This story is dedicated to my dear friends, Cecelia and Madeleine. I will miss you as we go off to college, but I hope that this story reminds you that God has a way of bringing people back together again, even when it seems impossible.
The sea was calm that morning. A soft breeze blew off the water, gently lifting and lowering the petals of the flowers that grew wild on the cliffside. It was the only remnant of the storm that had raged in the night.
As he had done every Sunday for the past ten years, Erik watched the sun rise over the sea from the churchyard of Perros-Guirec. It was his favorite hour of the day. He could enjoy the light of the sun, the singing of the birds, and the sound of the waves without any fear of discovery. There was no one to gape at his imperfections, both external and internal. He could simply exist, at peace with the serenity of his surroundings. Only the groundskeeper knew of his visits, and the old man had never interfered with him other than to grant him a warm smile each time he passed through the gates.
The sea breeze played gently through Erik's dark hair. Though the years had brought a tinge of silver to its smooth edges, the rest of his appearance remained largely unchanged. His impressive height, his black suit and cloak, and of course, his white mask, were exactly as they were a decade before. His striking golden eyes had not dimmed, and, goodness only knew, his face had not changed in the slightest.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh air that came off the tranquil waters. Like the sea after a storm, his heart was calm. If not content, he was at least at peace, with himself and with all that had happened in his chaotic life. He was not unhappy.
How could he be unhappy, when he had a dear friend to visit every Sunday?
He rested his hand on the gravestone beside him.
"Bon matin, mon ami."
Though no words ever met his ears in response, Erik sometimes believed that the wind blowing through the churchyard trees was a reply. He looked down at the words carved into the stone.
GUSTAVE DAAÉ
"You know, Monsieur Daaé," he said, a small cluster of daisies catching his eye. "I have always possessed a deep love of flowers."
He smiled wryly.
"Ironic, isn't it? Here I am, with my death's head and funereal dress, talking to one deceased as if he stands before me. And yet…"
He gestured toward the flowers.
"Here is the beauty of life in all its glory."
Bending down, Erik plucked one of the daisies. He turned the stem in his gloved hand, examining it closely.
"Have you ever thought about all that must occur perfectly in order for a flower to grow?" he asked, lightly tracing the velvet petals with his index finger. "The seed must be carried to suitable soil, the sun must hit the seedling in precisely the right way…it's a wonder that flowers bloom at all."
He tilted his head as he considered.
"I suppose the same could be said of humanity's wretched existence. So much can go wrong when a child comes into this world…"
Unbidden, memories seized his consciousness, shooting the old dagger-like pains behind his eyes. His mother trembled, her eyes wide and panic-stricken, as she forced a cloth bag over his head for the first time. In the same breath, a pair of perfect white hands shook as their owner weakly defended herself from the devil she had believed to be an angel.
Erik's hand shot to his mask. He clenched his fingers against the pain, trying to control his breathing. In spite of the calmness he had acquired over the years, attacks like these would strike him at the worst times.
When his mind quieted, and the violent fire in his veins had cooled, he slowly brought his hand back to his side. It was shaking.
Shaking like her hands…
He closed his eyes. Inhale…exhale…there.
At last, he faced the headstone.
"I do apologize, Monsieur," he said, his voice cracking a little. "After ten years of practice, it still finds a way to get the better of me."
He was silent for a moment, absently watching the grass move in the breeze, though his thoughts were far away. He brought his hands to his sides beneath his cloak, and jumped when he felt something solid. Blinking hard several times, he shook his head, as if ashamed for having forgotten something.
"Good Monsieur, you have my apologies for not addressing today's significance sooner."
Reaching into the inner folds of his cloak, he produced a small but stunning bouquet of flowers.
"I am honored to have the privilege of being the first to wish you a happy birthday ― your sixtieth, if I remember rightly."
Reverently, he knelt down before the gravestone. He pressed two fingers to his lips, then pressed them to the name carved there.
"I am afraid, Monsieur, that my gift for you is rather small, especially in light of all that you have done for me…but know that it is given with a great deal of sincerity."
He paused for a moment. It was essential that he choose his words with care.
"As a man born and raised in the Swedish countryside, you no doubt already know that flowers speak a language of their own. With these flowers, Monsieur, I wish to say to you all that I would desire to say if you were truly here beside me. I know that you likely hear little, if any, of my ramblings every Sunday, but…please. Even if you never listen again, I beg that you listen to my words now."
Carefully, Erik drew from his bouquet a small cluster of pink carnations.
"These," he began, "mean 'thank you.'"
He laid them gently at the base of the headstone.
"It's been ten years, Monsieur Daaé," he said softly. "And not a day goes by that I don't miss her. Your daughter…though she chose another in the end…was the best of my life. She was my music, my very reason for living. In the years before I found her weeping for you in my opera cellars, I had become a hollow man. My soul was lost. My heart…my heart was filled with so much stone I could not even feel despair. I was a walking shell of a human being, so very weary of life that I had long contemplated ending it altogether. But then…"
Erik's voice caught on a wave of tears. The silvery paths they left on his deformed cheeks traced the smile that had blossomed on his face.
"But then I heard her voice," he let out in one swift sob. "…and even through her grief, it was the most beautiful sound ever to reach my ears! It was filled with the very essence of hope, faith, compassion, and love ― the things that you undoubtedly taught her, and the things which my life had been missing for so long. It lit a spark in my granite heart. Sometimes, in the silence of the night, when the darkness closes in, I hear her voice still."
As he spoke, his voice had become quiet. Now, he spoke barely above a whisper, his shining golden eyes gazing fondly upon the headstone.
"I taught her to sing, but she taught me to love. I may have been her angel, but she was my salvation from hell on Earth. I will be forever in your debt for bringing her to me."
Erik hastily wiped the tears from his bare cheek. Bringing forth a second cluster of flowers from his bouquet, he laid them down next to the first.
"Purple hyacinths," he said, his voice still thick with emotion, "beg forgiveness."
He swallowed heavily, ducking his head.
"Good monsieur, I have done so much that warrants your forgiveness. I lied…I lied heinously to your daughter, though I loved her with more passion than my music could ever express. She dreamed of an Angel of Music, and I manipulated her young mind, already fragile with grief, into believing I was that angel when I could give her only a demon in return. I broke her heart…and I broke your trust. I took a part of you that was so deeply embedded within her, and I warped it into something dark and evil. I was selfish in my hunger for her light…her soul and her sanity were the casualties."
Slowly, he lifted his head so that his eyes met the name engraved in stone before him. His gaze was steady, as though he could look across the years and into the eyes of a man who was now far beyond the little churchyard by the sea. He inhaled deeply.
"I will not say that I am sorry for loving her. I will not apologize, as I have been forced to apologize all my life, for trying to be a normal man — for trying to love as a normal man might. But I am truly sorry for all of the pain it has caused her. I am sorry that I have made myself so unworthy of kneeling at this stone."
Erik laid his last bundle of flowers next to the others.
"And that is why I have brought this final gift. These blue violets are the simplest of the tokens I have given you today, but they carry the weight of my heart."
His mouth curved up at the corners in a melancholy smile.
"I will always be there — that is what blue violets say. I have kept my distance for many years, because that is what is best for her. But should she ever need me — should she ever be in danger — I will be by her side."
He chuckled derisively.
"If that little Vicomte fails to perform his duty in protecting his wife, I will be only too happy to perform it for him."
The wind picked up, carrying Erik's words away in the silence. For a moment, it became so strong that Erik's cloak was lifted off his back, and the chimes in the church garden made their music.
For the second time that day, he felt tears prick his eyes. Gustave Daaé had heard him.
But that reply was not the only thing that floated to Erik upon the breeze.
The sound of a small child singing met his ears. He had been so occupied with expressing his deepest emotions that he had not heard the small footsteps approaching.
He could not run — he was entirely exposed, and the child would notice him if he did. As it was, he could see her now, toddling toward him among the tombstones, her golden curls blinding in the morning sunlight. She was too close. All he could do was remain kneeling where he was, and wait for her to pass. Evasive action would appear suspicious.
After observing her for a few moments, Erik noticed something peculiar. She stared straight ahead at all times, her gaze never wandering to the right or to the left. Her hands, though, were constantly in motion, feeling for each headstone as she passed it.
This was making him extremely uncomfortable.
One headstone away, she paused. Erik waited with baited breath. Her eyes remaining ever forward, the child took a deep breath through her nose. Was she…smelling for something? Puzzled, Erik watched as she took another deep breath, and her entire face lit up in a brilliant grin.
Much to Erik's dismay, the little golden-headed girl closed the distance between herself and Gustave Daaé's headstone in mere moments. Resting two tiny hands on his powerful arm, she lowered herself to the ground beside him.
Erik's mind was reeling. This little child was sitting next to him as naturally as if she had known him all the days of her life. Was she not afraid?
When she kept her gaze fixed steadily ahead of her, rather than upon the birds flitting above them or upon the imposing, mask-wearing stranger dressed in black beside her, a suspicion entered Erik's mind. He leaned forward to look into a pair of stunning ocean-blue eyes — eyes that were familiar to him for a reason he could not place. But the distant glaze that engulfed them confirmed his suspicion.
The little girl was blind.
Unsure of himself in every way, Erik chose to remain silent. Perhaps she would go away if he did not address her.
But the little girl clearly had no plans to leave.
"I heard you crying," she said simply. Her voice was sweet, like the tinkling of tiny bells. "Would you like to make daisy chains with me?"
She held out her hand and opened her fist so that Erik could see the chain she had begun.
"The flowers make me happy when I'm sad."
For a moment, Erik had not the faintest idea how he ought to respond. He was so accustomed to people being frightened of his appearance at first glance. But this little girl could not see him. To her, he was a normal man, just like any other.
The thought gave him courage.
"Yes, my dear," he replied with the first genuine smile that had touched his lips for many years. "I will certainly make daisy chains with you."
They worked in silence for a time, each buried in thought. As the minutes passed, Erik became more and more comfortable with her quiet companionship. She was right — weaving daisy chains did have a way of dispelling even the most melancholy emotions.
Eventually, the little girl spoke.
"Monsieur, why were you crying?"
Erik thought for a moment, for he did not wish to lie to the child. His reply was soft and kind.
"I was remembering someone I love very much, whom I lost long ago."
She nodded knowingly.
"I am here to remember someone, too. I am not sure if I love him. He died before I was born."
"Who is it, child?"
"My grandfather," she replied. "Maman has brought me to meet him for the very first time."
A crease of concern appeared between Erik's eyebrows.
"Where is your mother? Certainly she would not want you to wander alone."
At this, the girl smiled.
"Oh, I have learned to walk just like the other children. I see with my hands and feet and ears and nose. That was how I saw you."
Erik shook his head, amazed by the precocious little creature before him.
"What is your name, dear one?" he asked her.
"Eliane," she answered promptly.
"Well, Princess Eliane," he said with a warm smile. "Would you like a daisy crown?"
Grinning broadly, she nodded. As he ceremoniously placed the crown he had woven atop her wealth of blonde curls, she giggled merrily. He could not help himself — he let out a hearty laugh.
"Monsieur," she said through her giggles. "What is your name?"
Erik's features softened. He realized that he was about to give his true name more readily to this small child than to anyone he had ever known before.
"My name is Erik," he said gently.
Eliane's eyebrows scrunched with concentration, as though she was trying to remember something. On the whole, Erik found her expression rather comical.
"Erik," she said slowly, as if testing the name out on her tongue.
Suddenly, she gasped. Her blue eyes widened.
Before Erik could even comprehend what was happening, little Eliane slammed into his chest. Erik was deeply confused and rather uncomfortable as she buried her face in his vest and inhaled deeply.
"Erik!" she squeaked into the fabric. She pulled back, her small hands resting on his forearms. So many words flew from her mouth that Erik struggled to catch them all.
"I knew it was you! My maman, she keeps a handkerchief in her wardrobe that I use to play dress-up, and she never uses it, so I am allowed, and it smells like you and I can feel the letters of your name embroidered on one corner with a rose. And I asked her once who Erik is, and Mother said you were her guardian angel when she was a famous opera singer —-"
Erik was suddenly more alert than he had ever been in his life. His slender hands shot out to grasp the child's shoulders as if his very life depended upon it. She tensed in shock.
"Eliane," he said, searching her unseeing eyes desperately. "You say your mother was an opera singer? And she has one of my handkerchiefs?"
Eliane nodded slowly, taken aback by her companion's abrupt change in demeanor.
"And she is here with you? In this church yard?"
Eliane only blinked, her eyes wide and frightened. Erik barely noticed her discomfort, so wild was he to obtain any scrap of information about her mother that he could get from her. He was so intent upon questioning Eliane, in fact, that he did not hear the soft footsteps of the woman approaching behind him.
"Erik?" she said softly.
In an instant, the calmness of heart and mind that Erik had struggled for a decade to attain was obliterated. The voice he had just heard speak his name could not be real — all of this could not be real. She could not be real, she could not be standing beside him after all this time, and the little angel before him…she could not be her child — though, he reasoned, would he expect anything less than an angel from a mother who possessed perfect beauty and grace?
He did not feel Eliane disengaging herself from his slackened grip and toddling happily away. He could not even feel his own legs beneath him. In the past, he voice of the only woman he had ever loved would have had him on his feet in a heartbeat. Now, he was terrified to face its owner, for fear that she would vanish in a cruel dream.
Hands fisting in the folds of his cloak, Erik slowly stood. As always, he felt clumsy and altogether too large in her presence. Sensations that he had not felt in a decade were assaulting him in full force. The mingled chaos of noise and music that always followed in her wake suffocated his thoughts.
At last, Erik lifted his eyes to meet hers, and his heart of stone melted into a pool of warm gold.
She was still so beautiful! If anything, the years had only increased her beauty, for motherhood had lent her willowy form a certain softness. She carried herself differently. Where before there had been weakness, impressionability, and a marked lack of confidence, her entire stance now bespoke a quiet strength. Her back was straighter, her chin higher, her grip more certain on her daughter's hand than it had ever been on his. At the age of thirty, Erik's Angel of Music had grown into a woman.
Yet there was also a poignant hardship reflected in her appearance. Erik noticed with dismay that she was dressed entirely in black, a lace veil draped lightly over her face and an ebony crucifix hanging from her neck. She was in mourning. Beside her crucifix hung a tiny image of Saint Brendan, the patron saint of seafarers, and a small strip of crimson fabric that looked as though it had been torn from a scarf.
Erik finally understood — the sea had claimed the young Vicomte's life. From the short length of the mourning veil, Erik could tell that he had been dead for several years.
However, amidst all of the changes that grief and the trials of life had brought to the woman before him, her eyes were precisely as they appeared in his memory, their soothing blue depths piercing him to his soul. As she gazed into his golden eyes, and he into hers, the ghost of a smile lifted her lips. Ten years stretched wordlessly between them. It was as though they were trying to learn the secrets of the heart through the eyes alone, for in that moment, the spoken word seemed a blasphemy.
When the wind blew strong through the trees once more, Erik looked at the letters carved into the headstone of Gustave Daaé. After all Erik had done, this man had brought his daughter back to him. He saw something in Erik, something that made him worthy of a second chance with his daughter's heart. He would not win her today, perhaps not for many months, or even years… but Erik would be damned if he let her slip through his fingers again.
For the first time since the final night at the Opera, Erik spoke her name.
"Hello, Christine."
The sound he made was barely more than a breath carried toward her on the breeze, but her radiant smile was the only answer he needed.
It had taken a decade and more, but Erik's love, like the flowers on the cliffside, had finally found a place to grow. True, the seed was still weak and small, and the roots had not yet taken hold. But they would. Erik had learned from his mistakes.
The storm that had raged in the night was over. Now, it was time for Erik to step into the light.