Warm.

The word flashed through Christine's mind and she woke slowly. And warm not just physically; her entire being had a strange, comfortable feeling about it. She was content, happy, and it warmed her very core. Sighing, she pulled the blankets up farther before she was abruptly jostled.

"Christine! Christine!"

She groaned irritably and opened her eyes, watching as Erik peered down at her, his eyes holding an emotion stronger than fear. He took her shoulders and shook her.

"Christine!"

"What?" she demanded grumpily. He took her face in his hands and pushed it left and right, examining the skin, and Christine snapped, "What are you doing? That hurts!"

Erik burst into delighted laughter, resting his masked face on the soft skin of her shoulder, and he began to cry, too, the tears dripping onto the pillows. Christine reluctantly let go of her anger for being woken so suddenly; she ran her small hand through his hair, allowing him the soft moment of terrified relief.

"Are you alive, Christine?" he asked, his voice muffled by her collarbone. "Are you really before Erik, warm and breathing, allowing him to touch you like this? You are not some strange, peculiar spirit coming to haunt me, are you?"

"I am here," was her soft reply.

He looked into her clear blue eyes and asked if he could kiss her. When she agreed, he requested again and again, feverishly embracing her and then watching to see if she would draw breath, open her eyes, and respond. Not long after, he disappeared, leaving her breathless and disoriented. She was sore and climbed out of bed slowly, forcing herself to think of the tasks at hand instead of...other things.

The house was completely still, the ticking of the clock her only company, and she, with a sad sigh, took up a basket of yarn. It had all been strewn together, and she patiently pulled it apart before beginning to roll all the different strands into separate balls. It occupied her hands but not her mind. She allowed herself to think freely, letting the thoughts come into her head.

And, no matter how much she thought, there were little (if no)...negative feelings. She had never felt older and more mature in her life; she was prepared for it. That did not mean she hadn't been afraid – no, she hadn't been able to conceal the terror written plainly on her features. Quite suddenly, her breathing quickened and she felt hot. The yarn shook slightly in her hands. She wondered if she was going to cry and waited for tears that never came.

A thud came from the kitchen, and Christine started before going to the room. He had dropped something, which was unsurprising, for at least six large packages were piled in his arms. After depositing them unceremoniously on the table, he picked up the dropped one, muttering. Christine saw, trying not to smile, an assortment of pretty gifts. He pulled out only one package and began to put away the food that was piled inside. Immediately, to give her something to do other than stand foolishly, she went over to help him.

They worked in a highly awkward silence. When their hands brushed, Erik drew away quickly and would not look at her. Christine stilled and bowed her head slightly, her mind turning into whirlpools of confusion. Was Erik angry with her? Had she done something last night to offend him? (She blushed fiercely at the thought.) Perhaps he no longer found her desirable. She remembered reading a magazine serial about a woman who, after the wedding night, found her husband utterly repulsive (it had been a horribly scandalous series). Maybe Erik felt that way about her. But Christine had changed too much to simply sit and wonder. She searched for him and discovered that he had buried himself in a corner amongst a pile of music, rummaging around and mumbling distractedly to himself.

Working up determination and a false courage, she approached him and laid her hand on his broad, skinny back, saying, "Erik?" He jumped and tore himself away from her touch, turning to look at her, his eyes filled with a childlike horror.

"What's wrong?" she asked, kneeling in front of him.

He merely shook his head slowly, still staring at her. Christine drew closer, touching his hand, but he took it away from her quickly.

"What is it?" she demanded angrily, trying to cover up the sob in her voice. "What is it? Why won't you tell me? Why must you do this – hurt me like this?"

Erik looked at her and slowly took off his mask. Nervously, she watched him lean forward and take her elbow. His eyes looked coldly into hers, but they held a terror that he could not hide.

"Erik must have a living wife," he whispered. "I will not kill my wife. I will not be selfish, and I will have a wife that breathes, a wife that talks, a wife that thinks. I will not seduce her with my music, brainwash her into compliance until her soul is mercifully taken by God. Christine, I would rather have you here, alive, than to indulge my human needs and kill you."

There was a powerful silence, and the couple stared at each other. Christine reached out to touch him but brushed only air.

"You think you...forced me?" she replied finally, her voice equally soft. "You think I did not know what I was doing? Look at me! I'm here, I'm breathing, Erik, and you will not kill me by being my husband." Wildly, she leaned in to kiss him, but he turned his head, and her lips bumped into his hollow cheeks.

"I hate you!" she shrieked suddenly, lost in a moment of violent frustration. "I hate you, oh how I hate you!" And she was sobbing into his chest, feeling him shush her with useless words, the tears rapidly running down her cheeks. "Why don't you understand?" she moaned. "Why must you make this difficult? Why can't you see that I wanted you as badly as you wanted me?"

Erik immediately grew very still. He found his throat hoarse and dry, and his limbs felt strange, almost to the point of numbness. Christine continued to weep into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and eventually pulling herself into his lap. Erik felt her breath on his neck, and he grew uncomfortable as he remembered the last time it had been there, how her mouth felt against his, how she squirmed under his hands....And yet, one night of pleasure might have destroyed Christine. It was by pure luck that it did not. She was still so young and naïve, a mere child. One night was not enough to push her into womanhood. He bit his tongue to realize his last few thoughts had been muttered out loud.

"I am not a child, Erik," she said firmly. "I have been for far too long, but no more." She leaned up and softly pressed her lips to his cheek. And he was finally convinced.

"Erik," she whispered, "I love you."

----

The wailing was growing louder, and Christine sighed, frustrated, before pushing her hair behind her ears.

"Erik!" she called to the house. Really. That man is insufferable sometimes.

The baby was squirming in Christine's hands, screaming, her tiny fists waving, and the little boy was trying to crawl into his mother's lap, which was already full. His large blue eyes were full of tears. The table was a mess; it always was during supper. The two children had a strong enjoyment of throwing food around whenever it was presented to them. Her son was growing out of it, but her daughter was just starting. A cup had tipped and spilled water all over the baby's lap, and she began to shriek as the water soaked through.

Before Christine even saw Erik, she could feel him behind her, and she stood quickly, bouncing the little girl soothingly.

"Will you take him?" she asked pleadingly. "My hands are already full."

Without a word, Erik slowly approached and pulled the little boy away, his eyes never leaving his wife's. Somehow, after years, he still managed to make her blush. She turned away, smiling, and held her little daughter closer.

"Make her stop crying," Erik suddenly commanded.

"I'm trying!" Christine said fiercely. When the baby caught sight of her father, her screams subsided into pathetic whimpers, and she reached for him, struggling to escape the motherly grasp. It did not matter how Erik distanced himself; his children adored him. Slowly, he approached his wife, and she graciously gave him the baby, turning her attention to the sniffling little boy who still had a fork clutched in one hand. When she had comforted him, Christine picked him up and turned to find Erik still there, his daughter babbling happily in his arms.

Christine was surprised by this. He was still wary around his children. After their first two years of marriage, he was still unsure if Christine was simply playing with him or really truly loved him. Before he could come to a final conclusion, Christine told him of her first pregnancy.

She was fooling herself to think that he had been only slightly anxious while she was expecting. He refused to talk about the child and wouldn't allow himself to touch her or be comforted in any way. The nine months were very hard for her, and her second pregnancy was not much better.

Usually, Erik would set his children down and wander off somewhere else, content to let them care for themselves. It was especially difficult whenever Christine fell ill, whether from a cold or otherwise. He did not seem to understand that children had to be fed and watched. Whenever she, exasperated by the shrieks that came from the front room, would rise from her sickbed to care for them, he became irrepressibly angry with her and forced her back into bed.

"You must watch them," she said defiantly. He would glare at her momentarily before scooping up the baby and taking the boy by the hand to lead them out of the room.

"I could always care for myself," he would respond snappishly.

"Yes, well, we're not all geniuses like you, dear." And she would smile.

Erik stared at Christine, his eyes wide with curiosity and tinged with a slight fear as his daughter squirmed happily. Both children had inherited dark, wavy locks that stuck out everywhere and wide eyes that conveyed every expression possible.

"I will put her to bed," Christine promised, and they awkwardly exchanged children. Erik's son was just beginning to speak in complete sentences, and he liked to speak simply to hear his own voice. Giving her son one last kiss, Christine left the kitchen for her daughter's room. Both husband and wife were grateful for children who had no trouble sleeping. Before Christine had even extinguished the candle, the baby was already fast asleep.

The kitchen was empty when she returned. Curious, she checked in on the small bedroom and found her son curled up in bed. Smiling softly, she made her way down the hall and tripped over the large basket of clothes. She picked it up, intent on darning socks in the quiet of her bedroom. It seemed there was never an end to repairs, especially with her son, who Erik claimed was, in fact, some type of wild animal. And when she was finished and just settling down to work on her quilt (she would finish it someday), a new pile of ripped clothing would appear the next day. She finally entered their room, a soft sigh escaping her, expecting Erik to be asleep. There was only one thing physically about Erik that had changed during the years: he slept. It was always wonderful to see him splayed out peacefully, his long limbs relaxed. The sight made her smile. Not that he slept as much as a normal person should – no, he still got by with little, but at least he obtained more.

Erik, however, echoed her sigh. He sat at his large writing desk, papers strewn every which way. Letters were mixed with music scores.

Without thinking, she set the basket down, walked over to him, and settled herself in his lap, ignoring his annoyed groan. When she untied his mask, he stiffened – as always – but relaxed when her palms came to rest on his cheeks, and she kissed him softly in thanks.

"I have to finish these tonight," he said, but he did not stop her.

"They will wait for your music," she replied, smiling as his arms finally drew her closer.

The two were quiet for a minute, content to breathe together. "I'm not writing my music," he complained. "I am writing what people wish to hear; that is not my music."

She looked at him unflinchingly, taking in his ghastly appearance easily. "When I went down to the town yesterday, everyone was singing your new ballad. If they weren't singing it, they were humming it or whistling it or even playing it on the church organ."

"Hmm, yes," he responded dryly. "A ballad that will be forgotten next season."

"I doubt that." She knew what he wished to hear, having had practice for years.

He asked, "Is the baby asleep?"

"Yes. Thank you for putting your son to bed."

"Your son."

"Our son."

She leaned against him, comforted by his hard chest. The glowing candlelight cast a soft, sleepy shadow against the wall, and Christine stared at the flames. They had destroyed her first home, taken her from her first happiness with Erik....And she was not stupid. She knew that Erik would have never, ever left a candle burning. The fire had not been an accident. This was an unspoken understanding between the two of them. But, as she looked at the flames, she realized that she did not regret this fact. Christine curled deeper into him, and he ran his long fingers through her hair.

"I am sorry," was his sudden remark. His voice was tight, muffled, and he gripped Christine tightly.

"Whatever for?"

"For being unable to make you happy. Erik wants to be the father that Christine's children deserve, for your sake, but he cannot."

She sat up instantly, watching his blank, morose expression. "Do not ever say anything like that again!" she commanded. "You are the only man I would want to be the father of my children."

"Even your young man?" He eyed her shrewdly, watching for changes in her mouth and eyes.

"I have no idea about whom you are talking," she finally said.

"Don't you – "

"Quiet," she commanded, resting her head on his shoulder once more. Another peaceful silence reigned over the two, and their thoughts drifted.

They both shifted slightly as Christine sat up again and looked at him, staring into his golden eyes.

"Erik." That one word was spoken so sincerely, so softly, so warmly, so lovingly, and Erik swallowed harshly, finding tears come to him.

"I have something to tell you."

A heavy silence reigned, and Erik searched her.

"Christine, if you tell me you are pregnant again, I shall be very put out."

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with delight, before kissing him thoughtfully. "Well, if I was, it isn't as if it is my fault."

The dress was slipping through his fingers, and he enjoyed the soft ribbon that encircled her waist.

"Erik," she suddenly said, "It took me two years to tell you that I love you. And I'm grateful for those two years; we have struggled for our love, strengthened it. I know that we...fight sometimes – "

"Constantly," he muttered, mildly amused at their past insignificant arguments.

"Sometimes. But nothing you can say will make me take back my soul. You own it – I want you to keep it forever."

His hands were sliding through her soft hair. "I feel as if there is something that ties you to me, a rope that is more delicate than moonlight and stronger than iron. Neither time nor distance can sever something so beautiful." Erik smiled, his lips twisting oddly, but Christine found it utterly irresistible.

As she leaned in to kiss him once again, he stopped her, watching her eyes closely. "Christine." His voice – that voice – wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes just to revel in the sound of her name. "I love you."

"I love you, Erik."

A sigh escaped him, content and soft as she embraced him.

"This is the heaven I was speaking of," he murmured. "A paradise that is incomparable."

Christine smiled.

"We share paradise."

Fin