The Amnesty of Angels

The obnoxious triumphing of brass instruments hauled his groggy mind into wakefulness, driving him to sit up. He felt warm and sticky; too long, he'd slept in these clothes. His hand rose, to discover that he'd slept with his mask on. His left side ached; he had fallen asleep on that side, and never moved once. When Christine had left him, he had had little mind left to do anything other than lie down and rest. He had thought he was kidding himself, if he expected to get any rest, knowing that she was so close by—however, the real joke had been assuming that a body that had been pushed far, far over its limits for the past year would not fall into something very near to a coma, as soon as it had encountered soft mattress beneath it.

Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed slowly, attempting to rise as cautiously as possible. His hands itched; he opened them slowly, stopping before he had fully spread them out. The skin had healed too tightly; he could neither open them completely, nor clench them completely. With a frown, he worked his hands open and shut until they ached with the motion, and then raised them to smooth his hair into place. A few steps took him to the window, and guardedly he drew the curtain back.

The sunlight ran one finger across his cheek like a lover's caress—as if he had anything to relate it to. It was early morning, but morning nonetheless. With a quiet groan, he turned, and moved to the door to the guestroom. Slowly, he opened the door, trying to move as slowly and quietly as possible. He stuck his head out, eyes searching for any sign of life around the house.

The loud thump of heel upon wood floor was heard, followed by a groan. Erik slipped through the door and followed the sound, rounding a corner and discovering Christine straining with a door that appeared to be stuck. He watched her for a moment, before softly asking, "Christine? Are you.. in need of assistance?"

Christine jumped—obviously, she had not heard his approach—before turning to look at him. "You just.. you frightened me, a bit.. ah.." She waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter, and then tucked a curl of hair behind one tiny ear. He listened to her intently, as if afraid of losing a precious commodity, should a single syllable be misplaced. It was not the words that he savored, but the voice that spoke them—the words were merely a consequence. "It's quite stubborn. The hinges are rusted. Raoul—we use the alternate linen closet, you see.. so this one goes rather.. unused..." The remaining innocent note dissolved into awkward silence, before a quick step brought her free of his path.

One stride brought him to stand directly in front of the door. He took a slight breath, before wrapping both hands around the knob. Combined, they gave him the same amount of strength that a single hand once would have. Willing them to remain strong, he turned the knob, and rocked back on his heels. With one yank, the door flew open. Balance was nearly sacrificed; only a quickly-placed foot stopped him from tumbling backwards.

He pried his fingers loose of the knob, and stepped away from the door. One hand gestured towards it in a grand motion, as if he were presenting her with a prize.

oOoOoOoOo

Christine peered meekly into the closet, her head nodding. "Thank you," she breathed, eyes averted from him. The thuds of her heart resonated within her, ricocheting off her inner walls and jarring her delicate composure. That display of brutal strength... He had seemed so incapable of such, the night before. Surely, that was what had frightened her... She gave herself a mental pat on the back—no need to fret, he'd merely had a good night's rest! The previous night, he would hardly have been able to lift Benedict from the floor.

Her thoughts darted to those two tiny angels, a moment of panic being inspired only moments before being quelled. Surely, they were both still sleeping; it had only been a short time since last she had offered a motherly gaze into their bedchambers. Both slept as heavily as Raoul—they would fail to arise before midday, if they were left undisturbed.

The uneven threading of soft towels was plush against her fingertips as she lifted the largest one perched upon one of the elderly shelves. With a quick backwards step and the soft click of the door returning to its prior position, her gaze aligned with his. The color of her cheeks immediately became identical to the rouge of the towel she now held clamped to her breast. "I.. thought you'd like to bathe, before breakfast..."

Erik studied her for a moment, before a slight smile was forced, and his head bowed a bit. "Yes, Madame... A bath would be.. much appreciated, I think." His eyes lowered to her chest, with a slightly expectant expression. What was he looking at?

She had nearly forgotten about the towel's placement, and had recalled the horrid rouge as his gaze first fell from hers. "Oh!" She thrust it forward in a child-like manner. "I... Um, this way." Her skirts twirled around her legs as she abruptly shifted directions, footsteps dragging up the glazed stairs rooted in the living room. "Forgive me, Eri—... Forgive me, Monsieur, but the bathroom on the first floor fails to work. The plumbing is rusted."

Her tongue burned with the desire to speak his name, as often as she could, but her face darkened with thoughts of hurting Raoul as soon as the yearning made itself known. The betrayal of her husband gnawed upon her conscience the moment she looked upon her guest. Perhaps, if she refused to acknowledge his presence excessively, he would disappear? Saying his name, inhaling that musky scent—even a glance upon his features dusted off memories she repressed to the depths of her mind. And that voice...

The heavy hammer of guilt brought its metal down hard on those thoughts, murdering them. Quite suddenly heated, Christine brought a hand to her pale forehead as she neared the door opening off of the hallway. Sunny rays hugged her features, warming the gentle curves of her face. They successfully invaded the premises through nearby windows; she had wanted it that way the moment they had unpacked their bags and made the hidden home a part of the de Chagny family. Darkness...

Darkness was not welcome in her home.

Venturing through her own elegant chamber, she brought Erik through it and to the bathroom she had, herself, used that very morning. When she turned to speak to him, she found him standing halfway through the bedroom, staring darkly at the bed. When finally he did move to continue after her, she found his eyes again focused on her left hand.

Trying to ignore that obvious message, she managed a smile, and spoke. "Here, there is every bathing-applicable item imaginable, housed beneath—and above—the sink..." Her hand fell from her forehead to gesture towards the sink, and the cupboards lurking above and beneath it. She bowed her head and made a quick retreat, not desiring to make herself an obstacle.

She had nearly escaped, when he called out to her. "Wait!" The painful urgency of that voice rooted her to the ground, and forced her head to turn to look at him, though she kept her body aimed somewhat away from him, to make her intentions clear.

"I... Well." With a slightly reddened left cheek, the Phantom advanced on her, hands meekly held in front of him. "I.. need to shave, Madame." Those hands were presented to her for inspection, and she turned to observe the trembling limbs. "I.. do not think I can manage, on my own," he finished, voice muffled with an obvious mortification.

"Well..." She surveyed the greying hands; apparently, the terrible weather had been more of a nuisance to him than he had allowed her to believe. Eyes did not linger long enough to see the gruesome scars upon those appendages; they were already rising, to focus on the raven hair that very nearly brushed the tops of his shoulders. "Perhaps," she offered gently, "after you have bathed, I can tidy you up a bit?"

He seemed to recall something, and glanced back towards the tub. "Oh. Yes, yes, Madame. That would.. be much appreciated. I offer my thanks." Without another breath, he tucked his hands tightly against his stomach, and kicked the door shut in her face.

With a sigh, she turned to leave. She went first to the children's room, standing and watching them for a long and quiet moment, before abandoning them to their dreams. That long reverie had supplied her with sufficient dreams of Raoul to distract her, as she began breakfast for she and her guest.

She had barely even begun, before a silvery voice began to caress the depths of her soul and raise it to unnatural heights. Fright was stirred, but not awoken, and she found her hand lifting to press itself against her chest. Eyes wide, though unseeing, she stood statue-like, body and mind attuned totally to that chime of notes. "Christine...?"

Christine Daaé. Her.

A taunting shimmer accompanied the mist of enchantment that lingered about her mind. The innocent calling was like a mocking mermaid, beckoning a sailor with her song—with his song. What would happen to her, if she returned to him? Would he force her once more into that abyss, those black depths, or would she dance with him in sunlight, in free air?

A wary gait, though at first a grudging one, led her into the ever-familiar room upstairs. The semi-veiled face which greeted her presence brought her eyebrows together in a furrow of concern and confusion. A few steps neared her to him, immediately ceasing as she caught sight of large expanses of glistening damp flesh beneath that head. With a horrified expression, she dropped her head, and choked out, "Y-yes?"

The door was cast aside, and one hand gestured her within. Still blushing furiously, she obeyed, and was somewhat relieved to find that he had at least wrapped a towel around his waist. "I apologize," he was saying, "but I don't..." The hand that still clutched the towel clenched until its knuckles were white, as he groped for words. The Opera Ghost, at a loss for words? She could not help but raise her eyes in curiosity.

"I can't very well put that trash back on, can I?" he said at last, hand thrusting towards his pile of discarded clothing. The words were harsh, but the tone... He seemed to lack the heart for a biting tone.

Her eyes followed that hand, to find the tattered black mass that lay upon the floor. He must think me a half-wit! she thought with another blush, as she scooped the clothing into her arms. Her nose wrinkled a bit as she walked them across the room and dumped them in a corner. A shirt and trousers were then retrieved from the bureau in the room's corner. They were nowhere near perfect fits, but from what she could see of the thinness of his torso, he would be able to make do.

She progressed towards him once more, handing him the clothing. As she did so, her eyes could not help but brush across that broad expanse of flesh. Strong shoulders, well-defined physique... Well-defined everything. Obviously, his new lifestyle called for exercise. He even had a bit of sun-kiss still lingering on his skin. Her gaze lowered, across his chest, scattered with wiry black hairs—across his stomach, where ribs peeked through the skin on either side of his steely muscles—across the trail of hair that led past his belly button, down beneath that towel. Her gaze followed that path, until it met with the textured cloth. Without any genuine desire to know, her thoughts questioned what lay beneath sight...

Rubbish! her conscience snarled. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish! Her thoughts were rubbish! They were as tattered and uncomely as the clothes which were gathered in a heap of lost elegance upon the floor. Unconsciously, she turned the glittering ring that hugged her wedding finger, as a smoldering glare of self-scolding burned into the floor.

What a horrid wife she was turning out to be!

They parted company again, to grant him time to dress himself, and Christine slumped down on the mattress to chastise herself. A man was stripping and adorning himself in her husband's attire behind that thin barricade of wood—a man who had caused she and her husband more trouble than they had imagined possible. How upset Raoul would be, if he were to trod into his bedroom at this moment, and discover his rival wearing his clothes, using his bedroom, and spending time alone with his wife and his children...

Surely, her beloved would be maddened with jealousy!

Diamonds pressed into the flesh of her nervous, squeezing fingertips, as her dark brows furrowed again. The door creaked open, and she smothered him with an expectant gaze—with a hint of surprise. He cleaned up quite well, even considering that he appeared to have not shaved in.. quite a while.

His sing-song voice molded itself into an innocent request. "Christine? I... What you suggested? The.. shave, and..? If it isn't an inconvenient time..."

She nodded, and stood. "Of course, Erik. We can do that immediately." The corners of her delicate pout curved upward, mocking a grin, as her fear and loathing were brushed aside momentarily by her urge to attach teasing words to the end of the statement: "The full moon has passed, after all."

A moment of fear was known; her cheeks burned, and the hairs on the back of her neck perked a little, at the thrill of jesting with such a man. Not only was it frightening, but.. exciting.. to mock a man who seemed able to be enraged at any mention at all to his appearance. Though, with a lovely display of teeth, he had smiled! She had been granted his happiness, as weary as the grin may have been, and this settled within her in the form of warm comfort. That smile... It was one of the few times he had truly, genuinely smiled at her, out of any real humor.

Even almost without knowing it, she took that moment, and snuggled it safely into her heart, where she kept other such truly cherished moments, and it was only a single heartbeat before she realized that she would recall that gentle smile for many years to come.

It was only one more heartbeat before she realized that her heart held far more memories of Erik than she had thought.

It was only one more heartbeat before she realized that Erik held prominence in that heart. Her heart's memories of him were in vast number, and well-worn; had they been books, they would have been in need of a new binding.

Apparently, her heart perused them far more often than her mind was informed of.

"Monsieur, if you would take a seat?" One hand gestured to the toilet, for lack of any better perch to hand him. Erik seemed to hesitate, before moving to obey her direction. Christine moved to the sink and the cabinets associated with it, and began withdrawing from those cabinets a razor and an indigo jar. A cloth, also, was drawn out, and soaked in heated water. Her fingers twisted the cloth and wrung out the excess water.

"There are not any old grudges, still held, that I need to know about, are there?"

She turned to face him, brows crinkling together. His eyes were quite firmly fastened upon the razor on the sink. With an attempt to hide the hurt now welling up in her chest, she asked, "Whatever do you mean, Monsieur?"

Erik gave a single sharp note of nervous laughter, as his eyes rose to find her own. "Nothing, Madame—a.. weak attempt at humor, I suppose. Carry on." A slight smile was offered, before his eyes turned forward.

Her mind was stroked with the gentle hand of relief, and a sigh slipped from between her lips—humor! It had been solely in jest! What man was this, to shower her with such sweet words of mockery, with so little trace of bitterness? Certainly, it was not the Opera Ghost! Smiling to herself, she advanced on him, fingers tipping his chin back.

"You have.. done this before?" he asked, tone deceptively mild.

"Why yes, I have," she answered, face flushing with a somewhat happy memory. With a smile, she continued, "Raoul was repairing the roof, and took a fall. He broke his arm, and I..." Dread filled her suddenly, and she looked down, cheeks blanching. "I... Um..."

Cold terror reigned, even after he granted her neutrality of expression and a simple, quiet gesture of supplication for her to continue with her task. Hands shaking, threatening to drop their contents, she swallowed hard and forced her eyes to find his face—already, his eyes were closed, his features set in patient await of her actions.

She had only just begun to set that moist, heated cloth upon his skin, when her eyes encountered a barrier—one that she hated to mention.

However, it was one that gave her no choice.

"Erik..." Her eyes begged him the same mild acceptance he had just granted to her tale of Raoul. "Erik, the mask..."

Both eyes opened, and his head immediately leveled. His eyes flicked up to her at the same moment that his lips curled in an angry snarl; with one hand protectively covering the mask, he spoke in shaky tones—the shake, resulting directly from his attempt to not yell the words—"N-no hair grows there—" (accompanied by a slight blush) "—y-you need not remove it." His eyes fell to the tops of his knees, and when he spoke again, his voice was more subdued; almost, defeated. "You... can work around it, can you not?" A hopeful tone, but at the same time, filled with despondency.

Retreating steps carried her back across the bathroom, shaking hands nearly dropping the razor. "Erik," she whispered, in begging tones. She would not remove the mask—she had learned her lesson, by now, about removing masks. His own pitiful tones seared her heart, but she could not work around the mask. He would have to face his fears.

The hand covering the mask began to tremble, as slowly its fingers slipped beneath the mask's edges and pried it off. Keeping his right side angled away from her, he bent and set the mask upon the floor, before slowly straightening. Relief flooded through her, and she stepped towards him. Still attempting to fight back fear—for her instincts were certain that, the moment her regard should fall upon his face, she should find fingers (or worse yet, that wicked twine) wrapped about her throat—she reached forward and tipped his head back again. His own eyes closed tightly, pain and shame written all over his face—he acted as a shunned child, fearing the consequences of exposing himself.

Slowly, she began to spread the shaving cream about his face, as if decorating a cake. Then came the long, graceful swoops of the razor, tracing along his jaw and the underside of his neck. The fingers of her other hand she allowed to stray where they needed to, though she did not let them remain for any longer than they had to. Once, they passed across that much-hated flesh upon his right half, pressing against it with no hesitation.

She felt him go stiff beneath her fingers, but tried her best to ignore it.

Childish eyes wandered towards the small window, contemplating the day. It was unseasonably warm out, and sunny; perhaps she could take the children out for a romp, before supper. It was in this moment of distraction that the razor chose to cut its own path, and delved deep into the skin of his throat.

"Christ!" He jerked away from her, nearly tumbling off the side of his perch as he did so. One hand was already flying up to hover tentatively above the wound—barely that; more of a scratch—and a single finger reached forward to touch against it. His eyes raised to look at her with something akin to pain—like a dog who had, through no fault of her own, had its trust in her betrayed.

The razor clattered to the floor and slid beneath the bathtub in a streak of metal. A cry of alarm rang out nearly in chorus with his own exclamation, and as she did so she retreated multiple steps backwards. A quivering hand was held over her mouth and tears brimmed those large eyes, glinting in a threatening manner—they were soon to be shed. Warm streaks of salty moisture made their way down her cheeks as she stood far back, observing the damage she had unintentionally dealt. That hurt gaze he so artfully wielded sliced through her frail heart; as guilt welled up in her, threatening to take far too powerful a hold, she rushed forward to hand him a towel, though her hand trembled with the thought of that towel being used to pull her down to certain death.

He was half on and half off his seat, legs splayed to supply him with sufficient amount of support. Barely did he have room to reach for the towel; the slightest overbalance, after all, and he would go tumbling. As a result, he only reached as far as he had to, before managing to snatch an edge between his fingertips. That tiny vantage point was employed to nearly rip the object from her hand, and he immediately retreated in on himself, to press the towel against the spot where it most hurt.

Those eyes raised to her, dropped, raised again, dropped again—finally, they locked onto her own, and he asked in a trembling voice, "Did you.. do that on.. on purpose?"

Her cheeks went deathly pale, the words bringing on a weighty sickness in her stomach. Feeling as though words were not enough to express her utter regret, she bowed her head—his wounded attention seemed too much of a weight upon her shoulders. "No, Erik," she whispered. "I would never..."

The sound of the cloth slapping against the sink brought her eyes upwards. He had resettled in his seat, and was now waving a hand in the air in an attempt to dismiss the matter. "Christine... I know you would not..." There was a long moment of silence, as that hand attempted to find the words that his mouth could not. Finally, "Please. I beseech you, Madame, to continue..."

She forced a nod, lips ajar in a hurt pout. Bending easily down and offering a searching hand, the razor blade found its way easily within her grasp, and with an uncrinkling of skirts and a toss of hair, she rose. A meek step forward brought her to him once again. Frowning, she ushered his head gently back into its prior position, and once more the blade danced upon his flesh; he was tense beneath that blade, his breaths shallow and tightly-controlled. Bumps, she found, were not uncommon... He had quite a few. They rose in white mockery of his otherwise tanned flesh. Inquiring warily, her voice nearly broke: "Erik.. What are these—" She pressed a finger down upon one of the roughly-healed gashes. "—from?"

A sigh was breathed through his nose, and combined with the tone of his voice, his aversion to the task of answering her question was made easily obvious. "I... A mirror. Henri said.. things.. and Elizabeth..." He shrugged. "I could not... I do not... I... broke the mirror. With... my hands. And then..." Another shrug, this time performed by only one shoulder. Christine listened with rapt attention, mind focused in more on "Elizabeth" than the rest of his gruesome tale. "I lost consciousness, and.. the glass was.. everywhere on the floor... and the.. the blood..."

He stopped, and cleared his throat roughly. "No matter. Elizabeth stitched me up well and fine, and.. well, I'm not much worse for wear, I suppose." He attempted to chuckle, but failed miserably.

One word continued to echo through her mind. Elizabeth? Eyebrows immediately furrowed into a twisted string of auburn, and the blade lifted from his foam-smothered face; she had learned to lower sharp objects from her guest's neck when her focus strayed. Regarding him with all the pain and betrayal of a three year old who had been punished for the first time, she frowned. "Elizabeth?" Rather heavily, the hammer of jealousy raised and slammed with fierce intensity upon her lovely heart. He would not have another songbird—he could not! She would not allow it!

He seemed to take a long time choosing his words, fighting with the desire to say something, choosing against it, and then immediately allowing it to spill forth once his lips parted. "Oh, no one of any—Christine!" he cried. "I am so sorry! I hate her, I hate her! I swear it!" His head raised to allow him to regard her, and his hands closed around her own. Those hands were warm and strong, like a thick twine of flesh about her fragile wrists. "She is no one to.. to... Oh, I hate that I heard her sing, and I hate that I sang for her! I did not want to—I wanted to sing for you! I wanted so badly to sing with you, and her voice was.. a little like yours..." Typical Erik, his speech strayed: "Much too rough though, I am afraid..."

Pleading, those eyes bore into hers with such brutal longing that she dared not look away. But he had sang for her, this Elizabeth! Christine knew very well she had no place to feel hurt, but it seemed inevitable. Her heart ached, and she felt suddenly weak. The air of the room which seemed to suitable was suddenly frigid; even more frigid upon her wrists, when he pried his hands free and pushed them back into his lap. A careful breath was taken, and she raised the blade once more. "I have but a little more to finish," she said in her coldest of tones.

A nod was granted to her, and his head once again raised, his eyes once again closed. Christine looked down tenderly upon that face, as a hand lifted to rest against the right half of his face. Her fingers pressed into the rejected flesh of his cheek; she ignored the strained breath that he emitted, as she drilled her scattered focus—nearly as difficult as directing sunlight with pivoting mirrors. The blade smoothed around his jawline, the foam cascading to the side and exposing the weathered flesh. It then meandered about his left temple, shaping the dark sideburns accordingly, before taking leave of him. "Finis, Monsieur." Turning, she had brought herself to face the glistening sink, where she then proceeded to rinse of the materials accordingly.

A violet towel, hanging idly from a polished bar of silver protruding obnoxiously from the wall near the bath, was then brought to him. She held it out before her sheepishly after thrusting it in his direction. He had sung for her, for another girl! There was pain—the dull throb of heartache was all too familiar. Erik took the towel from her, and began cleaning his face. Perhaps she was a prettier, more able girl—oh, what nonsense! She was making a child of herself! Her eyes not only avoided his out of shame, but also weary defeat. She most certainly had no place to be disgruntled, after all; her place was next to Raoul, not bristling before Erik in a flurry of immaturity.

Slowly, Erik stood, one hand extending towards her, its fingers clutching the towel. Her senses brushed aside previous thoughts of jealousy, as every inch of her became solely attuned to him. "Thank you, Mada..." His voice suddenly took on far more suggestive tones, and instead he finished off the words with, "Christine." He purred those two syllables, forcing them to become something much more beautiful than they were. One hesitant step carried him further in her direction.

That beautiful voice caressing her senses, combined with that graceful movement jarring her thoughts far from the proper and pure, forced her eyes to raise to his. The deep thuds of an excited heart echoed within her, and the air suddenly seemed too thick to inhale. Biting her bottom lip, she reached a white hand forward and curled her fingers about the unevenly soft textile of royal purple.

Fingers brushed against the tops of her own as she took the towel, before closing on both hand and cloth, and drawing her gently forwards. The warmth of his skin upon hers rallied her attention efficiently enough, chasing way the jealous thoughts completely. "Christine," he crooned, "please... I have thought only of you, these past years. Every waking moment, every breath.. has been dedicated only to memories of you.. my Angel..." His hand tugged her ever closer, as his voice continued in that lovely sing-song tone.

Eyes lowered to the hand beneath his own, however—her left, coincidentally—and focused, rather firmly, on the third finger. Instead of a deterrent, however, it seemed to this time represent only an inconvenience. "Christine," he began slowly, "would you be willing to.. do me a favor?" His innocent question prodded at her distraught heart, and she merely offered a nod of her head. Like fruit ripening with the heat of summer, her cheeks had grown quite pink upon his gentle brush of fingertips. The feather-soft touch had tickled color back into her face and placed a stick before her heart, inviting it to stumble blatantly in its pace.

Erik's fingers slid beneath her own, lifting her hand from the towel; the purple mass was cast aside carelessly. One hand held her own in its grasp, while the other began to trace its fingers across the top of her hand with reverent grace. Each touch sent a shivering wave of vulnerability over her delicate frame, and coaxed forth a timid, shocked breath. The caressing fingers found their way to her ring finger, and with an almost magically easy stroke, he slid the ring up and off of her finger. He hesitated a moment, before slowly turning her hand palm-up, and setting the ring in the center of her palm. Coaxing fingers now curled her own over, until they covered that glorious jewel.

"Keep it hidden?" Eyes raised to meet hers, and the desperation there was nothing short of genuine. "I cannot bear to.. to..." His head shook, once, upon recognizing the futility of attempting elegant words. "Please," he finished. "Keep that thing out of my sight."

"My ring..? Oh.. but—" Raoul! "—but... Of course, Erik." His eyes tore away from her own and she felt a surge of relief, relief which mingled dangerously with ever-growing guilt... Raoul...

Panic in his voice struck a high note, as he suddenly whipped around in a frenzy. "Christine, where are my clothes?" he cried. "What did you do with them?" A finger rose to point at the scraps, at the pitiful mound of faded elegance. "There—on the floor, near the tub!"

His head spun to follow the indication of her hand, and upon spotting the items which he so desperately sought, he lurched himself forwards in one silky motion and quite nearly pounced upon the rags. Trembling fingers began searching desperately through each pocket; Christine watched as various ornaments only suited to a man began to scuttle across the floor. Coins, bits of thread, a handkerchief, another handkerchief. "Erik, what—" A coil of twine, just barely recognizable, skidded across the floor as it, too, was discarded. Christine took an instinctive step in the opposite direction, her backside pressing firmly against the sink stand lurking behind her.

A cry of delight echoed from the man, as he stood clutching a single perfect circlet of gold in his fingertips. The lariat was forgotten. Like a miniature sun rising in the feign sky, the golden band glowed strongly, accented by the light glaring through the window in a misty beam. The polished, perfect gold had never faded, even after the passing of years! Shocked, her eyes widened in genuine disbelief as the little halo was presented to her, accompanied by his childlike, elated smile, which she so unknowingly returned.

"Erik...! You still.. the ring!" Idly, she reached back with the hand that enveloped the sacred gemstone of binding, and released it. The noise of it tinkling into the sink was a dismal, soft raucous unheard. That hand then routed forward and sought its partner, massaging the skin which was so previous suffocated by the ring she had just carelessly discarded. This was delightful—he had not lost it, as she had convinced herself he had!

He nodded eagerly, as his feet were regained, and the ring extended towards her. "Do you see?" he asked, voice tense with restrained pride. "I have polished it nearly every day, kept it perfect—perfect! I..." He hesitated, as if reconsidering previous intentions; instead, silence reigned for a moment, and he merely pressed a fingertip into the circle of the ring. It did not even pass the first knuckle, merely rolled back and forth across that singular nail. "I... Well, I don't suppose you would like to have it back, would you?"

Idly, she reached back with the hand that enveloped the sacred gemstone of binding, and released it. The noise of it tinkling into the sink was a dismal, soft raucous unheard. That hand then routed forward and sought its partner, massaging the skin which was so previous suffocated by the ring she had just carelessly discarded. This was delightful—he had not lost it, as she had convinced herself he had!

"Have it back?" she asked, frowning, worry glazing her eyes. "Whatever do you mean? Erik, it is yours.."

The previously-elated countenance fell, from soaring heights to withering lows. "Oh." It was not really an appropriate reply, but seemed to be all his tongue could form. Eyes fell to the tiles beneath their feet; the ring tumbled from his fingertip, into the pinched grasp of other digits, which then, with a swift and almost invisible motion, placed that golden circlet within his right pocket. "No, no, I suppose you would not care to have it—though, I certainly cannot, in good conscience, agree to your suggestion of its ownership. After all, what need have I, for this ring? It was purchased and sized for your own hand... It is in my possession for the sole motivation that, after all, its true owner has no want for it." An almost accusatory glance was flicked in her direction, but immediately retreated from her again, before any real chance was given to read the incentive behind it. "I suppose one could say that I have rescued it, really; if I had not taken it into my care, there is no telling what sort of despicable circumstances it would have found itself in."

"Despicable!" Christine sputtered, her mouth ajar with shock; the insult slashed at her and left deep wounds, the accusing glance much like salt sprinkled upon it. "Despicable! No.. Erik! I would never let anything happen to it—you know this... You'd nothing to rescue it from! I would never..." She would never allow it to wander from her sight, never allow it to tumble to the floor and rest amongst the dust beneath a chair... Never allow it to slide down the porcelain side of a sink and teeter upon the edge of the gaping drain. She'd hold it closer than her husband's hand. Words dissolved into silence as she looked at him, tilting her head slightly to the side, eyes pleading and dismal.

"Erik.." She stepped towards him, over the writhing twine. "I would like it." An ivory palm was held out towards him, the red brand of the ring she previously clutched serving as a horrible pink contrast to her fair flesh.

Slowly, he withdrew the ring again, and held his hand out over her own. "If you are sure..." he said slowly, almost as if doubting the truth behind her words. "If you... Well..." His bare hand cupped hers, and turned it over, while the ring-bearing hand moved to carefully slide the ring onto her finger. A sigh escaped her lips—a sigh of happiness, of relief.Those hands held hers for a moment, as he admired the ring on that finger with a gentle smile. Christine watched numbly as his head bent, and her hand was lifted; lips and knuckles met midway, with the air of a man touching lips to the living hand of the Virgin Mary.

As the kiss was pressed there, her hand tightened on his own. Moving toward him by little, her eyes searched his reverent being. Two words were whispered: "I'm sure..."