The sound of heavy hooves sounded from outside and, almost immediately after, the panting whinny of majestic black Clydesdales sounded, loud and tired. Papa was home.
As the horses and carriage were tended to, the front door to the small estate situated comfortably in rural France was opened and a tall, dark, and weary man entered. Removing his long ebony Inverness cloak with a flourish, he hung it—along with his hat—on the coat stand by the door. Taking a moment to lean against the wall, the thin man—Erik by name—sighed, expressing the exhaustion that showed even from behind his white mask.
His moment of quiet tranquility was soon interrupted, however, by the sound of small running feet. A small smile spread across his lips in spite of himself as he opened his ember eyes to see two children bounding down the stairs towards him.
"Papa!" The boy cried, bounding down the steps.
"Papa! Papa!" The younger girl cried, her jubilation apparent in every bouncing curl on her head.
As the little girl of seven flung her arms around her father's long legs and gripped them tight, Erik found himself glad that he had already been leaning against the wall, for her expressed joy would've surely sent him tumbling to the ground. Nevertheless, at the young girl's affection, he straightened, gave a smile, and laid a gentle hand on his daughter's curly head.
"Hello, Mélodie," he greeted her.
"Welcome back, father," the boy of ten said, standing a few feet away with perfect posture. He had regained his composure and was attempting to appear as a perfect gentleman.
"It's good to be back, Charles," the father returned.
"I missed you, papa," Mélodie pouted slightly, pursing her little lips in a cross expression. "Why were you gone so long?"
"It is a long ride to Paris, mon petit," he told her. "And I had matters to attend to there."
"Father!" A joyful voice called to him from the doorway to the dining room. Looking up, Erik saw his oldest child standing there, an apron over her dress, a dish-towel in her hands, and radiance in her smile. "You're back!" Walking to him in eager, but measured strides, Mélodie released her father's legs to allow her sister to embrace him. "I'm so glad! Mother was getting worried and these two," she lovingly tousled her younger sister's dark curly locks, "were becoming quite rambunctious."
"I too am quite happy to be back home," the father said, cupping his eldest daughter's cheek in his hand. "Where is your mother?"
She smiled.
"In the kitchen, keeping your meal hot for you," she answered, turning to lead the way.
As the foursome entered the kitchen and approached the mother-figure of the house, Erik's soul sang. He could've sworn—had his wife not taught him that it was impolite—that his darling spouse only grew more beautiful every time he encountered her. And—if such a thing could be considered possible—his love for her only increased.
"Papa's back, mama!" Mélodie announced bounding into the kitchen, her small arms held up in jubilation.
Turning towards her husband, Christine allowed her face to light with a loving smile.
"Erik," she greeted him softly, brushing her hands off on her apron. The eldest girl, recognizing her mother's tone, took hold of her younger siblings' hands and led them out of them room. "You had me worried when you weren't back for supper."
"I'm sorry, my angel," he apologized, taking her hands in his and raising them to his lips, before kissing them desperately. "Things took a great deal longer than I anticipated, but I sold the score."
"You did?" She exclaimed. "Oh! That's wonderful! But of course, I knew you would!"
Throwing her arms around her husband's neck, Christine held him close and sighed as she felt his long, thin arms clutch her against him in return. Pulling away after a moment, she gazed up into his bright ember eyes with her own warm chocolate orbs and smiled from the heart. Reaching up and removing his mask, she exposed his disfigured face and kissed his lips deeply.
As she kissed him as she always did, Erik felt the dim, brief spark of shame flicker in his heart. Although he had managed to bury most of his emotional scars, he still felt wholly undeserving when his wife showed him affection. Luckily, however, with his angel's help, he had managed to gently convert his shame into humility and, because of this, he cherished his little family a hundredfold.
Kissing Christine in return, Erik then pulled away and held his wife against his chest like the treasure she was. Adoringly, Erik laid his malformed face against her soft curly locks.
"Christine, I love you," he sang beside her ear.
As a smile spread across her lips, she felt a swell of aching tenderness brim in her heart.
"And I you, darling Erik," she answered. Though she did not sing, he knew she meant it just as ardently. Pulling away, she held his hands. "I kept dinner warm for you. Would you care for something to eat?"
"If you made it, angel, then how can I resist?"