A/N: Thank you all, for your patience and for the reviews! Congrats to BadPixie06, who named the face. ;-) You guys are all awesome. Please as you read, keep in mind that I am the only one to look over this, (many times) so forgive any mistakes. And now…
XXXV
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Christine shared a horrified look with her husband before turning her attention back to the inert figure who lay prone on the ground.
"Tobias!" she cried softly before the command to move entered frozen limbs and she hurried from the shadowed nook, with Erik close behind her, and to the boy's side. At the mangled sight of his bloodied back, Christine raised one hand to her mouth and one to her belly to cover a sharp gasp and the sudden urge to vomit.
"Tobias…?" Erik hunkered down to better speak with the lad, his voice as close to gentle as she'd ever heard it but girded with an authority that brought the boy's eyes flickering open. "Tell me what happened."
"Forgive me, m'lord…" His answer came as a mere breath and a wince. "...I tried to act with stealth."
"Stealth? Speak up, lad – what do you mean?"
"The chateau," he groaned. "They saw me."
"What were you doing there? Were you not instructed to go to the village for the last of our supplies?"
"Went to chateau first…to see to my task," the boy managed between painful breaths.
"Task? What task?"
Christine spotted the fallen knapsack a short distance away and retrieved it, moving back to Erik's side. "This might hold the answer," she explained, handing the sack down to him.
He opened it and withdrew a musical stringed instrument and a broken bow.
"A rebec…" Erik pondered in some confusion. "Perhaps the closest I shall come to a violin in this primitive age. But we have all the instruments needed for a worthy performance. Why in blazes did you risk detection for this?"
With a sense of escalating horror and remorse, Christine studied the narrow, boat-shaped vehicle of wood the length of a man's arm and noted its resemblance to her pathetic sketch made for Tobias at Maude's cottage.
"Oh, ange, this is my fault," she exclaimed, clutching Erik's shoulder with one hand.
He looked up at her in some alarm, briefly scanning the men who stood a short distance away, then again directed eyes of warning toward her as he straightened to stand. "Christine, say no more. We will speak of this later…Anton," he spoke to the tallest of the men. "The stretcher used to transport the wounded to camp, ready it and tie it to one of the horses. Marcel has convalesced well enough to ride and the boy has need of it. Pierre, ready the other horses. The rest of you men prepare for travel. We leave within the hour, as soon as all is made ready. Christine, come with me."
The atmosphere of earlier frivolity had warped into a controlled state of panic as the men scattered each to his assigned task. Erik took Christine by the arm, pulling her a short distance away to speak with her in privacy.
"There is a plant that grows near the lake beneficial to healing wounds of this nature. While I gather some, stay with Tobias. Do what you can for the boy. The journey will not be easy for him."
Christine vaguely nodded, her mind steeped in remorse. "It's all my fault, Erik. His suffering, and now that we must break camp before planned and all preparations are made."
"Nonsense." He lowered his voice a notch. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"It's not nonsense. When we visited Maude, I asked him to find anything close to a violin and drew a sad representation of one in the flour, even though I know they do not yet exist. And it appears he has."
He slightly shook his head in perplexity, attempting to follow her bizarre choice of words. "That hardly constitutes your guilt, Christine."
"But don't you see?" She wrung her hands together in her skirts in agitation. "Had I never asked him to locate one, he never would have gone to the chateau! Had I known of his intent, I could have prevented it."
"Christine, you are hardly at fault for the boy's choices. He knew to stay away from the estate. You did not ask him to disobey my orders and put everyone at risk."
His somber words spurred a more wretched thought. "Erik, please don't punish him. He did this for me, fulfilling my request, and I couldn't bear it if he suffered for my transgression."
He exhaled a weary sigh. "I believe the boy has endured punishment enough for his misconduct. Now, we must leave as soon as we can ready for departure. Speak no more of your misplaced guilt, my dear, especially around the men. I do not trust even the few who have thus far shown no animosity toward you." His eyes grew stern in their solemnity, his next words low but demanding, "Swear to me you will speak of this no more."
She nodded and he kissed her forehead before striding away, in the direction of the lake. Christine watched him go a moment, always a little anxious when he left her sight, especially with the Vicomte's guards now on the alert and likely planning their pursuit. She breathed a heartfelt petition for her husband's safe return then hurried to the freshly boiled water, dunking a discarded cloth inside that was used to protect hands from being burned when taking the heavy cauldron off the fire.
She approached the boy and knelt down beside him, her stomach churning anew to see his poor, ravaged back. Steeling herself for the task, she gently laid the dampened cloth that had cooled against tattered flesh to soak up the blood and cleanse his wounds. Never had she seen so fresh the dire outcome of man's brutality, and she thought of the raised lines of thick scars on her husband's back, once torn flesh such as this. Once suffered in a child so young…
"Mistress, do not cry," the boy whispered, and she brushed away the tears that had seeped from her eyes and dripped down her cheeks with her sleeve.
"I am so sorry this happened to you." Her tender sympathy was for both this boy and for Erik, but before she could again take her share of the blame for today's misfortune, she remembered his warning not to do so and why and guiltily agreed with his assessment. These men already thought her a witch, and though Tobias did not seem to be one of their number, it was wise not to speak too freely where careless words could be overheard and give more reason to resent her.
"I will do all I can," she reassured. "The Phantom has gone to collect something that will help ease the pain."
"I was foolish to put all of us at risk. I failed him again."
"Tobias, don't think like that. You brought me the item for which I asked, and I'm grateful. But, I'm also curious – how were you able to escape in this condition?"
The boy had barely been able to walk, staggering into camp. How had he fled the Vicomte's soldiers?
His gaze went distant, as if trying to recall. "There was a man. A guard… He came to where I lay, where the man who whipped me left me outside the chateau. He told me I would be safe and…and to tell my friends we must hasten from this place. That the Vicomte would soon return. I…I don't remember much after that, only awakening in the forest. Alone. And with the sack I took again in my possession."
"One of the Vicomte's men helped you?" she asked in amazement.
"I…I remember it so."
Was it possible they had an ally at Chateau Martinique? Someone who wished them no ill will…? It hardly failed to matter now. She wished only to be as far from the cruel hand of the present day Vicomte and his men as possible, the cautionary words of the boy's unexpected savior strengthening that desire.
Once she finished cleansing the wounds as best she could, Erik appeared with the herbs and took over in administering aid.
Christine hurried to their tent to gather what possessions they had and bundle them for travel. Once she exited, Tobias was tied to the stretcher that would drag along the ground, fastened with ropes to the back of one of the horses. The majority of tents had been dismantled, in the process of being packed away. Erik took their tent down as well, Christine helping. Soon they departed, the two men who took up the rear using leafy branches for a distance to cover their tracks lest the Vicomte's men should find their camp and seek which direction they traveled.
With Erik's arm securely around her middle, each stretch of the minutes taking them further away from certain peril, Christine leaned her head back against her husband's shoulder, at last able to relax. Silence accompanied them, neither apprehensive nor calm... a resigned acceptance to abandon the first home they had made together, tinged with the hopeful relief that in doing so, all would at last be well.
xXx
Hidden behind a corner of the eastern wall, the silent figure watched an agitated and rather disheveled Vicomte de Chagny enter the corridor from a door on the north side. Absent of ornamentation and carvings, this door was unlike any others at the chateau, and she sensed it might hold what she'd been seeking.
Though she wore the bland, gray uniform of a simple chambermaid, she remained concealed from his view. In her experience with these fools, the arrogant of the aristocracy, they paid little heed to the lower rung of the acquired help, servants of that ilk coming and going as often as the change in the seasons. Likely, she would scarce be noticed, if at all. Yet she dared not take the risk and test that belief. It would not work to her benefit if he should indeed recognize her...
She waited, watching him walk in the opposite direction. His butler came into view before the Vicomte could disappear around the corner.
"Pardon, my lord, but you have a visitor."
"This late in the evening? A most inopportune time to call. Did this visitor give a name?"
"He introduced himself as Monsieur Kahn."
"Kahn?" the Vicomte mulled it over. "Kahn… I don't recognize the name."
But she did, and listened in curiosity.
"He apologizes for the late hour, but says it is most urgent that he speak with you."
The Vicomte sighed in exasperation. "I have unfinished business that must be attended to. Instruct him to come back tomorrow, at a more reasonable hour."
The servant lingered but hesitated in saying more.
"Is there something else, Hastings?"
"Oui, my lord. He said to tell you that Madame Giry sent him with regard to the singer, Christine Daaé."
"What?! Good God, man, why did you not tell me this from the start? Take me to him at once! He must have news of her whereabouts."
She thought it odd that the visitor sought Christine, when the man called Erik and supposedly the Persian's friend was also missing. And well the little foreigner knew it. Yet neither of the two men nor their fruitless search was of interest to her at the moment. They could expend all their waking hours in the hunt, but no one would ever find the lost pair ...
Once the Vicomte and his servant disappeared around the corner, she hurried to the chamber from which the Vicomte previously exited. At the slow nudge of her hand on the latch, the door opened with a heart-stopping creak of hinges. She ducked into the dimly lit interior, nervous to be overheard, and shut the door behind her.
She found not a room, but a set of stone stairs that wound down to a lower level, one of cold and damp, lit with sporadic torches high along the wall. Rats scurried at her step that rang hollow on the flagstones, to seek shelter in crumbling stone and rotting timbers. The air was heavy with the earthen odors of wet soil and mildew, and cobwebs stirred in wisps of thick, forgotten strands as she shouldered past them.
A dungeon, no doubt of it, and she knew relief to find it empty of guard or servant. She grabbed a slender torch and by its glow looked through the bars of six thick doors, one of which contained frightful implements of torture rusted with blood and bracketed to the stone walls. A medieval rack of punishment left over from a previous century stood in the center of the room also empty of anything living, save for cavern rodents. At the final door she again brought the torch forward through the small, high window of widely spaced bars and stood on tiptoe to peer into the chamber, her heart giving a little jump to see the distant shape of a body that lay against the far wall.
Once she lifted the iron beam that acted as a barricade, a hard push opened the door, and she hurried over to kneel beside the still, crumpled figure of a man. Setting the torch down on the stone ground, she reached out a hand and rolled him toward her then gasped to see his face.
The mask was missing, likely wrenched away in the beating that had transpired, the left side of his features now a close mirror to his right side in flaw and distortion. His good eye was puffy and sealed, his cheek bruised, his lips and nose caked with dried blood, but she was left with no doubt that she'd found the man for whom she'd been searching. The front of his shirt was ripped asunder almost to the navel, bloodied and torn, a dirty cloth tightly bound beneath his armpits to staunch the wound so he would not bleed to death.
His poor face, already so damaged by scars… and yet, even in his weakened condition, this mortal had an inherent strength few of his kind – or hers – possessed. She frowned to see his state of neglect, treated worse than a caged animal of the wild, then shook her head a little that she should care.
This was not how events were meant to have unfurled. Her plan to alert the Vicomte to the whereabouts of the so-called Phantom had been instigated to lead to this man being imprisoned by gendarmes. Or better yet, after the fiery confrontation between the pair of presumed rivals in the empty street, to spur the Phantom's swift escape, eternally on the run, and the Vicomte's unending frustration, eternally on the hunt.
That would have given her a dose of satisfaction, at least for a time...
But not this.
Nervous to see, she worked at the tight knot to move aside the bandage. The stench gave her the answer required before she succeeded in her task. Red and inflamed, the bullet wound had just missed his heart and gone septic, containing a putrid substance that oozed from its core, his skin dry and searing to the touch of her fingertips. He would be dead before the new moon at this rate, was in fact, dying...
A strange and painful heaviness weighted the center of her chest, and she wondered at the heated tears that clouded her eyes.
Tears? For him? Certainly not. She cried for no man. The cause must stem from some polluted matter in the foul air.
He groaned on the next faltering inhalation of breath and unexpectedly grabbed her hand that strayed near his wound. His one good eye flickered open, attempting to focus on her. She froze, for once not knowing what to do.
"You," he rasped, his voice a thread of the rich, deep timbre she remembered.
She looked around the stark chamber in vain for a dish of water to give, finding none. He had been left not only to expire from his wounds, but to starve and thirst as well.
He never looked away from her face but let go of her wrist to raise a hand that trembled to her cheek...with his thumb, wiping away a stray tear. "Lil…lith."
Stunned that in his feverish state he would recognize her from the one night they shared, especially recall her name, she covered his hand with hers and gently brought it from her face and back down to his side.
"You are only dreaming, monsieur," she persuaded, not wishing him to recall her presence there.
"Are you…an angel? Am I dead?"
"Not if I can help it."
His one good eye closed as he slipped back into a loss of awareness. Anxiously she pressed her fingers to the pulse in his neck, relieved to find the faintest of beats...unnerved by the intense feeling his hoarse words provoked… confused by the sorrow that finding him in such a wretched condition aroused.
Perhaps because she assumed the glamour of a strumpet and allowed herself to become intimate with a mortal, something she had never before done, she battled with these unfamiliar and altogether unwanted sensations. Yes, that must be it. Her kind boasted in their conquests, arrogant in the knowledge of their masculine appeal. But this man had shown nothing but resigned doubt that she should choose to be in physical union with him, oddly enhancing her desire to do so. Once convinced, he had sought her pleasure as well as his own, the entire experience bizarre, in that she had genuinely wanted this man, though her scheme of taking him with her to the brothel was initially fashioned to trap him into danger...
And now that he lay at the threshold of death, she experienced no more than a strange, heavy regret, and could do nothing that she currently wished. She dared not bring him to full physical recovery, as she had done with the true Phantom, Erik, before sending him back into the Middle Ages. Any magic used of that power and magnitude would be sensed by Queen Viviane or reported on by her spies, and Lillith would be punished as severely as her sister. But she could not leave him to succumb to this tomb of eternal darkness either!
To save his life, she must resort to natural, mortal means.
But what...?!
And for what purpose did she so dearly wish to? The queen would be delighted to learn that Le Masque was dead, and Lillith had sworn allegiance to her regent in this matter and all others.
Her eyes slid shut as she deliberated over this quandary of her own making, forcing a calm she was far from feeling.
To heal his wounds, even partially, was no option; she could not even dissolve the bullet, if it had not yet been dug out, for later its absence would be brought into question and there was no exit wound...but she could halt the infection so that he did not perish before some form of help could arrive. The amount of magic required was minimal. No one would discover her small betrayal, if it could even be called that - Le Masque was more beneficial to her plan if kept alive.
And once she disposed of this glamour of a mortal, which she had worn far too long, surely she would resume with her own vindictive thoughts and vengeful motives toward all of the de Chagny bloodline, as the faerie she truly was.
Stretching out her hand over the festering wound, Lillith spoke words in the Fae language, encouraged to see a muted violet glow leave her fingers and cover the infected area. In a matter of seconds, the skin lost its tainted appearance, the angry red and blackened flesh once more obtaining its natural pale color, as though he'd only just been shot, though thankfully no new blood spilled over. Without a clean bandage to cover him, she tugged the dirty one back in place, aware that all must appear as it had been before, as if no one interfered.
She could not make water or food manifest out of thin air; she did not have the ability to create matter out of nothing. But she could influence one of the servants to bring him what was needed...Still, it wasn't enough. For the moment his life was spared, but in these wretched environs, infection could again creep in and her desperate act would have served only to prolong the hour until his demise.
"Rest," she quietly told his unconscious form, noting he breathed a little easier. "Your stay in this horrid place will soon draw to a close. I shall see to that as well."
Still perplexed by the ocean of deep feeling that beset her to look upon him, Lillith quickly stood and exited the dungeon room before her presence could again be discovered.
xXx
The small band of incipient troubadours rode until dusk coated the land with its heavy mantle of violet. Relieved to find an enclosed haven amid the dense shield of trees, they made camp. It boggled the mind that the forest stretched so far and wide, as to travel half a day and still be held deep within its verdant grasp. The clearing wasn't as large as their former site but would do for the time needed to finish preparations and engage in rehearsals, before taking to the road and a village or city - whichever they arrived to first.
A large campfire was built, giving off light and warmth, and the men gathered to prepare what small game had been hunted during the journey. Weary of the day's toil, they left their tents to be pitched for the morrow, choosing to sleep with the sky for a ceiling for one night. Erik, however, set up their own shield of canvas, to give him and Christine the preferred option of privacy. Exhausted from hours of travel, she ate little and aided him with what she could, but soon sensing she was more hindrance then help, excused herself to check on the boy.
Halfway across camp, she experienced the uneasy sensation of being watched and scanned nearby trees, abruptly meeting the hard eyes of the young man, Marcel. Previously interred in the Vicomte's dungeon and wounded in the escape, he had not been among the men gathered for Erik's speech, still recovering from his injuries, and had yet to decide if he would remain with the band. Pale and gaunt from months of suffering, he had never said even one word to Christine in the week since she and Erik rejoined them. And though Marcel's stare was not like that of his comrades - of crass ogling and narrow-minded suspicion - it was nonetheless cold and empty, sending a chill through her bones.
She gave him an awkward nod, unacknowledged, and hurried past, toward the boy. He lay upon his stomach on the stretcher, a fresh poultice spread across his back. A hunk of cooked fowl impaled on a stick had been placed near him on the blanket, along with a mug of ale. From the manner in which he clenched his hands around tufts of grass, it was evident their youngest member was in great pain.
"Tobias," she said gently, bending her knees and lowering herself better to speak with him. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nay, my lady."
She frowned when he wouldn't look at her. "You should eat to gain your strength."
It must be awkward to reach the stick near his head and painful to make the attempt. When he gave no response to her coaxing, she wiped her hands down her skirts to clean them as best she could and pulled a sizeable bite from the cooked bird. She brought the morsel to his mouth, but he thinned closed lips and shook his head like a child, reminding her he was little more than that.
"You must eat, Tobias," she encouraged again, softly but sternly.
"Is he very angry with me?"
She had no need to ask who the lad meant. "I explained that you were carrying out my wishes. He knows the blame is not fully yours to bear," she said a little more quietly, not wishing to be overheard.
"Nay, it is. The second time I have failed him," the boy mourned. "In Paris, I failed him then too. I could well have been the cause for our capture, though I knew those at the chateau wouldn't know me. I never was allowed to go on night raids. Bertram says I am too young. Now I may never get the chance."
"There won't be any more night raids," she quietly countered. "We are a traveling troupe of actors and musicians now."
"Oh, aye…but when I am able to walk again, will the Phantom banish me from camp like he did Richard?"
"He has said nothing to me about it. Ease your mind, Tobias. With that cherubic voice of yours, you will be a great asset to what the Phantom has planned for us."
"You truly think so? He will allow me to stay?"
"I believe so, yes."
Hero-worship shone from his pain-laced eyes, and Christine sensed that Erik would never have another moment's trouble with the lad in defying orders, even if his motives had been selfless at the time. Something suddenly occurred to her.
"Tobias...If you have never been to the chateau, how did you know to find a rebec there?"
Abashed, the lad averted his eyes. "One night, months ago, I followed the others when they went on a raid. I waited, long after, 'til i was sure all within the chateau lay sleeping and found a way inside. I wanted to see for myself, having heard tales of the wealth such chambers hold, and I saw a room with instruments of music in it. I never went there again - not until today...I wish, how I wish I never had..." His voice achieved a soft quality, as if he truly believed he could turn back time with his words.
And yet, with her own experience through a portal into the past, who was she to say he could not? Still, what happened to her and Erik was so rare as to never be imagined, much less believed, if indeed it had happened to others.
"Oh, Tobias...'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.'" She shook her head in sympathetic understanding. "We all make mistakes. The Phantom has made his. I have certainly made mine. What is important is that we learn from them and do our utmost not to repeat them."
"Aye, mistress." Somberly he nodded. "I vow to do my best."
"That is all that is required. Now come, eat..."
Finally she persuaded him, at his request first holding the mug and giving him a sip of ale. He gruffly then insisted on feeding himself. She hid a smile at his sudden burst of boyish machismo and placed the stick in his hand. Hoping to cheer him with her parting words, she stated that since he would need to lie still for at least a day more to recover, they could begin his education to read and write after the morning meal. But only if he felt up to the challenge.
Christine carried his grateful smile back with her to the tent, now standing upright and ready for her habitation.
Upon parting the flap, she was relieved to see Erik already inside. In the dim glow of the small personal campfire he had situated close to the entrance, he stood almost in profile to her, naked to the waist and bare of foot, using his castoff tunic to wipe the perspiration from his chest. The dark hose of this era outlined muscled thigh and buttock and for a moment Christine stood motionless, savoring the trim, masculine image of perfection he made, scars and all.
The thought brought a small frown as she stared at what little she could see of the breadth of his back. Hearing her step rustle in the grass, he turned his head slightly to acknowledge her presence before returning to his task. Once she drew close, she noticed a bowl of fresh water on the ground near his feet. He followed her gaze.
"I found a stream that runs a short distance from here. Knowing your preference to cleanse before slumber and not wishing you to fall and break your neck in the darkness, I thought it best to bring the stream to you."
Slipping up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek on his shoulder blade. "You always think of my comfort."
His hand moved to cover one of hers. "You are my reason for living, in this world and in the last."
Christine nuzzled her face against the lumpy warmth of his skin that smelled of fresh sweat and earth and musk, pleasing to her senses. Her cheek brushed the rough scar of a raised stripe, and she sobered, delivering a faint kiss there.
"You were quite young when you received these, were you not? Younger even than Tobias."
He sighed. "I have no desire for pity, Christine, especially from you."
"Pity?" She gasped out a little laugh and pressed her brow to his back, shaking her head in disbelief. "I hardly pity you, Erik. Why would I? You have everything you ever wanted."
"Oh?" He turned fully to face her. "Do tell."
"Must I, really?" she said, incredulous that he would even need to ask.
His change in position brought her fingertips to trace new trails along his chest, reveling in the soft tufts of hair found there.
"I am curious to hear your thoughts on the matter."
She lifted her eyebrows in mild surprise at his quiet urging. "Very well then. You have the freedom to roam anywhere upon the earth that you please, no longer confined to a forgotten cellar beneath the Opera House and a cave for a home."
He tilted his head, intrigued. "Go on."
"Of those men who remain in the band, you have their respect and loyalty. Unlike at the Opera House."
"Hmm. Yes," he said somewhat dourly.
"You have music whenever you like," she hastened to say, not wishing for him to dwell on troublesome times. "My voice is yours, and soon we will fulfill our dream of performing for an audience again."
"A ramshackle endeavor when compared to the rousing accompaniment of a one hundred-piece orchestra and the plentiful array of costumes and props, but I'll take it."
She laughed and looked up into eyes that shone almost silver behind the black mask. Giving him an adoring smile, she added quite simply, "And you have me."
"And that," he said, gently cupping and rubbing her shoulders with his palms, "is all I would ever want or need. I could do without all the rest, if only to have you, and my happiness would be assured."
"Oh, Erik, I am happy." She gave a lilting laugh. "So very happy!"
Despite all the conflicts they had faced and had yet to face, her words rang true. With Erik, even in a chaotic world where nothing went as expected, everything felt right again. Better… because he was no longer simply her angel and teacher, he was her husband and at last aware of all they'd been to one another. Most of his memories had returned and what had not was trivial, in that she could easily tell their story again for his knowledge and her nostalgia. Such moments always served to draw them closer, in fondness, in laughter, sometimes in tears. But best of all, the wretched black spells had never again made an appearance.
"I shall endeavor to keep that smile on your face for the eternity of our days together."
"My cheeks may grow rather stiff," Christine teased and was rewarded for her audacity with a firm squeeze of her shoulders that led to the swift pull of her body to his, followed by a light swat to her derriere as he imprisoned her in his arms.
She giggled, feigning struggle.
"Saucy wench." His lips twisted in the wry, crooked grin she knew and loved so well.
Lifting her face for his kiss, she was not disappointed. Tender but heartfelt, the slow, repeated brush of his lips on hers warmed her to her toes. He broke away, only to gather her still closer, and she laid her face against his chest, exhaling a contented sigh.
"I was warned, in this century and in the one we left, that the faeries seek out mischief for mortals," she pondered quietly. "But I think that must be wrong. If it is the Fae who are responsible for our being here and reuniting, then they have been nothing but kind..."
Later, buried beneath warm furs and wrapped in her husband's strong arms, in the still moments before Christine surrendered to exhaustion brought about by the trying day, she recalled her words. She had first thought her fall through time a curse, but it evolved into a blessing. Now that they were far from the Vicomte's clutches and on the verge of beginning a new manner of life, surely peace would join happiness and this would be the end of their travails.
Wishing to concentrate on that hope and not let the prolonged fear of discovery interfere with tranquil dreams, Christine nestled closer to her Phantom. Cossetted by the heat of his body, she smiled, her last drowsy thought of anticipating the daybreak and the start of their career as traveling troubadours. A far cry from the opera, and yet that life seemed an entire world away...
And indeed, it was.
xXx
A/N: So, all's well that ends well, eh? (hehehe) Yes, I concluded this one without my customary cliffie ...but peace...? hmmm - all I can say is enjoy these fluffy E/C moments and chapters while they last, because things are soon to get a wee bit wild…. ;-)