Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Three chapters from the end, you should know that by now.

Well, hello again. Dreadfully sorry to everyone who's been waiting so very, very long for this, but…yeah, real life can be a right pain in the (insert appropriate bodily orifice of your choice). There've been ups and downs, and further downs, and ups that outnumbered the downs in the end. I had to study like I never did before for my exams, and if I didn't Mum and Dad would get all sad and disappointed, which, I can tell you, is far worse than having them angry with me. It makes you want to wrench something internal out to get rid of the guilt.

Also, I've effectively left school for good – not expelled, you understand, of course; I only had exams to take and the last day to attend, which should explain my absence until now, so essentially that part of my education is finished.

It's odd. You think about such a moment probably ever since you start school – I know there are certainly times I've wanted to walk out the respective gate and never come back – and yet, now that I've finished a process that's taken about fourteen years(give or take kindergarten), I really don't feel anything. Relief, regret…well, maybe a little bit of regret.

Yeah, so I'm not going to depress you anymore. I'll let the story do that.

...'I'm glad you like them, but, to be honest, they make me very gloomy. She seems to paint every "death" theme there is. Look at this one of Joan of Arc – she was martyred – and this one, "The Legend of the Wandering Jew", and this one, "The Medieval Dance of Death."'

'Do they all want to die?'

The question stopped Mrs. Buck in her tracks. She looked confused, she flicked her eyes over the paintings and back to Isadora Elzbeth's face.

'My God,' she whispered, 'I never saw that before. Yes, they do. They all want to die.'

Isadora Elzbeth, by Caroline Barry.

"No one is born evil. No one."

The Tulip Touch, by Anne Fine

When fishes flew and forests walked

Some moment when the moon was blood

Then surely I was born;

With monstrous and sickening cry

And ears like errant wings,

The devil's walking parody

On all four-footed things,

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet.

The Donkey by G.K. Chesterton.

Be grateful, you lucky lot. I was going to split this into two chapters, but then I decided that, kind, sweet and loving authoress that I am, I didn't really want to put you all through so many agonies while you waited for the next update, since we are, after all, so close to the end, and you've been waiting patiently for so long. Also, I reasoned that you might rant about it so much in your reviews (which are appreciated, I assure you!) I'd be driven almost insane.

Never underestimate the importance of a good rant.

All as it should be

She felt that she might shatter and crumble like glass, like a falling chandelier, like the chandelier than had fallen not so long ago, if she so much as moved.

But it was all she could do to keep herself still as she gazed steadily at poor, dear Raoul's face, hardly noticing those who stood either side of him. She had been afraid when Erik had first told her of his approach that he would be angry, and that his anger would make him reckless, even suicidal. Heaven knew that it had made him reckless before, as Meg and the others had informed her, when she had been missing and he had feared the worst. But now his face was calm even though his hair, somehow white streaked again, hung about his face messily ; and he gazed quietly at the both of them without surprise or rage. The look sent a quiver through the fracture she was sure she could feel within her heart.

How can he be so calm; how can he be so calm when he sees the state we are in?

But it appeared that all three trespassers were more prepared than she had expected. Certainly Raoul did not simply surge forward, abruptly shouting at Erik to release her, nor did Madame Giry or Nadir say anything to provoke either of the two men. They seemed…somehow expectant, as if waiting for herself or Erik to do something or say something, anything, to remedy this situation. The tension was filling her like a hollow vessel; soon it would overflow.

What I will do then, I do not know.

She risked taking her glance off Raoul for a moment, as if letting him out of her sight for a few heartbeats or only one would doom him, to look sideways at Erik. Here was another surprise, for Erik did not appear to be angry at all, as she had feared. Perhaps he was truly taking his vow to heart, for there was no deadly fury in his half-face; only, perhaps, a morbid curiosity, as he stared at her fiancée and the dilapidated state in which he was in.

Turning back to look at Raoul, she realised with perhaps some disapproval that, probably for the first time, the two men shared the same expression. Erik was just as much an oddity to Raoul as Raoul was to Erik, their outer beauty ruffled and in Erik's case exposed as less than skin deep. It was obviously an intriguing experience for the both of them, and maybe that had unconsciously saved Raoul's life, but it did not please her in the slightest.

Could they not simply overcome their prejudices of each other? Could they not make peace in some way? But that was as stupid a thought as she could manage.

In the end it was Raoul who spoke first, and she was reassured somewhat by the level tone of his voice. Raoul, even when he looked calm, often betrayed his true feeling through the emotion in his words, and at the moment he was most likely as calm as it was possible to be.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

She could have begun to cry, especially considering the truly wretched state she was in. He had come down to the underworld himself, passing who knew what on the way – and the first thing he asked was about her welfare, utterly disregarding the one who had taken her even while he stared calmly at him.

That was Raoul. Foolish, brave, simple, loving; that was all Raoul.

"Yes, Raoul, I am," she replied, as loudly as she could to show there was absolutely nothing wrong with her voice. "I'm not hurt. Are you all right?" But before he could reply there was an interruption from her left.

"You insult me, Vicomte," Erik said bitingly, his voice belying his still placid face. "Did you truly think that I would harm her?"

"I can never tell what you might do, Erik, considering all the things you have done since we first became aware of each others' existence."

"A whole sentence from your mouth, and yet not a single insult in it. I am impressed." Erik paused, taking in the sight of Raoul's face again, and now his mouth split into a grin again, showing the yellowed teeth. She hated to think it, knowing it was treacherous to do so, but he really did not look at his best when he smiled without his mask on, since the upturned corner of his mouth only wrinkled the ruined flesh on that side of his face. He was no doubt aware of this, and even turned his face slightly towards Raoul so that he had a full view of it. "Not a very pretty sight, is it, Vicomte?"

"No," Raoul agreed softly, "it isn't. But that doesn't mean I'm going to wrinkle my nose in disgust at the sight of you either." He stepped forward, the water lapping at his shoes in apparent annoyance. "We have not come here to fight, Erik, I promise you – we came here to talk."

Christien looked at him in pure astonishment. Was this the Raoul who, not so long ago, had brandished a pistol at Erik and threatened to shoot out his eyes? That man could not possibly have been more different than this one. Why, he had lost the pistol along with his fury. Something along the way must have infused him with calm, a great calm, enough to quell his rage utterly. What could have done such a thing, save a miracle?

Erik, meanwhile, stared at him blankly before letting out a short, sarcastic laugh tinged with disbelief that she could feel against her skin, like blunt knife. "Talk? You have come down here, escaping from a burning mansion, through the depths of the underworld, to talk to me? You never cease to astonish me, Vicomte."

"Indeed, Erik," Nadir called from behind Raoul. "We – that is, Madame Giry and I – believed it would be more productive, and after some persuasion Raoul agreed with us."

Erik continued to stare at them, though his eyes were narrowing rapidly. "Then what do you wish to talk about? You had better be quick, Vicomte; my patience is waning fast."

This is going much too far. I won't let this happen. Not again. She quickly reached out and put a hand on his arm, gripping it tightly to remind him of her presence. She even dug her nails into the dead flesh, ignoring the new feel of it beneath her soft fingers. Feeling did not matter any longer, if ever it did.

"You promised me, Erik," she said quietly, her voice hardly making it out of her mouth. "You said you would not hurt any of them."

His flesh relaxed slightly under her touch, and he chuckled again as he looked over at her, and for that time his eyes were warm again. She felt her heart shudder at such a look. She would give anything for him to always be so content, if only it were not at the expense of others. "I did promise that, didn't I?" He looked back at Raoul and Nadir and Madame Giry, his face stern again. "You may approach, but no further than the foot of the dais. Understood?"

The three nodded and they stepped forward until Raoul's foot brushed the side of the platform. Now she looked down at them, and they looked up at her. She could see how very tired Raoul and Madame Giry looked, and it seemed as if even Nadir was on the edge of exhaustion, spirit though he was. At once she felt remorse stab at her like a sharp needle, among all the other emotions she had to contend with; all this time while she had been absorbed in her own feelings and muted confessions, she had no idea what they had endured to get here – and all to find her and Erik like this? She could hardly meet their eyes any longer, she felt so ashamed. She would have turned away if she had not feared that she might miss something useful pass between her two suitors, something important that could aid or thwart her intent to bring peace between them, by any means. And she would perhaps need to remind Erik of his truce again.

In the meantime, her knees finally seemed to have decided to give way beneath her, and so she sank down, her stained white skirts billowing about her, and she reached her hands out to Raoul. At once he took them and more than that, he brought one hand to his face and the other to rest upon his shoulder, perilously close to his heart.

He had certainly never done that before. Neither had she…no, she had, and only a few minutes ago at that, with quite a different man. Her hands had gone lower than this, as well. She could hardly think of that time while touching Raoul's perfect skin and feeling such emotion sweep through her. Is it mine, or is it his? She hardly knew anymore. Her mind was so plagued now that she could hardly even remember what she had said clearly; but she remembered the nature of it all too well.

Naturally she could not see Erik's face from her position at this point, but he did not sound pleased at all at this open display of affection between them as he spoke: "So, you have come to talk, Vicomte. What have you come to talk about, exactly?"

Raoul never even took his eyes away from her as he slowly, gently kissed her thumb, and then her palm as she hardly breathed in shock at his actions – oh, my - and when she heard Erik hiss only then he spoke out: "I wish for you to release Christine. I want you to give her the right to choose her fate, instead of constantly deciding for her. I want you to let her choose between us, Erik, and I want you to be happy with her choice, as you were never happy with what life and death dealt you. That is now my one desire."

"What could you possibly know of my life and death, little Vicomte?" But for the first time since the intruders had arrived, there was a falter of confidence in Erik's voice. He was actually worried. She could feel it, like dampness upon the air. This was obviously not going the way he had planned. Probably he had thought to taunt Raoul for his own amusement, twisted though it might be, and not to be bewildered by the new knowledge his rival displayed.

She stared at Raoul's blue eyes as he went on doggedly. He did not even seem to be looking at her anymore, even as her hands cupped his face and stroked his hair, more for something to do in her nervousness than because she felt the extreme need to.

"Everything, Erik. Everything. I know…I know who killed you." Raoul's face twisted, as if he might cry, but he ironed away the expression almost at once. "And it came close to breaking me, I assure you. But I know. And, Erik…I'm so sorry." As far as she could tell, he was completely sincere.

Swiftly she looked up at Erik, and never had she seen him more completely taken aback. He actually started backwards, his eyes widening like a cat startled, his mouth open in astonishment; but then his eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth like a cat angered. "What?" he said, slowly and dangerously, as if weighing up whether or not to strike Raoul dead on the spot.

I don't understand. I don't understand! She had to ask.

"Raoul?" she whispered, spreading her fingers out over his cheek, her eyes trying to meet and hold his. "What are you talking about? What are you sorry for? You, of all people in this whole business, have done nothing wrong!"

Raoul looked at her again, and she quailed at what she saw, for his eyes looked more dead than Erik's ever had at all. "It is not that, Christine. It is not what I have done. It is more what my family have done."

"Well? What have they done?"

"Vicomte-" Erik started, very close behind her, but at once Raoul reached up and grabbed her wrist, holding it close as he spoke urgently and swiftly over the protesting words of his rival.

"Christine, it was Grandpère. My grandfather was the one who ordered Erik killed. Erik was his foster-brother. My grandfather thrust a sword into his side, and the blood loss killed him. It was my family that killed Erik, and my grandfather who ordered the deed, and even carried it out. I carry the weight and the shame of Erik's death on my shoulders, and the burden of my grandfather's foul deed."

There was a pause between when she heard his words and when their meaning slammed into her, like a sword thrust to her own gut. Oh.

Oh.

She had not known. All this time, she had not known, not fully known. And now, oh, oh…

…now, at last, she saw why Erik had been so furious when she had mentioned Raoul's family name. Now she understood truly why he had looked as if he wished to kill her, during that brief moment of fear. Now she really knew why he hated Raoul so, more than simply because he was his rival. The de Chagny family had truly taken everything from him. They had taken his mother, his happiness, his hope; they had even taken his life, and now they claimed the one that he loved.

At last, at last, after so very, very long, she understood.

"Let go of me," she said, as softly as she could. Raoul's face stayed calm in the face of her new coldness, and even his eyes stayed fairly dead, but she fancied dully that she could see something twisting through them, like a snake twisting through frost.

"But…" He began, more as something to say than as a protest.

"Please, Raoul, just…please, let go of me."

When he had at last released her wrist she stood up carefully and turned away from all of them so that they could not see her face, looking only at her feet in their tattered, grubby silken slippers. As she walked slowly past Erik she felt her dress brush against his hand, but he made no movement to stop her or to do anything else. For that she was glad. At this moment she wanted no contact of any sort. If anyone touched her, she might actually scream. She might break, like fragile china, digging into the flesh of the ones around her.

She was cold. She was so cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers clutching hard at her sleeves, and kept on walking until she reached the nearest mirror. She knew it was there, even without looking, because it was even colder than she felt. She was freezing. Like Erik had, a long time back now.

Behind her, very far away and long ago, she could hear Erik speak. "Why did you tell her that, Vicomte?"

She breathed in, sucking in what air she could, and looked up at her reflection, and found at first that she could hardly meet her own eyes. What had she become, that she avoided even her own eyes?

So this is what it has come to. I am torn between them. I will be ripped apart, by them and by what I know.

"I wanted her to know, Erik," Raoul replied, from centuries back and a lifetime away. "She had a right to know."

She looked at herself in the surface stolidly: a bedraggled bride, her veil and bouquet gone, her dress torn and dirtied, one of her gloves lost, her shoes falling to pieces. Her face was paler than ever and her hair was a complete mess; her eyes were very red though she hadn't been crying. Or at least, she thought she had not been crying. With the confusion her mind was in, she was no longer sure anymore, but the sight of her eyes was riveting.

They were so dark she felt as if she were looking down tunnels, into her very soul. Was I ever this hopeless? Did I ever look at myself and see such a sight, before I went astray and met Erik? I don't know. I don't know.

I don't know anything any longer. It's too much, too soon.

"You have another reason, Vicomte. Why? I do not want your pity. I do not want anything from you."

She had been happy. In an extremely odd way, she had been happy. She had admitted the truth, to Erik if not to any other. Perhaps that was why it hurt so much now.

She should be crying. Should I? She should be weeping frantically. She should be sobbing. After all, Raoul's grandfather had killed Erik; surely that was reason for her to cry. She was engaged to a man she loved, but his family had killed another man that she loved, whom they should never have harmed or hurt because he had not deserved it, he had deserved nothing so terrible as to be betrayed in such a manner. The truth had been kept from her for so long, and heavens, how was she supposed to think about it without breaking down? A few moments ago she had been wound tight enough to snap, like a lute string.

I would have splintered and I would have dug into their hearts, into all their hearts. Like a gun shot, only much, much sharper. Like a sword blade into their sides.

Like the thorn of a rose into a finger…

No, she did not think like that any longer. That moment of fear and frustration was fading from her. Her dark eyes were dry now as they had always been, and they looked at her, oh so very old, out of a young woman's face. She hunched into herself, keeping the frost in her soul inside, and the fire that raged behind her out. Dimly in the mirror she saw Raoul place his hands upon the dais, as if he would pull the legs from under his rival and must quell the urge by doing something else with his arms.

"I want her to choose. And yes, I admit I hope to God she'll choose me. But she needs to have that choice, Erik. You understand that, don't you?"

She had found, then - as she listened blandly to Raoul's words, at first hardly understanding - to her very great surprise, that she was not really, truly sad. She was not angry either. Yes, she could certainly feel the sadness and the anger, remorse and growing fury, but strangely they were not her own feelings; they did not belong to her at all. She was aware of them, but she was not truly experiencing them. As if she were a hollow vessel that a raging storm was pouring into, churning flames and pieces of ice, the rage was calming and even ceasing, leaving only peace in its wake. The ice put out the fire, and the fire melted the ice; the sadness calmed the anger, and the anger erased the sadness.

Daddy said, in the stories he told me, that the world began in fire and ice. He said that it might end in fire and ice as well. But…can fire and ice help someone to live?

"Perhaps. But I also know that I cannot trust you, Vicomte."

Peace. That was what she felt. Peace. Relief. She knew the truth now. Erik had not told her, because the hatred of the de Chagny family was his own, and he had not wanted her to be poisoned by it. Raoul, instead, had had the courage to tell her, when he could just as easily have kept it a secret and left her ignorant. She knew, and while at first it had been like a stab to the heart, now it was like the sweetness of healing balm. Her heart was now like a calm, cool sea, which only rippled instead of churning.

I am brimming over.

"Erik, please, I simply want-"

And her eyes, as she looked at herself, were no longer old as she had first believed. They were sage, which was different. Somehow, some way, she was not afraid anymore.

"Oh, spare me, Raoul. Do you think you can win me over? Lord, your grandfather has withered, and yet you rise up with his poison in your mouth. What will it take for your get to leave me in peace?"

Standing under the earth the two men, one living, one dead, who loved her and who hated each other, argued behind her. Strangely, the angrier they became, the more calm she herself felt. Her water cooled their fire and their ice. She watched Erik's teeth grind and Raoul's face frown before looking back at herself. If this was yet another punishment that fate had devised for her, then this time she could simply rise above it and conquer it.

She smiled. This was no small thing for her. Perhaps back when she was a normal woman she would have let it defeat her, but now she was stronger. It was not Raoul's fault, nor was it Erik's. She would not, could not blame either of them.

"I am not my grandfather, and I thank God for it. I am sorry for what he did to you, but you cannot continue to condemn us for it."

Now she looked around at last, to see Erik and Raoul glaring at each other, and she hardly knew which one of them she loved the more, and her heart sang with joy and sorrow together. But before she could speak, another voice cut through the air.

"Enough!" She stared in amazement. Madame Giry, probably one of the most elegant and refined people she knew, was scrambling up the steps onto the dais, rather hampered by her skirts. Once there she glared at the two men, who had obviously forgotten their argument and were clearly as dumbfounded as she herself was feeling. "Cease this quarreling immediately! It does you no good, and besides, you should be intent upon something far more important than a petty rivalry. You are both adults, even if one of you is cursed and the other is dead!" She turned her back on them and marched over towards her, anger clear upon her face, anger Christine could actually feel.

"Men!" the older woman hissed, as she grabbed hold of her arm. Christine was torn between the urge to giggle and the urge to gawp. Over or under the earth, Madame Giry seemed to be the same as ever. Both their skirts brushed against the mirror and Giry began to pull her away.

Perhaps that was the explanation for what suddenly happened next.

Raoul always thought of what followed his revelation, and his furious argument and glaring match with Erik, as more dreamlike than anything else. His entrance to the lair, what he had told Christine, even coming face to face with the walking corpse once again, all these things were understandable. He could comprehend them, he could accept them. What came next, he could hardly accept at all.

Where else but in a dream would he suddenly see Meg Giry's face emerge from the surface of the mirror, as if through water? He had done his best to forget that horrendous night when his hands had plunged through and delivered Christine wet and weeping into the Land of the Living, so to see Meg do this was a dreadful reminder of his nightmare. It was as if the chill of the mirror, still in the pain in his bones, had surged through him once more, stronger even than when it had leeched his hair of its colour and all his strength from him. He felt sweat start out at once upon his skin at the very sight of that pretty face, like a mask being thrust out from a wall that he had known to be solid only a minute ago.

But it was even more dreamlike when Meg's face looked about, and appeared happy with what it saw – who could possibly be happy here?- and the rest of her body proceeded to follow, the mirror surface clinging only faintly to her sleeves and her skirts, pulling away from her hair like springy branches. And not only that, but three other personages then followed her at once – there was Carlotta, still holding his pistol, Cecile holding a sword, and between them…

Between them, there was his grandfather, looking rather browbeaten, Carlotta and Cecile each holding one of his arms. His shoulders were sunk, he looked…it was so strange to see him so…defeated.

What in the world? How…? How could that monster have come here? How could any of them have come here? Even as he stared at the man he cold now hardly acknowledge as his grandsire, Comte Phillipe looked down at him and stopped where he stood, his mouth opening in surprise.

"Raoul," he managed. "How did you-" But Raoul was ready, and shot him back an answer as sharp as a knife blade.

"Murderer."

Comte Philippe started backwards at the poison in his voice. He thought that he might choke on it himself. But Meg paid him no heed whatsoever. It was her mother she turned to, who now felt as bewildered as he secretly did, no doubt. She certainly looked it, at any rate; she was grasping poor Christine's arm so tightly it was all Christine could do to disguise her pain.

"We found him, Mother. We brought him. Thank goodness you were standing by the mirror at the time and I could see you through its surface, or we might have been wandering around forever!"

Madame Giry stared back at her, for even this unshakable woman was being shaken at last by what she had seen. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, before she managed to get the words out, and even then they sounded as if they came from far away, perhaps even from the world she had left behind and was perhaps now desperately wishing she could get back to. "Meg, you just walked out of a mirror."

"Yes, we did, didn't we?" Meg, entirely unconcerned, turned next to Christine and smiled at her. "I'm glad you're safe, Christine. You look as well as can be hoped." She passed her a book, a book that had been hidden in her hand until then, a book that looked oddly familiar…

"You need to read this, quickly, and more thoroughly than you did before. Please." Finally the blonde girl turned to Erik, and even her face, far more lighthearted than it had been the last time he had seen her – how can that be? – paled a little at her first sight of the wretched dead man. But then she gulped and said softly, "Carlotta, Cecile, let him go now."

At once the other two girls released their hold on Comte Philippe the Elder and stepped backwards, Carlotta never lowering the gun and Cecile keeping a tight hold on the sword, which was out of its sheath. They, too, looked different. There was far more colour in Carlotta's face, and Cecile no longer looked afraid – of anything.

But he didn't care about that now. He didn't even care about Erik, his enemy. All he cared about was getting up onto the platform and wringing the Comte's neck, snapping the bones of the one who had caused so much misery and death. He moved to clamber violently upwards, but it was Erik's voice, of all things, that stopped him.

"Peace, Vicomte. This argument is now between the Comte and myself, not you."

"Erik." His grandfather's voice made him look up, to see that the old man was gazing intently at the one he had just been thinking of. He wasn't shocked so much now as intently curious. And Erik…oh, Erik was angry, he could tell that now. His anger was worse than it was with him, as the rival for Christine's love. This was more than fire; this was cold fury, burning and freezing in every part of his frame.

"I knew it was you, when I saw you in the ballroom. How could you be anyone else? Is this all a dream?" his grand- no, he could not think like that any longer. It was no blood relation of his that spoke; it was simply the Comte who went on, nothing more. Nothing more, or he would go mad with it, mad with what he had done.

But it was hard. It was as hard as when he had feared that Christine had run away from him, because she did not love him. How could he even begin to comprehend the horror of what Madame Giry had told him?

"Your grandfather is a murderer. I am sorry, Raoul, but it is true. He was the one who killed Erik, so many years ago. Two women died as well, not at his hand but because of his actions. He ordered the deaths of many more men, and my father would have been one of them had he not escaped to Paris."

And deeper of all those pains was the knowledge of what had happened to Celandine. For that alone, he wanted to shake the answers out of the Comte, perhaps even beat him.

He had loved him, once. But that love was wholly gone. Now he only longed for when he could be punished, as he so rightly deserved.

"I doubt it, Philippe. I really and truly doubt it." Even Erik's normally beautiful voice was icy.

"It would not surprise me if it was. This would not be the first time that I have dreamt of you, during the years that have passed since we last met." The wretched old man hardly seemed to be looking at his erstwhile victim now, before his eyes cleared and sharpened once more.

"But I can see," he went on blithely, "that you stand before me in quite a corpse like state, and you always appeared to me in my phantasms whole – or as whole as you would ever be. I must reason that, horrible as this all is, it is nevertheless real and unimagined. I suppose," he added, over his shoulder to Meg, "that this is the reason you brought me down here? To face my crime at last?"

"Of course," Meg shot back quickly. "Who has more right to judge you that the man you murdered, your brother?"

The old man shrugged elegantly. "Foster brother, Mademoiselle Giry; let us not forget that. Though thanks to his mother being such a loose woman, he might well be my half-brother as well."

You…Raoul hardly knew what to call him anymore. He doesn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that, you evil…Lord, what do I call you now? I don't know what to call you anymore. I loved you once, despite all you had done to us. Now I don't know what to think of you. Now I can hardly look at you.

Erik, ignorant of his rival's uncharacteristic sympathy on his part, simply laughed softly. "Oh, Philippe, dear Philippe…such kind words. You have not changed in wit, though you have certainly changed in body. Do you know," he added, taking a step forward, smiling harshly, "once upon a time, I would have cursed the whole de Chagny family but for you, despite your somewhat sour nature. Because I loved you like the brother that you were to me, hard as it might be for you to imagine it."

The crooked smile slowly melted from his face, like ice melting so cold that it was beyond freezing, and boiling instead. His voice came lower then. "Then, I would have cursed the whole family because of you."

"And did you?" The Comte's words were entirely too quick, and it drew the attention of all. Erik's eyebrow lifted slowly as what remained of his lips pursed.

"Why? You think that I cursed you with my dying breaths? I am not the one being judged here, Philippe. Remember, thanks entirely to you, I am now beyond judgment. As to curses…perhaps I did, but the threats of a deceased man generally tend to carry very little weight."

I could challenge that – but then again, this isn't my argument.

When the Comte made no reply to this, Erik, began to smile again. "Why the questions? Do you hold me responsible for everything little thing that happened to you since you oh so very gallantly stabbed me in the side on my wedding morn?"

"And why not? I would not put it past you." The old man spat the words as if they left a bad taste upon his tongue.

"What in the name of all the saints are you talking about?" Carlotta demanded irritably, shocking him back into awareness of the others, and even of himself. He had been so caught up in watching the two enemies quarrel that he had even forgotten to breathe; he hurriedly drew in breath.

"I shall tell you, mamselle. Ever since this…creature," and at that the Comte shot a glance at Erik that made him sink with shame, "died, there had been a shadow upon the de Chagny family. The wives have had miscarriages. Children have died in childbirth or in infancy. Have you not wondered, Raoul, why none of the family have lived past fifty…save myself?"

"So you blame me?" Erik asked in amused disbelief, a disbelief Raoul himself felt, even as he glared at the Comte for daring to address him in such a familiar way; he had no right to do that anymore. "Just because some family members have been unlucky in health? Ridiculous. If I had cursed you," he went on, a thoughtful expression that was little better than his anger appearing upon his face, "I could have done much better than that. But rest your grey old head; I did nothing of the sort. You are enough of a bastard without having ill luck from beyond the grave to help you. You cannot pin the blame upon me."

"You…you…" The Comte was visibly shaking with anger, obviously not used to be spoken to in such a manner, but with some effort he calmed himself. "You call me a villain, Erik? You, who tortured and killed so many people? You, who delighted in slaughter? What was it they called you in Persia; the Angel of Death?"

"That's not true!" Raoul felt like weeping when he saw Christine marching forward, glaring at the Comte, the book Meg had given her still clutched in her hand. "You know nothing of it. There was no choice for him. You speak of something about which you know nothing!"

Oh, Christine…His heart sank even as it ached for her. Her lovely dark eyes shone with righteous anger, anger in aid of somebody else, the one who challenged him for her love. And he could have hit the Comte for the dismissive look he shot at Christine, as if she were no more than a street whore. "It is you who speak of something you know nothing about. Do you think that he is a true angel, then, mademoiselle?"

"I think he is better than you by far," Christine said hotly, looking as if she would deal the old man that blow he longed to unleash. "Erik killed because he was forced to. He took no joy in it. But from what I can see of your conduct, sir, you still do not regret what you did."

He thought then, for an instant, that the Comte might actually hit Christine, and was already pulling himself quickly up onto the dais to prevent it, but instead the old man's fury died away as quickly as it had come, and he nodded, apparently sad. "You are right in some way, Mademoiselle Daaé. Well, if I am indeed to be judged, I must testify." He turned back to look at Erik. "What do you wish to know?"

Erik frowned, taken aback at this sudden compliance, but he rallied in a way that Raoul could admire. "For a start, the truth, for once in your wretched life. Why exactly did you choose to kill me?"

"Ah, yes. The catalyst to this little affair. You never knew why I did it, did you, Erik?"

"I made some guesses, since I had a great deal of time to muse upon it; but I am quite sure they will not be nearly so enlightening as your revelation," the living corpse retorted coldly. The Comte sighed, as if dreading what would come next. As he no doubt should.

"Very well. I hated you and in the end I killed you, because you always had more than I had. "

There was silence in the echoing lair as Erik considered this, before a slow grin spread across his face once more. "You are being serious, Philippe? My word, you are growing senile. For God's sake, you were going to be the next Comte de Chagny! I didn't even have a whole face! What could you possibly find to be envious of in me?"

"Can you not guess?"

"No, I cannot. Do tell me."

The Comte took Erik at his word, and stepped closer, his eyes narrowed, why he could not tell. "It is you who are senile, Erik; or have you known nothing in this elaborate courtship of my grandson's fiancée? There are more important things than wealth and beauty, as you should well know." He paused importantly, aware that he had the attention of all of them now; the cluster of women by the mirror, he and Nadir by the platform, and his enemy standing so close. "I speak of love, Erik, happiness and love. Your mother loved you as mine would never love me. And, god how I know it, you had my father's affection. You always had my father's love; I was starved for it."

This is the reason? he thought, bewilderedly. Love? It all comes down to love? And then, But of course it does. It always comes down to love. I should know that full well, perhaps more than Erik, even.

"So you killed me because the man favored me rather than you?" Erik retorted, though to Raoul's eyes he looked rather shaken at this news.

"That was one of the reasons," the Comte replied softly, stepping backwards again. "But there were others. I could not let you live; you had become too dangerous. The influence you had been given in the family by my father after your return from your little pleasure trip might have damaged us all beyond repair."

"Poor reasons indeed," Nadir spoke from right beside Raoul – Raoul had almost forgotten that the spirit of the Persian was there, he had spoken so little. "I would say, sir, that they are rather little more than excuses, which you have fabricated for yourself, over the years."

"It has…haunted me." Comte Philippe nodded, distractedly, unalarmed by the sight of the Persian. "I tried to make amends, but I could find no solace. I turned to my family, I hoped I could find some forgiveness there. I hoped to find the love that I had lacked in my childhood. I did my best for them-"

You dare? You dare?

"How dare you." Raoul had forgotten all else at those words, as rage began to flood him. Why doesn't the earth split beneath him and swallow him up, why doesn't fire come from the sky to melt him? Why doesn't the world rebel at these falsehoods, this treachery? "How dare you? You stand there and speak of how much you love your family?" he spat, clambering up at last onto the platform, so that he could speak to the Comte face to face. He leaned forward, and when the old man stumbled backwards he stepped forward further, refusing to let him escape.

"What about Celandine, dear grandfather?" he said softly, making the term of endearment sound as much like an insult as he possibly could. "What about the great-grandchild that you murdered, to bring Erik into the Land of the Living? Your crimes haven't ended, they've never ceased!"

"Hold your tongue, Raoul." But he was equal to Comte Philippe's glare, and merely went on, years of discipline and obedience falling away from him like a shed skin. "Madame Giry told me the truth! You slipped a potion into Celandine's wine, so that she would miscarry. You timed it so that it would occur during the wedding ceremony, so that Erik might be summoned into the Land of the Living, for what reason I know not. You used the child, your own blood, as a sacrifice. That such a man should be my grandsire! The thought of it makes me sick!"

The Comte quavered under his descendant's glare, and spoke again, more softly now, his words shocking despite their low tone. "The child was illegitimate, Raoul. Had it been allowed to live and be born, it would have wrecked Celandine's life. She would have been shamed and disgraced forever. I could not allow that to happen. I had already harmed her by finding her such a husband, and I blame myself for that even now. She could have brought the miscarriage about and claimed it was an illness, with no damage to her reputation. She even had the potion to destroy the child, but she would not take it, she was too afraid. I had to make the choice for her. I had to choose between, my granddaughter and her child. I chose Celandine."

"If that is true," Raoul said, even as he secretly wondered at the truth of what had just been said – would Celandine actually commit adultery? Is he merely lying to protect himself? - "then it was not your choice to make. Afraid or not, it was Celandine's choice, and you took that away from her. How do you know that what you have done will not destroy her yet? Or were you not listening when she screamed, Comte Philippe? Did her cries not pierce your heart? I doubt it, for it seems you don't have one. You just used her for your own ends, as you always have done – as you have done to all of us."

"How did you know the baby was illegitimate, in any case?" Meg asked accusingly from his left. "She didn't tell you, surely?"

The Comte winced at her voice, but duly turned his grey head to look at her. "I don't need to indulge in arcane rites to find out what is being said and done in my house, Mademoiselle Giry. Thanks to Erik, there are passages secret rooms and curious mirrors which even the servants do not know about, and which I walk along all alone. It was not long before I heard Celandine confide in her sister while I happened to be nearby them at the time, though they had no idea that I was there; and after that it was easy to piece together."

"I wanted my works to be a marvel." There was bitterness in Erik's voice as he stared at his feet. "I never planned for them to be used as a way to undo the helpless, ever again."

"And that was how you knew how to summon Erik," Cecile said slowly, as if working it out still. "You followed us from the ball, somehow, and you saw us performing the rite, and you copied it as best you could – only you used Celandine's baby instead of your own blood." The young woman's face was pale with horror as she finished, sickened at her own realization and the Comte's silence, only showing his guilt further. He felt scarcely less sick. This is all our fault…if only we'd been more careful! We had to do the rite, of course. I still would have done it, even now. But Celandine has paid the price for our foolishness.

"It's my fault." He looked over at Christine, to see that her hands had gone to her mouth and that they trembled. "If you hadn't brought me back-"

He wouldn't have that. Swiftly he crossed over to her and put his arm around her, pulling her close. "Don't you dare start thinking in that way again," he whispered in her ear. "We've told you time and time again, it was no fault of yours. He is the one who did this, of his own free will, and if I have anything to do with it, he will pay for it."

"And I have told you before, Vicomte; his argument is with me alone." Erik was looking at them, but not with anger as he had suspected. Instead his eyes were fixed on what Christine still held in her hands. "I see you still need that book though, Philippe."

"That's what I want to know!" Meg burst out excitedly. "I read through some of it, and it's curious – but why is it so important to you? Why did you want to hide it away?"

But it was Erik who replied gently, as if lost in thought. "Some of it was already written when it came into my possession. It belonged first to my mother, the Comte Charles had given it to her. He had written poetry in it for her, and I added my own verses. But then I used it for something other than poetry." He looked back at Meg, his eyes clearer now, less thoughtful and more intent. "The pages were not always so thick, or so relatively few. I used them to hide things, such as the layout of the building I was working upon at the time, and other works of mine…"

He paused, and looked over at the Comte, who steadily refused to meet his gaze. Meg had quickly taken the book back from Christine and was already fumbling at one of the pages eagerly, presumably determined to see if this was true. "I assume the reason Philippe here wished to conceal it is for the same reason that he killed those who chased me into the woods to die, and turned my life into a ghost story – he wanted to wipe all traces of me from the world. He wanted to wipe away the remembrance of the scandal where so many lives were lost, and the scandal that came before that, when a Comte loved a common woman and her bastard son with half a face more as dearly as his own flesh and blood, more even than his own flesh and blood."

"But he couldn't get rid of the book," Raoul heard himself saying, to his great surprise. "He needed it, for the secrets it held, as well as the revelations. So he hid it away in the library, and only consulted it when it was needed. And then Christine found it, quite by chance…"

"And when I read it, it set my soul alight. It made Erik aware of me, somehow. And so I called out to him when I was in the woods, in some strange way," Christine said, in wonder.

"And so it comes full circle," the Comte said, with some weariness. "And what will you do now, Erik?"

"I think you know what I would do, had I the choice. But a certain promise I made, only a little while ago, prevents me from carrying out my desires." He met Erik's gaze evenly as the dead man glared at him, holding Christine closer to him, before moving on to the Comte. Behind him, he could hear Meg exclaiming softly over something she had already found; a map, by the sound of it.

"So, you wish to kill us." The Comte sounded amused. "It is only natural. Violence upon violence, again and again. But Mademoiselle Christine appears to have quelled your savage nature. Am I to understand that you have a rival for the lady's affections, dear grandson?" He looked around at them, huddling together. Raoul detested the look in his eyes; it was a look he recognized. It was the look the old man had worn when he had introduced Celandine and Louis to each other for the first time. It was the look of a butcher preparing to sell a slab of meat. He wanted to tear it off his hated face.

"I am no longer your grandson." He delighted at the Comte's shock, and sought to increase it. "You are no longer my grandfather. I deny you, Comte Philippe. I hate you. I hate you for all that you have done, all the shame that you have heaped upon us, for what you have done to your own granddaughter." He had let Christine go by now; he had to restrain himself not to fly at the Comte, who seemed to shrink with his every word, his mouth opening wider in dismay at this outburst. "So you can rot in your shame and your sin forever, if you don't get what you deserve before then. You seek to blind me as you did all of us, but I will no longer be deceived, Comte Philippe. For I have seen the true you, at the price of Celandine's blood, the blood of my own kin."

He paused for breath, before finally saying, "I know who the true monster is now. And it is not Erik."

Comte Philippe looked as if he might wither and fade to dust at any moment, he was so pale, as he turned to look at Erik once more. "Erik," he said softly, "Will you not simply take what you want, and leave me and my family in peace? Will you not take her for yourself, at last, and end this?"

What he wants? What he…no.

This had been the evil man's whole scheme, all along, ever since he had found out the truth, one way or another. It must have been. He had taken away Erik's chance of a bride, so he would give him another one in death, hoping to make amends. This was why he had used Celandine's baby to summon Erik: so that Erik would be able to take Christine back with him, should he choose to do so. It was Christine who was meant to be the true sacrifice.

He cannot. He cannot take Christine! He made to catch hold of her again, but she evaded his grasp and only looked closely at the two foster brothers, facing each other across the main body of the platform; Philippe so old and aged, but yet still so alive; Erik both beautiful and hideous and very much dead, for all that he looked alive, and chuckling darkly.

"And will you try to buy me off with a woman again, Philippe, bargaining her away to save your own sorry skin? Do you think that will appease me? She isn't yours, she'll never be yours, she'll only ever belong to herself, her own sweet self. I know that I cannot simply take a woman as a man takes a fish from a river. Christine?"

Christine looked straight at him as she answered; "Yes, Erik?" Her voice hardly quavered. His own voice was completely lost.

"I know now what I must do. I release you from your promise." Erik held up his left hand, and Raoul saw a sparkle upon his finger. "I have no claim upon you now. You may choose freely." As she gasped, Erik looked over to him, and nodded. There was no need for him to say anymore.

Is he letting us go? Willingly?

But finally a tear was beginning to fall from Christine's red eyes. What did this mean? Resolutely he tried not to think of it, as he placed his hand upon her shoulder. But it was nothing compared to the Comte's reaction. He had staggered back at Erik's words, as if he had been struck, and clutched his side. Then his face changed, as if naked hatred had been carved upon it with a knife. Raoul stared; never had he seen the man so obviously emotional as this. Another creature entirely stood in front of him entirely.

"All for nothing," the animal whispered. "Celandine…Raoul…all for nothing." Then it snarled, wolf-like, "Tell me, Erik; can a heart still break when it's stopped beating?"

And as he was still listening to those words the Comte Philippe had turned swiftly, snatched the sword from Cecile's startled hands and dashed forwards. Before he could even shout "No!", let alone move, there was a sound like a spade being driven into the solid clay of a flower bed, and the sword was sticking out of Erik's chest, and had gone through right through his body, emerging somewhere at the base of his spine.

There were little half-screams from the girls behind him, a matronly squeak from Madame Giry, and even a shout of alarm from Nadir. Christine made no sound, but she had grasped him arm and was squeezing ice into his veins, and he had grabbed her other hand tightly.

The Comte staggered backwards, panting, breathing deeply, from what Raoul could tell in his shock pleased with his handiwork.

Erik looked down at the blade that stuck out from his waistcoat, only a little way above the wound that had obviously killed him, but said nothing. Slowly, simply, deliberately, as if simply biding his time, he reached up with his flesh hand, grasped the hilt, and drew the sword out of himself. It slid between long dead flesh like a knife cutting through the paper of an envelope.

Raoul did not have time to see him pull it out fully, for even as he did so it was he who suddenly made a dash forward, too fast for the eye to track, and then, then there was a sound not like a spade into clay but a fork into a raw joint of meat, and a sharp "Oh!", as if the Comte been struck harshly across the face and was voicing his surprise and pain.

Then he could see again, and he saw the Comte Philippe de Chagny, his grandfather, the man who had given him presents and sweets, who watched him play and watched him grow and watched him learn to love, and who had loved him as truly as a grandfather could love his grandson, pressed against the man that he had killed, with his own sword sticking out from his back.

There was no anger in Philippe's face now, so very close to him. There was only surprise, and pain. He didn't look as if he had been stabbed. He only looked as if he had banged his shin, or cut his finger. Erik almost laughed out loud in the thrill that shuddered through him.

Slowly he pulled the sword out from Philippe's warm, warm body. He could see that there was very little blood; in fact no blood at all, except a little around the wound. Philippe staggered as he lost the support of the weapon that had skewered him like an insect and the man that had done the skewering, but neither the Vicomte nor Christine seemed inclined to catch him as they clutched at each other. No one spoke, no one moved. He was surprised that they actually breathed.

I wonder, he thought dully, as he dropped the sword to the floor with a clatter, what I should be feeling. It's been so long since I killed someone. I've forgotten how it feels. Should I be happy? Or sad?

I really don't know anymore.

Philippe gurgled, and tipped forward. To his own surprise as much as anyone else's he was there to catch his foster brother, to bear him up, to take him into his arms. He had always been the stronger of the two, even in death. He remembered that he had once carried Philippe back to the mansion the de Chagny family had had in the days before he had completely rebuilt it. He could not remember the reason for it, only that he had carried him on his back all the way, his foster brother's heart beat warm against his back.

And now he had killed him, as surely as Philippe had killed him.

He could feel Philippe's heart beating weaker now, and weaker still, as it still tried valiantly to pump the blood around the failing body. The wound had been fatal, whatever it had hit. Christine was at his shoulder now, and the Vicomte was at his other shoulder. "Grandfather," he heard the boy whisper, almost stupidly. He could smell Christine's tears, hear her shuddering breaths. But all the world was in Philippe's face. He could remember when he had held another body warm in his arms, counting out the heart beats they had left until they were to die. It might have been his mother in his arms again.

Blood was beginning to show at the corner of Philippe's mouth as he tried to smile, and coughed. "This is your retribution, then?" he managed.

"Yes," he replied softly. "I may not have cursed you, but truly I knew that I could never rest until I had stabbed you with your own sword and dealt you your death blow."

But there are other things besides this…no, no, I will never truly rest. Not even with this triumph…though is it a triumph?

"It…was a good blow." Philippe clutched at his sleeve, sounder younger now as he steadily slipped away from them, into a place even he himself did not know fully. "Raoul? E-Erik? What will I see? What will I see when I…when I…"

"I do not know. It is different for all of us." He grinned, but never had he felt less like smiling. "You will have to go and find out for yourself. I can't do everything for you, you know."

There were days past when he had said things like that, when Comte Charles, on a whim, had brought him up to the great house to study the books they had, in the days before the de Chagny legacy had poisoned both their lives. Where had it gone wrong for him, where had it gone wrong for Philippe? In their childhood? At birth? Before that? Had God willed it, or something else.

You were so glorious, Philippe. God damn you, you bastard, you were my brother. You loved me, you did, I know you did. I loved you. When did all that love turn into so much hate? When did you come to hate me? When did I come to hate you?

Why did it have to be like this? Is anything worth this, this hate, this end?

But something at least has gone right, in the mess we've made of ourselves and our lives. I met Christine. I loved her, and she loves me, and I will lose her, and I will never regret it, not if I last until the world crumbles. And I have you to thank for that, Philippe.

He looked up at her, his angel, and her eyes met his, and he knew what he must do.

"I…I'm sorry for Celandine. I'm sorry for everything. Everything I touched died," Philippe choked. "You created, even after death, while all I did was destroy. Why did that happen?" The man's eyes were losing focus fast. Swiftly he stood up, lifting him up in his arms, and leapt down off the platform, pacing towards the water. Swiftly he lowered Philippe into the flow, waiting until the current caught him and his life was about to cease. Philippe stared up at him, now obviously unable to talk, eyes still questioning even now. All the things he couldn't say, he said with his eyes. There was no need now for apologies, for excuses. They understood each other.

But Philippe needed this.

He bent over his foster brother as watery hands began to pull at his body, and whispered into his ear, a last message to take with him into the Land of the Dead, to whatever awaited him.

"I forgive you, my brother. Die in peace."

He watched coolly as Philippe's soul shucked off his body and disappeared into the river like a silvery fish, and his body was dragged underneath the surface, not to rise again. Only when he was quite sure that it was gone did he turn to look at the living beings and the dead one that still stared at him. His mouth worked, but only with effort could he speak.

"You should all go. Nadir will guide you back upwards, I am certain. Or you could always take the mirror." He gestured to the article in question.

"You truly mean what you said?" the Vicomte asked, suspicion evident in his harsh voice.

"Yes." He felt so tired now. He felt an enormous urge to simply lie down and stare at nothing, to be a corpse again. It would be better than this feeling, all this feeling.

"I can take us all back," Meg said quickly. "I think I've still got enough strength to do it."

"Then go. Go. For you weary me all. I am tired." He turned away. He did not want to see Christine leave. He wished that they would all just go, and leave him in peace.

"Erik?" He was turned, irresistibly, back to Christine who had some how climbed down from the platform, her voice calling him as her hand plucked at his sleeve. Her face was stained with tears, and she had never looked more beautiful as she gazed up at him.

"Yes?" he asked, as gently as he could. Don't do this to me. Please, don't. I can stand losing you, but I cannot stand you saying goodbye.

"You go on, all of you," she said loudly, addressing those she was not looking at. "I will join you." When they hesitated she added, more pressingly, assuredly "I promise it. I won't be left behind. I am sure of that."

He hardly noticed the rapid exodus that followed this, the rustling of skirts as, one by one, the girls vanished through the mirror, eager to be gone from this place of death. Even Nadir had respectfully retreated, fading away after bowing in heartfelt farewell to all of them. It did not matter that the Vicomte still stood by the mirror, watching them both like a highbred hawk. All that mattered now was Christine, who stood before him, and whom he loved, and who loved him.

"You truly mean to let me go?" she asked, once the noise had died down.

"What else can I do? Would you have me keep you here until you wither away? Or would you have me kill you outright? You could not ask me to do that. I have killed both my mother and my foster brother now, two that I loved among many that I did not know. But I could not kill you. I could never do such a thing."

"I didn't think you could." Fresh tears were seeping down her cheeks already. "Or at least, I hoped that you could not. Your love is so great; I did not know what you might do."

"Well, I know what I must do now." With all the effort needed to lift the world, he took her hand with his flesh one and guided her towards the steps, up them, each step feeling like mud dragging at his feet. For each step led further and further towards the last goodbye. Counting down the heartbeats, until death. Everyone leaves me.

"Do you remember when I first came here?" he heard her whisper. "And how I was so afraid, thinking only to escape?"

"I remember."

"It seems so long ago, now. Who would have known…who would have known, what we know now?"

"Indeed. Here. He slipped the ring off his finger, and pausing, dropping it into her palm. He smiled at her surprise. "Take it back again. I said I release you, and I will. Have my ring back again."

"This was yours?"

"Yes. The ring that I was meant to have been married with. Philippe had it back off my corpse, and had it made up anew in diamonds. Why do you think I recognised it so well."

Christine smiled, and she slid it upon her own finger once more. It was a pleasant sight to see it sparkle where it should reside.

At length they stood on the platform again. To his muted surprise, he saw that Don Juan was missing from the organ stool. One of the girls must have taken it. And good luck to her with it.

"This is where we must part," he stated, and he softly drew his hand from hers, thought she tried to squeeze for it again. He nodded to the Vicomte as he went on: "Take care of yourselves, and of each other, for I know life is precious, and love more so. Go and live as best you can."

"How can I live?" Christine's voice was now choked with tears. "How can I live with what I know? With what I have left behind?"

"Aye, how can we?" The Vicomte's voice was choked as well, though not, Erik suspected, at this parting.

"Listen to me." He reached out, and placed his skeletal hand on Christine's shoulder, and his flesh one on the Vicomte's, on Raoul's, shoulder. "You must live. You cannot let yourself be destroyed in ways such as you have seen. I am dead, and you are alive. You are both so very much alive. So you must live. Living is learning to live each day. Remember that, if nothing else."

"I won't forget!" Christine burst out. "If I live forever, I will never forget you, Erik. I will never forget you."

He forced himself to smile. "Do not weep for me, Christine. You have the rest of your life to live. So go and live it." He made to motion her towards the mirror, towards Raoul, towards her friends, towards Life.

But Christine was moving towards him, a fire in her face and in her eyes. She was close, too close, and the flame in her was burning him and his face and his eyes. And then she stood up on her toes and one arm was around the back of his neck, pulling his head down, down to hers, her other hand on his withered cheek, a sweet attack or surrender he did not know.

A rhythm beat in his head that was somehow not his own thoughts: Oh god oh god like father's funeral cold lips cold face I will I will I loved father I love him I love you Erik I love you, love you, love you, oh god I love you so I'll show you I love-

Her lips touched his, and heat flooded through him. So innocent, lips touching, as his mother had kissed him, but she had never kissed him like this! He looked into Christine's eyes before they closed and before his closed, and he closed his arms around her small frame and he accepted her kiss and returned it. Her tongue, hot and sweet, touched his for an instant, and then they both moved beyond the physical and on to something more.

He had no way to describe it, truly he did not. All he knew was that while their loving touch lastedthere was no border between them, no skin and flesh and bone, nothing. He held her and she held him, and they did not know which was separate and which was bonded and they knew that there was nothing which could break this, ever, except themselves.

They were tumbling, they were circling, they were birds flying, they were fish swimming; they were everything and nothing, they were themselves and each other. His love flowed out to her, and hers to him, and they met and danced on some plain other than that of the living or the dead.

Again there were no words, nothing to be said. There was all that they needed to know in each other, and that was enough.

I will love you forever. More than forever. Forever is not long enough. I will love you longer than that.

At last they came back to themselves, reluctantly slipping apart, returning ot their own bodies. The kiss, in truth, had only lasted a few seconds; and then he opened his eyes and opened his arms and she slipped from his embrace and turned to Raoul. And he looked at her for a moment, and then she reached out his hand, and she took it, unafraid, and turned to look at him.

Raoul looked at him as well, and a small smile spread across his face, the first time that he could remember seeing the boy smile, properly at least. He looked quite handsome when he did so, and kind, and strangely happy. He nodded to him for the last time, and put his arm around Christine.

He looked at her again, the love inside him welling upwards and upwards like a fountain. There was a smile on her face too, and peace and joy in her eyes and in her heart, too. She pressed her fingers to her lips, and then held them out to him.

And he pressed his cold, bare, bone fingers to where her lips had so soon left his, and then brushed the tips of her fingers with his own.

That was all. Then they stepped backwards, and the mirror took them in like a mother welcoming her children home, and they were gone.

He felt at peace. For the first time since he could remember, perhaps even before he was born there was no torment in his heart. Like a balm, Christine had healed all, leaving peace and rippling water in her wake.

He wanted to say so many things. He wanted to see Nadir, and tell him that he forgave him, that he was right, after all, and he had been wrong. He wanted to see Ayesha, and hold her close, and tell her how he treasured her.

He wanted to say everything that could be said. But then, everything had been said. Philippe was dead, at his hand, and yet he had forgiven him, and been forgiven in return. He had held Christine. He had kissed her. He had felt more than his own heart beat; he had felt her very soul beat against his.

What more is to be done?

He was growing more and more tired now. Strange, he had never been tired before, but now he felt exhausted. He wanted to sit down. No, he wanted to lie down. He wanted to lie down and slide off his skin. He wanted to go the way his brother had gone, like a fish into the dark of the river.

He walked down the step, feeling the weight of all his years upon him. He had held onto the mortal world, yet now he did not need to. He had so much without it. He had Christine's love. He had his memory.

I will see her again. One day.

As he lay down upon the water, so tired now, hardly thinking that he did not know how to swim, he looked up at the roof of the cavern. Only it wasn't a roof anymore, it was much brighter than before. His love and his happiness lit it up, and it was no longer gloomy, since he had never attached any tapestries there.

Up there was where he had known that Christine was reading the book, and where he had heard her voice for the first time. Love and memory, those he would always have, even if he always had a scarred face as well.

But his face and his body did not seem so important now, not as important as they had once been. He felt lighter now, lighter than when he had once been a spirit without a body. He felt only slightly weighed down, and it was a simple matter to let go of that extra weight.

He fancied now that he could see a face, through the light that threatened to blind him, spirit though he was. A face he knew well, a face he had looked for, for so long, but had never found. His mother smiled at him and opened her arms wide, her hair falling down her back and her cheeks high on her face like tiny rosy apples, and her scent of water, not like the water all around him but fresher, cleaner. She had been crying, but she was smiling now.

And his body relaxed into the waters that bore him away, while all that made him who he was ran to her, as a child walking, and a young man running, and the man he had grown into racing to meet her. She swept him up in her arms, he threw his arms around her, he swept her up in his arms. He carried her and she carried him into the light, and Christine's love and his love and all their memory between them.

This chapter gave me so much trouble. I wrote half of it before I really started to study. Then I came back after the exams, and looked at it, and decided it could be better. So I rewrote it. Then I rewrote it again. Then, still not happy with it, I rewrote it some more. About the only things that remained constant were Comte Philippe getting stabbed and Erik getting smooched, which left a lot of leeway for events before, in between and after.

Also, I started crying as I wrote the end. I mean, I…it's soooo saaaaaaaaaad.

But the tears were soon overcome by the joy at weaving all those plotlines together. For the record, yes, there may be a few inconsistencies, but I'm going to go back and edit once I get this thing done. Which hopefully should be quite soon; there will be two more chapters, and compared to this baby they should be a piece of cake.

Can't write anymore. Dog-tired. Perhaps will expand in next chapter. Chips, y'all.

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!