The word was filled with suppressed ache that Erik recognized immediately. Home. How long and hard had he searched for the same thing? How much pain, how many deaths, what amount of horror was worth a home?
Erik pulled through the security gates and up the flower-lined drive to the expansive garden entrance to Mazanderan. The manor had once been stately and elegant with its marble stone and clean architecture -- but his wife had turned it into something beautiful as well. All the flowers were her doing, and though it wasn't what he ever would have chosen for himself, she loved it, and so he loved it too. Christine could never have changed his residence to a home, however; it was only a building, expansive and decadent as it was. Christine... she was home.
How much was that worth? He would have suffered through his life to this point twice over and again to find where he belonged.
"Home," he repeated quietly to her, as he stopped the car. He could write her many hours of music about home. Maybe he would. "It is a good dream," he said, as he opened the car door. "Just wait here."
It would take him a moment to gather his supplies and bring them down. He would not move her again until he had her as stable as possible. All the other movement was necessary; he could spare her anything else until her pain was managed at the very least.