Here's the final chapter. Thank you so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. I hope you enjoy the end of the journey. Let me know what you think.

Thank you again for everything!

Summer 1863

Nadir

Western France

True to the private man he was, Erik spent three years in reluctance and deliberation before grudgingly inviting me to spend a summer at his home in the country. I was sure that his charming wife had a great deal to do with the invitation.

That woman never ceased to amaze me.

She had been married to Erik for nearly ten years, and somehow she still bore his temperament and personality with patience and longsuffering. It was more than I could say for myself. Erik was now my closest friend, and yet sometimes I felt the only thing he deserved was a good slap from his wife. I oftentimes said just that, too, and Christine would laugh while her husband would glower and say something remarkably unpleasant about me.

The two of them continued on with the years, seemingly content. Christine had once told me that she wanted to be happy, not miserable, and so she had focused on her marriage with Erik instead of constantly mourning the misfortunes that had claimed her.

To my amazement, Erik had changed a great deal as well. He had become more than the man I had first met, and though he retained a sarcastic and impersonal façade around me, I could see the difference in him whenever he spoke to and interacted with his wife.

Needless to say, I was quite looking forward to this sojourn in the countryside. I had been in Paris for too long, and the prospect of spending several weeks in quiet was a reprieve for which I was grateful.

During the journey there, Erik discussed in-depth something he had already spoken about countless times. Christine smiled patiently and slipped a hand around his arm before looking out of the window, apparently having heard this discussion too many times.

"Erik, you have already told me all about this new invention," I said at length.

"You do not understand the magnitude of such a thing!" he snapped. "Can you not imagine the impact this has? A device that actually records sounds! This is a historical achievement, Daroga, and yet you sit there and act as if it is nothing of note."

"I am sure it is fascinating," I said dryly. "Yet every time you discuss it, it somehow manages to become less interesting."

Erik scoffed at my words and glared out of his window. "I should very much like to obtain one," he said to no one in particular. "I have heard that several have been sold to laboratories. Perhaps when we return to Paris there will be some available…"

"And it will be expensive, no doubt," I said.

Erik waved his hand dismissively, as if money was a fickle, trivial thing for which he had neither time nor energy.

To his apparent embarrassment, money had been a rather looming question for him a few years ago. I was surprised that his funds had lasted as long as they had, but as much as Erik liked to think otherwise, he was subject to the economics and monetary consequences of man, and he was faced with the crushing reality of being poor. That idea did not please him in the slightest. He never said it, but I had gotten the impression that he enjoyed spoiling Christine far too much.

So he had come to me with an idea. He presented it as a casual, unimportant thing – a way to make money in our leisure time. Erik said he rather missed designing buildings, and his vast knowledge and skill was being wasted, when it could be profitable for the both of us.

"You would manage the contracts and clientele and such," he said leisurely. "I would design the buildings, of course. We would split the profits."

"Evenly?" I asked suspiciously.

"Certainly not!" he said, sounding affronted. "I will be doing all the work. You will merely be the face I do not have. It will be eighty-twenty."

We haggled for some time, and there were a few unpleasant comments and threats tossed about, but eventually we agreed – fifty percent for him, and fifty percent for me.

I supposed that that was how our odd friendship always worked.

It was difficult when just beginning. Not many would trust a foreigner with their building, let alone without ever meeting the architect, but once we secured one customer, business had been increasing. Erik's popularity was beginning, and the things he designed were so beautiful that in recent months I had actually had to turn people away because of the demands on his time.

"It's mysterious," Christine had once said to him. "People like the mystery behind your buildings. And it is now so fashionable to have a house designed by you! It is so hard to keep you a secret whenever I talk to someone about your buildings."

He had brushed aside her compliments, though I was not fooled. He always had a distinct look in his eye whenever Christine praised and admired him.

"Where is the merit in what was recorded?" Erik said, and I dragged myself back to the present. He was still speaking about the phonautograph. "A silly little girl…As soon as I am able to obtain one, I shall record the only sound worth recording."

"And what would that be?" I asked obediently, already knowing the answer.

"Christine's voice, of course," he said. The woman in question blushed in gratitude and smiled at him.

We continued on for some ways, and Christine once remarked on the charming structure and design of the village houses we passed. Inevitably, that led Erik to begin speaking about architecture and the new designs he had thought of. We began speaking of the clients and houses, and we were having a most profitable and enjoyable conversation until Christine put a hand on Erik's arm and interrupted.

"I am sorry, but you two promised that you wouldn't speak about your business around me! How am I to join the conversation when you're discussing your financial policies or the correct way to shape limestone? I always get so terribly lost!"

"Forgive us, my dear," Erik said, immediately repentant. "It is not our intention to exclude you."

"Oh, I know that," she said composedly. "Just please try to relax – and you as well, Nadir." She looked at me, smiling. "You two deserve a break from all business, if only for a month or so."

"I am sure I can manage that," I replied. Weeks of rest and quiet company – it sounded wonderful.

Their house – cottage – was neat and quaint. When we arrived, Christine spent the next while fussing over the state of it, apologizing to me over and over for the 'horrid mess' and the 'awful condition' her home was in. It was endearing to watch her flit about. They had not lived in the house all winter, and most of the furniture was covered and the house in a general state of disuse.

By the time we retired, however, it felt as if they had never left. I was given the spare bedroom, and it was sizeable and comfortable with a wide window and fine furniture. Christine had kissed me on both cheeks and wished me a goodnight, while Erik had merely nodded coolly.

There was something intimate and strange about sleeping under the same roof with the two of them. The idea of Erik owning a normal house – having a wife – had always been slightly peculiar. But actually seeing the house and watching him with his wife made it real, and bizarrely so.

When I woke the next morning, I found Erik in the sitting room that had obviously grown to double as a library. He had a cup of tea on the desk (which looked untouched) and was pouring over some designs and sketches.

"I thought there was a strict 'no business' rule imposed," I said by way of announcing my presence. His gaze flickered up to me as I took a leisurely seat in one of the chairs.

"No business when Christine is around," he answered shortly, going back to his papers. He picked up a dark lead pencil and made broad, sweeping marks across something.

"So she is not around," I said. "Where is she?"

"I assume you are wanting your breakfast," he replied, cocking an eyebrow at me. "We haven't been here in months, and, as such, there is hardly any food. Christine left for the town early this morning."

I felt my eyebrow drawing up. In all my time at Paris, I was under the distinct impression that Erik was reluctant and loath to allow Christine to go anywhere unaccompanied.

"She went alone?" I questioned to clarify.

He knew the question behind what I said, and he did not look at me as he murmured, "She is a good girl. I trust her. The people here are decent."

I said nothing more. We sat in silence for several minutes, though it was comfortable. I was just beginning to doze (really, this was turning out to be a restful holiday), when I heard something peculiar.

It was faint, as if carried on the wind, and as I listened I realized it was a French love song, sung by a woman.

"It is Christine," Erik said, noting my expression.

"I see your boasting does you justice. Her voice is beautiful," I said, rising to look out of the window. True to Erik's word, Christine was wandering down the path with a very large basket on her arm.

A few minutes later, we heard her opening the door, and she called out to announce her arrival. When I looked, I saw that the papers on Erik's desk had disappeared.

Christine flew into the sitting room, beaming like the morning, and she swooped down and kissed my cheeks like the true Frenchwoman she was.

"Good morning, Nadir!" she said. She then went to her husband and performed the same greeting – though with much more affection, I noticed with a suppressed grin. To my surprise and amusement, Christine perched herself on the edge of the desk and began fussing over Erik's clothing – smoothing his collar, straightening the shoulders of his shirt, and pressing the creases, all the while saying:

"I'm so sorry that I had to let my two favorite men go hungry this morning. However, I'll go make you something right now. And, Erik, Monsieur Glaisyer – the shopkeeper, you know – took the liberty of promising me to deliver the rest of the groceries tomorrow. I couldn't carry it all, you know, and there were several things I ordered but he did not have. So he will be sending his boy tomorrow morning with the cart. But we will be all right for today, I promise!" After kissing him on the cheeks once more, Christine stood and exited, saying, "I will go make you two a meal now! You poor, starving things!" And she laughed as she went to the kitchen.

I looked at Erik and was, admittedly, startled a little when I saw the expression of love and tenderness in his eyes as he looked at the door Christine had just walked out of. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

It was strange and yet intriguing to be in the midst of their most personal lives. In Paris, visits and such were common, yet actually living with them showed me even more. Erik's rough exterior was being broken bit by bit, and I was seeing more than I had ever thought possible. Just when I fancied I knew all there was to know about him, the next moment I was being taught something else.

One warm afternoon a few weeks after we had arrived, I had retired for a few short hours (after enduring a moment of Erik's 'old man' jabbing). After I woke from my nap, I ventured back into the house. There were sounds from the kitchen, meaning Christine must have started supper. As I passed through the rooms to go speak with her (I would attempt to assist and then be shooed away), I came upon the sitting room and a most amusing sight.

There was a fainting couch right next to the large window that was open, and bright sunlight was spilled into it. Erik was stretched out upon the furniture, sleeping, his mask off and his hideous face bathed in warmth. Apparently he was growing old and needed rest as well, though I did not feel that such a joke merited waking him just yet. I made note to remember that he reminded me of a great lounging cat, what with his limbs splayed and his coat tossed on the floor in carefree abandonment.

I crept past and entered the kitchen. Christine smiled at me and inquired about the quality of my lie-down, to which I answered that it had been extremely fine.

"Erik seems to have taken a liking to them as well," I could not help but say, and Christine laughed gaily.

"Is he on the fainting couch again? I do believe it is his favorite spot in the entire house. He spends hours on it, simply sitting in the sun. Not that I am complaining, of course. It does him wonders."

We spoke for a while, Christine still concentrating on the meal, and I felt a rather strange stirring of melancholia as I watched her. How long had it been since such a domestic scene had happened to me? How long had it been since a familiar and dear face joked with me – cooked for me? After I had managed to scrape together enough, I hired a woman to cook and clean. However, she was an old hag with the joyfulness of life spent, and we had never been on particularly friendly terms. I was reminded of Rookheeya (when am I not reminded of my late wife?) as I observed Christine, and I felt something form in my throat that made it difficult to swallow.

"Why, Nadir, whatever is the matter?" Christine asked concernedly as soon as she noted my change in mood. I waved her away, shaking my head.

"I am fine, thank you," I managed to say.

"He is crying at the thought of leaving you and your cooking, my dear." Erik had entered the room, fully dressed again but still without his mask, and he shot me a wicked grin as he took a seat opposite me. "He must return to lonely bachelorhood in several short weeks…No one to speak with, no one to flirt with or tease…except that mistress he keeps."

My eyebrows furrowed immediately as he looked at me, silently proposing another game.

"My seventy year-old cook?" I said. "I see she has caught your eye, Erik…"

Christine stifled a small bout of laughter behind her hand, and I counted that as something of a victory for me.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Erik replied coolly. "As we can both see, my taste in women far exceeds yours. The proof is right here." He reached out and tugged a handful of Christine's skirts. She batted him away.

"The one thing I will say for myself is that the woman I loved cared for me in return," I said, valiantly forcing myself to keep the game light. I did not want it to get too personal…when I would have to speak more of Rookheeya. But Erik knew, and he obligingly led the way out of such murky waters.

"You are insulting me and my wife," he said, and he turned to look at her. "Christine, darling, you care for me, don't you?"

There was silence, and his face fell. I began to laugh.

"Christine," he said again. "Tell Nadir that you love me."

She did not reply, did not turn, and he faced me with a very sour expression.

"She is playing with me," he said. "Though I don't have any idea as to why. She is supposed to be with me against you. It is her obligation and duty as my wife."

We spoke in this way for a while longer until Christine ushered us out and into the small formal dining room. She quickly appeased Erik by pressing a kiss to the side of his head, and though he grumbled like the old curmudgeon he was, it was clear that he was somewhat mollified. He was still utterly smitten with the woman, and it was almost endearing to see them interact. They seemed to be in complete harmony with each other, and they obviously enjoyed each other's respect and company. It was almost fascinating to see. They had been married nearly ten years, yet Erik still took every opportunity to touch her, to smile at her, to receive a kiss on the cheek or brow.

Late one night, I woke in the bed, and I opened my eyes and cursed tiredly to realize it was not yet morning. My mouth was dry, and I stumbled inelegantly out of the bed to retrieve a drink of water.

Their bedroom door was closed, and so I crept through the house as silently as I could, not wishing to wake them. However, as I drew near to the dark sitting room, I saw the door was open, and I heard something quiet.

I peered in carefully to see them both stretched out on the fainting couch. Christine was in a pure-white nightgown, looking small compared to her husband, on whom she was resting. He was holding her carefully, a long arm around her waist and a hand in her hair.

She was murmuring something to him quietly, and I was able to understand, "…he really?"

"You know it is true, my love," Erik replied in the same soft tone. His glowing eyes flickered up, and he met my gaze. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, as he probably knew I had left my room the moment my door opened. Christine was not facing me, did not know I was there. To my everlasting relief, Erik did not say anything. He merely looked back down at his wife and adjusted her slightly in his arms.

Attempting to be completely silent, I went back to my room, shut the door behind me, and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

How long had it been since I had had a woman? Nearly four years at least…

The loneliness and longing had once become so unbearable that on one cold evening, I slipped money into my pocket and went out. I did not want anything but a faceless, nameless woman with whom I could pleasure myself. And I received just that. With my money I was given a long, buxom woman with short dark hair. Afterward, as I was heading home, I felt more miserable than I had before.

Really…what was so different from that and sending for a girl back at court? I had sent for women at court with fewer qualms. The longings did not stop, but I always stopped after that. Something stopped me from returning to those places of the night. It was usually in my own house as I stared at the door, money burning in my pocket. Sometimes I managed to make it down to the dark street. I had not yet approached a woman a second time.

I continued to watch the ceiling, trying not to feel embittered by the thought of the two of them. How could it be that someone like Erik – a man horribly abused, mistreated, despised, used, and hated – had ended up with this life? Why had the infamous Angel of Death – a murderer and infidel – been blessed with a wife he could love, touch, hold, and please? A wife who so obviously adored him in return?

I was not hateful or resentful of Erik…I was merely…I missed my wife. I missed being with her. I missed my son. I missed the familiarity of Persia. I still did not feel completely at home in Paris, with its foreign religion and foreign speech. I had grown much more comfortable in it, yet the frequent looks I received reminded me that I was a stranger, an outsider, someone not to be trusted.

Oftentimes I wondered just what was keeping me back from seeking out another wife – a consistent mistress, even – but I was always confronted with the image of Rookheeya and Reza. My family.

I slept late the next morning, and when I emerged I found Erik at his piano, bent over something and scribbling. As I took a seat, he said, by way of greetings,

"Really, Nadir. I've never associated laziness with the Daroga. I have been up since dawn."

Before I could reply, Christine entered. She smiled brightly at me and carried a loaded tea tray over to me.

"You missed breakfast, I'm afraid, but I've made you a brunch," she said, placing it on the small table next to me. "If you need anything or want anything else, please tell me."

I thanked her sincerely, and she took a moment to touch Erik's shoulder lightly before exiting the room again. I settled myself into the food and drink, firmly intent on ignoring the night before until Erik suddenly said,

"Sometimes she has nightmares."

I looked up at him. He was back to writing, not bothering to look at me, though he continued in a soft, almost hushed voice:

"They frighten her. Oftentimes it helps to simply get her out of the room and…hold her. I believe she likes that."

We were silent, and from another room came the sounds of Christine singing.

Anges purs
Anges radieux
Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!

"You had best be prepared to hear Gonoud for the entirety of the summer," Erik said. He played a few chords, as if testing to see what they would sound like in succession. "She is absolutely taken by the masterpiece he produced last March and has been singing it ever since."

I was silent, and so was Erik. The scratching of his pen, the chink of my cutlery, and Christine singing all blended harmoniously for a while.

When I was finished, I gathered everything to take to Christine. Before I left, however, I looked at Erik and said: "You are a good man, Erik. You deserve her." And I left the room before he could respond.

"Really, Daroga, the state of your health is lamentable."

I ignored the taunt and allowed myself to relax, though I tried not to huff and wheeze too loudly. The sun was bright and hot, and I was reminded of the blinding, unforgiving Persian summers.

"You have not been fattened and softened by residing in Paris for over ten years," I responded, glaring up at the tall masked man. "Parisian cuisine will be the death of me!"

Christine laughed, sitting down as well, watching her husband with an affectionate smile.

It had been her idea to go to the sea. In fact, she had informed us that she had longed to go for weeks. Erik had agreed after some deliberation, and I hadn't been opposed at all. Christine had assured me it was a simple walk through the countryside – a beautiful stroll under the French summer sun.

However, for the past hour I had been clambering up steep hills, fighting my way through underbrush, and stumbling over hidden rocks and fallen trees. I was hot and exhausted, and I had at last given up and begged for a reprieve.

Erik still stood, surveying the surrounding landscape, looking ready to continue. I caught my breath, and Christine basked in the sunlight, looking perfectly appropriate in her white summer frock. I caught Erik stealing an affectionate glance at her but pretended not to notice.

After I had managed to fill my lungs with air once again, we were off. Christine was carrying her basket full of food, and she argued playfully with Erik as we walked. He was trying to take it from her to carry, but she insisted on carrying it herself, oftentimes smacking his hand away as he attempted to take the basket.

Thankfully, the landscape grew more level as we approached the sea, and Christine began to regale me with stories of all the times she and Erik had visited this shore before.

"It is perfectly beautiful, Nadir! Several years ago I discovered this lovely little beach that is separated from the larger ones. No one ever goes there! Not that this stretch of shore is very popular – but our own secluded little portion is simply perfect for all sorts of things!"

My eyebrow rose, and I looked toward Erik. A flush suddenly appeared on his white neck, and he cleared his throat and looked away pointedly.

Christine continued on, completely unaware of the interaction that had just occurred between Erik and I, and I attempted to listen politely once again.

With every step, the splashing of the sea grew louder. I had not seen any large body of open water since my days of chasing Erik, and the prospect was somewhat exciting and refreshing.

We emerged onto a shore, and Christine smiled and laughed excitedly, setting the basket down on a nearby flat rock. She glanced to Erik, her smile soft and tender.

I suddenly felt out-of-place – intruding upon this quiet intimacy that was shared between them. I had an urge to be alone, to leave the two of them to their privacy, and I announced that I was going to explore the shoreline myself for a bit.

"Oh, you shouldn't wander alone!" Christine said to me. "Don't go!"

"Yes, don't go," Erik repeated drolly, sarcastically, watching me – he undoubtedly had an infernal smirk on his face.

"I will not go far," I said, and after another minute of Christine's pleas and my promises to stay near, I left the secluded shoreline and simply walked.

Most of my energy was focused on stumbling through more wilderness, and I bit back curses and complaints as I trudged onward. After a while, I came upon a small glade, and I took refuge under some shade. With a sigh, I managed to relax somewhat.

Perhaps it was not right of me to bemoan my current state or complain about my situation. I was alive – much more than could be said for the men I had set out with from Persia! – I was comfortably situated in Paris, I had people in my life who cared about me.

Well…perhaps a person. However, Christine was kind and cared about everyone, so maybe I should not include her…

I sighed a little and then yawned. Where had the years gone? It seemed as if I had married Rookheeya yesterday! Yet I was in the French countryside over a decade later, in the company of a murderer and a beautiful Frenchwoman. Hadn't I just held Reza in my arms mere hours ago? Time had gotten away from me.

When I closed my eyes, I could imagine them – they were together.

That was possibly the reason Christine and I got on well (much to Erik's annoyance): we had both lost a spouse and child. We hardly spoke about it, and when we did it was always in reference to something else. There seemed to be no real need to linger over the tragedies. She had moved on, had made peace and found happiness again, while I was lingering behind, still reluctant.

There was a quiet, gentle humming in the air – insects and birds alike blended together to create a consistent pulse of sound, and the rhythm was kept by the splashing of the waves.

For a long while, I simply sat there, resting and thinking.

When the shadows had lengthened somewhat, I returned to the beach, knowing that Christine would worry if I was out much longer. Erik had stayed near the back of the beach, carefully watching Christine as she trailed up and down the shoreline. Her shoes and stockings had been tossed onto a blanket that was spread out on the sand. The hem of her skirts were stained with water. She waved cheerfully at me when she saw that I had returned.

Erik did not spare me a glance as I stood beside him. We were silent, and I heard Christine humming, her voice blending with the splashing of the waves as they pushed onto the shoreline.

"I often think about making the move to Paris permanent," Erik suddenly said, and I looked at him. His gaze had not left his wife. "It would be easier altogether, you know. The business struggles when we are here. Christine would be nearer to her benefactress, and we would not have to make that dreadful trip every few months. However, when I see her like this…I know I can't take her away from it."

I shifted, rather uncomfortably. "Yes. She certainly seems to enjoy it."

He was silent for a moment.

"Yes," he then repeated, in an uncanny imitation of my own voice – even imitating my accent. "She certainly does."

"Erik!" she suddenly called. "Erik, come look what I've found!" Seawater had soaked a good portion of the bottom of her skirts, and she looked oddly childlike standing there in the waves, dressed in her white frock.

Without a word, Erik left me to attend to his wife. I did not blame him. If my wife was alive, I would leave Erik's company in a heartbeat in favor of hers.

I watched as he approached her, and she struggled out onto the shore toward him, something clenched in her hand. I presumed it to be a small shell or sea creature of some kind. They met, and Christine proudly held it out for him to examine.

Their soft words were lost in the constant noise of the waves. Erik was speaking, and Christine was listening closely, looking from him to the object in her palm. He then leaned over and whispered something into her ear, making her laugh.

As I watched them, I could hardly imagine that two people so completely different – in background, personality, and appearance – had found each other, had discovered that they were halves to their whole. That was what Christine had told me two years ago.

"I am not whole without him."

Perhaps they thanked their Christian God for the miracle. I did not presume to know how it had happened, but, as I watched them together, I thought that possibly it was simply the will of their fates. They could no longer bear to be apart. If Erik felt half of the love I had had for my wife, then there was no doubt that, whatever the reason, their relationship and marriage would continue and would thrive.

He had threaded his long, pale fingers through her hair and was still whispering into her ear. Her eyes were closed, a smile on her lips as she listened.

The two halves of a whole…the two souls that were one…

Despite every obstacle, every force that pushed them apart, every misfortune that claimed them, they were one, and they lived.

Against the backdrop of the sea, they lived.

Fin