AN: So here it is, finally, the long-awaited last chapter. I want to thank each and every one of you for coming along with me on this journey. I know it's taken a long time, and to those of you who have stuck with me…wow. Just wow. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I've known from the beginning that this is how the story would end: quietly, honestly. I hope you all enjoy it, and don't be too upset that I didn't wrap everything up in a bow, or make it fluffy and happy. That wouldn't have rung true to the point of the story. What I am trying to get across here, I guess, is that life is very short. So enjoy every moment, and smile, and love with all your heart. And review, of course.

Thanks again, and keep your eyes peeled. I have a feeling that Phantom fanfiction isn't quite done with me yet…

Love, Maat.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Long Year Ends

It wasn't until she arrived at the hospital that she really made her choice.

It was late afternoon, and the emergency parking zone was awash with haphazardly parked cars and dinged fenders. Fat square ambulances were pulling out just a few feet away, lights flashing, wailing like infants. The air smelled of exhaust and dirty snow.

She paused for a moment after turning off the ignition, hand lingering over the keys that had been sitting quietly in the black car when they finally emerged into daylight. Honestly, she couldn't even remember the drive to the hospital, asking for directions, the franticness of it all. The world seemed to haze over, colors blending; she hadn't thought to turn the heat on, and the frigid air was like a cold compress against the back of her neck. The old exhaustion returned, heavy, dragging her forehead down to the steering wheel. She just wanted to sleep.

Raoul moaned.

Christine snapped up, wrenching the car door open and running to his side. Numb fingers frantically unbuckled his seat-belt. She heaved his weight onto her aching and weary shoulders, the blood from a gash in his lip spooling like thread against her arm.

"Come on, just a few more steps," she found herself murmuring as he stumbled. Her mouth tasted like ash and her throat burned, unshed tears closing up her windpipe. "You're gonna be fine. Just a bit more. We can do this."

And then, a little quieter, "We made it, Raoul. We're free."

Two orderlies saw her coming and rushed out of the hospital's glass doors to take him from her, and for a moment she struggled irrationally, shying away like a wild animal, a scream winding up in her gut.

"Miss," one of them said, placing a warm, tanned hand on her wrist. "It's okay, we got him. You can let go now."

As if he had said magic words she let Raoul slide from her grasp and stood there, scream swallowed, frail and alone as they lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him away from her.

"Can you tell me what happened? Miss?" A nurse was at her side, brushing hair out of Christine's eyes as the battered girl stood there with a glazed expression on her face, like a doll that had come to life. "How did you get these bruises?" she asked, studying the purple and blue mess that was Christine's forehead. After a moment the nurse sighed and stepped back. "You're in shock. Come inside now and we'll get you some help, okay?"

Christine shook her head. As if rousing herself from a deep sleep she blinked and looked around, noticing for the first time how cold she was, how she wasn't even wearing a jacket and how her nose was running, wet and warm against her skin. She felt the pain in her head, and in her whole body, like every inch of skin should be the color of a plum, beaten and bruised. "I have to go now," she said, clarity returning, helped by the chill wind and the pain. She felt like she was clawing upward from underwater, toward the light; thoughts that had previously been dulled and numbed returned, the cogs in her brain creaking back to life. "I'm sorry, but…I have to go."

"Go?" the nurse asked, confused. "Go where?"

"I'm sorry," Christine said, taking a step back. "I'll be back soon. Take good care of him, okay?"

Before the nurse could respond Christine spun on her heels and stumbled away, back to the black car. She slid into the comfortable leather seat and started the ignition with shaking hands. A burning sensation started in her throat and began moving upward toward her eyes; she blinked back tears, amazed at how hot they were, like they should steam in the frigid air.

"You can do this, Christine," she coaxed herself, fingers gripping the steering wheel until they turned white. "Come on now. You can do this."

She put the car into drive and pulled away.

She made the turns without thinking; even though she hadn't been paying attention on her way to the hospital, some part of her must have been quietly making a map in the back of her mind, anticipating when she would need to drive those roads again. It seemed to take only seconds before she was there, pulling into the empty parking lot and stepping out of the car, staring up at the ancient, hulking building with its Closed For Repairs sign dangling haphazardly from the front.

For a moment she wavered. Her hands were shaking so badly it was comical, visible tremors that made her fingers jump and jerk. She asked herself if she was being stupid, if she should just take her good fortune and run with it, never look back.

But then the wind blew fresh and cold in her face, carrying with it the clean icy tint of snow, and Christine knew that she had to do this, if only for her own peace of mind.

She pushed the back door open and walked into the dark.

Oddly enough, the light was still there, that guiding light that always led her to her destination. There was something hopeful and pathetic about the way it was left on, a front porch light burning in the night, hoping against hope that it will draw someone to it. Or maybe he was really expecting the police, maybe he really thought that she would turn him in, denounce him as a monster in front of the whole world. It hurt her, more than she expected, to think of him caged.

Now she was standing in front of his door; it was partially open, a sliver of light from the inside spilling onto the hallway floor. It took only the lightest brush of her fingers to make it swing inward on silent hinges, revealing the room she had so long hated, that she had just run away from. The bookshelf had been tipped over, books flung to the ground, and pieces of china and broken vases were scattered on the floor. Ripped and trodden-on paper covered every available space like flat snow. But suddenly it didn't seem so scary. Just…empty. Just a room.

No, not empty. Sitting on the couch, so thin and dark he nearly vanished into the leather, was Erik. His head was down, one hand on his face. The black mask rested on his knee, its eyes hollow and mocking. He hadn't even noticed her come in.

Christine felt the strangest sense of relief. She was afraid that by now he would have taken his own life. Perhaps he thought death too easy an escape.

She shifted on her feet, and his head shot up, his free hand instantly rising to affix the mask against his deformed skin.

There was silence for a long moment as he gaped at her. Then she smiled wearily and said: "Hello, Erik. We need to talk."

"Christine?" he finally croaked when he had found his voice, and despite his awe and despair the sound was still beautiful, a little weak, like a song gone flat. He stood shakily, his hands trembling nearly as much as hers had been. "I…I am dreaming. Or I have lost my mind. Again."

"I'm real, Erik," she said patiently. "But I'm not staying."

He blinked frantically; with his yellow eyes it looked like a light switching on and off at high speeds. "Then why are you here? Why did you return?"

Christine drew herself up and took a steadying breath. "To save your life."

He was deathly quiet, then said, with a patronizing air that almost resembled his normal way of speaking: "And why would you want to do that?" He paused for just a fraction of a second, then continued, his voice growing stronger. "Poor, deluded Christine. It's a pity you came all this way, my dear, on a fool's errand. Didn't anyone tell you that I can't be saved?"

"Sit down and shut up," Christine said, in a voice so sharp it surprised even her. "Your time for talking is done, Erik. It's my turn now."

Once again he was at a loss for words. It was almost comical, how he gaped at her. "Christine…"

"Sit down, Erik," she said firmly. "I am going to have my say. Sit down."

He sat, rather numbly, his hands curled around his bony knees. Christine pulled a squat chair so that it was across from him and sat in it with a sigh, pushing unruly hair (still stained and hardened with blood) away from her bruised forehead. She noticed absently that she had stopped shaking.

"What is it that you wish to speak with me about?" he asked quietly when she didn't say anything. Christine took a deep breath.

"Look, I'm going to talk, and you're not going to say anything. You can speak when I'm done. And when this is all over, I'm going to get out of this chair and leave this apartment forever. Do you understand me?"

He hesitated for a moment, so she hardened her voice and asked again. "Do you understand me?"

He nodded. Christine was amazed at how calm she felt, like the horror of the last few days had purged her of her ability to feel fear, like it had burned her down to her bones and now all that was left was certainty.

"Okay," she said, lacing her hands together and staring at her knees. "First of all, what you did to me was horrific and unforgivable, Erik. And not just these past few days. I mean the whole year, ever since I met you. Even before I met you. You turned my life into a nightmare. You need to know this. You need to know that you can't play with people like they are your own personal toys. It doesn't work like that, Erik. You nearly broke me. You did break me."

"I didn't mean…" he started, looking at her pleadingly, but she cut him off.

"I'm speaking," she said in a low, oddly dangerous voice. "I haven't been able to speak for myself for over a year. You owe me this time, Erik." When he didn't answer she continued in a softer tone. "You said something to me once…seems like a long time ago. It was summertime, and we were watching the stars. You said that I was drowning, that if you hadn't found me I would have broken myself, maybe even taken my own life." She was silent for a moment, contemplating. "I denied it, then. I didn't want to believe it. But it was true. Life was… gray. And I was so alone, so very alone. It was like all of the joy inside of me had been snuffed out, and I was just… existing. Not living. I hadn't been living for a long time, when you found me."

She blinked back tears, her voice cracking. "What you did to me was wrong, Erik. You kidnapped me, and locked me up, and frightened me, and threatened my friends, and drove me to contemplate horrible things. You took everything away from me. But at some point, when I was fighting and clawing and so very, very desperate, I realized that I wanted to live again. You made me want to live again."

He was very still, like he was afraid that any movement would spook her and stop the flood of words that was washing into the room, cleansing it. He stared at her with something close to awe reflected in his yellow eyes. She looked at him, her face wan and drawn, premature lines cluttering her forehead, shadows under her eyes. He risked speaking, his words breathed so quietly they almost didn't exist.

"Why did you come back?"

She blinked, dazed, as if waking up from a dream. "I was at the hospital," she said slowly. "It is cold outside today, and the sky is blue, and the air smells like snow. And I want to live. And it just seemed…unfair, to me, that the person who made me want to live should die." Her shoulders shook, tears threatening to overwhelm her thin frame. "You saved me, Erik, whether you meant to or not, whether I wanted you to or not. It doesn't excuse what you did, but I…I would go through the whole damn thing over again if it meant that I would get to feel the way I do now. I can wake up in the morning and be happy, and every breath I take is like God, is so, so…" she trailed off, crying weakly into her hands. After a long, unsure moment he reached out and brushed her sleeve, and to his surprise she looked up and grasped his long fingers in her own, her face puffy and red, eyes sparked with something that he hadn't seen in a long time. Determination? Hope?

"So you see," she said earnestly, still sniffling, "why I can't let you die."

He stared at their entwined fingers with an unreadable expression on his face. "I'm afraid that I don't know what to say," he said after a moment. She shook her head.

"Don't say anything," she said. "Just promise me you'll live."

"If you leave and I live," he said in a low voice, "you'll be condemning me to…"

"Life is never a condemnation," she insisted.

The warmth from her hands was leaching into his cold skin; it burned, almost, a pleasant burning. "You will think well of me, then, if I live?" he murmured.

She smiled, just a hint at the corners of her mouth. "I already do."

It was a strange feeling, sitting down with the girl that he loved, the woman he had harassed and kidnapped and nearly driven to murder, to suicide, and to have her be that one person he had always wished for, the one person in all the world who cared whether he lived or died. "What will I do?" he asked a little helplessly.

"Make beautiful things," she said decisively. "I believe that you can be a better person, Erik. I wouldn't have come back if I didn't. You have a wonderful mind, a great capacity for good."

"A friend of mine said the same thing, a long time ago," he said, mostly to himself. "I didn't believe him then."

"Do you believe me?"

The question startled him. Erik looked at her eyes, huge and earnest and, despite everything that had happened to her, innocent. "You would not lie to me," he said. "That I do know. Not about this. Not after you came back." He paused, rolling the unfamiliar words around in his mouth. "And I am…I am sorry. I never wished…" He sighed. "You are very brave, to come back, after everything that I put you through. I am sorry."

"I know, Erik," Christine said, biting her lip to keep from crying again. "I know you are."

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "What happens now?"

Christine shook her head. "I...I don't know."

There seemed to be nothing else to say. The clock on the mantelpiece, miraculously unbroken, ticked a steady beat, like a mechanical heart. Her hands were still wrapped around his, and they had been pressed together long enough that their respective heat and cold was blended into something pleasant.

Outside, the afternoon sun began to fade, casting the world in oranges and purples, fire and ice, but inside the house nothing changed. The two figures remained seated, hands clasped, each marveling at the blood pumping in their veins and the sheer blessed realization that they were alive, and real, and for one very brief, fragile moment, not alone.

The End