Christine died three years ago. Our youngest, Philippe, was seven and he did not understand death. No one he'd ever known had died. At the funeral, he didn't weep. He stood beside his older brother, Charles, who was then ten, and beside me, holding our hands. After Christine was laid in the ground, Charles took Philippe aside and explained what had just happened.
"God made Mama into an angel. She's dead on Earth, but alive in Heaven… Remember when Aunt Adele moved to England? She lives there now. You still love her and she loves you. But you don't see her. Mama lives in Heaven now. She loves you; you love her, but you won't see her."
I was amazed at the musical clarity in Charles' voice. I got gooseflesh when I heard him speak and sing, but as he spoke to his brother, I felt a sense of otherworldliness. Philippe, however, did not.
"But why?" he whined. "Why did Mama have to go to Heaven now?"
Charles' face split into a sudden grin, "Because nobody can say 'no' to God—Not even the Comtess de Changy."
He hugged his little brother and looked at me. Something inside me, a dormant monster, stirred and a dull fear swelled in my chest—there had always been something about Christine's eldest son…
I've known Charles was Erik's son since he was two and a half. Christine was pregnant with Philippe then and all was well with the pregnancy. Charles, on the other hand, had nearly caused the death of his mother. Emergency surgery was the only thing that saved mother and child. Philippe's birth, by comparison, was uneventful. And the babe was me in miniature. My blonde hair, my blue eyes, my thin nose and full lips. Charles was not like me. Dark haired; grey, clear eyes that belonged to no one; thin lips and pale skin. He must have been Erik's son, looking how Erik should have.
But I loved both my boys. I loved my musically inclined Charles, who played the piano with such agile fingers that you would be certain, if you closed your eyes that you were in a grand music hall and not the parlor room. I loved my Philippe, who took special pride in his horsemanship and athleticism, spending his days wearing out the stable boys and riding the grounds. The two boys, outwardly, were opposites.
They were external opposites, but as I watched them together, I saw that there was little difference in the two. On rainy days, they would curl up by the fire and take fascination with a book, which they would take turns reading from and voicing the characters. And they loved each other tenderly. Once, Philippe brought his older brother for a jaunt on horseback and the elder boy took a fall no sooner than he sat in the saddle. Philippe leapt from his mount and immediately tended his brother's wounds with a bit of cloth he ripped from the hem of his pants. Another time, Charles attempted to teach Philippe to play a song on the piano—Ode to Joy, I think. Philippe plinked a few keys correctly, but then hit a note that was probably the furthest thing from the next one in sequence. Instead of laughing at the younger boy's mistake, Charles smiled gently and encouraged Philippe to try again. He learned that song through hours of practice with his older brother and he glowed with pride that he could play a piece of music. Each time Charles listened gladly, despite Philippe's lack of natural ability, and clapped with enthusiasm.
One night after Christine's passing; I lied alone in our bed. In the room over I could hear Charles singing a lullaby to Philippe. Philippe had taken to requesting Charles to sing for him; Christine always sang them both to sleep, even as she was dying. Charles crooned out a few phrases, stopped, and restarted. His voice was resonant and there was something about it that didn't sound like Charles as he sang.
"Hush, all is well
I care for her now; do not fear
Do not cry; she's with me here
The angel of music has her under his wing.
She loves you more than ever
She loves you forever
And we are at peace"
The song ended. I got chills. I did not believe in ghosts; the last I'd encountered was nothing more than a man. But somehow, I felt that it was a final message from Erik. Not for the boys, but for me to hear. Charles never sang like that again and neither boy recalled the song. Life resumed it's normal pace, and I loved both my boys. They were their mother's sons and that in itself endeared them to me, whether they were both my flesh and blood or the reincarnation of a Phantom father.
A/N: A random piece I wrote. I was thinking about Charles, Erik's son in Kay, and did a what if, spawning Philippe. I would like to do more pieces on the boys; let me know what you think!