So originally, I tried doing something along the lines of Erik gets redeemed by woman he meets at Opera, but that didn't work out, so then I went for couple who rescues him from freakshow. It sort of worked, but then I decided to make it one character and somehow involve the deChagnys into it, and lo behold, Irene the widow who is now a single mother to Erik and governess, is created and she meets Erik when he is a child.
Irene Medly and Hubert Medly are mine. Robert is also mine, but he's dead.
Italics are flashbacks.
Also I'm trying my hand at accents.
Erik belongs to Gaston Leroux
It had beem five years since Robert's death. He had died on the job, fixing a roof for the butcher, when the roof caved in. The butcher helped pay for the funeral, perhaps out of duty or pity for the young widow in the aging black dress. He didn't give her Robert's pay, feeling the funeral was enough. She did not have the strenght to argue and let the butcher be. She moved to Paris, France a few months after, feeling she needed some distance, perhaps to find a job.
"A whole new country?" Her mother repeated, "Are you sure?"
Irene had been adamant about her choice, and left with the final word.
Before her marriage, Irene had been a governess for wealthy families. With her husband's death, she felt it was time to return to that life, turning down her family's offer to live with them, perhaps find another young man. She advertised in every newspaper she could, scanning for any positions she could fill, often sending a telegram to the families, only to find the position had been filled already.
In the meanwhile, Irene stayed with her brother, Hubert,, who was often away enough to give Irene privacy. He often spent his time and money in whorehouses, drinking and gambling, though Irene was grateful the man had the decency to come back sober and alone. While at home, Irene scanned the advertisement section of newspapers, and writing to families who were searching for governesses, or families who had previously employed her for letters or even asking them for employment. She was turned down, though they were more than glad to write letters of recomendation if needed. With the house to tend to, and the hunting of jobs, Irene was kept quite busy.
On the anniversary of Robert's death, Irene set out to the church, alerting a hungover Hubert of the pre-prepared dinner before heading of, she got a grunt for her troubles. The man had spent the greater part of his night drinking and only came home late at night, before dawn, before crashing on his bed, snoring loudly. Snow had started to fall gently on the ground, melting once it hit the cobblestone streets. Irene wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and walked faster to the chapel, reluctant to be outside if the snow fell heavier. Fortunately for Irene, the chapel was only a ten minute walk from Hubert's flat, and the snow still fell lightly, though the wind had picked up.
Inside the warm chapel, Irene made her way to the front, bowing before the image of Christ and crossing herself. A man sat by the organ, playing a hymn she did not recognize. She made her way to one of the pews and knelt down, joining her hands and interlocking the fingers, and murmured an Our Father. A group of veiled women sat behind her, rosaries jingling in their fingers as they murmured in unison. Their united voices eerily reminded Irene of chanting, witches if you will.
Robert had always been a religious man, never missing a Sunday even while he was sick. He always claimed being close to the Father helped him feel more relaxed, and Irene often followed him there, despite not having much religious education. With his death, Irene found herself drawn to the church more and more, perhaps because it was as if Robert was still with her.
"When ah was a wee lad," Robert said, smoking his pipe, "Me dad wou' taik me mum and ah, ev'ry Sunday, tah service. Th' preacher, Johann, was th' lad's name, couldn't ha' been older than mum. Six and twenty, b'lieve. He had a gift with words. Ev'ry word tha' came out o' his mouth ye wanted to b'lieve. An' now ah takin ye to church, lass. To see th' beauty of th' lord, an' our little chil'ren will also kno' th' word of our lord."
As she knelt, Irene imagined Robert at her side, while she mentally told him of the events in her life. She mentioned Cousin Ruthie's new baby girl, and Hubert's drinking problem. She chuckled when she remembered a certain hilarious moment, specifically Hubert's drunken rants. She also mentioned considering moving back to England, if her inquiries did not produce any results.
The music changed to a more upbeat song, while Irene knelt by the pews. There was a candle in her bag, one she planned to light before she left.
Robert always planned on going to Paris, talked of how he would take his girl to see the beauty of Paris, and maybe even hear an opera. He always had big ideas of what he and Irene would do once he found the money. Always the dreamer, Irene mused.
The wind had picked up when Irene left the chapel. The snow started to fall more heavily, this time settling on the ground rather than melting. Her scarf billowed behind her in the wind, though she wrapped it tighter around her mouth and neck, ignoring the stinging wind in her unprotected eyes.
As she passed a small alley, movement caught her eye. Her heart nearly froze, thinking it was a thief or a murderer, but when the source did not advance towards her, Irene decided it was probably a dog. Poor thing, she thought as she rubbed her arms, and walked towards it. As she got closer, however, Irene realized it was not a dog, but a skeletal frame. Her eyes widened at the sight before her. It was as if someone had taken a skeleton and had forgotten to give it the muscle and organs necessary, in essence, the figure was literally skin and bone. Thin fingers moved up and down as the whole body shook violently from the cold. Rags, thin and dirty, served as the only source of warmth, and the feet were bare. A leather rag with eye holes covered his face, with two black strings keeping it on.
Irene looked around, trying to find someone who might be looking this way, but no one did, preferring to stay focused on their own business of getting to a warm place. She turned to the figure, deducing it was a child, at least from the size. Kneeling down and loosening her scarf, Irene approached the child.
"Sweetheart," She said as gently as she could, "Excuse me, love."
As if she had touched him with white hot iron, the boy, for it was a boy as Irene noted, jumped back, startled. His eyes, an alarming and eerie yellow color, became frantically wide as he tried to move further away from her, only for him to fall on a patch of ice. He landed with a dull thud and a wince, though he did not shout out.
"Good God," Irene cried out and rushed forward, helping the boy up, though she held him gingerly. He was so thin, Irene felt she could break him with the slightest touch.
"I won't hurt you," She assured him, "I'm a friend. Come on, up you get."
The boy watched her wearily, but did not try to break free. Irene noted that he seemed resigned to his fate with her, but remained alert.
"What's your name?" she asked him.
"They...call me Erik," he responded barely above a whisper.
His body shook as the wind blew again, and Irene took off her scarf and wrapped it around Erik, covering as much of his neck and chest as she could. The boy seemed surprised at this gesture, though he flinched when her fingers brushed against his skin.
"I'm not going ot hurt you, Erik" Irene repeated again, "My name is Irene Fielding."
Erik gave her a short nod, showing her that he understood, though it did not make him less wary. Gently, Irene placed her hand on Erik's shoulder, feeling her heart clench when the boy flinched, but relaxed slightly when she did not hurt him.
"Come on, Erik," she said, "Let's get you somewhere warm. You'll catch your death out here."
The boy murmured something under his breath which Irene didn't catch, but she did not ask him. Instead she led him home, which thankfully was not too far, and opened the door for him, allowing him to go in first.
"Hubert!" Irene called in English, before turning to Erik who was trying not to gawk at the photograps and small figurines, "This way Erik. I'll let you borrow my coat for now, and warm up some soup for you. I'm assuming you're hungry."
"Erik doesn't eat that much," the boy said in his whispery voice, "some bread or an apple can suffice him for a week."
Irene decided to ignore the way the boy referred to himself and gave him a small smile, "well those days are behind you, Erik. You'll get three meals a day here, at most."
Hubert made his way, noisily, downstairs into the living room while rubbing his eyes and yawning, "What do ye want Irene? I'm tryin' ta sleep. And who are ye talkin' to?...Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"
Hubert jumped back at the sight of the masked boy, as if Erik had pounced in his direction. He pressed himself against the wall while watching the boy with terrified eyes.
"Irene, git away from 'im!" he demanded. When she did not move, he made to get her, but Irene refused, "Irene, don't be stupid lass! Git away from it!"
"it's name is Erik," Irene said.
Hubert's eyes widened as he looked at Irene and 'Erik' before he groaned, "Ye named 'im? Ye find a...a...-"
"a boy, Hubert," Irene said, "He's a boy, and he's been through a lot."
"But his eyes! And...Irene the boy's a street rat. 'e's dangerous," Hubert said.
"I see nothing wrong with his eyes, Hubert," Irene said, "And we're keeping him. I won't have him out on the streets were he could die or worse."
"Be reasonable lass!" Hubert pleaded, "Even if...he isn't dangerous, 'e won't survive that long. 'E's nu'in but skin an' bones, 'e is. Have ye even though' it through, Irene? What woul' Robert say?"
"He welcome him with open arms, Hubert," Irene said, raising herself to her full height, "And welcome him as part of the family. Will you turn your back on a child, freezing to death?"
Hubert looked back at the boy, who seemed to be trying to will himself to melt into the floor. The Englishman sighed, "'e's goin' to be yer responsibility, Irene. I won't be raisin' him, if he lives enough to be raised."
Irene smiled, "Thank you, Hubert. I promise you won't regret this."
"I'm only agreein' with ye 'cause I know yer stubborn," Hubert said, "But don' expect me to keep track o' him. I refuse ta be a part in raisin' 'im."
"Don't worry dear brother," Irene said, "I will take charge of Erik. You can simply keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself."
Their whole exchange had been in English, leaving Erik confused. The man, Hubert he assumed, seemed shocked when he saw him, and Erik had wanted to bolt, but the woman, Irene, kept him in place. They argued, no doubt about what to do with him. In the end, the man seemed to have lost the battle, as Irene stood triumphant.
"Come on Erik," Irene said, switching to French, as she steered him to the kitchen, "Let's see if we can cook something while Hubert finds some of his smaller clothes which you can borrow until we can get you some new clothes."
The last part was directed at Hubert who returned to his room, muttering under his breath. Erik suppressed a smile, and followed Irene closely, though keeping an eye on the door, should he need to bolt.
Irene sat him on a stool as she chopped some potatoes, chatting with him in French.
"I've always wanted children," she said, "to have little ones running 'round the house making a huge ruckus and mess. Robert, my husband, he's been dead for five years now," she sighed, "We were planning on children, but before we could do anything, he died. I've been meaning to marry, find myself another man, but who'd want to marry a woman my age. So I've been trying to find myself a job here in france, and then try again in England. It's a lovely place, England. You'll get to see it soon, once we raise the money for it."
Erik listened attentivel, allowing his body to relax slightly, and his legs to swing on the stool. When Hubert entered the kitchen, Erik turing to him, assessing the threat before deciding he was safe. Hubert said something in English, while raising the clothes for Irene to see.
"Go on Erik," she said to him, "pick out the ones you like. There's a bathroom down the hall over there were you can change."
The boy nodded silently before leaving. Once the door closed, Hubert turned to Irene, who sighed when she read his expression.
"'e wears a rag on 'is face," Hubert said, "Why?"
Irene shrugged, "maybe it's a facial deformity or scarring. We don't know how his previous guardians treated him."
"Think 'e'll taik it off?"
Irene shrugged, "I don't know. I think I'll take him to buy a mask, an actual one. We can't have him running around with a rag on his face."
Hubert sighed, "I jus' hope ye know what yer getting yesself into."
"I'm a woman, Hubert," Irene said with a smile, "Maternal instincts come naturally to me."
Her brother did not seem convinced, but he did not say anything. He sent Erik a small smile and allowed him to pass. The clothes were too big for the boy, one shirt serving as a short dress. The trousers that Hubert found, seemed to fit Erik just fine, though Irene did not question were it was Hubert found them. Silently, Erik sat on the stool he was seated at before, watching Irene cook with interest.
"Erik," Irene said, "Hubert and I were thinking if you wanted to go with us a store and buy you a proper mask...We don't want to force anything on you, Erik," Irene assured when the boy's hand went instinctively to the makeshit mask he wore, "If you don't want to show us, we won't force you. I'm sure we can find you some masks that are more...suitable for daily use. A rag won't do."
Erik nodded, slowly. The rag had been the only thing he could find to cover his face. These people, english, hadn't seen what was underneath. He wondered, and feared, how they'd react to his face, the one he was born with, the reason for his horrible life. Hubert, would no doubt throw him out if his reaction to Erik had been anything to go on. Irene, Erik wondered if she'd shriek and run, or if she'd stand and watch as he was thrown out. He'd comply to what they wanted, he decided. This way he would get a warm bed and food, and a roof over his head. Besides, they did say they weren't going to force him to take the rag off if he didn't want to.
But, the nagging voice in his head said, what were words but masks to one's true thoughts? Irene would probably think him ungrateful if he didn't accept their attempts to help, or think him greedy if he accepted too much. He found himself wondering if she would return him to the alley if she realized the monster he was. She probably would, or she'd lock him up, or return him to the circus.
"Here you go Erik," her voice snapped him out of his thoughts, "some mashed potatoes and chicken. Eat up."
Erik gingerly held the spoon in his hand, unsure of how to go about eating. He had never had anything like this. He was lucky if he even got food. He turned to Hubert who had started eating, and Irene who was still serving herself, though she kept an eye on Erik. He copied Hubert's movements and brought the spoonful of potatoes to his mouth, chewing slowly enough for his stomach to decide if it wanted the contents. It did, and so Erik brought another spoonful to his mouth, marvelling at how the mashed potatoe felt in his mouth, as if it wasn't there, but it was. Chicken he had tried before, but Erik hadn't Irene's chiken before, and found it delicious as well. He did not eat much, as he was unused to eating so much food. A habit he blamed his mother and the sideshows for.
"Do you like it, Erik?" Irene asked.
He nodded and gave her a smile, "Yes. Thank you."
Perhaps, the smaller optimistic part of his mind thought, perhaps Irene would not mind his face.