A/N Well hello, lovely people. Happy New Year - this is the penultimate chapter of Snow White Snow Red. I hope you have enjoyed the ride. A little off-topic - I saw Phantom of the Opera live on the West End last night, and I could not stop crying. It was just too perfect for words - the singing, the orchestra, the costumes, the staging - just wow. And, even though Erik does not get his happy ending in canon, he gets it right here, right now.

A little shameless self-promotion here: I would be really indebted to you all if you'd check out (and review) my new story The Clockwork Dancer, on my new account, ThroughtheEyeofaNeedle.

That's all. On with the happiness.

Part Eleven

He walked through the woods for a long time, his breathing slowing and his heart settling to a steady beat. Why had she cried out?

Stop, he berated himself. Of course she cried out. She's horrified by the sight of you. You're a monster.

As things often go, he couldn't get the feel of her fingers curling around the edge of his mask out of his head, the sight of her shocked dark eyes. It hurt, worse than ever, to be rejected so, to have her almost-scream at the sight of his face.

It always hurt to be rejected by someone whom one loved.

Eventually, after hours of wading through the near-darkness, the stars glittering like knife-points in the sky above, he turned back towards the house. Christine would be asleep, by now, and he needed his violin, his music, to sell, to make a living.

As he approached the clearing where the house was, there was no firelight breaking through the windows. The pain twisted, round and round in his chest. She had gone to bed. She was asleep. She didn't care.

He approached the front door, slowly, stealthily. If she was asleep, he didn't want to wake her.

In the darkness, he couldn't see what lay at his feet, and before he even knew it, he was tripping over something large and cold, grazing his hands on the flagstones as he fell. "Damn," he swore silently, pushing himself upright.

He looked towards the object that had tripped him up, and his breath caught in his throat.

Christine. White, silent, still. Dark hair falling about her face, a red apple with one bite taken out of it falling out of elegant white fingers.

He screamed.

Shook her, over and over again.

Nothing.

She was dead, she was dead, really dead this time, not just asleep. No. No. NO!

All the anger had gone as he began to sob, harsh sobs that shook his frame, tearing through his ribcage. His Christine, his beautiful Christine gone, no way to bring her back, no…

He closed his eyes. His face had killed her, just like it had killed Luciana, the sight of it making her stumble backwards, towards the edge of that old quarry, fall, tumble, land like a doll with broken limbs and raven-black hair falling over her face, just like the girl in front of him now.

He slowly rose. There was no life without Christine, none at all. He loved her.

In the kitchen, there was a knife on the side. He did not even ask himself why it was out in the first place, just snatched it up, carried it out to where Christine was lying, haphazard, so like Luciana all those years before.

There was a sudden, utter, calmness.

He raised the knife.

"Stop!"

The knife clattered out of his hands, onto the doorstep, and he stared, stared into the night in front of him. A woman, her hands held up, silvery, glowing, long curly hair whipping around a serene face.

"Who?" he choked, raising a hand to shield his masked face.

"Do not be scared, Erik," she said softly. "I will not hurt you."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Antoinette." The silver woman cast a soft look upon the girl lying at his feet. "I am her mother."

Guilt tied his stomach into knots.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I wasn't there to save her."

She fixed him with a stern look. "My daughter is not as far from the land of the living as you might think. True love's kiss will revive her, I promise you that."

He stared at her, and one hand gently touched his bare cheek, a mother's caress such as he had never known.

Then she was gone, and he was alone.

Days passed. The pain deadened to a sort of numbness after a few days, and he began to craft a beautiful glass coffin for Christine, decorating it with roses and birds, placing her on cushions with her hands folded across her stomach. Peaceful, still.

He would not be able to wake her with a kiss. She was scared of him, she did not love him. How could she love a monster?

He could only hope that someone else would arrive, someone that would be able to wake her. It would kill him, to see her spirited away by her true love, but at least she would be alive, able to grace the world with her song and her sweet nature, able to overthrow Carlotta and give the kingdom of Garnier the queen they deserved.

It was spring, by the time that hope came. He was sitting by her coffin, as he always did, still, silent, his clothes hanging off his thin frame from barely eating throughout the winter's rage.

There was the sound of horse-hooves, louder and louder.

Erik did not move.

Then a surprised "Whoa!"

He looked up. A young man was sliding down from a chestnut stallion, his clothes rumpled and a blue cape thrown over his shoulders. "Thank…" the young man started, before catching sight of the coffin.

Erik raised his head, slowly, the muscles creaking from sudden use. "How can I help you?" His voice was hoarse from the months spent weeping over the girl in the glass coffin, no hint of the golden tones of happier times.

"I'm lost," the young man said. "I was on my way to the castle, but he bolted." A jerk of the head towards the horse, calmly nibbling at the verdant grass at the edges of the clearing. He tilted his head, curious, at the sight of the mask. "Is that your wife?"

"No," Erik murmured, turning his masked face back towards the sleeping face of his beloved. "No, she is not."

And suddenly, before he knew it, the story was spilling out of his twisted lips, of how Christine had turned up on his doorstep the winter before last, had fallen asleep on his divan, and the Queen's (for it could be no other) constant attempts upon her life.

The young man's eyes widened, and he knelt beside Erik, resting a hand against the glass. "Princess Christine of Garnier?" he asked.

"Do you know her?" Erik looked at him, sharply. Maybe this was the chance he had been waiting for. Maybe this young man would be able to wake Christine from her enchanted slumber.

"I used to play with her, when we were both children," the young man said. "But her father died, and the Queen told my mother I would not be allowed to see her anymore." He glanced over at Erik, and an odd smile pulled up the corner of his lips at the other's man's questioning look. "Prince Raoul of Chagny, at your service sir."

Hope flared, oh-so-suddenly in Erik's beaten, battered heart, like the first crocus pushing its way through the soil in a blaze of gold and purple in the fresh spring air. "You…you might be able to wake her."

"What?" Prince Raoul raised his eyebrows, sceptical as one always is when something of that nature is proposed.

"Someone told me that true love's kiss would revive her." Erik looked down at Christine's perfect pale face. "You have known her since childhood…"

"I can give it a try." The Prince felt inherently sorry for the man, and though something was pricking at the edges of his brain, trying to tell him that it would not work, that this girl was not blonde-haired and blue-eyed and therefore he should not be kissing her at all, he couldn't help wanting to aid this poor, broken man.

The glass was duly lifted off, and Raoul leaned over the still, cold body, carefully pressing his lips to hers. Nothing. No spark, no movement, nothing.

The man looked shattered when the Princess did not wake, and he turned his face away to keep the tears from falling, like raindrops in a summer storm.

The idea pricking at Raoul's mind suddenly burst into life, like a flash of lightening. "Have you ever considered," he began, "that you might be her true love?"

"What?" The man's amber eyes bored into him. "No, I can't be. She doesn't love me."

"How do you know?" Raoul sighed. "Look, have a go. It can't hurt."

"Well," the man turned away, and then the mask was in his hands (though Raoul could not see the side of the face he had taken the mask off), and he was bending over the silent body of the girl upon the cushions, pressing his lips against Christine's…

And Christine's arms came up to encircle his neck, and her eyes fluttered open, like the wings of butterflies flitting from flower to flower.

She broke the kiss, her gaze wide-eyed and wondrous. "Erik?" she said.

"Christine." His voice broke on a sob, so much love in that one word, and then they were kissing again, his arms around her slender waist and her hand gently cupping the twisted, ravaged side of his face.

Raoul turned away, smiling, as the two embraced and whispered, intent on giving them a little privacy. He waited there for quite a while, before the man, no, Erik, finally spoke. "I cannot thank you enough, Prince Raoul."

Raoul looked over his shoulder at the two – Erik's mask was back on his face and Christine's head was resting against his shoulder, utterly content in the way only lovers can be.

"Raoul?" Christine's hand flew to her mouth, and he smiled again. "Is it really you?"

"Hello, Little Lotte. You've certainly grown since I last saw you."

She beamed, and disentangled herself from Erik to rush across and give him a hug. "I can't believe it's you? How are Sophia, and Alexandrine? And Phillippe – don't you remember when he would boss us around because he was the heir to the throne, so he had to be in charge? Oh, I can't believe you're here!"

She stepped away, still smiling, back towards Erik who wrapped his arms around her again. "The girls are fine," Raoul said, thinking about the squabbling over wedding dresses back at the castle. "But I am the only son, now. Phillippe caught consumption, not long after your father died."

"Oh, I am sorry," Christine's eyes filled with tears, and Erik rubbed his hand up and down her arm, consoling.

"It was a long time ago, Lotte. But thank you, anyway."

"I would invite you in," Erik spoke up, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But I know that my house looks like several wild horses and a bear rampaged through it."

"It's no problem, sir," Raoul said. "I had better be on my way to the castle." There was a determined set to his jaw.

"Why are you going to the castle?" Christine asked.

Raoul pulled a wry face. "My parents want me to propose to the Queen, but I don't believe I will."

At the mention of the Queen, Erik's eyes grew dark, stormy. "The Queen…I had better pay my dear sister a visit, hadn't I?"

"Your sister?" Raoul gaped at the other man. "Queen Carlotta is your sister?"

"Unfortunately," Erik muttered.

"You will already know this, but she must be overthrown. There is no happiness in Garnier anymore," Raoul said.

Christine looked from one man to the other, confidence welling inside her. "Then I must take my rightful place," she declared, firmly.

"Then I pledge my allegiance to you," Raoul knelt, and laid his sword at her feet. "Your Majesty, Queen Christine of Garnier."