Sorry it's been so long, other stories have cropped up that I'll eventually post. Some of which happen to be Sherlock Holmes-ish. Also, all my stuff was on my computer, so I'm practically starting over. It shouldn't be too much longer before I get my computer back.
Revelations
XxX
Charles sighed happily. It was rare that he was allowed to leave home alone, even though he was nine years old now. When he was, it was a special treat.
Charles truly enjoyed little Bristol. And after that time, when Arabelle had slapped that boy silly for being mean to her little brother, no one dared bother him, whether he was alone or not.
The wrath of Arabelle Destler was not one the boys of Bristol wanted on their heads.
They'd heard of the fight in Farmington, as well.
Charles especially liked the little river that flowed through the center of town. He was unsure of the name, but it's mostly wooded banks were just perfect for finding old Indian treasures.
Arrow heads, bits of old pottery. He found a lot of things lying around on the bank.
He had no idea what he would find today.
Scrambling down the bank, Charles smiled. He loved to explore, and pretend sometimes that he was an Indian boy running around wild and free.
But in the end, he always went back to being Charles Destler.
Because that was his favorite thing to be.
As Charles Destler, he had a loving family, and he had friends. As an Indian boy, he was alone, and would have to start all over.
He was swirling a stick in the water when he heard the quiet squeak. Looking around and seeing nothing, Charles shrugged and returned to swishing his stick in the shallows.
A moment later he heard the squeak again, louder, and this time, it sounded almost like a high-pitched meow.
Charles had seen cats before, and he knew his family had one at one point, but he hardly remembered the Siamese Ayesha.
Curious he looked around again. Something was in the shallows; a little box-like something.
Charles watched it float closer, and when it was in his reach, he grabbed at it. The squeaking mew started again.
Carefully, he slowly opened the lid on the wicker box.
Inside was a tiny snow-white ball of fluff. It blinked pale, mismatched eyes up at him. One eye was pale blue, the other light brown. There was not a speck of color on the little kitten, and it was so tiny and vulnerable looking; parts of it's fur sticking together with water.
Charles gently reached in and lifted the animal out of the box. It was terribly thin and small, and it was shaking.
It mewled again in the palms of Charles's hands, looking up at him. The tiny kitten coughed, then sneezed, and he cradled it against his chest.
It mewed quite pitifully, and Charles softly stroked it's quivering back.
"Shh," he whispered, wrapping a fold of his coat around the fragile little kitten. "It's alright, kitty. You're safe now. Shh."
He decided to go home; the kitten needed warmth, after all.
Charles ran much faster to home than he'd come out from the house, and when he reached home, he was out of breath, but he was very proud of himself. He was going to save the little kitten. He'd even come up with a name for her; Moon, because her fur was as white as the moon in the night sky.
He could hear Arabelle playing her violin upstairs, and in the living room, his parents were sitting beside one another on the couch, talking quietly.
"Mama," he murmured, walking into the room. "Papa?"
Erik turned to regard his boy, and Christine stood.
"Did you have a nice day, sweetheart?" Christine asked, smiling.
"What have you got there, son?" Erik questioned, noticing the squirming beneath Charles's coat.
Carefully, slowly, the boy moved his coat aside to reveal the tiny white kitten.
"Charles, where did you get her?" Christine gasped, reaching forward to take the baby cat into her hands.
"I found her in the river," Charles replied. "Someone had put her in a box, and put her in the river."
A bit of indignant anger had crept into his words, and Erik smiled slightly, rather proud of his boy's kindness toward the little creature.
"May we keep her?" Charles begged, multi-colored eyes wide and pleading. "Please?"
Erik raised an eyebrow and looked at Christine.
"What do you think, my darling? Will she stay?"
Christine laughed lightly.
"Erik, you know I could never turn away such an adorable kitten."
Erik smiled.
"Go get the poor little thing dried off, Charles," he instructed. "I'll show you how to feed it when you've done that."
With a huge grin, and bright eyes, Charles hurried off, cradling the little kitten carefully in his arms.
-
-
"Papa, I think she's sick," Charles worried as he watched the tiny cat the next day.
The kitten, whom Charles had named 'Moonbeam,' was barely interested in the plate of food, or the saucer of milk Charles and Erik had set down for it.
Frowning, Erik reached out and carefully took hold of the small baby. When he touched it, he found her nose dry and warm against his fingers, and when he stroked his hand over her head and back, there was the same heat.
"You're right, Charles," he muttered, standing. "We'll take her to the vet."
Erik left a note to Christine and Arabelle, saying where he and Charles had gone, and took his son off with him.
The spring morning was pleasant enough, and the slight breeze ruffled Charles's hair. A few grey strands had escaped the tie at the back of Erik's neck, and were pressed against the sides of his face, as well.
But neither minded. The wind was actually rather warm, and calming.
The kitten lay curled in several dish towels, held tightly but carefully in Erik's arms as they made their way down through the streets toward the veterinary offices.
"It's a small cold," the vet assured them. "Let her rest, keep her eating, and she'll be fine in a matter of days."
The older man rubbed the side of Moonbeam's little neck, and the kitten began to purr loudly, stretching and turning so that the animal doctor's fingers were on the underside of her chin.
"Affectionate little thing, to be sure," he commented. "And aside from that cold, there is nothing wrong with her."
Erik nodded. So the reasons for the kitten's being in the river were merely an idiotic misconception borne of old wives' tales.
Human superstition had nearly cost tiny Moonbeam her life.
That's why I don't trust most of the human populace, he thought darkly, gently scooping the kitten up.
-
-
"You know, Charles," Arabelle said two days later. The siblings were sitting on a picnic blanket in the back yard, just watching the clouds. "You probably saved Moonbeam's life. I doubt anyone else would have found her in time."
Or had the decency to actually keep her out of that watery tomb when they saw her eyes.
Arabelle knew her thoughts were uncharitable, but it was true. Cats with different colored eyes were considered useless, because there was supposed to be deafness.
Maybe that was sometimes the case, but it wasn't with Moonbeam. Moonbeam heard wonderfully, and always knew when her name was being called.
"I think, though," the teenager went on, "she'll have to stay out of my room for a while. Wouldn't want her to get a taste for nightingales, would we?"
Charles laughed and nodded.
Two weeks back, Arabelle had been out in the yard, playing with Phantom the way she always did. The dog was getting old now, but still enjoyed a game of fetch now and again.
It was while she was waiting for her dog to come back with the stick that she found what turned out to be a baby nightingale in the rosebush in the back yard. She'd run for her father at once.
Erik, on seeing the little bird lying on a white rose, had nearly burst into tears.
The symbolism had been almost lost on Arabelle - so long had it been since she'd been told the old bedtime story - but when her sharp ears had picked up the stifled half-sob, she'd understood, and squeezed her papa's hand.
"Papa, it's still alive," she'd told him, reaching our for the bird. "See? Please don't cry, Papa. Please."
Erik had smiled ruefully, and shook his head, gently cupping her cheek as his wet eyes met his daughter's confident gaze.
"You've always been a good girl," he'd sighed, bending just slightly to kiss her forehead (at fifteen, Arabelle was taller now than Christine, about up to Erik's chin). "Thank you, mon coeur."
Arabelle smiled at his words. After a moment, she'd reached down and carefully took the little creature into her hands. It chirped fearfully and plaintively, but when Arabelle's grip did not tighten on it, the bird calmed a bit.
The poor baby had been in such danger, just lying on a white rose. It was dark in color and stood out starkly against the light flower petals. Any predator could have seen it. Or old Phantom might have gotten a hold of it.
There had been only one thing in Arabelle's mind that she could do for the little bird, and so she did it.
That very same baby nightingale now sat in a roomy birdcage before a window in her room, slowly growing its flight feathers.
"You know, Charles," Arabelle said again after a moment of silence. "I think you deserve to know something. About Papa."
The other day, Erik had accidentally referenced Persia in the hearing of the children. Arabelle had already known; Christine had told her, shortly after her sixteenth birthday, just in case something ever came up (no matter what, or how many peaceful years passed, Erik still worried that his past would catch up to him in some way other than the attacks, and Christine had known of this fear).
So Arabelle knew. She knew all that her father had ever told her mother about his life. Her grandmother, the gypsies, Giovanni, Persia, Charles Garnier, the Opera Ghost.
She knew it all, and now, though she knew Charles was probably too young, she would have to explain.
"You know what Papa said the other day?" she asked, pushing a stray strand of brown hair out of her brother's face.
Charles nodded.
"What did he mean, 'Belle?" he wondered, using the nickname that their father had started using for his daughter recently.
Arabelle took a deep breath.
"First of all, Charles," she began, "You must understand that Papa was a different person then. He did not have Mama with him to keep him steady. Though, it really starts long before Persia..."
She told him all of it, and left nothing out. She explained, and cross-explained, every single reason her mother had given her, and some she'd thought of since.
It took a good two hours or so to do, too. Arabelle was intent on making Charles understand the hows and the whys. She wouldn't have him thinking differently of their papa just because of his past. Yes, it was bloodstained and horrible, but she understood the reasons; the painful, lonely truths of the matter.
Christine had made her promise not to let Erik know that she knew, and Arabelle could easily guess why.
"Papa told Mama in confidence, Charles," Arabelle said. "And I tell you in confidence. Papa is a proud person, you know that. It would upset him if he knew we had been told. Papa doesn't like pity. But is it any wonder, Charles? To him, little brother, pity is nearly as bad as fear and hatred.
"Only promise me you won't think differently of him. Papa's time has been hard enough. Fifty years, Charles. Can you imagine being alone and unloved for fifty years, and never knowing if you would ever find someone to love you? And then to finally find someone you love, only to know they have no idea you exist, when you seem to have so little time left?"
Charles looked up in confusion.
"But Papa's still here," he replied. "He's still here."
Arabelle nodded.
"Seventeen years ago, little brother," she explained, "Papa's attacks were a lot worse. He was dying. The only thing that saved him was his medicine. It was different, back then. And not as effective.
"Charles, do you ever wonder why Papa sometimes gets tired easily? Why Mama works, and he doesn't? It's because of his heart. It was worse for him before I was born, because the medicine wasn't as strong, and he didn't take it right. That's what I meant 'when you seem to have so little time left'. Papa thought he was dying, and he almost did."
"I'm glad he didn't, 'Belle," Charles whispered.
Arabelle smiled, and kissed her brother's forehead.
"So am I, little brother. So am I."
A shadow on the ground beside them caused the two to look up.
Erik stood there, smiling down at his children.
Arabelle beamed, and patted the ground to her left.
"Sit with us, Papa?"
Erik nodded and lowered himself to the ground with a quiet sigh.
Arabelle watched him worriedly for a moment. Erik was sixty seven years old, now, and the beginnings of rheumatism were starting to set in.
"What have my loves been up to out here?" he asked, a gentle smirk on his face.
Arabelle smiled and leaned against Erik's shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck, her eyes closed as she nuzzled into the sleeve of his shirt.
"Nothing much, Papa," Charles said brightly, laying down with his head on Erik's lap.
It was at moments like this that the whole truth, and wonder, of life struck Erik harder than the attacks. His children. Even seventeen years later, he still found his breath whisked away suddenly by some kind word or trusting touch.
Perhaps he would never get used to it.
XxX
Chapter done. I hope it wasn't too odd. It had to be a bit action-less for the next chapter that's coming up.