We are the park. London has many parks, but I've always preferred Hyde Park. We just like to wander around, Christine and I, with all four children in front of us. They find such happiness amongst each other and hardly ever quarrel or shout. I am filled with pride even looking at them. And I know Christine is as well, she just has a quieter manner of expression. In a way they gave us life. They gave Christine a reason to live and me the strength to forgive. Every day, because of them, we grow a little happier.
The twins, Hélène and Isabelle, are the youngest. They are the very image of my dear mother, with traces of Christine's Scandinavian features. They remind us of little porcelain baby dolls, so small, so sweet, and so lovely. Each has a personality large enough to fill a cavern. Their loud laughter and happy voices spill from those tiny bodies like overflowing glasses. Together they hold their own, even against a much taller, much stronger elder brother. On several occasions they've caused him to bleed during a wrestling match. Inseparable and unstoppable; together they can do anything.
Then there this is Martyniere, named after my mother, but strongly resembling Christine and her mother. Martyniere is like a beautiful flower, which blooms only in winter. She is more an adult than a child. I know her heart is good, but she is often very cold towards us. She is an enigma to me, very much like her mother always has been. I worry about Martniere when she is older. Men will certainly fall for her, just as they always did for Christine. But my fear is that she will reject love, being so logical and introverted. As mysterious as Martyniere is to us, we treasure her like a rare crown jewel. When I look at her I see my beloved Christine, the ultimate and unparallel love of my life.
Charles. Charles is the oldest and only boy. It is difficult for me to explain him. Charles is a symbol of forgiveness. He is tall, pale, dark and incredibly handsome. Grown women flock around him, a mere boy of twelve. He resembles no one. He is compared to no one. Charles is a genius. His talents exceed those of any adult. The whole of London is abuzz about him. His musical gifts have become famous. His art and science praised and awarded. It pleases me to be a father to such a child, yet it still hurts me to know he is not mine.
Charles belongs to another man entirely. Erik. A man who died before his birth and never knew of his existence at all. For many years this man was my sworn rival. Even in his death, I wished to kill him. I hated him for all he had done. I hated him because she loved him. She still does. Christine will never let him go. His memory still haunts her. This man, the father of the dear, wonderful boy I love so much, killed my brother. Christine does not care to admit it, but we both know Erik killed him. All those years ago, in that dark, deep place. For the first several years of Charles's life, I would look at him and only think of Philippe's murder.
But as years passed I learned to forgive. Charles taught me that, simply by living. Now I see him just as a beautiful and perfect creation, not as a reminder of tragedy or hatred. He represents all that was good about his father; the genius, the talent, the passion. None of the murderer, the thief, the lair or the madman shines through. He is Erik's salvation, Christine's treasure, and my example.
I have forgiven Christine and Erik, yet sometimes I feel the sting of their actions and want to cry out in pain. But I keep those thoughts quiet. For now I am happy. Happier then ever before, but I see Christine and know she is not as happy. I still hear her late night sobbing. Learning to live again is easier said then done. I can only hope someday she'll be completely happy.
That's all I've ever been able to do in our bittersweet life together. Hope.