Author's Note: This chapter edit has been a long time coming. I pressed the submit button on the original draft of this chapter far too soon. Now, my co-author LaurenAlfaDog and I have completed our edits of this chapter and we hope all of you enjoy Erik's confessions in their newly fleshed-out form. As always, comments and reviews are greatly appreciated. Let us know what you think! The next chapter is gonna be a doozy!- Jess (FleshOfMidnight)

"It was suffering and incapacity that created all afterworlds - this, and that brief madness of bliss which is experienced only by those who suffer deeply.

Weariness that wants to reach the ultimate with one leap, with one fatal leap, a poor ignorant weariness that does not want to want any more: this created all gods and afterworlds."

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Late into the evening, Christine finally stepped into her dressing room. It held a disorienting torrent of shadows that brought far too many uncertainties upon entering. She silently cursed herself for not igniting the gas lamp before stepping further inside the small room. There was a blinding pit of darkness that engulfed her as she floundered in the air, feeling for the lamp – soon and finding it with a hectic, shaking palm. Suddenly, a single flame illuminated the entirety of the space, sputtering amber waves of light upon the brocade walls, crafting beams of light on the narrow angles of the room.

As she moved further into the room, her eyes adjusted to the dim, slowly forming light. Christine was interrupted by the sound of something smashing under her heel. She could sense every tremble of noise, for the room had been deathly still when she had entered. Surprised, she closed the door behind her and stooped to discover what item she had tread upon. Her fingers stumbled upon a slight and rigid slip of parchment. Intrigued by its mystery, she stood and fumbled to turn up the gas lamp. Squinting as her eyes adjusted to the illumination, she held the scrap of paper up closely to her face and began to read:

We are all at the mercy of the life we choose, the winds of fate we sail upon hold no mercy. Nature makes a victim of us, indiscriminately. She does not cater to our wants and desires. But Music always caters to us, Christine.

To you and I.

- E

She mouthed the words as she read them, and with each syllable her heart clenched as if wrought by a merciless mechanical vice; one made to crush and tighten immovable objects, leaving no choice but to succumb to a stranglehold. How could she possibly fathom the strength of her feelings brought about by his words…how deeply they affected her? A fire stormed within her soul – a desire and love she had not yet processed nor comprehended. She feared the unharnessed power of this burning, that it might choke the air from her lungs and steal away the words she wished to utter. Was it a blessing or a curse?

Erik had crafted and stolen away her voice; for he had created her instrument, and she had always sung only for him…until now. Yet she wished it could still be true…that playing and teasing could still grow from their shadowed forms, deep in the caverns below the Opera house. She wished that her life was not hanging between the darkness and the light; she wished she did not have to choose…

Christine found herself falling into the depths of her soul in Erik's absence. The almost tangible haunting of his figure loomed behind her with every thought, as if he could sense each feeling – no matter how subtle – that she endured. Did he realize that her heart fluttered like the wings of a frightened bird, flightless and doomed to crash from the sky? Could he see those tattered wings flapping in steady desperation, feathers drifting and leaves falling earthbound from a dying tree? Christine's heart stuttered to navigate the next game on the board that Erik had laid out, the next move to play…Oh, did she dread to even know? Playing these games with him…she did not want them to end. Yet they would…tonight. For her soul was Erik's to craft and to reap, a harvest of emotions she had not dared to acknowledge or touch…

We are all at the mercy of the life we choose…

Those words he had written to her: were they simply his statement born of the sorrow from her rejection, the previous night? Or was his message a challenge, that she might find within herself the courage to accept and embrace him…

To allow herself the bliss of falling into complete darkness.

Into his arms.

She was suddenly terrified of that darkness; to follow the coordinates her heart had mapped, the compass needles of her soul that pointed sternly…For it had always landed on one point in the end…

Erik.

Always Erik.

The love she held for him was unfathomable and violent; something she could not understand. She could not hold it in her hands; it was far too deep, far too alive. The intensity of her feelings for him reverberated and throbbed in her veins. "Damn it all," Christine muttered aloud, as tears began to fall fresh and salty down her cheeks. "Damn you, Erik…I do not wish to feel." She inhaled sharply, her throat uncomfortably dry as she attempted to force a pathetic, quivering semblance of composure; for no matter the events that might ensue, she must sing tonight. The gravity of the situation sank into her stomach, a heavy stone pulling her to the ground. Christine fell to her knees in a wretched silence, for she knew the path her heart must take. "I do not wish to feel...I do not wish to feel anything, Erik." Her words and tears were a mingling of muddled emotions, and she buried her head in her hands, unravelling at her very core.

Christine rose from her knees and placed herself on the flimsy stool near her dressing room vanity table, unsure of how to proceed in her preparations for the performance. She held her hands out in front of her eyes and watched them shake: she was not ready….she would never be ready. When she thought of Erik, her heart blossomed forth achingly, with warm tendrils of love, of desperation that curled and throbbed within every inch of her body. The thought of not having him in her life was unbearable…it would create a raw gash in her soul, a frightening emptiness. Erik would always be a part of her life if she willed it to be so, and without him, she knew her heart would grow hollow; a dull, lifeless thing ready to shatter at the first provocation, the first unkind word at a rehearsal, the next disappointment…

Christine shivered with the possibility of that choice.

Could she betray this man that fed her an obsessive and unquestioning love? The power of his passion for her was so very beguiling and overwhelming. How could she continue to deny him? Perhaps her hesitancy was the fear of the unknown, an unwillingness to be so completely consumed by another human? Magnificent, dark, dangerous, he was… a sensual genius sculpted of a mysterious history and an immeasurable pain she could not touch nor feel. But her soul still reached for him, screaming out the cry of a banshee made of cold wind. Her unuttered song begged for him to come to her, to be hers, if only she would let down her guard, if only she could let him in…Christine held a shaking palm to her breast, attempting to quell the tell-tale thumping of her heart, afraid it might run away from her to follow its true path. She bent her head low, biting her bottom lip to the brink of pain. She knew she might sob, but this was not the time for pathetic tears…

"Don't cry, little dove."

That all too familiar voice played a tinkling melody in the shell of her ear, causing her to lift her eyes to search the dimly lit room for the figure she needed so desperately. Oh, how she hated her all-consuming need for him! Erik's perfect voice teased at her mercilessly, and she caved in it, as always; an opium addict eyeing the poison needle dangling before their eyes. Erik was every adrenaline rush, a drug; her deepest temptation. If she allowed herself to do so, she would sacrifice all reason for him, yet she could never admit to that truth. He could never know her weakness…he could never know her pain.

"Erik, I know you are here. Please reveal yourself…we…we must speak!" Christine stood up, slamming her hands on the smooth wooden vanity in front of her, whirling around in a frantic search for the blurry outline of his form.

"Hush, Christine. I am here. All you need do is pull the lever on your mirror. I would beg to call upon you as a gentleman and not as a specter this evening." His words held a humble plaintiveness, the humanity revealed in them serving as a siren's song, moving Christine to the cliff's edge of her reason. She flipped the lever and opened the mirror to reveal him, her dark angel, a figure so impossibly tall and regal, clad in layers of shimmering ebony. He stepped inside of her dressing room, entering her space with the hesitant gait of a shy child seeking approval. And just like that – a shadow became a man; Erik, standing near her vanity, removing his hat and cloak, no longer an omnipotent ghost. She saw his facade of power fade away from the shadows that casted light onto his face; and his eyes stayed upon her, loving her even still.

And although she did not allow her face to betray it, she loved him back.

Christine's eyes grew wild and anxious, her body stiff with the uncertainty of what her limbs should do upon his arrival. Should she grasp his velvet lapels in a frenzy of urgent desire as she had done the previous night, or lift an open palm to slap his unmarred cheek? She could not decide, so she simply stood still, arms hanging numbly at her sides, her dressing gown sliding down the sides of her arms. Erik moved forward hesitantly, placing his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close, causing a tantalizing shiver to course through her body from head to toe. What was it about his touch that caused her to abandon all reason?

His thumbs rubbed tiny, cyclical patterns into her shoulder blades, and Christine sighed into his touch, unable to resist the physical pull she felt towards him.

"Yes, my dear, you are correct; we must speak. Our fates may be sealed tonight, and I no longer wish to keep any secrets from you." Erik released her, gesturing for her to sit down on the crimson chaise lounge behind him.. As she did so, he nodded slightly, his mismatched eyes silently begging for permission to join her. Christine returned his nod, her voice caught in her throat, her pale limbs quivering and shaking…a nervousness so violent that she feared she may vomit…but as always, she swallowed the warm bile, forcing the dizziness in her head to go away; pulling the dreams of love, of being in love with him far, far away…

For it could not be so.

The silence in the room was deafening as they looked at each other, both terrified to move or taint the air between them. But after a seemingly infinite moment, in which the two of them stared at each other with a wild and foreign yearning, Erik spoke in a whisper that caressed Christine's ears in deep, satin tones.

"It has occurred to me, sweet songbird, that I have asked you to care for a man you barely know, to love an angel that was never real. I…I wish to rectify this. All of the lies and secrets I have forced upon you…I…I want you to know the whole of me, and how I became the shadow that you see before you." His eyes held the stirrings of a deep, startling hope as he searched her face then; a quiet storm raging in both of their hearts. Erik fought the urge to reach for her hand, for he craved her touch with a small ripple of insanity; he might die without it. Yet he was not prepared for the ice and hostility that his confessions would bring.

Christine's ever compassionate heart sensed his need and she met Erik's eyes again, her pale hand moving across the chaise lounge to find his. She timidly covered his broad fingers with her own.

"Please," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Tell me…tell me why, Erik! Explain every single brutal action, every violent, selfish choice! Tell me why we're sitting here with our fates weighing between life and death? Please, help me to understand, somehow." She squeezed Erik's hand, feeling waves of unsteady emotion pulsate through her, with delicate pitches resounding in her veins as she felt the cool skin of his fingertips. His body was hers to map and compose, to nurture…And those subtle notes pushed forward, the wrenching tones of his honesty rising to the surface; the music of darkness – the empty sounds of his life.

Erik was suddenly distraught, with broad shoulders that curled at her mercy, finally vulnerable and willing to share with her his history. As Christine looked at him – her teacher, her friend, her love; she did not weep. Her pain had become her power now…but even still, their lives pooled upon a golden scale, tipping and turning with every sigh, with every breath that each of them took…

She would listen. She would hear him, and then she would find her voice tonight. For perhaps it could be hers and only hers…it would not belong to anyone. Not even Erik.

Her Angel looked away from her, his eyes glistening with the welling of fresh unshed tears, and his spidery fingers reached for the unseen ties of his mask. Erik, the man, hesitantly worked at the fastenings, stripping away all of his disguises. When he had released the mask from its lacings, he wordlessly presented it to Christine, his gaze kept lowered in submission. Christine took the porcelain covering without question, her hand trembling as she placed it on the vanity. Her hands quivered as she laid it down, for it was a symbol of Erik's humanity, and the surrendering of it brought his vulnerability fully into her possession.

"Please, Christine…" Erik's eyes beseeched her for the acceptance of his ugliness. He would never be able to speak his confession if she did not at least give him that.

As he turned his face to her, she looked upon his mottled flesh and deepened scars, the sunken yellowed nostril and the cavernous eye socket. How strange that the other half of his face stood handsome and proud, his high cheekbone luminous in the flickering lamplight, Christine found herself taken aback by how little his appearance mattered to her, other than the fact that she found him truly and uniquely beautiful.

"Tell me," she whispered, and his amber eyes glimmering intensely as he began to speak, gasping in a low whisper. His face was bare and eerily perfect within its imperfection, and he slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Forgive me," he stammered, his hand falling limp and cold in her grasp. "Forgive me for all that I have done, and all that I will tell you, Christine."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, "I am here. I am listening." Christine rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb, guiding it to rest in her lap. The intimacy of her gesture was not lost to him as he stared briefly at where his palm joined with her own, now rested softly upon her thigh.

"These truths that I must share with you will make you hate me, my angel. So please, let me feel your caress for the last time…before you turn away from me forever. Let me feel your hand in mine. For your touch is the only touch I have ever received that has not been laced with blood and pain." Erik tensed and straightened his broad, angular back, the crisp ebony fabric of his suit pulled taut at his shoulders. He would not share his story in weakness, no…His truth would be revealed as that of a man; no mask, no layers, no colored facades. He would present himself as an honest and tender being; one that had made terrible choices, yet still a human…a human that longed for love and redemption.

"There was once a very young boy whose mother kept hidden away and forced him to wear a mask. A mother that took all the mirrors from the house. A mother who would not offer a single touch of affection to her child…" Erik paused, emitting a strained sound as if something were caught in his throat. It must have been the words he was still summoning the courage to utter to his beloved that caused his mouth to grow rigid…for even now, after all this time, it pained him to speak of it.

"I have committed many sins, Christine. I am a man crafted by the blood spilt by my own hands, baptized in a murderous deluge made from the demands asked of me by others; men who bathed in power, in bloodshed…Men that would put a talented gargoyle to work. I survived Christine. I lived in the only manner in which I knew how to do so. I killed to save my own life, yet I could not even save myself. And at times, I relished in the power that I took back…for I took my pain out onto the unknown faces of the world…damn it all. Damn all of those nameless and perfectly crafted people! They mattered so little to me, yet I resented them, Christine! I felt a semblance of satisfaction when I stole from them what I knew I would never have; a normal life, a small pinch of beauty, recognition for my work….and…and love." Erik's voice grew gentle, wrapping itself around her like a bloodstained thread, burning to cling to something solid, something real. It was now a haunting whisper, the recount of his life…yet she stayed still and silent, not wanting his vulnerability to fade away.

"I reveled within the fact that I became the greatest assassin in all of Persia, perhaps in all of Asia…for it was a better title than that of the living corpse, locked in a cage to be put on show, the title I was given as a child." Erik bent his head low and winced, the brutal truth of it all crashing down upon him as the words came to life. "Christine, I wanted to hold power over them, all of them who had ridiculed me and detested me…all who had abused me! I became so angry. I constructed such beautiful things; buildings, palaces, concertos, yet no one would ever dare to recognize my work because of this putrid ugliness. Oh, Christine, forgive me, please…All that I have created is horror and death and…and I do not know what I will do if you cannot…for you, your voice is the only purity I have ever created in this cruel, miserable world…in this darkness that men call life. I promised you an Angel, but I gave you the Devil, himself! Oh Christine…"

At the end of his confession, he realized that there would be no future with her; it had shattered within his mind – the lotus had crinkled in the palm of his hand. He could not hold love – for now he saw the sickening truth of it all…he did not deserve it! He could never deserve her, or a future with her…tears pried at the corners of his eyes as his words hung stagnant in the air.

"I'm so sorry, Christine, for every lie, every deception. I wanted to be good, deep down inside…please believe that! The world would not allow it…the woman who birthed me would not allow it. I never knew how to really love…I thought love was a myth that man used for advantage, much like my creations…but now I'm starting to realize that I am so much further from redemption than I thought." He paused, letting a single tear fall down the marred side of his face. "Redemption is not possible for me. I cannot undo the brokenness of the past…I am undeserving of love. Of your love."

Christine did not utter a single word. She was silently transfixed and shattered by the truth of it all. She continued looking into his amber eyes, silently asking him to continue. The shallow air that hung between them was almost tangible, and she could almost hear the tinkling of glass shards, their connection falling into tiny piles on the carpet between their feet…

"Christine, do you understand the reality of complete isolation? Being utterly alone and unable to trust another human?" Erik clenched her hand tightly, taking a deep breath. "Do you know how it feels to understand that not a single human in this vast world will ever love you?" Erik winced sharply, sucking in a struggling breath, his usual stoic composure draining from his very eyes. "Have you ever felt like that?"

Erik's voice, always so strong and deliberate, now shivered like the delicate flame within the lamp. He held his head low, for he could not even look upon her face, although the demons of his past seemed now to come alive, living within his soul as if his words fed them, nurtured them. They could not be pushed away, not this time…for she was a witness to them, forever…

He had ripped apart the only thing that mattered to him; any and all possible dreams of being with her…of kissing her…of loving her…

"Christine…oh, Christine," he wept miserably, "I am a monster. But I was not always a thing made of violence. I was not born with the feel of blood on my fingers, or the stain of it on my hands!"

Christine gazed down at his slender white fingers, yet could not help but imagine them curling effortlessly around a lasso or a blade; those sensuous tendons wrapping perfectly as a silk ribbon around a throat, or the curve of her breast . She found herself tantalized by the macabre beauty of his hands, his touch…but she could not ask for that now. Each time he came to her turned into a game of tragic brilliance, where the stakes were always set far too high. If only she had the courage to grasp him and meet him where he was now; on the brink of a shattered soul.

"I killed for the Shah of Persia to save my own wretched existence. I do not deserve your pity, or even your touch. I never have. I am a thief, an assassin, and a cold-blooded killer. I am a monster of my own making. I formed myself in the depths of my hate…and yet I found nothing. Only you. It's always been you, Christine…"

When he finished speaking, a roaring silence saturated the room, the small space humming to the sound of shared breathing; of two tortured souls. Christine lifted her now tear-streaked eyes to Erik, and she finally understood.

"You are no monster, phantom, or beast," she stated simply, "You are a man."

Christine released Erik's fingers and stood, her heart melting in the strength and courage of his sheer honesty. Instead of looking at him; her angel, her tortured maestro, she looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the dressing room, her eyes tracing the patterns that watched from above. For what seemed an infinite moment, Christine considered the amount of effort and craftsmanship that must have gone into the construction of every single ceiling and wall in the Garnier, wondering just how much of its beauty was the product of this man, the genius who sat on her chaise lounge, his head bent low in penitence. Without turning her head toward him, she spoke quietly. "I have much to think about, Erik. Please leave me by myself, for I have an opera to perform." Her words were laced with a firm and cold reality, and Erik squeezed his eyes shut at the sound.

"Of course, as you wish, Christine," he muttered weakly, his voice caught in his throat; it was the sound of a man defeated, the hope sucked from his lungs one final time. And then he was gone behind the mirror, retreating back into the blurry labyrinth that was his only home…for he knew he had lost her for good.

Christine did not watch his exit, she could not…And again, the horrible silence of his absence screamed in her ears. When she finally glanced down and looked about the room, she noticed that the white half-mask was gone from her vanity table.

It was then that Christine began to hear the little sounds.

Erik had mentioned them the previous night, those strange little sounds, but Christine had not grasped his meaning. The weight of his past and his pain now seemed to drown her, with every memorized sentence and drawl from his breath shocking her heart from her chest. She felt as though she could not breathe.

The little sounds were faint, but they were there, existing in the silence of the room of her mind. She watched the closed mirror with a sad fascination, hearing the cries of a child, the death and the killing, the melancholy that always seemed to live behind his eyes…

And there, she heard a song of his redemption; the brokenness of a shy, beautiful spirit…all those sweet little sounds, thrumming in the deep of her soul…

And the lotus blossomed once more.