A Breath of Life

Foreword

The alternate universe is a magical one, opening up scores of possibilities to a wandering mind which would otherwise be impossible.

This particular story is AU, the only modification being that Erik has spent his time building the opera house building something much different. The past Susan Kay laid out in her novel remains intact up to this point, as does Christine Daae's, her life differing in ways which will become obvious as one reads on.

Feel free to envision my Erik however you wish, but it might be helpful to bear in mind that while creating this tale, I attempted to stick to Leroux's description.

Please enjoy.

Chapter One

I sat at my desk late that night in the dark study, as usual, doing nothing productive, just sitting. Nothing, that is, except gazing at the portrait, the only record including all three of our images that existed, to my knowledge.

I had taken them to an expensive studio and paid the artist a great sum of money to stare at us for a few hours and copy the image onto his canvas. We'd worn our finest clothes, and I can remember Amelie fussing over both Georges' hair and her own. "His curls simply won't lie flat, Erik!" she'd exclaimed in desperation as the artist prepared his canvas.

"Curls are not made to lie flat, dear. Let them be."

Amelie, of course, was overall happy with the finished product, her only complaint being the painter's interpretation of Georges.

"He's made his eyes too cold, Erik. Our son is much warmer than that," she'd pouted after her initial praise when the painting had been delivered.

Although I couldn't argue, I retorted to quiet her, "My dear, any artist who would accept such an enormous sum to paint, which, supposedly, should be the passion of his life, would never pay attention to such details."

And as usual whenever I said something beyond her comprehension, she turned those arresting green eyes up to my masked face in quiet confusion, but only said, "You're right, of course," before embarking on a new topic of conversation, her long auburn locks shining in the sunlight.

Since Amelie had become my wife, I had been content, pleased that any woman should take me as her husband and live pleasantly at my side, but was I ever truly happy? No, for I had not loved her in the deep, untouchable way I'd come to believe husbands and wives should love one another. Our marriage budded from our brief though deep friendship, my desperation for a companion to settle down with, and Amelie's grand, impassioned fear of becoming an old maid.

We'd met at a Christmas banquet I'd decided, on impulse, to throw for the employees of my contracting business and their families. The business was based in Paris, and since it had begun, a new collection of workers had been gathered. I couldn't see the harm in sharing a bit of holiday cheer with them, especially now that I hadn't even acknowledged the season in many years.

I had not invited all the employees, only those who had expressed true interest and dedication to their work, and whom I was personally fond of. In total there were about twenty guests, a good number; any more of them I doubt I would have been able to handle, since I barely worked side-by-side with my employees in the first place.

As it had turned out, Amelie was staying with her brother and his family for Christmastime, her brother being a loyal member of my staff. That night he introduced me to his wife, children, as well as his sister, who I ended up being seated next to through the dinner.

Amelie and I easily fell into conversation, and I was drawn by her simple mind, cheery disposition, and evident care for her family, friends and most everything else. We became fast friends, different as we were.

Amelie came from a family of many sisters, she being the second eldest. She was not old, but at twenty-seven, she was a bit over a decade younger than I at the time, and by society's standards, too old to marry, although if she were a man, things would be quite different. Men were allowed to marry old, women were not; it was a double standard I couldn't understand.

Although, or perhaps because Amelie's family was poor, her sisters had made it into a bit of a competition to make the best, most prosperous match; the younger they were wed, the better; one less mouth to feed. Every one of her siblings, even those younger than she, had already wed, and she'd before expressed her worry not only of never marrying, but also of becoming the mockery of her family for generations to come.

I could not step aside and allow such a fate to overtake a friend, when I could do something to prevent it. I asked for Amelie's hand in marriage three months after I met her, not only for her sake, but also for my own. As I aged and adventure grew less and less appealing to me, I had no greater desire than to settle down with a wife, even a family. Now was my chance.

Just to satisfy the fantastic, ideal, secret expectation I knew she'd had for her wedding since she was young, as all girls, rich or poor, do, I planned a grand wedding at a cathedral outside the city. The finest restaurant in the city catered the reception, and I allowed Amelie all the money she desired for decorations and her dress and accessories. The only thing missing was the guests.

One would imagine at such a grand event, dozens of people would be invited. But no, Amelie's sisters and their families were deeply religious -- from what she'd alluded to me, I gathered they often scolded their youngest brother for working in a masked man's employ. I knew intrinsically that if any of them so much as caught a glimpse of me, they would either drag Amelie from the church bodily or disown her on the spot.

Her family could not attend, in short, and Amelie was required to avoid the issue by not mentioning anything about the marriage to anyone she knew. I made certain no reference of either our engagement or our wedding was made in the local newspaper, as was custom. Since I had no family to begin with, the only people in attendance aside from ourselves were the priest and Amelie's dear friend, Claire. We did not invite her brother, for I did not wish to create any potential trouble in the workplace. If Amelie thought me mad for allowing such a grand wedding with no guests -- such a contradiction! -- to occur, she said nothing, only smiled a quiet, grateful smile as we were pronounced man and wife.

We honeymooned in Italy for a fortnight, much of which was spent sightseeing, resting, and dining on the rich cuisine. Neither then nor ever did Amelie see my face. I made love to her only once on that trip, only once in our entire seven-year marriage, to be sure. It was awkward for both of us, and we committed the act only for the sake of tradition on our wedding night. Neither of us loved the other in that way, only as dear friends who, out of desperation for a life-long companion, had wed. However, within months of our honeymoon, Amelie told me over dinner that we were to have a child.

Georges Phillipe Devereaux was born April 3, 1870. We'd since settled in Italy permanently, both due to the fact that Amelie fancied it, and that I had no desire to return to my homeland in such times of turmoil and bloodshed.

Georges proved to be a precocious child, the very apple of my eye. Even as a toddler he showed signs of mental aptitude, and by the time he was four years old he knew a sampling of French and Italian and could pick out simple tunes on the piano. By age six he spoke both nearly fluently. Amelie was happy, Georges was happy, and I was content, the only thing missing in my life being something I'd never known before anyway. We both loved our child dearly, and cared for each other in a deep, platonic manner. I'd accepted my life for what it was, expected it to remain that way until I died, and was overall pleased. I had a wonderful son who would carry on my name and legacy, and I'd made at least one woman truly happy in my lifetime. But then my life took an unexpected, unwanted turn.

It was no one's fault, really. Amelie had taken Georges into town to purchase a new pair of church-shoes (Amelie always insisted on taking our son to church every Sunday, even though it meant my staying behind), as he'd grown out of his old ones. We lived on the countryside, so Amelie and I usually made a day of it whenever we should need to go into town for groceries or clothing. My family left in the mid-morning after we'd had breakfast. Usually I would have accompanied them, but this time I chose to stay behind and work on my composing. I kissed my wife goodbye on the forehead and my son on the top of his brown head. It was the middle of the summer, a hot July day. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be found, and no one expected it to rain.

My wife had told me they would return by the late afternoon, so when six o'clock came and went I became worried. Finally I rose from the piano and checked the window to see if the carriage was approaching. I found the lane empty, instead discovering a heavy downpour falling from the heavens. Then, without being told, without anyone else being aware, I knew what had happened.

The funerals were the next week, many people in attendance. Apparently my wife befriended more chattering, mindless women than I'd been aware of, and each of them had brought along nearly everyone they knew, it seemed. After his recovery, the driver apologized whenever he saw me walking about the now empty house, and I'd always reply in a simple, noncommittal nod. I could not blame him, and yet I could not forgive. Someone deserved to be punished for ending the lives of my wife and son, and destroying mine, but no one was.

Three months had passed since their deaths, and I was ready to put this past behind me, for every moment I spent in this house, I was haunted by the memories of what I once had. The war was over. I was alone once more. I was ready to return to Paris. It called to me.