A Letter to Charles, a phantom of the opera fanfic

Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, Phantom belongs to Susan Kay, etc., etc., etc.

MY DEAREST CHARLES

by Ivana Wright

Based on the novel by Susan Kay

My Dearest Charles,

By the time you first set eyes on this letter I will be gone from this world. My beautiful son, I am so proud of you. I know that you have heard this statement burst past my lips hundreds upon hundreds of times, but indulge your mother's praise for a final instance, for this, unfortunately, is my last opportunity. As you can tell by the date of this letter that this was written a fortnight after you returned to school. You knew of my diagnosis. Cancer, the doctors called it. I have been unwell for some months, gradually deteriorating. Regrettably, I have gotten quite worse in the past few days, so I thought now would be as good of time as any to write to you what I needed to tell you.

My head is beginning to pound as I write, and I must be quick, for if my nurse catches me she will stop me instantly and there are so many things I must tell you. So many things… My darling I pray for your forgiveness, for I kept a secret from you for many years. Dear God, this is not how I wanted you to find out, I wanted to tell you face to face, to be there at your side, not to have the truth scrawled out on piece of paper. But time is of the essence and adjustments must be made.

I am sure that I have told you before of my time at the Garnier Opera House in Paris, have I not? I told you how I used to sing there in my youth? Well during my years there was a man, a recluse, who tutored me in music. He imparted to me a small bit of his boundless knowledge, and infused me with part of his soul. He was genius, his wisdom peerless. He was an artist, architect, magician, composer, designer, scientist and above all a brilliant musician.

He sounds perfect, does he not, Charles?

He was so perfect, but the one flaw that he did have in his entire person – a flaw that on most people is on the inside, hidden from the world – was on the outside, displayed for all of the world to see. His face was terribly disfigured and for that fault, something completely out of his control, the world ignored his aptitude and genius.

They turned a blind eye towards his architectural achievements, and a deaf ear to the beautiful music he created.

He was in love with me, and I can honestly write to you my son, that I loved him in return. I can sense your furrowed brow as your eyes behold those last few words, Charles, as you recall how Raoul also courted me at this time. I hold no pride in saying that I loved them both at the same time. Erik (that is his name, Charles) was dark, passionate and mysterious; he awakened my soul when he spoke the simplest of words, his voice haunting in its beauty. He had so much power over me that most of the time it frightened me; he frightened me.

Raoul was Erik's foil in almost every way. He was gentle, warm and tender. He never intimidated me or raised his voice. He was always loving and consistently sweet.

I am sure that you must think that I eventually rejected Erik and chose Raoul, and then we moved on to England where we currently live.

I wish that it had been that simple, my son.

I did not choose Raoul, Charles. I chose Erik. It is in this instance that I am relieved to be telling you this in a letter, for I would be too ashamed to meet your eyes after I told you that fact.

Erik and I were joined together in a private ceremony, with only God as our witness.

My son, I know that you have viewed Raoul as your father throughout your life, but he is not your real father. Erik is. I am not writing this to make you think ill of Raoul; he is my husband, and I love him dearly. He is your father in every definition of the word with one exception. Raoul loves you so much. He knew that you were not his real son, but he wanted to take care of you regardless.

I am telling you this not to shock you, or upset you, but to have you at least be aware of the brilliant man who you never had a chance to know. Erik knew such hardships in his life, I thought the greatest sin would be to have his only child not know who he really was. He gave you your aptitude for music and your artistic prowess. I recall sitting in his lair, he lived underneath the Garnier in solitude, one day and seeing a drawing. I did not recognize it at first glance, but now years later as I look back on that picture I can identify it instantaneously; it was Erik – his countenance free of any blemish.

Dear Charles, as I picture that drawing in my mind it bears an exact resemblance to you; the dark brown hair, the high cheek bones, the slightly plump lips, the thin nose and the blue eyes with a hint of gold.

You are so much like him. When you first began to tinker with the grand piano in the salon my heart leapt to my throat, stifling my squeal of joy. You are most certainly your father's son. When you would begin playing in the early morning hours and then continued throughout the day, I sat out in adjoining room with my needlework and listened. I know that the entire time I sat there, Erik was with me in spirit. He would have been so proud of you, Charles. I am positive that he would have been.

Unfortunately, Erik was always in failing health. When I knew him he would often have seizures and his health was steadily degenerating. When I chose to stay with him it was for a very short while, for he died not several days later. Do not mistake me, Charles, I love Raoul de Chagny, but heart will forever belong to Erik.

Please forgive me for not telling you this sooner. I knew that the time was not right, nor is it now, but I wanted you to at least know.

I love you so much, my son. Thinking back to that time in my life, knowing all that I do now, I would not have changed a single decision, because all those choices gave me you. You have made everything worth it, Charles. You are so perfect. You are all that Erik could've been. I am so lucky to have you as a son.

I love you, Charles, never doubt that. You are my greatest triumph.

Your mother,

Christine de Chagny

With a heavy sigh, the reader of the letter set down the paper gently, like it was a piece of fine china, so delicate and brittle that it would break if it was mishandled in the slightest. Shock rippled through his entire body. He stabilized himself with two arms on his desk, to keep him from falling backwards onto his plump desk chair. Betrayal sunk like a stone in his stomach.

Why would she tell him this in a letter?

Why now?

Raoul de Chagny's legs finally gave out and he fell onto his desk chair. He buried his wrinkled face in his hands and sighed. There was no way he could give Charles this letter.

What would it accomplish? Erik is dead, he has been dead since before the child was born. It is not as if he was residing in the next town, living in despair, unaware that he had a son.

Not only would it shatter the Viscount's relationship with his son, but there was no telling how Charles would react. Charles was the only family he had left.

Suddenly, there was a light knock on the door.

Raoul's head shot up; it was Charles standing in the doorway, clad in his evening attire, ready for their night at the Opera.

"Ready to go, father?"

That simple sentence, such a simple sentence, Raoul mused. If he delivered the letter as he was asked to he would lose the one joy he had left in his life.

The old Viscount cleared his throat uneasily.

"Yes, yes… just cleaning up. Could you order the carriage?"

"Of course."

Just as Charles was leaving the room, Raoul called him back.

"Charles, wait."

The young man quickly returned. Christine's letter was held tightly in Raoul's hand, it would be so easy to hand it over to the boy, and let him know the truth.

He would not even have to explain what the letter was, or whom it was from, he just would need to stand there in silence. Surely, questions would follow – You knew? Why didn't you tell me sooner? Did you want to leave us? – then, possibly, anger.

"I-I… just wanted you to know how proud I am of you, Charles."

Charles smiled broadly, "Thank you, dad."

Raoul nodded, and Charles left the study again.

The Viscount withdrew the letter from behind his back and placed it on the fine mahogany desk.

His blue eyes bored into single sheet of stationary. It was rather mind boggling that such a simple page could mean so much to him and his remaining family.

It was his secret…

Subtly, Raoul opened a lower desk drawer with his right hand, and with brisk brush of his hand the paper fell into the container.

He slammed it closed, locking it.

… And it was going to stay that way.