Final part of the climax. Again, thank you all for the reviews! I hope this chapter was worth waiting for. Also, Gustave and Erik made a pretty sloppy rescue team, haha.

Here come the promised violence, blood, and tears.

Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or Frankenstein

Adam felt a rock crush under his foot, the sick feeling of Erik's crushed ribs still plaguing him. He chose that. It no longer mattered- the man who should have been his companion had failed the test before it even began. Wherever Erik came from, how he came about, it mattered not. He was far too frail, too easily broken to equal Frankenstein's inventions.

Adam knelt, his cloak whipping towards the sky, pile upon pile of snow heaping over him. His emotions were in a frenzy, the anger unable to dissipate, the sorrow unable to leave, the regret increasing tenfold. What after? There never was an after for him, not since his creator's death.

Killing Daae would not win him over. I know! He roared into his hands. Man had won over him once more. What if he had been wrong about Daae? About Erik? About himself? And what if he had been right?

He cupped his ears, burying himself in the mounting white, remembering the faces of those who died by his hand, some a blur, some etched- Josephine, Elizabeth, William, Clerval, Frankenstein, Erik-

His screaming mouth filled with snow.

Erik awoke to a world of white, the snow viciously blowing over him, his body stiff and numb. He sat up, feeling as if he had been struck by lightning, and heard a cry of pain. Where... Gustave... the cottage... blizzard- he willed his lids not to droop. He pocketed the punjab slowly. As he crawled toward Daae's body, strange moans and pathetic whimpers sounded in his ears. It was only when he reached Gustave's face, pale, bloodied, and covered with bits of frost, that Erik realized the sounds were coming from his own mouth.

"M. Daae," he croaked, each word shooting bolts of pain through his chest. "M. Daae- M. Daae-"

"Why risk so much for him?"

He coughed, hands clinging to his side, the blood gushing once more. Erik does not know, Erik never knows anything until it is too late. "Gustave!" he shouted.

The violinist's swollen eye cracked open, bloodshot and dazed. "Where..." he managed to say weakly, steam escaping his nose and mouth. Groaning, Erik hoisted the man up by the arms, his chest and side about to explode. Panting, he slid Gustave's arm over his shoulder.

Gustave's eyes shut again, his weight a burden against Erik's damaged shoulders. He felt the blood seep harder from the wound on his back. Erik stared ahead, wondering if he was blinded or if he was truly looking at nothing but glaring white. The trees were nothing but shadows, the twilight sky barely visible.

Erik is a monster. "Do you really believe that?" the daroga asked him, disappointed.

He staggered ahead, swallowing his bile, head spinning in every direction, body threatening to fall apart. He trembled and shuddered with every step, the wind pushing them back, whipping the exposed flesh behind every rip in his clothing.

"Tell me, Erik, what to you, is a good man?"

Don't ask me such things, you boring fart!

Daae was a good man. The best he had come across in a very long time. Erik fell, Gustave's limp weight dragging him down. Wincing, he pushed himself up, Gustave in tow, and continued stumbling blindly- did Daae not have a child on the way?

But Erik is not a good man. There is nothing more vile than him. You're wasting your time, daroga.

Cough. Cough. "Gustave, do not die!" he ordered in Swedish. The response was a faint groan.

If they could make it within the next hour, the head wound would not get the best of the violinist. Surely, Frederik's son had returned with the doctor- Daae's child should be fine, his wife... Erik opened his eyes, and gritting his teeth, dragged them on.

He stumbled, his free hand placed over his side, and made a noise of frustration as crimson spilled between his fingers. He tore a strip of his ruined jacket off and clumsily wrapped it around the wound- it would have to make do for now.

He saw shadows. The shah was standing in front of him. No! The ground was covered in blood, snow in a desert. He swayed, the world suddenly turning a shade of red. The sultana was on a branch. The daroga was on his back.

No... the sultan sitting... the gypsies in their caravan... the boy in the cage... mother, my mask...

Gustave slid off him. Erik rolled aside, the corner of his clouded eyes seeing a foot approach them. He stared up as the figure came into view, its bruised face staring desperately down at them. He grabbed the ankle, a dagger plunging in the snow beside him.

The ones he left alive. He hacked violently, another boot delivering a blow to his side, the makeshift bandage soaked in red. The sultana's pits- he was in one, the daroga shouting at him, the punjab tight in his hands, the prisoner beating him to death.

"The last one!" three voices cried, reaching for Gustave. "The last one's trade! The last one's trade!"

The last one's trade. Kristine- the child. They still wanted her.

Erik clawed his way through them, crying out at each blow dealt to his form. He stretched over Gustave, a sharp pain tearing along his thigh. A hand managed to rip the strings of his mask, and before Erik could squirm his head aside, the mask fell. "Living corpse..." The sultana, the shah, the chamber, scorpions, laughter, whips, carnivals-

They had never meant to kill him. They believed in a living corpse- they believed in the raising of the dead. And he was in the torture chamber, surrounded by mirrors of his own image, of Adam's image. The black pit of a nose, the veins running through parchment skin, the head of a member of death. Death! Death!

He yanked out the punjab, ignored the knife that barely sliced his torso, and pulled it over the man's head.

"Promise me-"

Snap!

A gasp.

The bones broke, the corpse falling- "Erik does not kill anymore"- and the others pounced- Daroga, Erik promises- pinning him to the ground, struggling to pound him to oblivion, their knives leaving only nicks as he dodged.

The lasso wound around another neck. No! No! He had to stop, he had to- Snap!- Daroga, please, Erik is sorry!

The body fell away, Erik staring wide-eyed at what he had done. It should have ended- he was different now- no, he never was- "There is nothing for us!" Adam shouted- daroga, please! Daroga! But had there ever been any other way?

Had he truly thought it possible to be redeemed? To do anything without destruction? To be anything but what he was? Before the last knife could strike, the punjab trapped its final victim- no, Erik, don't do that, don't do that, don't-

Snap.

The corpse fell. Erik dropped the punjab, kneeling in the snow, numbed by horror and pain. He stared at his shaking his hands, at the bruised fingers and skeletal build, at the wet blood on them- perhaps it was his own, but what did it matter? Daroga, I- I...

Erik is a monster.

He retched.

He broke, the tears coming out.

"Daroga, Erik is sorry," he sobbed, "Erik is sorry!" He meant to kill, he had wanted to kill, and he failed to feel the remorse he was so convinced existed.

"Erik is sorry!" he repeated, again and again, the cries echoing in the wind.

"What happened to the oath, corpse?" the shadows asked.

"Daroga, forgive me! Forgive me!" he coughed between chokes and vomit, "Erik is sorry... Erik is sorry!" Erik is sorry!

Kristine stared at the ceiling, the nearby fire casting flickering shadows over the walls, her body wrapped in quilts and blankets, biting her lip worriedly. Hilda sat beside her, the older woman's hair tied in a disheveled bun. Her mind was still disoriented.

How long had it been since she awakened? One mother for one... Kristine leaned over the couch and vomited, Hilda shouting her name. There was a comforting pat along her back.

"I'm sorry," Kristine murmured, clutching the blankets closer to her form, now clothed in a rough gown.

"Should I get the doctor," Hilda asked, arms around the other woman. "E's in the other room, waiting for the storm to pass."

"Storm..." She held onto Hilda's arm. "Where's Gustave?"

"Town."

"How long?" A strange dread filled her, as if she knew by instinct that something had gone terribly wrong.

"..."

"D- did Frederik go-?" "No." Kristine shivered, hands rubbing her stomach protectively. Hush, dear, no harm'll come to Gustave. No.

"I- I think the other man went with him, the masked man."

Erik. Kristine shut her eyes, silently praying that her intuition had been wrong.

"Gustave... Gustave..."

He heard his name through a sea of light. He vaguely recognized that voice- the voice of heaven. Yes, that must have been it.

"... home soon-"

He felt like drowning yet again, the voice pulling him back. But he was cold, so very cold. There was a moan, whether from him or the voice, he couldn't tell. "Your lovely wife... a child on the way... it will be-"

The sound of coughing, of wind blowing. "Fine. It will be fine."

The voice sounded despondent, broken, and yet all he wanted was to hear it speak again. Gustave grunted in reply, unable to do anything else. He was aware of something moving beneath him- his arm was held, he was next to the voice.

His eyes opened to slits, the uneven white ground meeting his vision. They trailed to the legs walking, the legs that were not his own. There was blood in the snow, too much blood to be a trick.

Who? Such a soothing voice could only belong to... he groaned... the angel of music.

The legs buckled and he felt himself fall with the other man. A blinding view of white, his lashes tinged with frost. And they were moving again, a man's grunts of pain ringing in his ears. All that blood- he was perched on a terribly thin frame.

"Erik," he rasped.

"Oui."

"Erik..." Gustave attempted to turn his head, to take a glimpse of his savior's head.

"Gustave, Gustave, please," Erik begged, "whatever you do, do not look."

Gustave felt himself sagging again. "The mask..."

"Is gone. Do not look, Gustave."

He saw a dark shape on the ground, nearly buried. "Angel of music," he muttered, "will you sing?"

Gustave closed his eyes. A faint hum surrounded him, a strange raspy heavenly sound.

Erik had failed the daroga. Erik is a fool. He stumbled on, resisting the urge to drop Daae and crawl his way into a stream. The gash on his thigh hindered their progress significantly, but he had already resolved to die returning Gustave- there was no better alternative for creatures like him in the first place. It had taken him this long to learn and he would believe the Persian's lies no longer.

A monster was all he would and ever would be. Adam had been right. Everyone but the daroga had been right.

Angel of music.

He laughed harshly, ribs burning from the sensation. He was hardly anything angelic. But the delusion kept Gustave conscious, and for that reason alone, he did nothing to dissuade the man.

"Don't look!" he said again, as a familiar bulge came into view.

The violin case. His violin- they were on the right path; he pulled the case out with his free arm, the object heavier than he remembered. Although he was sure his voice had been reduced to a pitiful rasp, Erik managed to weave a tune for the man on his back. He didn't care if it sounded terrible and it was all he could do to keep his own body from shattering indefinitely.

"Wonderful... wonderful," Gustave whispered deliriously.

Erik tasted blood on his tongue, felt everything grow sluggish and distant, but a house was obscured by the snow and wind. Frederik's cottage. He wondered if it was a delusion. He groaned, the wind slapping them backwards, the fabric around his side blown away, drenched in red. He sunk again, eyes shutting.

No.

Not yet. He managed to stand, stumbling toward the cottage like a puppet with broken strings. "Gustave, we're here-"

The other man's eyes flickered, and again, he tried to look up. "Do not look, Gustave."

To his surprise, it was Daae who chuckled this time. "I- I see... I will be sure to remind myself..."

The cottage was no delusion. Solid wood was yards away.

"... that the angel of music has a voice far lovelier than his face..."

Kristine heard a weak pounding in her dreams- the beating of drums- she awoke in a sweat, the shuffling feet of Hilda's eldest son rushing toward the cottage door. "Father!"

She all but jumped off the couch, lightheaded and nauseous. Frederik and his wife were pulling a figure in, the floorboards creaking, harsh piles of snow blowing in, to the son's frustration. Hurriedly, they forced the door shut.

Her heart stopped at the sight. "Gustave..."

Her husband stared weakly at her from Frederik's arms, his head layered with blood and body covered in snow. He smiled as she crouched by him, the doctor yelling something incoherent from his room.

"Gustave..." Kristine had never known it was possible to be so relieved, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm here," he whispered, before adding after a moan, "Erik... where is he?"

For the first time, Kristine noticed the black case wedged beneath her husband's arm, the violin case he had been so determined to buy.

"Hush, love." She patted his head as his lids shut. A frown tugged at her mouth- where was the Frenchman?

Daroga, if you see Erik at hell's gates, would you forgive him? He lay face down in the snow, already knowing the answer: no. The pain was no longer there, or perhaps he was already beyond caring- even the cold did little to affect his numb body. Erik found that he lacked the energy to move- breathing itself was using up all his strength. But Daae's little family had come out of this alive- at least there was one event the living corpse had not tarnished.

He had hid when Frederik's door opened and left as soon as it closed. It was for the best. There was nothing left to do but await death and the judgement he knew he would fail. Shreds of his jacket blew away, large strips of his torn shirt following after.

The snow burned him, but never before had it felt so pleasant. Even the chills that ravaged him did nothing.

"You."

Was death speaking to him? Out of curiosity, he opened one eye to a slit. It was a plain man, a man with a face chafed by wind and eyes set below thick brows. The man's face contorted in rage, bruised hands twitching.

"You ruined it."

Erik does ruin things. "You ruined it!" The man's fingers grasped him by the few hairs he had and lifted his head. "You'll pay for that," he growled.

Erik's only response was to spit blood at his assailant's face. The latter punched him where the nose should have been, aiming at his face again and again, until red trickled into both his eyes. The man panted harshly, tossing him aside. The next blow fell on his torso. He felt himself dragged upwards and slammed into a thick trunk, the sharp bark scraping his skin. There was a curse from the man, followed by another slam and a distinct pop.

Pain of the highest sort. A cry that could only be his own. He gave in to oblivion.

Adam kicked aside another dying bush. He needed to find Anders, needed to destroy the man. The other cult-men were dead; he did not know how but he had a faint inkling. No, it was best not to hope. But of one thing he was certain- Anders was behind this.

He was moving in circles, the snow an annoyance to his progress, and he felt as if he was led back to the direction from whence he came. Anders would be moving in the same direction, if what that wretch said was correct- there would be no moving on after Daae's wife. She was the intended final.

A nearby shuffling pricked at his sensitive ears. It was the only lead he had, and without a second thought, Adam rushed toward it, pushing his way past a few low branches to do so.

He stopped to catch his breath. It was him.

Anders.

The last one. The man was pounding away at a figure in the snow, as if determined to break whatever it was with his bare hands. Adam stalked forward and yanked the man off his feet. His own huge fingers closed over the neck, squeezing slowly until Anders' face turned a sickly shade of blue. Lost in his rage, Adam looked past him at the thing on the ground.

It looked like a corpse with no skin on its bloodied head. But Adam realized he knew that body, he recognized its wounds, and most of all, he knew the mark on its chest that his own foot had left. Erik.

He let go of the man, watching Anders flail like a fish. He needed no answers from the man; he knew why Anders wanted mylings, wanted immortality, wanted revenge, and- his fists clenched- he knew that Erik was too weak, too injured to fight back. He stomped on the man's ankle, tearing a scream from Anders' throat as it crunched. The chest was next; he made sure not to stop until every rib was snapped.

Blood gurgling at the mouth, Anders struggled to move away, only to be pulled back and lifted by Frankenstein's final creation. For the first time, Adam felt blessed at having such power. He watched the other man writhe for a moment longer, the pain reflected in his face, the fear in his eyes, the absolute terror that must have struck him then.

"Fairplay," Adam said.

He thrust the man's head against a tree. He did it again. He refused to stop until the tree was wet with his enemy's blood and Anders' head looked worse than his own. Adam tossed the body aside when he was done and purposely stepped over its spine as he approached Erik.

His suspicions about the man's face had been correct. It was a horrendous sight, only worsened by the blood and bruises that littered the visage of death.

Despite the urge to turn back and look at Anders, he found he could not look away from Erik's prone form. His shoulders were covered in large dark bruises, gruesome marks that extended from his chest to torso. There were crisscrossing gashes along his chest, accompanied by a long red slice on his torso, a cut down the thigh, and a stab wound in his side, the blood still pooling. His clothes were ripped beyond recognition, the exposed flesh covered in brutal scrapes and bruises.

Finding himself still staring at the blood seeping into the snow around Erik, Adam thought of what action to take. The companion he sought for so long had turned out to be a lost cause and he felt the dull desire to forget it ever happened.

But if nothing was done, Erik would surely die. He bent and upon detecting shallow breaths, picked the man up. Adam walked away, Erik's blood finding its way onto his arms.

Whew! Thanks for reading and reviews would be real swell. Reviews count as painkillers for poor Erik.

Next time, we finally find out what that woman told Adam and the Erik torture comes to an end... or not.