Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Though I am VERY pleased with what I don't own.

Sorry. More trouble in my life. Not necessarily bad, but still trouble. Never mind. This perks me right up.

You can tell by the title that it's a biggie. I will say no more, except that:

I LOVE THIS CHAPTER.

Zehra: How can you say why you love someone? A thousand reasons crisscross the heart, but at the centre – no reason at all, only the mystery of that person. If you say you love someone because they are handsome or rich or powerful, you love only a fraction.

The Ash Girl, by Timberlake Wertenbaker.

Point of no return

The chase, much as he had enjoyed it, had had to come to an end. Even as he paced steadily through the halls which he had designed and supervised the building of, running his fingers along familiar walls, he knew that he had left that part of his genius behind when he had died. He would never make another house like this one. He would never make another house at all.

This has gone on for too long. I cannot continue like this. You must come back to me.

He had to save her. He had to keep her safe. He had to keep her from the sword that had opened his body to let out his own life, from the weapon that had caused the death of an innocent. He would not wish death upon her. That would not be right.

I have no right to decide when you die.

Christine truly had little idea of how close he was upon her trail while she fled from him, as he stolidly walked after her, the lining of his cloak still smouldering from the heat of his destroyed ballroom. Unlike him, she would eventually tire, and then he would catch her all the more easily. Why was she doing this? But of course he knew why.

He had been impressed when she had used her own branch of ventriloquism to try and fool him, but in reality he had never been more than a few steps behind her. How could he not, when he still held the memory of it in his soul? He had worked on this place for three years, and had not forgotten it in all his years of death. This place had been his true masterpiece; and now he must leave it behind.

He followed her to the hall of mirrors, keeping out of her sight all the time – a master feat, even if he said so himself – and waited until she was transfixed by the multitude of images that stared back at her. He approached her silently, casting his voice all the while. She only knew her situation when he whispered in her ear, and she fled straight back into him.

Safe!

He had barely had time to throw his arms around her and pull her close to him before his hard-won time was up; but now that she was back in his embrace he could take all the time in the world to go back 'downstairs'. Even as she struggled in his arms, he felt a surge of energy push its way trough him, replenishing him, strengthening him, giving him what he needed; and he hugged her all the more tightly, part in sheer love, part in triumph.

You're safe.

But his thought was combated by Christine's furious shriek finally erupting from her choked mouth, too late, far too late, as he pulled both of them,and at once they were back under the earth once more - so quickly it made even his head spin - and he landed hard up against a cavern wall with Christine still in his arms, held tight. If he had still been alive, that certainly would have winded him. But he wasn't alive. That made all the difference.

Christine's elbow, which dug sharply into his side, would have hurt as well, were it not for the fact that she was too distracted to make it count for much. He restrained her easily, but surprisingly she wasn't trying to escape; she wriggled around in his arms, pushing herself away only so that she could scream into his face, her eyes wild and her lips wet.

"Why? Why did you do that?"

Of all the questions she could have asked, it had to be the one he knew the answer too all too well, but couldn't tell her, could never tell her, because she would accuse him of lying. To say that he loved her would only make her scream that if he loved her, if he truly loved her, he would let her go. And that prospect he simply could not begin to comprehend.

Not again.

So he said nothing. He had only to wait until the time was right to carry her further away from that terrible threat that could still come to her. He let her scream for a little while instead, calmly holding her as still as he could and keeping her hands away from his face (and more importantly his mask) while she pummelled his chest and ripped at his shoulders, detaching his cape; and then when she paused for breath he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her along, meaning that she must run with him or fall-

"How dare you do this, you b-"

-and fall she abruptly did, over his heaped up cape, with a great flurry of silk and lace and flailing arms, and he pulled her gently up again, feeling her solid, panting weight in his arms again. He used the excuse to catch her up into his embrace once more and carry her along without worrying about her falling again, and also making sure she could not run from him.

Her hand hit him hard around the head and he almost stumbled himself, feeling the mask dislodge and slide further down his face, though not the pain that should have come with the blow. He paused only to catch the offending arm in his free hand and walked on, ignoring her angry cries even when she spat them into his ear.

"Leave me alone! Take me back! For God's sake, why can't you just let me be?"

For their own good he paid her no heed but marched on, letting her strike at his head as much as she liked – it wasn't as if she could hurt him, after all, at least not physically. He would reach their destination long before she tired out, but he didn't care. She was alive, beautifully alive, and her fury was righteous, and he adored it all, so much.

Impulsively he squeezed her even tighter to him, and she must have thought that it was a threat of some sort because she fell still, her breath still rushing in and out of her lings like the gush of a river, her blood pumping with anger and frustration, her hand still pressed against his chest by his own. He could feel its warmth through his waistcoat and through his dead fingers and her lacy glove.

"Don't stop," he murmured, as he leapt with his burden over a great gap in the path, not bothering to see what lay far down within it. "If you do, you will go mad. Scream your heart out if you wish. I won't stop you. I won't cover your mouth to cover up what I have done. I know what I've done, and I'm proud of it. Voice your disapproval, Christine."

He looked down in time to see her brown eyes narrow up at him and her lips part to bear her teeth. But when her mouth opened again, she did not scream, she only whispered. "Why are you doing this to me, Erik?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was not meant to harm, or hurt. It was not a weapon or a jagged barb of any sort. It was a simple, confused, saddened question, and so it tore him inside more than any scream or slap ever could.

Could a paltry protestation of his love for her, all consuming, all devouring, justify this?

Yes. It could. He knew, he knew that it could. It was what kept him going now; his love for her. But would his love destroy them both, in the end? There seemed no true solution, no hope to this.

He kept on walking, deeper and deeper, preferring to avoid the boat across the spirit-water for fear of what she might do – throw herself into the water to slip beneath the surface, and away from him, finally, forever? - and instead he carried her the long way around the shores of the river, close to the wall, never once lessening his hold. Christine did little else but now stay painfully still and breathe, deeply, harshly. Once or twice she took a deeper breath than usual, obviously keep back a sob. That tore at him as well.

Perhaps it will please her to know that she causes me pain, even now.

Finally, with a step across a shallow version of the bay, they were back, in his dim abode which had been so much to him, but had become nothing without her, nothing at all. What did he care for mirrors if he could not see her reflection in them? What did he care for drawings or sketches if he could not draw or sketch her? Once it had been a place of dreams longing to be fulfilled. Now it was simply like that dark place in the back of the head, in which you waited until dreams came to you. And the only dream that was now possible for him was in his arms.

I will have to be very careful, even now, to make certain that this would not become my nightmare.

In the low light of the candles he set her down upon her feet upon the dais; she let him, wrapping her arms around herself as soon as he took his own away and turning her face away from him, strands of her ruined hairstyle falling over her face. As she shivered in her white silk, one paltry flower slowly came loose from her temple, and drifted gently down to the floor. While she distractedly watched its descent, he never took his own eyes off her face, so that when she looked up again their eyes truly met, for the first time since the chandelier had fallen.

She was the first to blink, and looked away again with a low, bitter laugh that did not suit her at all. "So what will you do now, Erik? Now that the wedding is off? Am I your prey, your prize, once more, to be dealt with as you desire?"

Her attitude annoyed him intensely. "You need not be so immature, Christine. I intend nothing of the sort towards you."

"Then why did you choose to abduct me again? Did you simply think you would liven up my wedding party? If so, you have certainly succeeded. I doubt that anyone will ever forget the carnage you've inflicted today."

"You exaggerate grossly. No one was hit by the chandelier, not even your little friend vomiting her guts out on the floor."

"Does that comfort me when I think of all the people that you've hurt in the mansion? When the chandelier crashed, and the fire started? All those who might have died? Should that make me feel better?"

He could forgive her for leaping to conclusions, but her accusations still pained him terribly. Why did she think of him like this, why did she persist in it? I am not a murderer. Not any more.

"That was not my doing, as I am certain you are aware. Be glad that those spirits who came through behind me attended to the chandelier instead of directly attacking people. And I had nothing to do with the condition of your friend – that was simply the price she had to pay for tampering with forces she should have left well alone."

She glared back at him, her voice rising sharply. "You simply say that because she helped to get me away from you. She didn't deserve that – none of them deserved what has come to them. And you did do something to Celandine, something terrible-"

She broke off, taking a step back as he closed the space between them, resisting the urge to grab her arms and shout you're wrong, you're wrong! "I did nothing to de Chagny's sister; that was the work of another…one who would have turned his attentions to you, if I had let him."

She laughed harshly. "Should I be grateful then? Should I thank you for saving me instead of kidnapping me? I feel far from grateful; but here," she stripped off one of her lace gloves and thrust it out towards him, "a favour from your damsel for your heroic deed. Take it and display it in your helm, why don't you?"

She's hysterical.

He raised one eyebrow and gently knocked the glove aside, but this only incensed her further; she raised her hands and ripped at her throat, pulling at her lacy collar, exposing her pale skin, hissing through her teeth. "You don't want that? Do you want more, Erik? What do you want? Why can't you just leave me alone? Why can't you let me be happy? Why can't you let me live freely? Are you that selfish?"

He didn't know what he felt more at the moment, love or anger, at her or himself. He leaned forward and caught the hand that was ripping her white silk jacket open further, trying to calm her or himself. "You know why. You know as well as I do. I love you, Christine. It frightens me myself when I see how much I love you. But love you I do, as much as it torments us both."

"Your love!"

Christine's arm moved without hint, and struck him on the shoulder; he stumbled backwards only to receive another jab on his chest, as she attacked him. Even when he grabbed her wrists to keep her hand away from his face she still kept on, trying to jab and to tear, and her hair wild about her face and her mouth wide and screeching. "Your precious love! If you love me so, then why are you doing this to me? You're destroying me! You're destroying us all! You're selfish and cruel – oh, you're cruel! What good does your love do me, Erik? What good does it do? It's tearing us apart and killing me, and you let it because you can't bear to do anything else; because you're so weak!"

He let her hit him. He let her claw at his chest, feeling the marks of her fingers through his clothes. He let her abuse wash over him, if only he could hold her close. This is my punishment. It was fitting, in some terrible way. If he stopped her doing harm to herself in her hysterical state, and only hurt him, then she would be safe.

But oh, it hurt so badly when she began to scream, over and over again, those words that he had grown to dread and yet had expected with icy certainty.

"I…I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! God, how I hate you!" She shrieked out her hideous mantra, half-howling, and all he could do was grasp her wrists as gently as he could and stop the despair from bubbling up inside himat her words.

This…after all this time, finally, I am in Hell.

This was Hell, and he was struggling with the angel that his accursed love had transformed into a demon. He had broken her, and he had broken himself, and the pieces of them would fall into the abyss regardless of his futile efforts at the end.

But then, just as suddenly as it had started, the attack stopped, as did her screams. Christine's face softened and her eyes filled with tears as she blinked up at him, the demon exorcised and the angel returned to her features as she began to gasp, trying to pull her wrists away from his hands. At first he thought it was from disgust, but then…oh, then…

"No. No. Erik, I, I don't hate you. I can't hate you. How can I, when I…when I…" She managed to free her wrists and throw her arms about herself again, her shiver returning. Before he could catch her she fell to her knees, her precious breath now coming in faint sobs.

He followed her down to the floor, his bones clicking, and he put out his skeletal hand, forgetting himself, and touched her upon the arm. What happened then surprised him as much as anything else that had happened so far today; Christine reached out and threw her arms around him, pulling herself close to him, resting her head upon his chest. If he had been alive, she would have been able to hear his heart beating. He was so surprised he could barely let his arms gently settle around her shoulders, hugging her softly, tenderly. He held her as he had held his mother, pressed close to where his heart should be, but was no longer present.

"You know, don't you?" she whispered at last. "I think that we have both known for such a long time…but I couldn't admit it. I was too much of a coward."

"The fact that you have chosen to reveal it now belies that," he murmured as comfortingly as he could manage, gently stroking her shoulder. But she shook her head.

"I'm not brave, Erik. It's the only thing I can do now, and…I don't know if I hate it or not. I should. It's so treacherous. How can I love Raoul so much, and yet…and yet…"

"You may say it, if you wish," he said, his calm voice not betraying his inner dark chaos. "It is only the truth."

He felt her head shake, as it pressed closer into his chest. "No. No, I cannot. It frightens me so. It's too much."

"All right." He did not press the matter. He did not need her to say those three beautiful, terrible words, not when they both knew them, perhaps had always known them, to be true. He held her close to him, and she held him close to her, sinking together in a chill embrace that leeched the warmth out of both of them.

But it was enough.

"Why did this have to happen to us, Erik?"

"Hmm?" He roused himself to look down into Christine's face, to see her blinking back tears. "Why did what have to happen?"

"All this." One hand rested on his chest once more, as she pushed herself slightly out of his arms, only to look into his face more closely, more keenly. "Why did it have to be this way? Why did it have to be that you died and only then, years after, when I already loved Raoul, only then did I meet you? Why does this have to be? It isn't fair. I'm not strong enough to make such a choice, or brave enough, and I don't think you're strong enough to exist without me. Why must this be?" She leaned her head forward again, resting it down where his shoulder met his chest, and he brought a hand up, it didn't matter which one, to stroke her silky, wispy, wild hair. "Why couldn't it have happened another way? Why does it have to be like this?"

"I have always noticed that Fortune seems to have something of a sense of humour when it comes to affectations, especially concerning love triangles. Perhaps we were fated to be thrown together like this, for the sick amusement of someone or something, somewhere." Why did I say that?

"But it shouldn't have to be like this. It wasn't right. It wasn't just." Her slender fingers crept under the edge of his displaced mask, and before he could stop her – perhaps he didn't want to stop her – she pulled it off, letting it fall gently to the floor. But she did more than that; she placed her warm hand on his cold face, her palm on his withered cheek, her thumb on where his nose should have been on that side of his face, the tips of her fingers stroking his temple.

"Was it fair that you were born with such a face? Was it fair that people hated you for it, never seeing the truth beneath the flesh? Was it fair that you had to take it into your own hands to end your mother's misery? And was it fair-" here her other hand cam from behind his back, and her fingers found, with a shiver, where the sword had gone into him, so many years ago, and where his life had pumped out in glorious wet redness – "-was it fair that you were killed in such a manner, and left to rot in a shallow grave in the woods?" Her eyes looked full into his own, and she did not blink this time. "I do not think that was just or right, Erik. That was wrong. It was unfair."

He could barely bring himself to laugh, he thought he might actually faint from what he was feeling, as he took his own hands away from her shoulders and put them to her soft, sweet face, feeling the heat of her cheeks and chin. "And what about you? Do you think it was fair, what has happened to you so far in your relatively short life? To lose your mother before you knew her and your father far too soon after that? To be trapped behind a beautiful mask of your own? To be tied and trapped by a marriage you may or may not have wanted? What kind of life is one that prepares you to be merely someone's wife for the rest of your life? Was that just?"

Her fingers tightened on his face. "No…no, I don't think it was. I love Raoul, but knowing that I would have to marry him in any case, whether I loved him or not…I had to work hard to keep it from poisoning my heart. But it's too late now. I'm so wicked." She brought her hand up from his side, to cradle his face as he cradled hers, and if he had any breath he would have held it. "Erik, why did you have to love me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve your love, or Raoul's, or anyone else's. I'm pathetic, I'm weak. I don't deserve this devotion. Could you not have loved someone better, someone more worthy? Why did it have to be me?"

"Christine, don't ask that. Don't think in such a way." He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her close, one hand still to her face, feeling her heart beat thumping through both their frames. "I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anything, in life or in death. It frightens me as much as it does you. I don't love you for any one reason. I don't love you because you're beautiful, or because you are kind, or because of your voice. I don't love you for your wit, or even for your bravery – because you are fearless, Christine, in a way that no one else will ever know. I love you because you are yourself, only yourself, exactly yourself. I love you because you are the one who gave me life again, if only a semblance of it. I love you because, no matter how much the knowledge tortures me, I know that if I had never met you, I would truly be dead."

She smiled now, though her face shone with the remnants of tears. "I know what you mean. Despite all that has happened…I'm happy to have known you, Erik. If it had not been for you, I don't know what I would be now. I would be dead inside."

"Then it was well worth it, so that you might be saved from death."

More than once.

As he held her, his thoughts whirled. Can I keep this up? Can I keep her with me? I did this to protect her.

But is this fair either? At last, with Christine in his arms and her confession in his mind, he could see the truth. There is no hope for us. There never was. It was a dream. Christine was real, but my hope was a dream. A stupid dream.

No, not stupid. It gave us reason. It gave us fancy, but it gave us reason as well. But what good does it do us? What can it help us to achieve?

We all fall in love with a dream. But we wake up and find ourselves married to strangeness.

Life is learning to live with that. Death is the same.

He knew what was coming from above; he knew that Nadir would do his best to thwart him again. And he could recognise the taint of the Vicomte, intruding into his realm. He would have to act.

"Nadir is coming, with your fiancée." He watched his beloved's face change, her eyes widen…no longer in anticipation, but in fear, though her voice was quiet when she spoke.

"What will you do? What will we do?"

"I no longer know." Gently he helped her to rise, holding her hands in his, refusing to release her for more precious seconds. "He will no doubt probably be furious. As a matter of fact, so am I."

She drew her fingers sharply from his. "Don't. Just, don't start fighting with him, please. He doesn't understand."

"I promise that I will not fight, unless I am attacked." It would be hard to keep that promise, but for her sake he would at least try. He drew her close, lowering his head to whisper in her ear – probably the last chance he would have to do so, so it was bitter-sweet. She considered and then rested her hands upon his shoulders, as if she recognised this last embrace.

"Christine, whatever happens, know that I am glad that I died, for otherwise I would have been dead in my life. You gave me a chance to live in death, by loving you."

"I know. Your love gives me life, and yet every time I hear you say those words, I die a little as well." She stood a little on her toes, and to his surprise pressed her lips to his cheek, leaving a tear in her wake.

Swiftly he released her, his fingers screaming at the loss of this last touch, this last warmth, and instead turned towards the place where Nadir usually made his appearance, just in time to see Nadir emerge from nowhere at a run, dragging two shapes behind him. The look of astonishment on his old friend's face was, he had to admit even in this dark hour, quite funny; but his humour vanished at the sight of the Vicomte. Could he really laugh at this little boy, to whom he had done so much harm?

Am I no better than the ones who doomed me?

He smiled at the so-called rescue party. "We just keep running into each other this day, do we not, Raoul?"

Again, I just love this chapter. It's a complete opposite to the last one. I got down everything that I wanted to, in the order that I wanted. Erik and Christine said everything that I wanted them to say and I hope that they conveyed just the right sort of message. This chapter, I have decided, is the baby in my baby. (Only not like a Siamese twin that never got born, yuck!) I cuddle them both!

It's odd, but even though I said in 'The Uninvited' that I had been waiting nearly two years to write it, this chapter was an unexpected treat. At the start of this story, Christine was just Christine, and Erik was just Erik, characters which people use in their stories. I'm so happy by how far I've brought them, and how far they still have before them. (And no, that's not a spoiler.)

Most of all, it gave me a chance to express my own opinion of love. Forget sex, or money, or power; the best sort of relationship is one where you honestly feel happier and generally a better person for knowing and loving that person, and knowing they love you. These two, despite all their angst and troubles, nonetheless I think have that.

I'm so proud. (Goes off to collapse under a handy bush.)

Reviews for the half Irish seamstress!