Author's Note: I really need to make mention of the fact that this chapter does come with a trigger warning*. For anyone that has children, please be aware that events within this part of the plot may be immensely disturbing. There isn't any gore, but there will be very unsettling circumstances. I tried to write in as much foreshadowing as possible as a kind of warning, but again, please note the contents here. Also, before we begin, I'll give credit where credit is due (of course). The title for this chapter comes from the song "Broken" by Ramin Karimloo; this song, while it has somewhat of an upbeat vibe to it, is lyrically close to the sentiments that I was trying to capture here. So definitely check it out, if you don't know it already. Welp, I do believe that's all - thank you again for your continued support! Read, review, and enjoy!

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Chapter 21 – She Will Never Be the Same

Christine

The seasons passed in a whirlwind of anticipation – they almost seemed to blend together, the richness of the summer and autumn fading into the bright and chilled hues of winter. The passing of time was kind to me – to the three of us, really – but I thought of little else besides the arrival of my baby. The child was due in April of the year following my marriage to Erik, mere weeks before the first anniversary of our union. While the pristine veil of winter snow had become a representation of great change and redemption for me – of all the endless possibilities we could allow into our lives – the coming springtime proved to hold all of my attention that year. I was ecstatic as I prepared for motherhood; although in past years the very idea was far from my mind, I knew the moment that I became aware of my pregnancy that I was ready, that I was taking on a role far more significant than I could have ever imagined. Some might have said that I was all too willing to sacrifice my career in the arts, but I could never bring myself to see it that way; I could always sing, dancing upon the brightest stage continued to hold all of its excitement and appeal, but to meet my child for the first time was a singularly important event, a once in a lifetime experience. With each passing month, I became more confident in regards to such an important milestone.

For Erik, that confidence took longer to manifest itself. Since the night of Vito's death – the night that had changed our lives forever, in more ways than we could possibly comprehend – Erik worked through his fears steadily, but in silence nonetheless.

He was not uncaring – if anything he became more protective over me as reality settled into his heart – but he was as equally reserved as he was devoted. I'd catch him smiling to himself when I would pull him into discussions of the future and of our child, but it was more often than not a fleeting occurrence; he would immediately stifle the expression the moment he became aware of its presence. It was as if even the smallest display of favorable emotions would bring forth bad luck; even though he was a logical man, he was often at the mercy of his attempts to ward off any and all potential for looming tragedy as if it were a living and breathing entity that had the power to overtake us at even the slightest misstep. It had gotten to the point that he was extremely hesitant to touch my abdomen and get to know the life that blossomed within me – he had stopped doing so altogether when I began to show, when the proof was undeniably there. I somehow knew that the gesture would make it all the more real for him, the final step in potentially inviting misfortune, and that was simply something that he was not yet ready to acknowledge or risk. His unequivocal acceptance came that first night, to be sure – but under the conditions of his turbulent thoughts, his bravery came with time. I knew that lesser men would have crumbled under the weight of doubt at the very start, without trying to find any other outcome; Erik was stronger than that, whether or not he would admit it to himself.

He attributed that strength as being a quality born of the need to benefit me, but I knew it went further than that. He pressed on because he finally allowed himself to do so, even if his own encouragement came in grudgingly hushed tones. But even so, his mind wasn't so trustworthy as to give him peace as quickly as my own. He had to struggle through rationalizations and doubts, through fears and anger, and in those brief moments when he was able to shrug all of that aside long enough to lend me a hopeful word or a tender caress, he would quickly lapse back into the silence – back to that innate need to fend off despair and failure. But every day he drew closer to me and further from the worst of himself – he embraced our child as any father would – and those small steps gave me all the reassurance I needed not only to remain as patient as I could in my condition, but to know that in the end, our little family would be as strong as any. The past wouldn't matter – the promise of new life was enough to cast out the old ghosts after so many years of fighting against them.

His strength was his gift to me, and in return I longed to give it back to him with as much fervor. He needed that much – he deserved it. At one point during my pregnancy, when my condition was quite obvious and the baby was growing more and more active every day, I decided to bring Erik closer to his own peace of mind. I knew that pulling him out of his fears and to make the child as real as me standing before him was a key point for him, something that he would have to face up to sooner or later, and I wanted to give that to him as soon as possible. He had his acceptance, and he had his stubbornness; he was simply missing that one last step. All I had to do was to give him a gentle push in the right direction.

It was late in the autumn, a time when the days were overtaken by nighttime long before the sunshine had a chance to take control – the warmth of the summer was fast becoming a distant memory for the people of London. The air was cool outside, steadily chilled more strongly as time leapt forward, but within our home that quiet day it was pleasantly comfortable. I came upon Erik in the parlor, deeply engrossed in his composing – a craft that he had finally resumed practicing in the preceding weeks – as he sat at the piano, the golden sunlight of the late afternoon streaming in through the open curtains and illuminating his progress. His mask glowed as fiercely as the ivory keys of his instrument, his eyes glinting with the reflections of them even as his attention seemed miles away. He hadn't noticed my presence at first; rather, pen in his left hand and his right moving across the keyboard with a long-practiced familiarity, he worked with the intensity to which I had long since become accustomed. Very little could reach him when he gave himself to his art – another quality that I found endearing, even if it had caused us conflict in the past.

As if sensing my growing excitement, the baby began kicking furiously. I knew my little one had no intention of resting any time soon. Then was my chance to win my husband's attention.

"Erik?"

"Hello, dear," he said distantly, not turning around.

"Darling, would you come here a moment?" I said in a nervous rush.

He glanced at me immediately, alarmed by my abrupt tone, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I laughed, rather embarrassed by my unexpected bout of shyness and attributing it to the pregnancy, "Just come here."

He narrowed his eyes in confusion, but quickly softened his expression as he rose to approach me, a smirk playing across his lips almost unconsciously. I said nothing as I took his hand firmly and placed it on my abdomen, finding the baby easily and letting my actions speak for themselves. His eyes grew wider almost comically; he stared at me a moment before looking down at his hand meeting the movement of our child.

"Oh my God," he breathed. It was the first time that he had felt the baby kick, the first time its movements had undeniably announced its presence to the unsure father.

"He's very excited today," I said fondly.

"I can't believe this," he breathed a laugh, "I can't describe how this feels."

"Imagine how it must feel for me," I teased, "He's playing trapeze artist today, I think."

He shook his head, "That's not what I mean," he measured his words before continuing, "This is…I wasn't expecting this. I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. Just know that he's there."

"We're going to have a child," he said distantly, but I knew what lay beneath the surface.

"I know. I can't wait to meet him, either."

He smiled and pulled me into his embrace, and I knew in that moment that recognition and understanding had finally settled over him. I knew how badly he sought it – I could never doubt his sincerity, not since that first night – as difficult as it had been for the both of us – when he held me silently in his arms, his gesture speaking volumes for what he could not yet put into words. When at last it came to him, the weight lifting from his shoulders was nearly tangible. He held me for a long time before he kissed me, very slowly and with all the love in the world. I could feel his devotion, his gratitude, and I suddenly realized that there were tears springing to my eyes as I became aware of the significance of what had just occurred.

From that point on, he let his guard down substantially. We had such grand hopes for the future, finally ready to accept the happiness we were given without question, and we wanted nothing more than to see those hopes come to life.

~~oOo~~

It was the first sunny afternoon that we had been given in days that February – it would prove to be a day that we would never forget.

The emergence of the sunlight had given me a sense of renewed energy, and I was suddenly eager to busy myself with any and all tasks that I could feasibly manage in spite of being rather slowed down. Vera had stopped in to help me with everything else; I was expecting a visit from Madame Giry in only a few days' time, and I wanted to present my first home to her with all the pride and love I felt for it. I corresponded with Madame, Meg, and even Raoul regularly, and it was no secret to them how very smitten I was with life at present, even as much as I missed them. To be able to share a piece of that happiness with one of my most treasured friends in person was a blessing, and I greatly looked forward to the visit and all the wonderful memories it would surely bring.

Vera had taken a bad fall that morning, twisting her ankle and significantly hampering her ability to move about swiftly, but between the two of us we were determined to complete our tasks as we thought of them. They were more often than not the simple efforts of the routine that applies to the maintaining of any household, but the exception was the preparation of the guest room – its first use since our arrival, and I wanted nothing more than to take advantage of the sunlight and my energy while it lasted. Erik had insisted upon lending us his own efforts when he realized that I had been obliged to go up and down the staircase periodically – a necessity that often left him cringing with unabashed concern – but much to his chagrin I maintained that I was perfectly capable of mastering the steps of my own house and sent him back to his study. I smiled and shook my head affectionately at his protective gesture, but stubbornly insisted that I was not yet to the point in my pregnancy that required my near-immobility. There would be all the time in the world for that as April neared, I was sure.

Our own bedroom and the baby's nursery were located upstairs; the guest room, study, and all other available living space downstairs. It was an architectural design that had annoyed Erik to no end – he thought it rather impractical to have sleeping quarters as spread out as they were, rather than neatly and uniformly organized in one place, but of course nothing could be done regarding that matter; the guest room was rendered otherwise out of the way and wholly unused. It was only for Madame Giry's comfort that I wanted to make it presentable. There wasn't much to be done, and I was nearly finished with the task of retrieving fresh linens from the upstairs cupboard when I thought absently that it should be my last hasty trip up the stairs – I decided then that Vera and I had earned a break and resolved to tell her just that when I was done with tending to the guest room. Noticing that the sun was just beginning to set as our list of tasks dwindled, I thought of taking tea with her and looked forward to what I was sure would be as pleasant a conversation as we always shared in the time that I had known her. I was humming to myself, brimming with pride at my domesticity and perfectly content with the productive but relatively uneventful day.

*I don't know what tripped me up – perhaps it was an unnoticed and misplaced footfall as I was too lost in my thoughts to be mindful of what I was doing, perhaps a simple matter of bad timing. But before I realized what was happening, I stumbled and fell down the staircase, dropping the sheets in my hands as I tried to right myself, but it was to no avail. It happened in the blink of an eye. I had been very near to the top when I fell, and coming to rest at the bottom was hard, abrupt, and badly painful. The solid wood floor was unforgiving, and I immediately cried out – both in fear and in agony.

I never lost consciousness, but I found myself in somewhat of a daze, equally confused and shaken; the room seemed to spin wildly around me as I lay there, at first nearly unable to lift myself back into an upright sitting position. I was absolutely terrified – not for myself, for I knew at once that I had somehow been lucky enough to have not broken any bones, but rather my fear was entirely for the baby. Falling that far was violent and jarring, and I knew of enough stories of women in the same situation for whom it hadn't ended well. I heard Erik coming for me immediately. He was by my side and gently cradling me in an instant, checking carefully for any injuries. I couldn't speak at first, couldn't tell him that I was not worried for myself.

"How far did you fall?" he asked urgently, not needing to inquire as to what happened – the evidence was plain enough. I raised my hand feebly and pointed to the spot near the top of the stairs, the origin of the nightmare that was only beginning to unfold. He shuddered at my response and continued, "Can you sit up?"

"I think so," I said softly, but gasped the moment I moved. A sharp pain had overtaken me instantly, a cramping deep within me that not only startled me badly but had me nearly doubled over in Erik's arms. The intensity of the sensation faded a small amount, but never left me entirely.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Something is wrong."

"The baby?"

"Yes," I whispered, willing it somehow not to be true.

"Vera!" he called out, his panic barely contained in his voice, "Vera!"

"What happened?" she cried the moment she saw us, and ran forward despite the obvious pain it caused her own injury.

"She fell," Erik responded in a rush, "I need to get a doctor. Can you help me get her to bed?"

I shook my head, "I can't make it upstairs."

"The guest room, then," he said determinedly, and without another word he lifted me and carried me into the darkened room.

I laid down, trembling and crying as Vera lit the lamps and gave Erik directions to the home of the nearest doctor in hushed tones. My heart was pounding, my body racked with pain, and suddenly I could hardly make sense of what was happening. I couldn't understand how everything had gone so wrong, how quickly the clouds of misfortune had drawn over our world. I tried desperately to rid myself of the notion that my baby was in peril, deciding that not thinking positively would only do us both harm. Another wave of pain passed through me, ripping through me like a knife; I cried out once again, nearly screaming with the force of it. Erik rushed to me immediately, cursing under his breath at what he saw. When it occurred to me to examine myself in the aftermath of the cramping, I realized with a start that I was bleeding, and very badly.

Erik didn't hesitate from that point; without another word, giving me one final glance with an unmasked look of absolute terror in his eyes, he turned and left the room. I knew that he would find help as quickly as humanly possible, but even as Vera tended to me, I still prayed that he would find it in time.

The sun had set completely, and for the first time in years I was completely afraid of the dark.

~~oOo~~

Erik

I had wanted so badly to reassure her, but the words simply wouldn't come. I didn't know how to call them forth. Once the front door closed behind me, I didn't think, didn't dare to speculate over a single detail or to allow my dread to overshadow what little hope remained in my heart. I simply ran full-out in the direction that Vera told me to, heedless of the world around me. It didn't matter – nothing mattered beyond the desperate need to seek help at all costs. But even in trying to block out all else, I remembered the blood and Christine's anguish with a ferocity that was almost mocking – it never should have been there, nothing about what was unfolding should have been reality. We had unwittingly stepped into Hell, and I wasn't sure if we would make it out unscathed. Blinking past the tears that sprang up at the memory, I pressed on, my muscles protesting violently at the effort. But I paid the steadily growing pain little attention, didn't care how my body responded to the unexpected physical abuse. Instead I let the terror drive me onward – as little as I wanted to acknowledge it, I knew that at the very least it would serve to give me wings when I needed them most, when my wife and child needed me more than ever.

The sun had set, its absence bringing forth a chill that penetrated all the warmth that fought to remain in the world. My breath came in plumes before me, the icy air making my chest hurt as I continued to exert myself well beyond any reasonable limits, but it was inconsequential. What little ice and snow that was able to melt during the day had quickly turned back into solid ice once more, almost instantly, once the sun was gone. The cobblestone ground beneath me was absolutely covered in a thick layer of the slick surface; very few places in the path before me were spared, and I was only just barely aware of the necessity of keeping track of my steps. At one point, while rounding a sharp corner, I lost my footing entirely, sliding violently into a low wall and catching my hip on the stone surface painfully. I cried out in frustration as I stumbled, but mercifully I never fell – I was determined to keep a steady pace, knowing that any delay could bring about a disastrous outcome, and righted myself impossibly quickly. I wasn't willing to let even a second be wasted because of a foolish accident.

By the time I made it to the doctor's residence, I was nearly gasping for air. I pounded on the front door frantically, paying no mind to social decorum and absolutely desperate for the home's occupants to hear me at once. The door opened slowly – almost painfully so – and I was met by an older woman, assumedly the doctor's wife. She eyed me suspiciously, noting my disheveled and terrified appearance, but I never gave her the chance to ask for a reason behind my alarming presentation – I scarcely had the presence of mind to form even the most basic introduction.

"I need the doctor," I demanded, nearly shouting, "Please, my wife is hurt, our baby – wait!"

She shook her head fearfully and slammed the door, effectively barring me from my chance to be assisted. I was taken aback until I realized that in my haste I had lapsed back into speaking French. She was likely preparing to act in self-defense if necessary; a masked man appearing at her doorstep shouting incoherently had clearly frightened her, and it seemed that she thought me a lunatic for carrying on as I had. I cursed myself for my loss of control over the situation, but I couldn't dwell on it then, didn't deem it prudent to right my behavior. I was very near panicking and slammed my fists against the wooden surface once again, barely mindful to speak English and quickly dissolving into an unnerved anger as I continued shouting for someone – anyone – to return, "Help me! Goddammit, someone is hurt! Help!"

When the door opened again, it was the doctor himself that answered.

"Sir, please slow down. What's going on?" he asked urgently.

I told him what had happened in a rush, and without needing to level another question at me he turned back into the house, retrieved his bag, and followed me back home. He kept pace with me the entire time, matching me stride-for-stride with the knowledge that two lives very likely depended on our timely arrival.

Vera met us inside, her eyes holding both sympathy and deep concern as she followed the doctor to lend her assistance. Christine's condition had worsened significantly by the time we returned; fear gripped at my heart like a vice, and as forcefully as I fought against it, I was unable to win the battle. The doctor immediately went to examine her, to make his diagnosis, but in my stress-addled state of mind I remained numbly beyond the confines of the guest room. I stood near the far end of the hallway, as distant from the closed door as I could without leaving entirely; I felt miserably restless yet unable to move as I waited anxiously for any word. I wished desperately for good news – as time stretched on maddeningly, I very seriously considered kneeling down and praying for the first time in years. Yet a bleak notion within my mind insisted that doing so would be a forfeit somehow – as if what should have been a sincere effort born of those dark and dreadful moments was resigning us all to defeat and would only bring further punishment. I had no idea what to do, and so in the end I chose simply to wait in that endless void of fear.

Vera was the first to leave the room – she shouldered past me quickly, half-running and half-limping out of the house in mingled fear and determination. I didn't have the chance to ask after where she was going when the doctor laid a hand on my shoulder, startling me significantly.

"She's in labor," he said flatly, seeming to regret that his words were true, "The fall was traumatic, and the baby is in distress. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do to stop its progress."

I shook my head, as if doing so would erase everything he had just said and insisting, "That cannot be possible. That baby isn't supposed to be here until April."

"I'm very sorry," he repeated before continuing slowly, "but she will deliver tonight. It will be a very dangerous birth. I'm most concerned about hemorrhaging, at this point. And the baby –"

"– It's too early," I said numbly, as if cutting off his words would undo everything.

"Mr. Lennox, try to understand – "

"Will they be alright?" I demanded abruptly.

"I don't know," he sighed, "I won't lie to you…it will be a miracle if they both survive."

My breath caught as the reality of his words settled over me; everything I knew came crashing down around me, and I couldn't remain in denial – his words were too final to be anything but the truth. I closed my eyes and asked tremulously, "Does she know this?"

"Yes," he said softly.

I said nothing more as I rushed past him and back into the room, only then becoming cognizant of the fact that I had been avoiding it since returning. It was as if it alone was the source of ill-omen, the catalyst in the journey through this waking nightmare. But I knew that I needed to be with Christine, even if I could do nothing to change the circumstances. I approached her slowly, as if doing so cautiously would prevent any more pain. I could scarcely find the strength to look into her eyes, but when I did my heart absolutely shattered. I saw before me a woman that was about to have everything taken from her, a woman that might very well have been nearing her own end. In those moments, my dreams flitted away with hers. I grasped her hands tightly the moment she reached for me, her tears of mingled pain and horror flowing as her hands trembled in mine.

"Vera is getting a midwife," she said disbelievingly, "It's too early," she added emphatically, mirroring my own recent statement and seeming to beg me to halt everything around us somehow.

I could only nod, "I know."

"I'm frightened," she whispered.

"So am I," I admitted breathlessly, making a mighty effort not to allow myself to cry in front of her. I had known at the beginning that I had to be her strength, but I didn't know then how very desperately she would come to need it. I decided in that instant to hold back, no matter how painful it would be inside; if I broke, I feared that she would be lost as well.

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You have to. I'm sorry, Christine," I said, kissing her temple and barely able to hold back my own tears, "I'm so sorry."

I held her in my arms as she sobbed – it was the only thing either of us could do then.

The doctor entered the room a short time later, followed closely by Vera and the midwife, every one of them appearing flustered yet stoically focused. I knew that the doctor and the midwife were no strangers to what was occurring, to the tragedy and urgency that would accompany the child's birth; I tried to put my faith in that fact, tried to convince myself that their experience would somehow be our saving grace. But even so, my dread continued to loom at the edge of my consciousness, waiting in the shadows as if planning an attack.

"Mr. Lennox," the midwife started gently, "You need to leave now."

Christine clutched at me desperately as she cried, "No, he can't," and then to me, "Please, don't leave me. Please."

"Calm down," I said in a rush to placate her and prevent further distress, "It's alright. I won't leave you, not at all. I promise."

"Mr. Lennox," the midwife sighed sympathetically, "I must insist. It's not proper – "

"To hell with propriety," I snapped, "I'm not leaving this room. I won't abandon my wife to suffer like this alone."

"He's staying," the doctor said with all the authority of a man that had witnessed too much in his time – a man with the experience to know better, "She needs him now."

~~oOo~~

Christine's labor was drawn out and immensely agonizing – there was no question as to whether or not she was suffering, and my heart broke for her. All I could do was stand beside her, speak gently to her, and hold her hand as she screamed and fought to remain with us, to give birth to a child well before it was time to do so. It was torture to witness, but I knew it was absolute hell for her – there was not a moment's reprieve from the pain or the terror. She held onto my hand as if it were the only anchor she had left in the world – and for all I knew, that very well might have been the case. She was quickly sapped of her strength; it wasn't long before I braced my free arm behind her back in an effort to help her remain upright. The doctor had been correct to fear blood-loss – each passing moment only proved to be that much more taxing on Christine's broken body, and the doctor was only barely able to keep the bleeding to a minimum. But even his best efforts were not enough to stop it entirely, and time was very much against her. The baby was simply not progressing fast enough; the doctor attempted to ease the child into the world while guiding its mother through gentle commands every step of the way, but the distress to them both was painfully clear.

The air in the room was tense as the situation only seemed to worsen with each passing second. Christine cried, often begging for help from everyone and no one all at once. I spoke to her as evenly as possible, stroked her hair from her face and grasping her hand steadily, all the while wishing for nothing more than for it to be over, for the outcome to not be deadly for either of them. But as the deepening night overtook the world, the possibility of them surviving grew more dismal. Christine seemed to be fading before my eyes, like the dulling of an ember on the wind – I would have given anything in those moments to be taken into Death's arms in her stead. If I could have given my own life to save her, to spare them both, I would have without a second thought.

She cried out again, her last effort to bring our child into the world. In an instant, the baby was born, and Christine – overcome by exhaustion and trauma – fell back into the pillows, her grip on my hand loosening with an alarming swiftness. She was conscious, but only just barely, and her hold on the world was slipping away rapidly. It seemed to me that the walls were closing in around us, that there was no longer any air in the room.

"A girl," the midwife murmured to us as she assisted the doctor, "You have a girl."

Her words meant little to me – it seemed as though time had stopped entirely. The doctor held up our daughter; feeling desperate and defeated, I stifled the sob that was fighting to come forth.

Dear God, no. Please…

The baby was far too small, entirely limp in the doctor's steady hands – all the color seemed to be drained from her frail form. Tears blurred my vision as I waited…just waited. But there was nothing.

Please…

She did not cry.