Of Nightingales and Roses
XxX

Arabelle stretched. It was early morning, but she couldn't wait. Christmas shopping with her papa!

Throwing away the covers, she jumped out of bed and ran for the closet, rifling through for one of her better dresses.

She grinned when her hands found the green velvet, cotton-lined winter one. It was her favorite, bought by her parents for the holidays for her. She slipped it on, and bolted out her door and across the hall to her parent's room.

Arabelle opened the door, and tip-toed across the room to the bed. Smiling, she climbed up on it, and wriggled in between her parents, looking up at her father's face and smiling. She thought it was pretty, and unique, not scary. It was her papa. How could she be scared of him?

Erik stirred when he felt the small body worm its way up to his chest. At first he thought it might be Ayesha, but he could still feel her curled around his feet. The body was too big to be her, anyway.

Process of ilimination, he thought groggily, Arabelle.

Opening his eyes, he found himself gazing down into his daughter's smiling little face. He closed his eyes again, yawning.

"What is it, baby?" he asked tiredly.

Arabelle giggled.

"You said we could go Christmas shopping today, Papa," she reminded him.

Erik sighed, but couldn't help a little smile. So sweet and innocent.

"Dearest," he murmured, "it's not even dawn yet."

Arabelle tilted her head slightly.

"It's too early?"

Erik nodded.

At her father's nod, Arabelle curled into his chest and closed her eyes, snuggling as close as she could.

"Can I stay with you?" she asked softly, voice slightly muffled by the sliver of skin between the lapels of Erik's nightshirt where her head was buried.

He smiled, wrapping his arms around his little girl.

"Of course, my little one," he sighed, closing his own eyes for a few hours more of rest.

-

-

About two hours later, Erik woke to gentle shaking and a soft little voice calling 'papa'. Groaning, he opened his eyes to see Arabelle, still in the green dress she'd worn when she'd come in before, with her coat on as well this time.

"Papa, come on," she called excitedly. "Mama said the stores should be open by now!"

Her enthusiasm made Erik smile. His Arabelle was just such a ball of energy.

He heard Christine call for them both to come down for breakfast, and then Arabelle was up and running, laughing brightly, innocently. Again, Erik smiled, and got out of bed, exited, too, inside, about spending the entire day with his little girl. Granted, he spent nearly every day with her, but there weren't many when they went out together. Old habits were hard to dodge, even after four years of remarkable happiness.

Arabelle sat in the chair at the table, smiling as Christine placed a bowl of warm oatmeal on the table for her.

"Thank you, Mama," the girl beamed, taking her spoon and digging in.

Christine smiled fondly. Arabelle was always so happy, it seemed. She was constantly smiling and laughing. The only times Christine had yet to see her daughter upset were the two attacks Erik had had over the last three years. And she thanked God it had only been two, though she'd have preferred his health be good enough he'd never had one to start with.

Both girls looked up when Erik walked into the room, mask in place. He still wore it whenever he was going to be leaving the immediate area of the house and yard.

"Papa?" Arabelle asked, still needing the certainty that it was her papa behind the unsettling white porcelain, and not a monster of some sort.

Erik nodded, his heart aching at the uncertainty in Arabelle's eyes when moments before they were laughing and excited. But as soon as she saw him nod, the smile returned and filled her yellow eyes again.

Smiling himself, Erik sat at the end of the table, next to Arabelle's chair. He leaned over, and gently kissed her dark hair. Arabelle giggled, lowering her head down, then leaning out to wrap her arms around her papa's neck.

When breakfast was done, Christine said goodbye to Erik and Arabelle, and headed to work.

"Are you ready to go, dearest?" Erik asked shortly after, holding out his hand for Arabelle, smiling fondly.

Arabelle nodded excitedly.

'Yes Papa!" she squeaked, eyes shining as she placed her small hand in her father's.

Erik smilied again, and walked out the door with his baby.

-

-

Arabelle laughed as they wandered down the street. A couple people looked twice at Erik, but didn't think too long on it. One young boy made the mistake of going up to Arabelle about Erik while the two were at a market stand, getting a pie.

"Is that your father?" the boy asked.

Arabelle nodded with a proud smile.

"Why does he wear that mask?"

The smile dropped from her face and her eyes snapped open, forming narrow slits beneath lowered eyebrows.

"None of your business," she replied warily.

"I think he looks funny in it," the boy decided. "Why won't he take it off?"

Arabelle snarled.

"He doesn't look funny!" she snapped. "I love my papa! Don't you talk about him. He doesn't take his mask off out here because of people like you, who wouldn't leave him alone, you meanie. Now go away. Papa isn't bothering anyone."

The red-haired boy frowned, but left anyway. He could see there was no point trying to get past the girl. She was too angry.

Erik paid the man, and stood for a moment, just listening to the exchange between his daughter and the boy. God, but this was wrong! He didn't want Arabelle being ostracized because of him. She shouldn't have to defend him against a boy no more than six years old.

Self-disgust rose in him. He wanted her to make friends, not be pushed away from others because of him.

"Papa, are you ready?" Her voice floated up to him, excited and innocent. There was a slightly dark undercurrent, but for the most part, she sounded happy. Erik decided not to let on that he'd heard anything.

"Yes, my darling little love," he smiled, taking her hand again, and leading her down the road.

Arabelle looked everywhere as they walked. She hadn't forgotten the boy's words, but she wouldn't dwell on it. Already, the encounter was fading to the back of her mind, and she was thinking more about Christmas and all other sorts of happiness.

Erik felt a bit of a tug, stopping and turning to see Arabelle staring at a store window. In absolute amazement, she walked forward - Erik held her hand, and moved with her, seeing exactly what the child's eyes were focused on - staring at a set of porcelain dolls. A mother, a father, and two little children.

The dolls were rather life-like, and, Erik realized, likely very expensive. That gave him ideas. He'd have to come back tomorrow, and buy them in secret, provided they weren't outrageous.

Like fathers can, Erik managed to divert Arabelle's attention to a store filled with sweets and little treats. Arabelle deserved one, he thought, for being such a good little girl.

"Pick which one you like, dearest," he smiled, one hand gentle on her back.

Arabelle beamed thankfully up at her papa, and frowned contemplatively at the array of lolly pops. It was rare that she wanted candy, but this was special.

As they left the store, Erik scooped Arabelle up into his arms, and set her on his shoulder. Laughing, Arabelle wrapped one arm around his head, watching the people wandering past them on the streets, smiling down into her papa's upturned, shimmering eyes.

By early afternoon, they were both hungry, and Erik brought Arabelle to a small outdoor cafe. It was nothing like the grand ones in Paris, or in London that he'd seen, but it was inexpensive, perfect for the plan of buying most of their Christmas decorations today.

After, as they walked back toward the house, Arabelle holding Erik's hand, swining their arms back and forth, humming happily, Erik had to smile. In four years, he'd gained everything, at the cost of some furniture and a subteranean dwelling beneath an opera house.

He looked to the sunny little girl walking at his side.

So gentle. Trusting. My God, how could someone so perfect come from something like me?

And yet, she had, and he was so honored to be her father. Arabelle was just as much, if not more for the fact that she was a part of him, a light that he followed than Christine was. He knew, that, somehow, so long as he had Arabelle to care for, he could survive losing Christine. But not if his daughter were to go as well.

The winter sun made her dark hair shine like a black scrying mirror Erik had seen once in that gypsy medicine woman's tent. The comparison seemed to make the memories lighter, somehow. Perhaps because he could finally liken something wonderful to a moment in his past. Perhaps because now it was beauty that reminded him of little things he'd missed in his struggle for acceptance.

Arabelle looked up at him, smiling as she skipped.

"Papa?"

Erik looked at her.

"This was fun."

Arabelle's arms were suddenly wrapped around his waist, face buried in his stomach, smiling.

Erik smiled, shifting half the bags to his other arm, and lifting her up into his embrace. He kissed her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I love you, Papa," she whispered softly, smiling slightly.

Erik blinked a few times (he realized, and acknowledged that such words would probably always bring such a reaction) to hold back tears. Five years of hearing those words, first from Christine, and then from Arabelle, too, and he still was often caught off-guard.

Pressing his masked face against her curls, he sighed in absolute happiness.

"I love you, as well, dearest. My red rose."

Arabelle tilted her head.

"Papa, you call me that a lot," she remarked. "Why?"

Erik smiled, and kissed her cheek again.

"Because you were not meant to be mine, according to the world, but still you are, Arabelle. You are my greatest miracle."

"How come, Papa?"

Erik sighed.

"They hate you," Arabelle whispered in bitter realization. "People were scared because you're different, so they hurt you, didn't they?"

Erik blinked, brought to a dead halt by a four-year-old girl's ability to understand.

"I don't hate you, Papa," Arabelle said gently, reaching a small hand up to remove his mask. "Can I tell you a secret, Papa?"

Erik looked at her, waiting to hear, silently encouraging her to speak.

"Sometimes, Papa," the little girl whispered, "I hear music. It's so pretty, Papa. Like in town today, and yesterday, at the pond. Do you hear music, Papa?"

Erik smiled. She was more like him than she realized.

"All the time," he replied softly.

"Papa, was that why they hated you? Or, was it your face? I like it, Papa. It's special. Like the music I hear now."

Erik blinked back tears. But he wasn't sad. He was touched. She was so kind, and gentle.

"What kind of music do you hear now, dearest?" he asked, voice slightly strained.

"It's pretty, Papa," Arabelle explained. "What I always hear when we play. And you know what? I only hear it when I'm with you! It's our music, Papa!" Giggling, she threw her arms around his neck, her head pressed against his chest, where the beating of her papa's heart provided the tempo of the lighthearted music winding through her head.

-

-

Christine awoke alone that night. A feeling of absolute dread came over her, and she turned on the gas-lamp by her side of the bed.

He wasn't in the room.

"Erik?" she called, hoping he was only in the bathroom, or perhaps the upstairs music room. That was usually where he went when he couldn't sleep - which, she was proud to say, was becoming less and less comon, to the point where it surprised, and slightly exhausted, him, even.

She walked silently through the room. He wasn't in the bathroom, nor in the music room. After she checked Arabelle's room with no sight of him, she began to panick.

She was about to go downstairs to search for him further when she heard it; a soft, almost mournful, but still hopeful, strain of violin music. She followed it down toward the living room, and stood in the doorway, listening as her husband's sweet voice joined the instrument.

'No one would listen.
No one but her,
heard as the outcast hears.

Shamed into solitude,
shunned by the multitude,
I learned to listen
In my dark, my heart heard music.

I long to teach the world,
rise up and reach the world.
No one would listen.
I alone could hear the music.

Then at last, a voice in the gloom,
seemed to cry, 'I hear you.
I hear your fears,
your torment and your tears.'

She saw my loneliness,
shared in my emptiness.
No one would listen.
No one but her,
heard as the outcast hears.

No one would listen.

No one but her,

heard as the outcast,

hears..."

And yet, the mournful note that sounded like it belonged at the end of that song was not there. No, the tones that slowly faded were happy; they were bright and innocent, made Christine think of a small child - their small child. Something had happened today, to inspire such a reaction.

"Erik," she called softly.

Erik turned, slightly startled.

"Christine," he smiled. "I didn't know you were up. Did I wake you?"

"In a way, I think," Christine replied. "I woke after you left. I suppose something didn't feel right, and that woke me up."

"I'm sorry, mon precioux ange."

Christine smiled, and sat next to Erik on the couch, reaching out and gently touching her curled up fingers against his cheekbone.

"Don't be," she encouraged. "That song was lovely, Erik.'

A wry smile crossed Erik's face.

"Our daughter is lovely, Christine," he corrected tenderly.

"What happened, my love?"

Erik sighed.

"For one, Arabelle is evidently more protective of me than I was of you in Paris, and she is far more astute than either of us realized. I merely explained, as vaguely as I could, why I called her 'my red rose', and she understood everything. She guessed at the past more than I thought she could."

Erik shook his head slowly in amazement.

"Did you know she can hear music? When none is playing? Like me? There is always music in my mind, and she told me it was in her's, as well." A half smile quirked his lips. "She's more than I could ever have hoped for, Christine. Dear God, it was enough of a mercy that I was given you, but her? I will never understand how I deserve her, Christine."

"But you do," Christine reminded him gently, her palm soft against his hollow cheek. "You, of all people, deserve someone like her. I told you she would love you, remember? Arabelle is what she is because of you, darling Erik."

"Christine," Erik sighed, raising his long, bony hand to cover her's. He leaned in and kissed her softly. "God, I love you. You, and Arabelle. Somehow, the two of you always know just what to say, don't you? My miracles. My roses."

Christine smiled, and took his hands, leading him back to bed, where she curled into his arms, her own around him, as well.

XxX
Say it with me guys; 'Awwwww!' I love happy moments, though not everything in this story is going to be pure fluff. After the next chapter or so, expect the fluff to subside for a while.

Okay, all, review time! Please?