sorry for disturbing you…" she mumbled, looking as though she wished she were anywhere else.

Erik's mouth curved into a smile that could only be described as satanic. "And how are you this morning?"

There was no use in lying. The knowing look in his eyes would never have believed a show of bravado. "I feel awful," she admitted. "I was wondering if you perhaps had something that might help -"

"Give me a moment," he muttered, his normally melodic voice still heavy with sleep.

Christine quickly averted her eyes as he heaved himself from the bed and made his way over to the panelled wardrobe, pulling out a Persian robe that he threw loosely over his broad shoulders. She winced. That headache was prodding at her temples again with sharp, probing fingers. She jumped as she felt Erik's hand come to rest on her arm, but did not pull away.

"Come outside, sit somewhere in the shade."

She backed up immediately. The thought of going out into the glaring sun was more than her headache could tolerate.

"Maybe I should go back to bed," she began hopefully. She turned to go, but the grip on her arms was merciless.

"The fresh air will do you good."

She groaned. "You are ruthless."

"You knew that already," he pointed out. But there was the hint of a smile in his voice.

The sun was slowly dragging itself towards the most ferocious time of day. When they stepped outside, the blistering atmosphere caused waves of heat to break over her skin. The villa garden had a scorched, unyielding appearance. The azure sky was the only colour against the scrubbed pale saffron grasses and the whiteness of the walls. The path leading from the villa ran like a track of beaten gold, dusty and glittering in the hard light. The heat of it was burning through her fine-soled slippers. She could smell the burning dryness of desert sand.

Erik's hand, warm and steady under her arm, guided her over to one of the high-built walls that threw a relief of shade across the ground. Against the wall was a gilt-framed seat. Christine sank bonelessly into it, moaning slightly as she let her head fall back against the coolness of the stone wall, indifferent to its rough, abrading surface or the particles of white dust that settled in her hair. Lethargy coursed through her relaxed limbs as her pliant body moulded itself against the metallic-framed seat. The shade was like a cool whisper against her heated skin, the material of her robe light as gauze in a slight breeze that was sheer bliss in the parching stillness. She closed her eyes, willing the pounding in her head to subside. Perhaps if she allowed herself to gradually drowse into that somnolent state the heat so easily induced, she might fall asleep again…

Erik looked sidelong at her. Even though she was evidently feeling the effects of the preceding evening, he could not help but think her figure looked like a slender white flower, despite lacking its usual unconscious grace. With an effort, he forced down the memory of the previous night, the voracious passion of which he could not shake himself free. It would help if he were not so hot. The sweat was already pouring in rivulets down his back. He wiped his dust-covered hands on his trousers. The skin had tanned, becoming almost as dark as Nadir's… but he swallowed hard. He would not think about Nadir. That old betrayal still hurt.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Christine stiffly.

"It's less stifling here," she breathed in response. She leaned forward, pale fingers massaging her temples. "My head does not ache so much."

She passed a slender hand through her mass of unruly curls, throwing the hair back over her shoulders with a soft sound of annoyance. Erik could see the fine bones of her shoulders through the flimsy robe she had pulled around herself. He tried very hard not to think of how he managed to remove her corset from her delicate frame the preceding evening. He had been fearful of the constricting effect it might have on her unconscious body, and she was clearly in no state to take off the restricting garment herself. But God, to have her yielding before him in blissful ignorance as he unhooked the clasps, feeling the silk and heat of her body beneath, the fascinating contrast of dark material shifting like cool water over her flawless white skin, the creased folds settling in the valley between her breasts, the curves of her waist, dipping between her legs. He had finally resorted to averting his eyes, but even without seeing, he could still feel, and his hands were acutely aware of her soft breathing in the rise and fall of her chest, the moulded contours of her figure tantalising in the sinfully fine chemise. The second he had placed her gently in bed, he had fled the room and spent a tortured night in his own bed, wracked in agony. He could not help but feel a grim kind of satisfaction that she was experiencing some discomfort now, even if it was of a different sort.

Christine hesitated, fumbled for the right words. "Yesterday evening…" she frowned and tried again. "I mean, I know we were talking…" the faint line between her dark brows deepened, "And drinking…"

He said nothing. Clearly he was not going to make this any easier for her. Christine hesitantly raised her eyes to his unreadable profile. His shirt hung half-open, she could see the tightly curled black hair on his chest. There was a sheen of sweat across his brow above the line of his mask, dark hair moist against the skin. The confession burst from her in a rush.

"I can't even remember what happened."

Then you are fortunate, because I am driven mad by it. Would you like me to enlighten you? For a moment, Erik was tempted to do just that. But, he reflected bitterly, she would either disbelieve him outright, or laugh, which was a hundred times worse. "You drank too much," he said abruptly. "And fell asleep. I carried you to your room." And removed your corset.

"Oh," she said, twisting her hands in her lap. His coldness stung her. She must have embarrassed herself more than she realised. Hot colour flared in her cheeks, and she wasn't even sure why she was blushing. "I'm so sorry –"

"Don't apologise. It was my fault entirely. The wine is very strong and if you are not used to it… it was thoughtless of me not to have considered it."

"You must think me such a fool," she whispered.

"Not at all. Just someone with a very low tolerance of alcohol."

His tone was still curt, but Christine thought she could discern a glimmer of humour in the deep lines around his mouth. She smiled faintly but the sense of unease persisted. She couldn't help it; she had to ask –

"Erik… did I say… or do… anything last night?"

He turned to look at her. The unmasked half of his face was blandly inscrutable. "Like what?"

"It doesn't matter," she said hastily.

Christine stared at reflection in the mirror. The crimson dress – the hue of pressed rose petals, a deep, dark red – glowed against her pale skin. The silken fabric was lighter than anything she had worn in Paris, the gossamer-thin folds of material whispering against her legs when she moved. Silken undersleeves glided along her arms with the lingering caress of a lover's touch. The bodice scooped down from her shoulders in a wide neckline, exposing her collarbone that seemed startling white and vulnerable with the shadows gathered around her. Dark hair, brushed to shining ripples, coiled over her shoulders in heavy waves, the same deep brown as her eyes (all traces of this morning's sickness gone, thank goodness).

Raoul would have smiled, his clear, brilliant blue eyes alight with admiration as he said she looked beautiful. Perhaps she did. But then why did such a cold trickle of unease run through her veins? She had worn many exquisite gowns during the course of her engagement, gowns that were intricately stitched and embroidered and woven with fine threads of graduating shades and intensities. There was no such subtlety facing her now. The stark colours of black, white and red gave her appearance an oddly fairy tale aspect; not the happily ever after fairy tale she had thought to find with Raoul, but the distinctly Grimm kind of story, the stories where a woman served up her stepson in a stew or where a queen danced to death in a burning pair of shoes.

Did everything that came from Erik carry an element of danger?

And why did she seem so drawn to it?

With a sigh, Christine turned away from her reflection, narrowed eyes falling on the darkness outside her window. Nights came quickly in this country, plunging the sky into almost immediate blackness as dry, wind-swept cold rushed across sands faded white beneath the moon. She could see grey dunes rising in the distance, the sparse vegetation the only signs of life discernable in the landscape stretching endlessly toward the horizon. A cool breeze stirred the grasses slightly, the blades swaying with the long-familiar rhythm. Her breath caught at the aching beauty of it, the loneliness. She wondered how many people had viewed this scene before her, or whether her eyes were the first to witness it. She could almost feel the earth turning beneath her feet, the aligning of the stars in the clear sky, the ancient ground holding memories of the past and whispering of what was yet to come. All of it centred on this remote, forgotten piece of land somewhere on the skin of the earth. For the first time, she could understand what had drawn Erik here. It was a place to be found and lost, to cast off old identities and to create new ones. To leave behind everything that mattered to find something that mattered.

And she had. It had brought her back to his music. This was the time of day she lived for, those hours spent beside him as he played, when they could forget everything, the past, the bitterness and think only of the beauty. Smiling slightly, she left the room.

She walked slowly along the hall, the silken underskirts rustling with each movement. The corridor was lit with dim lamps, giving off golden hues that softened the stone walls and polished flooring. It cast a curious spell of nostalgia over her. Surely this could not be Algeria? This was no longer the whitewashed villa that sat in the heat of a scorching foreign sun, but Paris once more; the Opera house with its setting of opulence and splendour and sensuality. Christine paused. She could distinctly hear music coming from one of the rooms further ahead, the sound of it like a call out of the earth. Trailing a hand along the cool stone wall, she made her way further along as the melody became steadily clearer. In the time she had spent with him, she had learned to read Erik's emotions through his music, understanding that it was the expression of his voice, his true voice. She knew when he was feeling pain, bitterness, anger. But this was something else entirely. Not as slow or measured as Don Juan, but faster, with a frenetic, quick paced rhythm. But it held the same notes of dark suggestion. A drumming, pulsing movement that went right to the tips of her fingers.

As she opened the door, she was overwhelmed by the scents and images. The warm glow of firelight, long shadows dancing across the stone-flagged floor. Rich, wine coloured velvet and brocade. And there. Erik.

In the deceptive play of nocturnal shadows, his powerful figure seemed larger than ever as he sat at the instrument. She could see nothing but his broad, square shoulders and that wild mane of ebony hair, no longer oiled and coiffed as it had been in Paris, but loose and wild.

Her slippered feet scuffed the stone as she halted uncertainly. She did not wish to disturb him when he was so immersed, even though he was expecting her. And his music was always so captivating to the listener, once begun, she could only listen, and listen, and listen, to savour each note whether it be of exquisite ecstasy or the deepest anguish, have all her senses drown in the plush rhythms and plunging cadences, each sensation so amplified and perfectly captured that she could not help but respond, her body instinctively seeking to move in harmony with those fluid tides, to dance -

She hadn't danced, not really danced since her days at the Opera. The formal balls she attended since with Raoul hardly counted. They were stiff affairs, respectful and proper. No spontaneity, no life to them. Always conscious of being labelled as merely an actress by the upper echelons of Parisian society, she would attend these events, trying to maintain impeachable propriety, her moves stilted and awkward, trying at all costs to suppress the shivers that passed through her as Raoul's hands caught at her waist, fingers entwining languidly with hers. Trying to still the rapid pace of her heart as she moved into the warmth of his familiar embrace. But even those tunes had been familiar and routine, traditional and mundane. This was something else. Oh, it was passion and danger and menace and dash and fire all at once. She remained silent, entranced by the hypnotic rhythm.

This was not the Music of the Spheres, but of the body, of skin and heart and burning blood, and of dizzying sensuality. It was music that unwrapped the darkest secrets of the flesh, exposed the night and all its hidden pleasures. Passion vibrated in every exquisite note.

And Christine closed her eyes, the firelight flickering in bright patterns behind her closed lids, and did not see, but remembered from so long ago –

…Erik pulling her towards the line of his body in one aggressive movement, the suddenness of it causing her to fall against him. The violin pitch throbbed to aching intensity as she leaned into the circle of his arms, half turning her head to feel the roughness of his skin against her cheek and its acute friction –

The exquisite, languid notes continued to play softly, the beat escalating like darkly rippling shadows –

The silken material against her back contrasting with the searing heat and hardness of his chest. She felt the ragged rise of fall of his breathing, and her blood caught fire when his hands stroked her possessively, sliding from the curves of her lithe waist to graze the gauzy fabric covering her breasts –

Fevered as a rapidly beating heart, beautiful as dancing flames, flesh to flesh, passion to passion –

The pressure of his arm around her forced her closer still until she was leaning on him with her full weight. Warm hands sliding along her neck, the pulse jumping in response under his wonderfully gifted fingers that could bring tune to any instrument. Her shoulders dropped as he arched her body backward in a dance of ancient passion. She felt his mouth brush the line of her bared throat, haggard breaths stirring the tiny hairs there as his lips hovered an inch from her bare skin. Silk and leather, flesh and fire –

"Christine."

Her eyes snapped open. The strains of his serenade still smouldered around them. That music that pushed and pulled at her and made her burn. He cast a long shadow in the dim light. "I didn't hear you come in."

She knew Erik had ears like a cat, but did not question the lie. Clearly, he had been watching her. The half-length mask caused sensual shadows to play within the hard lines and fluid contours of his lower face. It was only his eyes she could see with any definition, clear as slick glass and just as dangerously sharp in their edges. She watched the firelight fringe his black hair with a halo of auburn.

He gestured languidly with a large hand. A pair of black gloves had been discarded on top of the instrument, coiled like sleek, leather serpents. "Come closer."

"I am quite happy just listening," she said, a little primly.

"You're not afraid, are you?"

Oh, not that look. Please not that look. "I don't know the words," she said, backing up slightly.

"You would not. This is one of my own compositions." That voice. Rich, intoxicating allure and seductive darkness. She drank it in, like sweet wine, relishing the dregs.

"From Don Juan?" Even the name caused colour to flame in her cheeks.

His full mouth curved, cruel and malicious it looked in the shadows. "No. But something a little like."

Once again she cursed that voice and the effect it seemed to have over her. His soul, she reminded herself, shivering slightly. She was here to save his soul. Never had it seemed a more hopeless endeavour than now, when he appeared more devil than man. And how could she hope to remember, in the heart of such darkness?

"I was hoping we might do something religious," she said quickly.

Religious? Oh, he was not in the mood for religion. Penitential evensong had no place tonight, not when his soul burned with such unholy fire. No, it was darkness and ardour that possessed him, crimson passion dancing beneath the skin, moving with the surging tides. His lips would form no harmonious melodies on this night, borne from an Elysian lyre. Yes, it was red that drowned his mind. His beating blood, red wine, red masks, red roses, and always, desire.

Erik devoured her with his eyes. She looked both like and unlike herself. Nothing about her called to mind a prima donna of the kind the Opera Populaire had thrived upon, those women of the black sequinned gowns and glittering jewels and figures like broughams. No, she looked like a solitary maiden come to seek a lover of the night, (a woman wailing for her demon lover) a virginal victim ripe for the role of an Operatic tragedy. Oh yes, she had certainly blossomed like a night flower under his tutelage.

"I thought perhaps something a little more… challenging?"

Her dark lashes swept down, brushing her cheeks as she eluded his intense look. "What did you have in mind?"

He turned idly to the instrument, long fingers flicking through the faded pages with a show of nonchalance that belied the fact he knew exactly what he was looking for. "What about the Habanera from Carmen?"

Christine swallowed hard. "If you like."

Yes, she would sing, if only to extinguish the intense atmosphere of the room, the sense of mute, dark fire hovering around them. She was acutely aware that he felt it too, the burning glances he kept casting her way made her shiver with both desire and unnameable fear. She could feel the pulse beating in her wrists.

All around you, swift, so swift,
It comes, it goes, and then returns
You think you hold it fast, it flees
You think you're free, it holds you fast...

Oh, how he had missed her voice, he realised as he cast surreptitious, searing glances at her pale profile, startling against the line of red silk that clung to her slender frame. The movement of her mouth, her lips, was entrancing. Yes, she certainly made an intoxicating Carmen, graceful and sensual, her skin flushed and heightened against crimson silk, dark curls dancing around her face. Ravishing, in fact. He wondered that he had never considered her for the part before… Passion surged like a flame through his blood. Erik swallowed hard and drew his gaze back to the score sheet, although he could have played the piece blindfolded...

Love is a gypsy's child,
It has never, ever, recognized the law;
If you love me not, then I love you;
If I love you, you'd best beware

She was uneasy about the choice of song. The music, the setting had all transported her to another world: a dangerous world of obsession and seduction and adultery. She could not help but think of the opera of Carmen, whose flirtations with two men had destroyed herself and the men who loved her. Even the scorching, dusty land outside bore an unnerving similarity to that final, fatal scene of Jose's wrath.

She could not help but wonder if Erik had picked the song for this very reason.

The room blurred before her, a series of images passing before her gaze; the swaying, hypnotizing movement of the fire, roses, mahogany, Erik's dark figure. Her eyes fell on his broad, heavy shoulders, the movement of his arms as he played, a deadly combination of power and grace and destruction. She saw, too, the pulse beating rapidly in his throat, the hairs on his chest where his shirt was partially opened and could imagine her hands tracing the hard planes of his strained muscles as he pressed her body against his –

Her voice strained and faltered. She attempted to continue, but Erik noticed at once, his gaze flying up from the keys to bore into her face. Their eyes caught and held.

"What's wrong?" she stammered.

He sat back on his stool, the leather creaking slightly as he watched her carefully through half-lidded eyes. "Your posture, for a start. I'm surprised you can do anything hunched over like that."

Christine gave a tiny, involuntary start when stood up from the instrument, walking over to her with all the lazy grace of a predatory cat. She could only stare, rooted to the spot as he came closer. This is unwise… but caution and restraint seemed distant words, buried somewhere far, far away. His leather boots made no sound on the polished wood floor. Now he had stopped playing, the silence was deafening. Every nerve in her body seemed to strain to breaking point when he came to stand behind her. It took all her self-will not to move away, or to turn and face him and –

"You need to be straight, shoulders back…" His tones were deep, full-throated and warm.

His fingers lightly brushed against the soft, exposed skin of her back. Sensation exploded in the pit of her stomach, spiralling outward to her very fingertips. The heat of his touch was like that which welds liquid metal. His hands went to the small of her back, burning through the silk of her gown, then slid upwards towards the wings of her shoulder blades, warm, strong hands. His breath was hot against her bare shoulder.

Again that dark fire that throbbed and pulsed around them. There was no sound between them save his heavy breathing. The sensual aroma of roses was mingled with the heady, obscure scents of leather and wine, and something else indefinable, something close and heavy from the hard male body hovering behind her… Christine's senses spun. Fingers so close to sliding beneath the delicately thin layers of clothing. Ripples of desire shivered down her spine. Luring her to submission. Temptation stalked around them, so thick she could taste it at the back of her throat. She shifted in agitation. Her corset was far, far too tight; she could not breathe…

What are we doing? she thought wildly. Am I trying to save him, or is he trying to seduce me?

Her skin was smooth beneath his fingers, as smooth as in his dreams. Erik swallowed hard and willed himself to focus on her posture rather than anything else. It was a futile endeavour. The fine lace clung damply to her skin that was flushed from the humidity. He felt her shudder against him and wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to touch her without her flinching away. But the scent of her… the sweetest perfume he had ever known, more enticing by far than the distant, exotic aromas of Persia that hung in the haze of rich air drenched with incense. He clenched his jaw, forcing down the impulse to taste her skin. She was so soft, so yielding… He wanted her to feel the fire raging beneath his skin. He wanted her open and burning for him. He wanted, wanted, wanted -

Nothing but the firelight pulsating, with his heart, with his blood. Her chest was rising and falling with each unsteady breath and his eyes were fixed on the rounded contours visible above the line of her corset, the play of gold and shadows across her smooth white skin…so utterly perfect… God help him…

He had to possess her.

To have her laid out naked and willing beneath him… right… now.

Enough waiting, he thought grimly. We finish this tonight.

She felt the warm fingers curled around her shoulders tighten suddenly. He abruptly turned her to face him. Beneath the impenetrable blackness of that mask, his brilliant eyes never left hers: the passion within them was visible as a dark flame.

"Christine…" His voice was deep and rich.

His fingers traced a slow, searing line across her shoulders. The torturous, silken movement caused the ragged breath to die in her throat. His heart was pounding hard against her chest.

Her gaze fell on the full, sensual mouth inches from her own. She was overcome by a wave of longing, of yearning. Heat pooled within her, cloying, liquid, pleasant. Her entire body was melting. Everything in her ached to surrender. The warmth of his breath grazed her parted lips. His head lowered a fraction -

"Erik -"

No more words. He silenced her tremulous protestation with his mouth.

Raoul, she thought weakly, fleetingly, but the memory was like trying to grasp mist in her bare hands. Nothing but hot skin, silken fabric and the fervent, desperate movement of Erik's mouth on hers, all the more tantalising for its rough, unpractised hunger, the love he had been starved of for so long. It was more like a ravishment than a kiss, a fierce, annihilating rape of the senses, as though he thought that by enough force he could fuse their two beings together and exorcise all the years of heartache and betrayal between them, burn it away to ashes. There was none of the tremulous uncertainty, that almost childlike tentativeness in the cellars of the Opera House where she had kissed him for the first time in candlelight and water. She could feel the shuddering force in his large hands that slid from her shoulders to the small of her back, pushing her harder against him. She could not breathe at the closeness of him, the heavy scents of leather and incense clouding her mind, the taste of his wine-dashed lips rendering her delirious on sensation. Her breasts were pressed against his violently heaving chest, the warmth of his thighs hard against her own and a wave of consuming heat ran through her, blood burning, her body transcending to spirit and fire.

For a moment, Erik was merely stunned at his own daring, with barely enough reason left in his inflamed mind to wonder whether he had just undone all the painstaking progress they had made over the last few months, but God Almighty, he didn't care anymore. Never had he been so utterly, gloriously lost. And it was such a relief; no longer denying what could not be denied, no longer fighting what could not be fought. The last time, it had been her kissing him, feeling his tears mingling with hers, hands tenderly caressing the scarred flesh and entwining in his hair. But now his mouth hungrily sought the inviting softness of her pliant, open lips, those lips he had tasted a hundred thousand nights in his dreams, but this was reality… oh, no dream this, the dark locks of her magnificent hair tumbling down in sensual disarray, caressing his throat in light, tantalising movements. This was real. He dragged his seeking fingers across every inch of her exposed flesh, burning satin twisted in sweat-slicked knots, a barely-there impediment to the naked skin beneath. Her delicate white fingers were digging into the muscle of his shoulders and he groaned deeply into her mouth. His heart was beating painfully as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. God, if she pushed him away now, he would surely die…

Christine could feel the pulse throbbing in the burning fingers that traced letters of fire across the bare skin of her neck and shoulders, the sensitised flesh crying out for more of his touch. Her slender body encircled by iron-strong arms, leather-clad legs capturing her in rapturous imprisonment. Then his tongue had pushed past her parted lips, and she shuddered at the decadent pleasure of it, oh madness, but how could she think when her body was shaking at his ardent caresses, the taste of salt tears in the mouth that trembled on hers, her body consumed by the fevered heat of his own (Don Juan, triumphant at last) -

Her hips were pressed against his groin and when she felt the hardness of his arousal, liquid fire pulsed in her core and she gave a muffled cry. An urgent, palpitating rhythm as he moved instinctively against her (stop - don't stop - please don't stop) his tongue in hot, dancing tandem with hers, because, God help her, she was kissing him back, clutching handfuls of his coarse dark hair, needing him, needing more of him, her shuddering fingers pressing against black fabric of his mask -

His mask -

Erik's mask.

Erik. This was Erik.

Her fogged mind caught hold of that thought until it crystallised into ice-sharp, splintering realisation that shattered through her spine - what have I done - paralysing force, the muscled arms around her body that still shuddered with the trammels of burning currents, his mouth now tenderly assaulting the sensitive skin at her arched throat, the knowledge that this was absolute, irrevocable, terrible betrayal even as his scorching fingers tugged aside the translucent material at her shoulder, baring the willing flesh to his searing gaze… It was an unforgivable sin and absolute insanity - God - he moved against her again, this time agonisingly slow… savour each sensation…

No -

Withdraw – now!

Reason, at last.

She pulled back at once, hearing his grunt of surprise as her fevered body strained away from him with equal parts desire and crippling shame.

Oh, God – I didn't – I did – and it's wrong, wrong –

Christine felt his entire body go rigid. She almost had to grasp at the parted material of his satin shirt to keep from falling, but that would lead her to do something that would make them both very, very sorry. She slid her sweating fingers together, knotting in tension. His square jaw was set forward with a grim intensity and a stubborn self-control that was all too close to breaking. But it was the expression in his eyes that struck her. He looked like he was going to throw her to the floor and take her, consequences be damned. And the worst of it that she was unsure if she would resist.

She took a shaking step back. Again (just one more, one more…)

"Christine." His voice was a feral growl, barely recognisable. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

I can't… I can't… Christine realised she was trembling all over. He took a looming step towards her. He was so large, so dark, blocking out the world… Instinct took over. She turned and fled.

Out the door, her slippered feet slapping against the stone, for she was running now (oh, why was her room so far away?), the house seeming to have turned into a realm of narrow labyrinthine passages with all paths leading back to him like the Minotaur in the maze, but no, no… heat clinging to her, the skirts tangled around her legs and what if he was following? The thought of his dark figure pursuing her with swift strides, dragging her back to him, caused her heart to catch in her throat, keep moving, keep moving… her breaths coming fast and short, her lips still burning from his searing kiss, but don't think about that -

Her door. At last. With a choked gasp, Christine pulled it open and stumbled inside, making certain to pull the bolt across before sinking to the floor in a tangle of silk and sweating hands, fingers pulling and twisting at the sheer material that had turned translucent with perspiration. Her face was flushed - no, her entire body was flushed. There was an acute, pulsing ache between her legs. She kicked off her satin slippers and drew her knees up to her chest, shivering.

What is happening to me?

She pushed away the dark curls of hair that were clinging to her fevered skin, dancing along her back, sweeping her bare shoulders that still burned from his touch. Her heart was pounding thickly in her head. She could not breathe. Why is it so hot? The heat was cloying, suffocating her. His overpowering scent still lingered in her clothing, heavy, masculine. She could almost imagine it hovering over her body, like his hands. And she had felt the strength contained in those velvet hands, so sensitive, so powerful. Heat flooded through her at the memory, not just of now, but all those times of contact that had been at first a slow and sensual caress, gloved fingers lingering tauntingly in those chaste places, the leathery warmth teasing her hips, the exposed flesh above her bodice... Then she remembered his brutal hold, the places where he had left bruises on her skin when she had dared to defy him and love another… All the old memories pressed down on her with a terrible, constricting weight; the fire, the deaths, the threats, the lies, that she had forgotten for so long -

Your chains are still mine. You belong to me.

Fury. Madness. Destruction. Oh, how terrifying he had looked, eyes like burning coals behind the mask. His dark past haunting their every encounter. Why had she not run sooner? Why had she allowed him to…? What if even now he was outside her door, silent and smouldering, pressing his hands against the wood, picturing her within?

She shuddered at that decadent and destructive sensuality. Yet something dark and primitive inside her had gloried at the feel of his strong arms around her, his hot breath on her lips. Possessing her heart and soul. Emotion washed over her: frightening, inexorable, unsettling. She could abandon all restraint. It was the nameless dread that had been hovering over her ever since Don Juan, this tantalising, sinful, dangerous lust. Christine wrapped her arms around her thin body, unable to shake off the sensation of his hands, hard and hot, against her bare skin. Had she wanted, those hands could have touched every inch of her body, unlocking that sweet, pooling tension that had left her skin flushed and fevered. She didn't know what to do.

By now, she should have been married, a wife. She loved Raoul (oh so very much). She thought of his beloved face, the deep blue eyes, the ardent smile. The drowning coolness of his kisses, his tender embraces enfolding her like the sea. It had seemed so perfect; the surge of desire with the faintest undercurrent of yearning and ethereal pain. But Paris was a thousand miles away and an eternity ago. She had thought with Raoul she had learnt the meaning of passion, but what if she had only touched the surface? The unplumbed depths loomed before her, a descent of jagged edges and darkness inescapable. Even now, a part of her wanted to go back to the music room, to see what would happen if -

No - no - Raoul, her sweet beloved, her dear one, her heart's darling, she would never, never betray him... but you already have.

In rush of passion, her fevered fingers coiled in the gauzy whispers of her skirts, the hooks of her bodice, and she savagely tore the dress from her, leaving it to slither to the floor in a crumpled heap. In nothing but her shift, Christine remained seated on the cool stone floor, feeling the ice of its touch against her bare skin. She covered her face with her hands. The skin was still burning, branded, marked. This was wicked, wrong. She loved Raoul, always had (always will). So how could this be happening to her again? Erik's presence had always affected her; she knew this. But this was unlike anything the darkest suppression of her consciousness could ever conceive.

I thought I had forgotten it, she thought with wretched desperation. Pushed it aside in the wake of the so much more important things that had happened. The man was doing everything to strive against his inner darkness - a consuming madness that he could tumble back into at any moment - he needed her to be strong for him, not being drawn back into the old passion and torment. She could not. She believed in Erik, had sworn to stand by him through anything, pressed her hands and lips to his penitent flesh and vowed she saw the goodness in him (nothing in this life or the life hereafter will ever persuade me otherwise), spoken the name of God and pledged herself to his salvation. Oh, how she had felt her very soul burn with righteous conviction! It had been so clear, it had been meant. She had been so willing. And now, after the mere press of his lips against hers -

She was so weak. So damnably weak.

Her fine-boned shoulders heaved with each unsteady breath. She succumbed to his body and wept for his soul. Nothing about him was tamed, nothing moderated. His mind was cloaked with the darkness of hell and his music touched the pinnacles of heaven. They had ascended high enough to ride the currents of infinite dreams and touch divine paradise through the aspiring chords of glorious music, and now she was falling, falling endlessly… His passion would consume her, burn her alive if she would let it. More than anything in this world, she wanted to see him redeemed, but at what cost to herself? Was this the cross she must bear?

It should not matter. She could not be selfish. Not in this.

Erik, she thought wildly, how did you become such a part of me? No matter where I run, it's always you I find. My muse, my madness. I can never escape.

There was nowhere to run. Nothing outside her room but wilderness. Wilderness - and him. She would not abandon him, but how could she stay, after -

Why oh why had Erik kissed her? Things had been going so well between them, and now… now he had ruined everything. They could never return to that comfortable state of - of almost friendship that had delighted and thrilled her soul. That precious bond had been shattered forever. Christine felt like crying.

She tried to search for devotional words, but prayer eluded her. Father, I need you now like I have never needed you before. What do I do? What do I do?

She had run.

Tempted him, melted in his arms, driven him to the delirious heights of bodily ecstasy, on the brink of utmost fulfilment… and she had run. Even now, he repulsed her.

Erik paced the spacious room furiously, his throbbing, unsated arousal allowing him no rest. His shoulders were heaving, each ragged breath merely fuelling his sense of furious aggravation, the stunned bewilderment that she had pushed him away… (come now, are you really surprised?) But how could she when it had been so perfect, so perfect…

Was she playing a game with him?

No. Her lips had opened beneath his, she had kissed him back, he felt it. Then he stopped short, awful hesitation freezing him to the spot, like ice crashing through his body. Had he? In her absence, he began to doubt himself. He had been so consumed by mad desire he could barely think. It wasn't as though she had the strength to fight him off; she might have been desperate to escape the entire time. She had certainly fled from him as though he were the devil himself the moment she broke free.

He dropped heavily into a chair, his mind burning with the agonised thoughts that assailed him. That kiss. The memory was already branded onto his soul. It had been endless falling and annihilation and resurrection, his heart feeling as though it would burst with emotion. He was still shaking at its after-affects, his body afire with more passion than he had ever imagined it could contain. It frightened him, this sheer overwhelming intensity of feeling that blazed through and through him, demanding that he go to her at once, because by God, he could not be satisfied with mere platonic sentiment. Not after that. He closed his eyes in silent agony. How glorious it had been to hold her slender, graceful body in his arms, it had been so complete, so right. Had it really meant nothing to her?

But if she had kissed him back, what did that mean? Erik did not for a moment believe that she was prompted by any real sense of love or affection for him. But what, then? She had denied him love for two years now, why had he thought this time would be any different?

After all, this was Christine, the eternal ingénue, the naïve and devout Christian. His forbidden, untouchable angel. Even watching her coupled in an embrace with the Vicomte had never occurred to him as especially sensual as the emotion behind it had always been so pure and innocent. Nothing like the desperate and primitive need that he thought he had glimpsed briefly in Don Juan, before dismissing it as a result of his own deluded longings. Yet a part of him had hungered for that sense of unrestrained passion he sensed buried beneath the layers of gentleness and decorum that others had imposed upon her. The thought of divesting her of those flimsy barriers of clothing, to have her cry out his name while frantic with need, and feel her trembling thighs slick with desire...

She had withdrawn from him, true, but he was far stronger and more powerful, he could have pulled her back to him in an instant and culminated this obsessive longing.

But he hadn't.

Why?

Had he not always taken what he wanted, regardless of the consequences or who might get hurt? Why should this be any different? What was to stop him storming to her room, taking her delicate body in his arms and finishing what had begun the moment she entered the music room?

Nothing. Nothing - and everything.

Erik's head sank into his hands as he sighed deeply. Now he felt only tired, so tired. Weary knowledge weighed him down as he realised, helplessly, what held him back. Had always held him back. It would not have been enough to merely fulfil the ravages of physical lust. Beautiful as she was, slender and pale and graceful as she was, he would have loved her without that. No, it was her soul he wanted – her elusive, pure and brilliant soul that shone like a white flame within her slight body – that was what he had sought after, hopelessly, all these years. The more he tried to hold onto her by force, the further this precious, ardent spirit eluded his grasp.

He had known that things could not have continued as they were. Tonight had proven that. It seemed that three choices lay before him. To take her by force, to let her go, or to become someone she genuinely could love. The first he would not do. The second he could not. But then, that leaves… leaves only…

At last, aching and exhausted, Erik fell into a fevered sleep. The crackle of the fire faded and he heard the blood beating thickly in his ears as his mind cast itself back, and he realised he had been here before, though never in his waking hours. He wandered in a dark and lonely place.

The soles of his feet were torn and bleeding. A path of stones and thorns stretched before him endlessly. It always came back to this. He could walk no further. It was too much. He wanted it over. He had drank from the cup of life in all its bitterness and was sickened by its dregs.

Blood and darkness and corruption, such have I tasted. There is nothing to look forward to but death. No release but annihilation. Who will grant it to me?

O Jesu. Let me embrace the cross and bear its splinters for the world to see. Let me clasp the nails meant for Thy hands. Let me bear the stones and sufferings, for Thou hath nothing to repent, and I have all -

"You have nothing to repent, you should never be sorry…"

Christine. He looked down at her face, very pale, very anxious in the fading light and it struck him that he had seen that face before – the same, yet different – tear-blinded and stricken with grief. He watched as the wind caught her hair and something tightened painfully inside his chest. The hour drew near and the cross beckoned. An inner wound burned him. Yet even now, he hesitated.

"I'm not worthy."

"None of us are," she said.

He was already too late. Divine blood flowed from the cross. He watched and did nothing to intervene. The derision and mockery was misplaced (they condemn the wrong man), yet he said nothing, and his silence was a thousand sins. Christine wept, her hair over her face. He could not bear it.

He collapsed at the base of the cross. He felt the pain as though it were his own; the ecstasy of agony, the pouring of blood into the open wound. He lifted his face in yearning. An agonised, unspoken appeal.

Help me. Heal my wounds. Ease my suffering.

A voice answered. Who are you, to bear the burdens of Christ?

He tried to speak, but could find no words. But she was standing before him, her face filled with emotion.

He reached out entreatingly. "Christine… please…"

Gently but firmly, she put his hands away from her. And he saw she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks as she spoke softly, her shoulders shaking. "I tried, Erik. I tried so hard I thought my heart would break with sorrow, but it was all for nothing. I thought there was hope, that it was meant. But I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong. I came too late. You know what you are. What you will always be. And this is the last time, the last time I will see you, do you understand? Do you understand? This parting will be forever. I can never, never see you again."

No… His mind was reeling… this cannot be the end -

She turned away.

"Goodbye, Erik," she said.

His eyes opened to see the world through an aching veil of weeping. A dream. Or a memory.

Erik sank to the floor. Half faint with delirium, he pressed his shaking hands against the fevered skin of his face, the hateful mask falling away, hitting the wood with a dull clatter. His fingertips traced it all from the bitterness of memory; the scars, the cruelties, the inhumane torments… yet in the end, it is my soul that is the ugliest thing of all.

A sudden, bleak feeling of misery overcame him.

You know what you are.

His heart thumped a dull, sickening rhythm. He was so lonely. He was dying of loneliness. Erik gasped an unsteady breath, feeling the final humiliation of tears running down his face. For the past, for himself, and most of all, for Christine and the love he realised he would never have. Had that kiss been the last, final torment? To give him a glimpse of heaven before snatching it from his tremulous grasp? Why, oh why could she not love him? Did he not deserve to loved, as other men?

But you are not like other men.

He pulled himself upright, groped unsteadily for the mirror in his greatcoat pocket. He stared at his reflection blindly through water-veined eyes. The mirror trembled in his hand. He flung it from him in a passion of tears. I thought she was different. That she would see past it. That if anyone could… it would be her. But how could she see past such monstrosity? How could anyone? Distorted, deformed, his face twisted and scarred, a mark of Cain for all the worst things he had ever done. He deserved to be disfigured. He had tried, God knows he had tried in those early years to act with good intentions but his every endeavour was met with mockery and hatred.

The memories pierced him with tormenting intensity. He was enacting his own passion play, the trials, the suffering, but without the glory and release of death and redemption that would follow. He wished to atone and become sanctified… but there can be no forgiveness for me. Unless - unless from her.

He saw her face so clearly, the trembling of unshed tears as she knelt penitently before him, her eyes shining with that clear transparency that was so unique to her. I will never stop believing in you, Erik. Never.

Had she lied? For how was it that such a seemingly frail, delicate creature could burn with such spiritual passion?

No, she could not have lied. This was Christine. She wasn't just anyone. Her promises weren't anyone's promises. She had said she believed in him, and in her pure, truthful heart, those words were binding. She had sacrificed everything to be here, more perhaps than even she knew, and for that he could never doubt her.

But… why? What could possibly induce her to have such belief in him after he had lied and hurt and betrayed her times beyond count?

Perhaps it was just one of those things he would never know. All that mattered was that she believed in him. It was enough. Enough to add a soft grace note to his grief, make it a little bearable, but still there was something wanting; there would always be something wanting -

I have knelt weeping at your feet. I resurrected you from the ashes when you were a grieving child and gave you music only the angels dreamed of. And it's not enough. It will never, never be enough.

Tell me what I must do!

Had he not given her music once more? And this time, with no secrecy, no barriers of glass and lies casting a shadow between them? His vivid genius – so long neglected – had once again soared and flourished with her influence. She was the closest he could come to reconciling the transcendent, visionary plane his soul yearned for with the secular world he was forced to live in. Formerly, the retreat from the boundless, unchartered regions his music transported him to was an agony, the return of his grim and dark existence a blinding pain. And yet, to be beside Christine, to have her leaning over next to him, the peculiarly close stars visible through the narrow window and the night air of scented darkness surrounding them – he found this to be almost as much a heaven as the one his music had inspired.

Or so he had thought, foolishly. But without her love, his music faded to pale whispers and shadows in the empty caverns of his dying heart, an echo of eternal, unquenched yearning. He wanted to be annihilated through the ecstasy of song, to disappear from existence to nothingness. He thought of his instrument standing alone and his fingers played the ghosts of melodies, filled with unendurable pain. Perhaps, he reflected, he had been right to abandon the music in Paris. For what was music without a muse? What was a life without love? He had been conscious and breathed and existed, but he had never lived. No one had ever given him the chance - except her.

I watched you in the chapel on holy nights and spoke to you in the voice of an angel. Our souls met and soared in transcendent flight as we sang to shed light on the darkness. Tell me it was not for nothing!

He fell to his knees, aware only of a piercing agony. He could not let her go. Never, never. I try to pray and see only your face, always. Oh God, how can my destruction be my salvation?

He was heaving for breath, hands pressed hard against the wooden floor - wood and nails and spilled blood - and he thought blindly that dying must be better than living out a future of empty, endless days, oh, such a long time to be alone… Misery behind him and desolation stretching before him.

He lived in perpetual fear, ever dreading the day she would finally walk away from him for good. Is that why he had held back? Never aspired to better himself these last months, because he knew that once he'd done so, she would smile serenely and consider her work done, return to Paris with a song in her heart and never look back? What bitter solace could he hope to gain when that connection, that bond between them would be broken, shattered, annihilated? Nothing held any meaning, any value without her. Did he really have the strength to endure that again? It was easy, so very easy for her to break his heart. She broke it every day. A convulsive sob tore through his chest. He felt it always. The longing - such terrible longing!

She was the beginning and ending of his life. Christine, his beautiful tragedy, his sweet salvation. His own patron saint. Baptised and bruised and so very brave. He had said once that he had preferred her flawed. Flawed, but not fallen. No, he would not let her fall because of him. He would never take by force what she was unwilling to give. If he did… all that would remain was a hollow shell, a bitter reminder of the wrong he had done her. And he wouldn't be able to look at her without the terrible, crushing guilt. He wouldn't be able to look at himself.

I thought it was enough. To take her body, even if she didn't love me.

I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong. Oh God!

It wasn't enough. He lusted for her body when it was her soul he wanted. Her pure, strong, ardent soul. And her heart to beat for him, her tears to fall for him, to be consecrated by her touch. He had thought himself reborn in the cellars beneath the Opera House, baptised by the salt of her tears, but in the end he had learnt nothing, nothing…

Help me. Mortify my weak flesh. Make me anew.

He needed to be worthy of her. The kind of man who could be deserving of her love. But how could he ever hope to live up to her high and pure ideals? Her abiding tendency to see good in everyone bewildered him, he who had lived a lifetime witnessing only the degradation and cruelty of others.

He felt the strength draining from him. He torn her away from everything dear to her, stolen her life, taken what should have been the happiest years of her existence, the kind of years she would look back on in old age with the softness of sweet memories and joyful reminiscences. But instead, that innocence had been twisted and corrupted with bitterness and loss and missed opportunities. The guilt was eating him up inside. This knowledge, this sin, was weighing on his conscience, causing his heart to feel cold and heavy within him.

You could have been happy once. But I destroyed that, too. Everything I touch turns to ash.

Erik felt himself shaking. Everything he had done stood between them. And everything he might yet do…

I no longer know what I'm capable of… I thought goodness could be easy, that forgiveness was attainable, but it's the hardest thing in the world. Help me, Christine. Help me, please. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Music was coursing through his body, of unmitigated anguish and lamenting. Beneath the mere physical desire, a stronger passion was unfolding wings within him. There was a single, burning prayer in his soul that set his heart aflame but froze his tongue.

I cannot think – I – I cannot sleep for this bitterness that gnaws within me – what am I to do? Where am I to turn? There is nothing, nothing -

You could go to confession.

The words seemed to come from a force beyond himself. Emotion seized and gripped all his senses. He felt it from the depths of his heart, pain and bitterness that no repentance could ever overcome. He was tired down to his soul. He had lived defiant of religious conviction for so long, for without religion there could be no sin. He had been a god unto himself. If he renounced that… then he was nothing but human, weak and fallible. His heart was torn with conflicting impulses, being pulled two different directions. A blackening rage came over him. To expose the last shred of his quivering soul to cold, judgemental scrutiny… no, it could not be borne! He would not be reduced to this.

I cannot – I will not – I refuse to grovel before a God that mocks me in my degradation and gives no thought to my sufferings. I will not satisfy her vanity to stoop so low, nor pander to her self-righteous convictions.

And yet I love her – I love her still! So much so that my love is stronger than my pride.

There is nothing I will not do for her.

The knock on her door sounded in her ears like the Final Judgement. He was outside her room. Oh God. She could not face a confrontation. Not now. Her entire body shook. She drew a shaking hand over her hair, smoothing down its wild disorder. The hectic flush had left her cheeks, now she was pale and afraid of - she did not know of what. Slowly, Christine stood up, drawing a robe around herself and swallowed hard.

"Come in," she said nervously.

The door opened, the incoming draught cooling her dry, burning eyes. His presence, as always, seemed to dominate her entirely, drowning out all else to insignificance. She could look at nothing else.

He was wearing a mask of white porcelain, its surface shining like winter light, the mask she had not seen in… oh, such a long time. It brought everything back in a sweeping rush; ghosts and angels and sorrow and heartbreaking memories. The force of it paralysed her for an instant. She could see so much more of his face, that even beneath the square jaw and heavy features, still held an indefinable transparency, the soul beneath the surface struggling to reveal itself in rare, blinding flashes.

And everything, everything was different between them now.

"Erik, I -" she stopped, realising she had no idea what to say.

She looked at him in apprehension. There was a strange, glittering energy in his eyes and an unnatural pallor to his skin. An angel of darkness, of destruction.

No. She had been wrong. There was no darkness there. She had expected to see anger, accusation, lust. What faced her now was entreating misery. His eyes were like cut glass, a sharp spearpoint of agony. Defiance and pride struggled in his face. And she knew, then, that for every lie he had ever told her, for every angry word he had flung at her, for every threat he had ever uttered, that he was sorry for it. Humbling remorse filled her.

"Erik." No longer afraid, she came closer of her own volition, the empathy and desire to alleviate his pain expressing itself in her tremulous voice.

He said nothing, merely stood there, his body shaking with tremors of extreme emotion. His mouth was set in lines of grim resolve. She could see the pulse beating hard in his throat, as it beat when he held me tightly, as though it would break his heart to release me -

Christine could bear it no longer. His silence was like a knife to the heart, yet she knew she deserved it. I tasted the salt of his tears. He was weeping as he kissed me. It was agony unendurable. How could she have been so cruel? He had sought out love and she had acted in the worst and most despicable way of all: not rejecting him at once, yet allowing his caresses just long enough to give him the faintest hope -

And she had run, coward that she was.

Tears burned her eyes. She bowed her head, clouded dark hair hiding her sorrowful face. "Oh God, Erik, I'm so sorry -"

He gazed at her blankly. "Sorry?" he echoed. "What have you to be sorry for?"

"I -" No more words emerged from her pale, trembling lips, but her mind struggled with blind helplessness. Everything, for being unable to love you as want, for being unable to renounce you and freeing us both of this hopeless situation, for being too weak to help you as you truly deserve, as I promised so faithfully…

"It is I that should be sorry."

The shuddering breath caught in her throat as she raised her head to stare at him in uncomprehending surprise. "Erik, no -" I won't let you bear the burden of this, not when the fault is all mine -

"Let me finish!" And the sharpness in his voice was like a laceration. Christine winced and fell silent, her hands clenched so tightly the bones were visible beneath.

Brief remorse flickered through his eyes but he looked away, his expression grim and set. His voice, when he spoke, was no longer fluid and melodic, but harsh and broken, as though each word had to be forced through countless layers of fiercely-bound restraint. "You cannot imagine what my life was like. So dark, hopeless and alone, until I heard you sing for the first time. You cannot comprehend how your voice moved me as I listened in the wings; I wept. It was beautiful and awful and heartbreaking. You sang like you wanted to die. Then I knew there was someone who… understood. Someone else who had walked through grief and shadows, only you - you hadn't let it corrupt you. Oh, I know how it must sound -" The edges of his mouth twisted into that old, diabolical sneer of scorn. It was somehow gruesome in contrast to the pleading, impulsive expression in his eyes; she could hardly bear to look at it. "That a young, beautiful ingénue just happened to be what my starved soul needed. And I know how little my word must stand with you. But if I merely wanted a pretty girl, the Opera Dorms were full to bursting with such ornaments. I could have taken one by force, dragged her below ground, and who would find her again? But there are limits even to my depravity. Or at least, I thought so. That was until I took you, lied to you and betrayed you. It was the last thing I ever did, and it was the worst thing of all."

She could only listen to him with deep sympathy, her eyes dark and wide and earnest. "You know that doesn't matter to me now, Erik."

"Well, it matters to me!" he said harshly. "I need forgiveness, and I know I deserve none. And I think you will mock me if I say what it is that I wish to say…"

"Never."

"I can say this only to you. I confess this to no one else. This compulsion, this need is burning within me, my conscience is urging me to go and lay myself down, prostrate myself at the feet of –" he ground his teeth - "I cannot even bring myself to utter it –"

"To who?" she said very quietly. Her heart had begun to beat with a queer, insistent rhythm. "To who, Erik?"

"You know!" he snarled. His fist smote the doorframe. "You know and I know! But I cannot – it is weak and cowardly, and I swore that I would never set foot inside a church again and debase myself so utterly! Not even for eternal salvation! I hate Him! And yet – and yet –"

She swayed where she stood and put out a pale hand to steady herself. "You love Him."

"I –" He shook his head fiercely, wrestling with denial.

Christine fought once more on the brink of tears. "With all your soul and all your heart; it burns in every fibre of your being. You love Him. As He loves you."

Erik's deep-set eyes darkened, hollow as mortal wounds. "God never cared for me. He abandoned me."

"No." Her voice was gentle. "You abandoned Him."

"I had good enough cause to!"

"Erik," she said. She faced him, her girlish figure slim and straight and upright with conviction. "You turn away from God, yet you are the most spiritual person I know."

"Spiritual? No. Think rather that I am damned, Christine."

Her throat was hoarse. "Why do you think yourself so unworthy of love?"

"It has eluded me for thirty-seven years."

His voice was quiet, and without accusation, but for Christine, the words seemed to swell into the silence, bigger and bigger, obliterating everything but the terrible, crippling guilt that caused the ache in her chest to intensify painfully. He had never been loved. She had known this, in a subconscious, constantly-there way - but to hear it spoken with such a lack of affect made it real, made it solemnly profound. There was no exaggeration or sentiment or poetic embellishment in it at all. It was sad, and tragic, and true. She had known loneliness, had spent nights in speechless agony, but at least she had been loved. Her father, Mama Valerius, Madame Giry, Raoul - all had been there with a comforting word and tender embrace to soothe her fears and chase the demons away.

And Erik had no one.

A deep, agonising sadness overwhelmed her. How could life be so bitterly unfair? If she had not been so weak, so devoted to Raoul and the memory of her first (everlasting) love, so much a terrified child, she could have loved him. She should have loved him. How can I stand here and so complacently offer him platitudes? How dare I? I am the last person in the world who has the right, after everything I have done, after how much I have hurt him… oh, Erik! Forgive me, forgive me, please!

Lightly, she brushed his unmasked cheek with the tips of her fingers. He gave a sharp, indrawn breath as though the faint touch scorched him. She was speaking now the deepest thoughts in her heart, not merely empty words of sympathy and dutiful platitudes. "I don't think you are evil, for evil men do not repent or seek atonement for their sins. Or worse, they see evil everywhere except within themselves. And you, Erik, you suffer for everything you have done. You bear the burden of those sins and you've done so alone - for so long - and you shouldn't." Christine made a small sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. "God be my witness, you shouldn't have to suffer alone, no one should -"

He was standing very still. "Oh Christine," he muttered darkly. "You don't know how you torture me with those words."

"Torture?" She looked up at him, wide-eyed with unhappiness, tears glittering on the ends of her lashes. "The last thing I meant was to make you feel more pain."

He shrugged, a gesture of deep, soul-heavy weariness. "I told you once that I deliberately sought out isolation, to be alone. That I had made myself immune. Do you remember?"

"I remember," she said.

His jaw clenched. "If I am not that, then I am merely pitiful and weak –"

"No." Her eyes were blazing. "To me you have never been stronger."

He was watching her suspiciously through narrowed eyes, wild and wary, as though daring her to laugh. And it hurt. Even now… even now he doubts me…

"Here," he muttered finally. He made a violent movement - clutching convulsively at his chest - and the defensive mask fell away at last. A true expression of repentance. "In my heart - I can still feel it. I always will."

Reaching out entreatingly, she pressed his hand in mute empathy, their entwined fingers held over his fiercely pounding heart. "Confession will allow you to feel remorse, to purge your grief, end this guilt. Believe me. Trust me."

"I do," he said. "Until the end of the world."

Until the end of the world.

And, just like that, all her fears fled.

Words were failing her. What I always believed and hoped for… and it was of his own volition… his own strong, scarred soul. I knew he was capable of this, I was right to never, never doubt him -

She pressed her lips to his hard, strong hands, her curling dark hair falling down and shielding her face. He tensed all over, as though turned to stone at the touch of her lips on his flesh. She could taste the salt of tears on the calloused skin and pain wrung at her heart. It was shattering, consuming, unbearable. She had seen the scars he bore, the pain he carried with him always, and it pierced her heart.

"Oh Erik," she whispered, again and again. This tormented, lonely man, her own seraphic angel, sought a way back into heaven and she would find it for him, for him she would do anything… father, angel, music, muse, life…

She was gazing up at him with passionate admiration, a shaking, tremulous disbelief. "You are really prepared to do this… you have no idea what this will mean to you… what it means to me…"

Erik said nothing, but his eyes were very dark in his still face, rendered motionless with surprise at her outpouring of heartfelt emotion. The pulse in his wrists was beating hard against her fingers and Christine instinctively tightened her hold on him. His whole life has been leading to this moment. To attain light through darkness and despair. Oh, Erik. You see only the pain, but there is also the glory and rapture -

"You saved me once," she said shakily. "A long, long time ago. When I was alone and afraid and had nowhere to turn, you came and showed me there was beauty to be found in life. I never truly thanked you for that. Let me do it now… by helping you as you helped me."

Then he did speak at last. "Christine, there is no need -"

"There is every need." She stared at him, unable to put into words the feelings he had inspired in her. His high, proud, noble soul had prevailed as she had always known it must. Never had she admired him more than she did in that moment. You've given me strength when I was at my weakest…

"Thank you," she whispered.

He gave a wild, strangled laugh. "Congratulations, Christine. I've just become a penitent."