Author's Note: There's only an epilogue left after this, so stay tuned for that last installment. I think y'all will be pleasantly surprised by its content. ;) Once again, major thank yous to everyone that's been reading and reviewing! You are all wonderful and I'm so glad to have been able to talk to y'all about writing and PotO and everything in between. Lots of love! Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the song of the same name by Sleeping At Last. Remember to read, review, and most of all enjoy!

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Chapter 36 - In the Embers

Christine

I could not sleep without nightmares. When I went to church, I could not bring myself to pray, and I could no longer open my heart to my music without inviting further dejection. I ignored my hunger and exhaustion until my body finally protested to the extent of pain. It seemed to me that the entire world, that even time itself had ceased its movement onward - or if it somehow continued, it did so heedless of my absence in the procession. Erik died in mid-January, and between his devastating passing and burial and the observation of Estelle's birthday later that February, I found myself absolutely reeling at being obliged to face both my life's tragedies and responsibilities. Finding out that I was pregnant just weeks after the worst of that storm of agony only added to my suffering; despite events to look forward to, it truly seemed that there was no end to the pain in sight.

I should have been excited by the news of the baby - in another lifetime, I would have been absolutely thrilled.

Long ago had I been able to relinquish my terror regarding the risks and uncertainties of motherhood - once Charles was safely brought into the world, those fears were soothed that much more, and on the whole I was able to approach parenthood with a new strength. Some time after our son was born, Erik and I had decided that neither of us would be opposed to having more children. As our boy grew older and no siblings came about, we accepted this reality just as easily, deciding that all things would come in their own time and having no real reasons to broach the subject otherwise. We lived well during that time, witnessing our son thriving under our guidance and happily experiencing our lives through those peaceful years. But we hadn't known then that the end of such relative tranquility would come so staggeringly, nor that one final night of carelessness would leave me expecting a child entirely by myself. I felt absurdly abandoned once again, but stronger than that was the consuming trepidation I experienced at the prospect of bringing a baby into the world alone - the heartbreak at the unwavering truth that the poor infant would never know its father. In understanding all of that amid my grief, I did not have the presence of mind to celebrate the creation of new life; rather, I felt utterly overwhelmed and entirely without direction.

When our daughter passed, Erik had been by my side at each turn, unwavering in his determination to see us both through to a better existence in spite of his own guilt and heartache; when Charles came along, Erik shared my fears with me, yet all the while offered me his strength and assurance that all would be well in the end. But when my husband was gone, I was certain that I could not stand to face that kind of terror again without him. Moreover, I felt so utterly hopeless and lost in my desolation that I wasn't sure if I could survive mourning the loss of the one I loved so much. Not again, and not alone; for although I was surrounded by sympathetic and helpful loved ones, there was ultimately nothing they could do to penetrate the icy grip of mourning that painted every beat of my heart, that terrible feeling of isolation and detachment from the world that I simply could not relinquish. I loved them for their efforts, but not a one of them was the person that I needed the most, and although I knew that Erik wished for me to find enough strength to live my life in his absence, I wasn't sure how to carry on without him.

I was nearly in hysterics when I told Madame Giry of my condition. She had remained at home with me once Giles and Meg had no choice but to regretfully return to France with their daughter - the obligations of their lives demanding their attention once more. But Madame was able to spare her time in the wake of Erik's death. Without her, I'm not sure I could have managed alone. While Vera and Iva were a great help to me during the day, it came to pass that I would continue to have the most trouble enduring the long and lonesome hours of the night, and oftentimes I found myself seeking Madame out as a small child would after waking from a nightmare. She would patiently sit with me and dry my tears, and only after receiving her motherly affections and wise reassurances could I return to the silence of my bedroom with the smallest semblance of bravery. In doing so I could at the very least attempt to face each new day, as daunting as the task was. But upon being given the news that I was expecting a third child, I was once again sent into a frenzy of dread and grief that was nearly blinding in its intensity - yet another reminder of my repeatedly broken family, and once again Madame Giry had taken it upon herself to attempt to pick up the pieces. She held me as I cried after sharing the news with her, allowing me to lose myself in my terror and sadness before taking the chance to speak with me.

"This is a good thing, my dear," she said softly, "I promise you it is."

"How?" I sobbed, feeling terribly desperate for answers I knew would never come, "How? I can't go through this alone. How could he have left me to face this?"

She sighed, "You know that wasn't his intention. This is bad timing, but a blessing just the same. Like it or not, darling girl, you have to mind yourself far better now. For your baby."

I couldn't respond then, losing myself to my tears once again instead. I was consumed by guilt, in equal parts for the fear I felt at the prospect of the new life within me and for once again unconsciously reinviting my misplaced anger with Erik. But I couldn't think on it, didn't dare attempt to let go of my pain if only to view the future with any modicum of excitement. It was wrong - everything had gone so very wrong - and my family and I had been cast to the winds to suffer in the aftermath. All I could do then was cry.

Altogether, my pregnancy would not prove to be a happy one, and with each passing day I fought between my overwhelming guilt, my mourning, and my looming terror. But for all of my own pain and much to my relief, Charles reacted well to the news of the baby - unlike most children, he did not give himself to bouts of jealousy or uneasiness. Rather, he took up his role as a brother quite seriously from the outset. He asked after the baby often, genuinely curious about its presence in our lives, and for his benefit if not for my own I donned a mask of glad anticipation. I did not harbor ill feelings for my baby - certainly not - but I remained apprehensive at that unseen life and each awaiting possibility it represented all the same. But when Charles spoke so fondly of his sibling, I could pretend for a few fleeting moments that our family was whole, that the joy we were experiencing was absolute and not shadowed by tragedy all the while.

As time went on, I could see my son's heart healing. It was slowly, to be sure - slowly and so very hesitantly, but sincere and determined in equal measure. Just before the awakening springtime, I employed both a private tutor and a music teacher for him. Erik had always been adamant that our son receive a proper and well-rounded education - my husband and I had missed such opportunities for formal schooling in our own childhoods, but our son would not have to shoulder such a burden. Bright and inquisitive little Charles was immediately enthralled by each lesson, and that new element to his days proved to be a factor in steadily bringing him back to his life. When the summertime arrived, he was more willing to join his playmates outdoors, and would return from their romps together with a genuine smile on his face - the smile I had missed fervently and that reminded me so much of Erik.

But even so, it was clear that losing his father had impacted Charles greatly, had changed him in that singular way that only losing a parent can bring forth in a young child. While his temperament had substantially improved since the initial days following Erik's passing, our boy carried himself more seriously in the wake of his tragedy, in a way that showed a wisdom beyond his years. He had been made to know far too much about mourning in his short life, and that unfortunate truth resonated deeply within him. I had been much the same after losing my own father, blinded by a melancholy that steadfastly gave way to a stoic and reserved existence that was only relieved by a feigned angel. A part of me feared that my son would be lost in that world of aloof sadness forever, and it was a monumental relief to see that in time he had proven himself to be more resilient in his own way. It was a great comfort to me that the carefree happiness of childhood had been renewed in him, that even with his untimely maturity his grief had not irrevocably stolen his spirit.

It was far more difficult for me to regain that mindset for myself, to view my life with the hope that Erik and I had forged alongside one another so long ago and that our son had been brave enough to find once more. The long weeks and months of my pregnancy all seemed to blend together endlessly, blurring the lines of anticipation and mourning at every turn. I tended to practical matters regarding the baby and the household as they arose, ensured that my son was properly nurtured by me and well taken care of each day, but I regarded nearly every waking moment with no small amount of sadness. I could not seem to look forward to anything - not truly - nor could I settle down and simply allow myself to enjoy any relative tranquility I might be fortunate enough to find. Although I was surrounded by friends and my remaining family members, I was terribly lonely, longing every moment for the one person that was impossible to reach. Erik still seemed to be all around me, his memory powerful and enduring even as the months separated our last embrace, but that notion only served to intensify my longing. In many ways, I attempted to rein in the pain of his loss by avoiding as many reminders of him as possible. I entered the parlor only when it was absolutely necessary, otherwise avoiding it simply for fear of imagining him at his piano and absentmindedly calling out to him. Likewise, his study had been rendered entirely closed off to the world, to my consciousness. It was but a mausoleum to me now, a silent memorial to a lost love, and I could not bear even to pass it by. It would remain so for nearly a year.

Beyond the grander scope of my loss, I came to realize that it was the little things about Erik that I missed the most - some days more fervently than others. Unbidden memories would make themselves known to me as if from nowhere, and in those vulnerable moments I could clearly remember the way he absentmindedly and steadily tapped rhythms when he was away from his instrument - the way he fidgeted with the pen in his left hand as he muttered his notes aloud while drafting. I remembered the way he smiled to himself when I entered the room, when Charles said something he found endearing. I'm not sure if he was even aware of his subtle habits, those daily nuances that were uniquely his, but after so many years together I had grown so fond of them, fond of everything about his presence. In his absence, I missed those small and otherwise inconsequential details with a driving force. Everything intangible about him was gone, survived only by the people that missed him so terribly; the music that would never again meet the air, the beautiful designs for buildings that would never rise to the sky - all lost. No one but him could bring the majesty hidden within his mind into the light. And every day apart served as continued and excruciating reminders of the true nature of the loss of his life - the devastating magnitude of that loss. Such little things indeed, but to me, to our family, it was as if the entire world had ceased to exist, our world mourning his death as faithfully as we had.

Yet as fervently as I longed for his presence, I was never able to dream of him, to hold him in my arms if only by reliving our togetherness in my memories; rather, I continued to be plagued with nightmares, only to wake under a veil of perceived isolation made that much more unbearable by the little life within me that we had created together. In the stillness of the night during my pregnancy, I missed Erik's hands over mine as we long ago had marvelled together at the movement of our child, dreaming in hushed tones of what our lives would become, of the person that our little one might prove to be. But as my third pregnancy progressed, it was my hands alone that met with the insistent fluttering beneath my heart, and more often than not I was reduced to tears in that solitude. I wanted so badly to be brave, but as the time drew closer to the baby's arrival, I felt my strength waning. By then, the summer was drawing to its close, steadfastly ushering in an autumn that promised the arrival of my baby in those cool and peaceful days. But all the while I was haunted and dejected, and even the promise of the simplicity in the golden sunsets I had once enjoyed was not enough to calm my frantic and shattered heart.

I whiled away the remaining weeks in a state of complete and unbroken misery, fighting to ensure that my son was cared for while concurrently giving myself to an anguish so deep that I was certain that it would swallow me whole. I had not felt that kind of undaunted sorrow since losing Estelle, but the grief at losing Erik coupled with my pregnancy was markedly different and substantially worse. No, I had no idea how to move forward - I would be lying if I did not say that I was all but convinced that doing so was entirely impossible. I rose each morning with weary resignation, put on a brave face before tending to Charles or visiting with friends, and made a mighty effort to return to my life and to regard my unborn child with even the smallest modicum of excitement. But on the whole I found myself at a loss. Everything I did seemed mechanical, forced to the point of torture, and I could not bring myself to be sincere in my actions. I did not want to be a widow, for my poor son to be fatherless, and to be pregnant all the while only served as an ever-present reminder of the pain we were so unjustly forced to endure.

There were darker times that I was still angry with Erik for dying, for not grasping at his life as fiercely as I had longed to save it. But my anger was misplaced, I knew it. Erik had not asked for the gypsy's wrath, for the events in his youth that would prove to be the catalyst in his untimely demise. In the end, I decided that it was the world that was to blame - a world inhabited by an uncaring and unmerciful society that had sought to defeat my husband at every turn, even when he was a helpless child no older than our own son. The very idea was sickening to me, absolutely deplorable that Erik had ultimately been forced to take another life in order to win his freedom. Yet in the end the blood on his hands, the mark on his soul would not be enough, and all because of a world that refused to spare kindness and humanity to one who longed only for beauty and innocence as he fought against his own darkness and maddening abandonment. Our world truly was a dark and cruel place. And as my anger with my husband faded with that terrible understanding, I was devastated in wondering how I could possibly bring another child into that madness which broke my husband's spirit. How could I do so alone? It was a terrifying notion, seemingly insurmountable, and once again I was rendered nearly paralyzed with the fear that accompanied my unborn child seemingly at every turn.

Yet somehow, in spite of the relentlessness of the storm within me, I suffered through that time almost entirely in silence, rendered wholly unable to truly give voice to my pain. Madame Giry and Meg were my closest confidantes as Vera and Iva were my greatest allies; but to the rest of the world, I was numb, continuously stricken by a grief so deep that I had become a mere shadow of my former self. But I made a mighty effort to maintain what little normalcy I had been successful in recapturing, pressing on for the sake of my children and forcing a conviction all the while that complete isolation would only serve to harm myself and my small family. It was merely a small stride toward healing, but it was all I had left to give.

In that spirit, I made it a point to maintain my friendships, hoping that doing so could continue to help in any way at all. Like Madame Giry, Raoul had decided to settle in London, engaging in new business ventures of his own and intending to keep his promise to Erik that he would see to our affairs in the event of my husband's passing. He visited as often as I would permit, graciously accepting my need for solitude when I sent him away and assisting me with practical matters when I granted him entry into my home. He was always a gentleman, and more so a true kindred spirit. Where Madame Giry approached me with all the authority of a matriarch, Raoul in his turn was able to offer me the simplicity of his friendship, a gesture that helped to soothe the maddening ache of my troubles even if only in the smallest of ways. Losing his own wife and child had offered him the unfortunate firsthand understanding of what I was experiencing, and while I remained silent for my part, he in turn spoke to me with honesty and sympathy, and I was grateful for his presence.

One occasion, however, stands out in my memories as being particularly difficult for us both. It wasn't until the end of our discussion that I could understand that his words might prove to be a major turning point regarding the way I approached my life, even if it was only in the barest and most practical sense. In his honesty, he was able to reach me in a way that no one else had been able - not even Madame Giry or Iva in their years of experience. As still more weeks passed that summer, I finally shared with Raoul the news of my pregnancy, knowing that the time had arrived that I could not hide it any longer. As an unfortunate result of my poor health born of my grief, I had been able to keep my condition a secret from nearly everyone with whom I frequently visited, opting to keep the news only to myself and immediate family members for fear of further reminders of my pain at the sight of pitied and empathetic gazes. But I could not continue that practice much longer, and I did not want Raoul to be the recipient of secondhand information or gossip on my behalf - in the end, he deserved my honesty. He did not respond to my news at first, but rather looked at me with such sympathy and pity that I nearly cried out at its presence in his expression.

"Congratulations are clearly in order, then," he said after some reflection, seeming to force neutrality into his features, "This is something we ought to celebrate."

"There doesn't seem much to celebrate," I huffed, feeling very much like a petulant child yet not caring about my display of regret.

"Of course there is. And there has been. You must have known for quite some time."

"Since the winter...The end of February," I said distantly, pausing before remarking, "I used to enjoy the winter, the snow. Did you know that? It was beautiful. But Estelle died in the wintertime, and now Erik. And in the end it seems that death is all around me."

"It's the season's fault, now is it?"

"It was a constant reminder then, and now a terrible memory. I once thought that wintertime meant second chances, and I loved that...I was driven by the notion. Not anymore, not when I think about that time, when I look around and all I see is death."

"And life, Christine. Your baby has been given to you amid your tragedy. I'm sure that Erik would have been thrilled," he said at length, "He made it no secret to me that his family meant the world to him."

"He won't be here to see his child," I lamented, "He was murdered because his past wouldn't stay behind him where it belonged. It's wrong," I shook my head, "It's all wrong."

"It is. But you were able to keep living. That's what he wanted most."

"He died for me, for Charles, but we're miserable without him. And his children will grow up without him, this baby will never even meet him. There's no justice in that...No meaning."

He was silent for a time before speaking evenly, "There isn't meaning in death."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I say. There isn't meaning in death. It is inevitable, a fact that never changes. But there is meaning in life, and you gave that to him."

I shook my head, "Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if we never would have met. Perhaps he would still be alive."

"The gypsy would still have found him. You know that," he sighed, "Their quarrel began long before the two of you met. And besides, even had these events not come to pass, what would have become of Erik otherwise? No one else but you would have given him a chance to live away from the shadows. He told me himself that you gave him something to protect, something worthwhile...his meaning, his sense of purpose."

"It isn't right. What has he died for, in the end?"

"I doubt that he would appreciate being painted as a martyr. But there is no question of his reasons. Remember that now, as time passes. Be glad for his sacrifices, for your children. Be glad for their lives, if not for your own, and let that heal you."

"You say this as if it were so easy," I snapped.

"It's not," he responded defensively, "There are two graves in a cemetery in France that have taught me just how hard it is to press on, don't you remember?"

I gasped, immediately regretting my callousness, "Raoul - "

"I speak the truth to you, Christine, and I speak from experience. There is no good reason for our families to have been as broken as they were," he said firmly, "But there was meaning to the lives led before they were lost, no matter how short or painful. You are not alone, you have more than enough reason to carry on. Take care to remember that now."

He stood abruptly to leave then, but I did not follow. I knew that he didn't expect me to, but rather wished that I would remain in place and reflect upon his words.

I sincerely regretted speaking so uncaringly to him, selfishly forgetting even for the briefest of moments how terribly his own life had been thrown off course, that he was utterly alone in the world now and without the family he had so cherished. I was truly grateful to him - for his friendship, for his kindness, and now for his candor. In my heart, I knew that I needed those truths from him - no matter how difficult they were to comprehend in the moments they were spoken - for I was certain that I would not have been able to find them on my own, not in my grief, and not in the simplest terms. I would not allow myself to see past my own sorrow long enough to truly fulfill my duties to my children, to my husband, and I knew that Erik would have been heartbroken to see me fall that far for so long in his absence. He certainly had not given his life for me to put my own on hold. Something had to give before I broke once again, before I forfeited my family and my husband's sacrifice in the process. Raoul had given me much to consider. Erik and I were parted far too soon, but he left me the momentous gift of our little Charles, of the baby that demanded my attention and the promise of a future that perhaps still held hope for us all - and as Raoul had implored, I would do well to remember that. In the meantime, it was all I could do to wait and pray that I could summon the strength to carry on, to understand and accept what seemed impossible to endure.

Raoul returned the next day to apologize for the harshness of his tone, but I would not hear of it. Informing him of my revelations, he simply smiled his approval in response. Our friendship was as strong as ever, and with that added reminder of all I did have left in the world, I was able to find the resolve within myself to attempt to live through the coming months with just a little less of the numbness that had sustained me since the winter. It was not a miraculous change to my approach to my existence, but it was enough to help me to outlast until the coming journey made itself known.

~~oOo~~

My youngest child - a daughter - was born on a cloudy afternoon that October, just a fortnight after celebrating Charles' sixth birthday. In the weeks that separated that fateful day from Raoul's summertime visit, I had made my sincerest and best efforts to maintain even the smallest shred of optimism regarding my pregnancy and my life to follow. But in the end, the birth itself and every lost dream it represented had simply proven to be too overwhelming for me, and at the outset of the occasion I felt for all the world as if I had reentered that bleak world of mourning from which my discussion with Raoul had only granted a brief reprieve. When my labor began early that morning, I was starkly aware of how very alone I was in that bedroom, how the whispers of pain would soon be absolutely torturous, and yet all the while I would be left to endure that truth of motherhood without my husband's confident words and protective eyes to guide me. And all at once, I grieved for him as I feared for my unborn child.

It was a long and exhausting labor which swiftly turned to an exceedingly difficult delivery - afflicted with steadily worsening complications to the point that at length the doctor was required to be summoned to assist. While I had done everything I could during the pregnancy to ensure my health and that of the baby, having to carry the child while concurrently mourning for my husband had taken a toll on my body that even my steadfast mindfulness could not banish entirely. By the time I went into labor after so many months of being taxed by physical and emotional distress, I was frail and far weaker than I should have been, and my baby was clearly suffering as a result. As the midwife guided me through the delivery, I was overtaken continuously by my renewed guilt for not being stronger. And as my body continued to grow weaker, my heart was seized by a forceful sense of grief that it was Madame Giry holding my hand throughout the process, not Erik. As each of these dreadful truths combined through the day's progression, I was rendered terrified and unsure if the baby and I could ultimately survive the ordeal. It was miserable, and terribly frightening.

I struggled through the delivery, nearly deaf to all softly spoken and reassuring words around me as I forced myself to put my own anguish out of mind for the sake of the infant I so desperately wanted to come into the world. But when the baby was finally born, I nearly could not bear to look at the wriggling little one crying out in the midwife's skilled hands. Rather, I glanced at my daughter only briefly, noting miserably that she was terribly small. Upon seeing her tiny form before me, bereft of her beloved father and immediately blaming myself for every imagined and unconfirmed ailment that she might face at my hand, I gave myself to bitter and intense tears. For the first moments of her precious life, I felt as if I couldn't breathe, that my guilt and grief would finally consume me once and for all - I had only needed to bring the child into the world safely; but beyond that duty, it seemed that my heart had finally broken entirely. I would die of the bereavement at last. I could hear the baby crying - strong and steady in spite of her outward frailness - but I didn't dare look up again. I could not allow myself to see the life that Erik and I had created together, not when he wasn't there to revel in that miracle alongside me.

"You have a daughter, Christine," Madame Giry said gently, attempting to coax my trembling hands from my eyes long enough to see the baby.

"She's healthy. You did wonderfully," the midwife said, "Look at her, dear."

"No, no. I can't," I wailed, "Erik…"

"He would be so very proud of you," Madame insisted, "Look at her, look at his daughter. She's crying for you."

"I hurt her, she's too small," I cried, "Oh God, I hurt her. I'm so sorry."

"She's fine, Christine. Yes, she's small, but she's not hurt."

"Please, I can't," I moaned, fearing that I would never be strong enough to look at my daughter again and entirely unable to relinquish my grief in those moments following her birth.

"Give her time," the midwife said to Madame Giry in a low voice.

Weeping steadily, I tried desperately to compose myself in spite of my anguish as Madame Giry swaddled the baby and the doctor and midwife continued to tend to me. But quite some time passed before I could escape the violent tide of grief that continuously threatened to drown me. I wanted so badly to revel in the good news - in spite of my initial assumption to the contrary, the baby was healthy, a healthy little daughter. But with that thought came yet another onslaught of pain, the grief accompanying Erik's memory once again and the knowledge that he would have loved a little girl. And I could only weep for every moment that had been stolen from us, for every bit of happiness promised and cruelly snatched away again. I was sure that I would never understand what our lives had become - in spite of everything I had been told, there seemed to be no meaning left in our shattered existence.

But even as I continued in my display of heartache, the baby continued to cry out for its mother. After a time and heartened by the singularly beautiful sound of her newborn voice, I forced myself to settle the torment within my fragile heart long enough to acknowledge her - in the end, I could not bear to be separated from my baby any longer. I looked over to where Madame was speaking softly to her, catching a glimpse of her tiny hand as the older woman wrapped a blanket securely around her form, and I knew without a doubt then that I needed to see her for myself - to truly see her with eyes that did not harbor sorrow in her regard.

Madame Giry passed her to me at my request, and in that moment, the world seemed to shift beneath me - all at once, time ceased its taunting progression into a dark and fearsome unknown, marching onward instead with a peaceful rhythm that I had not experienced in so long. Suddenly, the journey ahead did not seem so painful. She was my saving grace. With her existence came the notion that life had begun to move forward once again without that relentless pain at last. It was slowly at first, almost imperceptibly yet undaunted all the same; and finally I could open my heart to that singular fact. From the moment she was placed in my arms, I fell absolutely in love with my baby - a love that I knew in those moments had been waiting in the wings, yet had been utterly intangible until then. I had been blinded to it in my mourning, and I needed to look into her eyes to entirely comprehend that such a love could exist in the wake of tragedy. Just as I had been with Charles, seeing and holding my daughter for the first time rendered me entirely enamored with her. And I smiled then, smiled genuinely for the first time that day through my tears, and for a moment I knew true happiness again. Erik would have loved her, I knew - for a moment I could believe that if I closed my eyes, I could see him smiling before me, proud of what we had created together, and that image gave me that much more confidence where before those moments I thought I would never know such a sensation again. I touched the baby's cheek gently, moved to stroke her wispy hair, so dark like her father's. I loved her.

"Do you have a name for her?" the midwife asked.

"Evelyn," I said softly.

In my efforts to encourage the excitement I longed to behold while I awaited the birth of my child, I had put sincere consideration into names for a boy or a girl. In that spirit, I had known for quite some time what I might call a daughter. Weeks before the child was born, I had remembered Erik's words from the night of Charles' birth, when we were discussing names in an attempt to distract me from my pain. He had been very fond of Evelyn for a little girl. That name goes nicely with Estelle's, don't you think? His voice echoed in my mind that autumn afternoon, and from the moment I laid eyes upon my youngest child, I knew who she was meant to be; her title would bear meaning, in its own way. Evelyn, a name that meant life - her new life in the wake of death, the representation of the sacrifice given by the man that had loved and protected his family until his final breath. I knew without a doubt that my husband would have approved of my decision, that he favored the name in its silent tribute to our poor lost baby and would surely understand the meaning it held now, and I wanted very badly to give Evelyn something of her father's to carry with her in life. I sighed contentedly at the idea, solemnly vowing then that she would know him as she grew up. I could not give her the presence of her father, but she would not be without memories of him, she would not be without his love - of that, I was entirely certain.

Thoughts of my husband in happier times passed brought me a new wave of bittersweet tears, but as I held our daughter in my arms, I felt strong enough to look upon those memories with the joy that they onced elicited. And for a moment - a point in time so brief that I nearly missed it - I was sure that Evelyn smiled at me. Some would say she was too young, that newborns don't truly smile, but in that instant I knew better. She had smiled at me, a gift that made my heart soar; in turn I was able to mirror the gesture to her, grateful beyond words for her presence in my life. She was a blessing to my small family beyond measure, a promise that the darkness of the past was not as insurmountable as it had appeared for so long - just as the first rays of sunlight after a storm reminded me as a child that my hopelessness would not last forever, Evelyn had proven to hold that singular promise within her existence.

~~oOo~~

Iva had agreed that morning to mind Charles alongside her own boys until the baby was born, and as such we had been separated for several endless hours - even in my pain and fear, I had missed my beloved little boy dreadfully throughout the day. The baby and I were obliged to settle for a time before my son could be permitted to return from Iva's home; but the moment I was able to do so, I requested that Madame Giry send for him at once, eager to have him near me and for him to see the infant for himself at last. I knew how excited he had been - especially in recent weeks - to meet his sibling, and I was sure that he had spent his day chattering to Iva and her boys about little else besides the object of his keen interest. When he finally arrived home, he absolutely bounded up the staircase, speaking excitedly to Madame Giry all the while. I smiled to myself as I heard his words and endless questions through the closed door of my bedroom-turned-nursery - while he had enjoyed his playtime, he made it no secret that he much prefered to be near the baby in those moments.

He entered the room quietly and slowly approached the rocking chair I occupied with the bundle in my arms, already informed by his grandmother to carry himself gently around the newborn. He took up this new responsibility quite seriously - as I had expected - seeming for all the world as if it was his sole duty to ensure that the little one before him was not startled or upset by anything within the realm of his control. I smiled once more at his demeanor, proud that he was already so protective of the new addition. He gave me his undivided attention as I formally introduced my children, informing Charles that he had been given a sister after all.

"What's her name?" he asked softly.

"Evelyn."

"She's too small to play outside," he lamented after a brief consideration.

I laughed, "Yes, that's true, my dear. She won't be joining you or your friends for quite some time."

"I had wanted a brother," he reminded me patiently.

"I know, Charlie," I responded lightly, "But some things cannot be controlled, you know. Are you terribly disappointed?"

He thought for a moment before responding, "No, I don't think so. May I hold her?"

"Yes, if you're very careful."

I moved to stand so that Charles could take my place upon the rocking chair, and once he settled I lowered the infant into his waiting arms. I spoke softly, telling him how to hold her properly. He took in my words very seriously, determined not to jostle or upset the baby and instantly proving to be very adept at cradling the little girl.

"Her skin is so soft," he said as he stroked her hand, "She's like the bunny rabbits that we saw in the park in the springtime."

"All babies have soft skin. I suppose they are rather like those bunnies, aren't they?" I mused, met immediately by his enthusiastic nod of agreement.

"I'm going to call her Bunny, then," he announced, leaving no room for discussion.

I could only smile at his declaration, fondly regarding him once again at the evidence of his affection for the baby.

I knew that he would prove to be a fine older brother, that his protectiveness would in some small way come to soothe the pain of Erik's absence in time. Evelyn remained dozing in her brother's arms, and at her compliance he looked back up to me proudly, smiling at his accomplishment. I did not speak then - could not find the proper words to express the fullness of my heart or my own pride I held for my darling family - only returned my son's smile with all the sincerity that the day had brought me, gazing upon my beloved children as if I beheld the most precious gems in the world. To me, they were Heavensent, cherished and treasured beyond words and held irrevocably within my heart alongside their father. I felt Erik's love for me so strongly then that I nearly swayed where I stood. He was not gone away from me forever, I knew - he never could be so long as our children lived their lives. They were as much his legacy as his music, his genius, and I knew that his love and pride in their existence equalled my own. And all at once that notion alone was enough to reignite my sense of strength, the idea that the peacefulness and fulfillment of the life I shared with my husband would surely be ushered back at last in spite of the ever-lingering pain of his absence. In that room, in those small and quiet moments just before sunset, I felt as if a part of me had come back to life - it seemed to me at last that the world truly had begun to turn again, that the sensation was not simply a trick of a grieving mind.

I had lost so much, so many people that meant the world to me and that took a piece of my heart away with them at their passing. But looking at Charles and Evelyn then, I could truly believe that perhaps the storm had finally passed, that my long suffering was not in vain. If Erik had wanted me to live if only to see the two perfect embodiments of our love, those ever-present figures walking in his memory and heralding the first whispers of hope and healing at last, then I would be forever grateful to him for the opportunity.

~~oOo~~

Winter approached us quickly that year, and before I knew it the calm and agreeable autumn days had been swept away by the snowfall and gray mornings of London to which I had become accustomed. I spent every waking hour possible with my children, reveling in their good health and smiles as our lives - with Madame Giry's presence and assistance - continued to fall into respectable patterns of normalcy once again. My heart seemed to grow stronger with each passing week, emboldened by the sight of my children thriving before my very eyes.

When the new year finally arrived, I counted myself as very fortunate indeed, knowing that for all the pain and sorrow that my family had endured, we had somehow survived in the end in spite of the seemingly infinite days of loneliness and grief that we had known for so long. It was nearly impossible to believe that hundreds of days, thousands of hours had separated us in that time from Erik's death; but when the occasion of the first anniversary of his passing arrived, I was able to step back and understand just how blessed we were. At the outset of my grief, I did not believe that my heart was salvageable. But as that autumn had faded into winter and I tested the waters of my strength more each day, I found that I could regard my life more confidently. The pain was still there, to be sure - such was a pain of the soul that would never fade entirely - but on the whole it was becoming less staggering, and I knew that I had my children and my husband's desire for my bravery to credit for that. Some days proved to be more difficult than others, of course, more lonely and tearful than I thought bearable. Yet even so I found that I could surprise myself in the same breath on those worse occasions - that my heart had grown steadily more resilient in the wake of its suffering. I simply had to allow that resilience to happen in its time, to accept its presence when so many months before I would have simply succumbed to my hopelessness.

I had not taken Charles to the cemetery since Evelyn was born, but on that cold January day a year after my husband's death, I decided it was time to once again to take both of my children and make the pilgrimage to pay our respects. The sun shone brilliantly above us as we walked through those silent and hallowed grounds, a stark difference from the preceding weeks of snowstorms and mirroring the previous year's sunshine almost exactly. For a flitting moment at the reminder of my husband's funeral, I almost lost my resolve to visit at the overwhelmingly painful memories that were brought forth. I had been expecting them, of course, but I had underestimated just how terribly consuming those images would be. Distantly, as unbidden and agonized tears clouded my vision, I wondered if I was only serving to open my wounds and regressing in my recent progress in carrying on with my life by approaching Erik's grave, to remind myself and my children only of the devastation we had just barely survived. But in the end I thought better of it, steeling myself in my resolve. I knew that we had to be there that day - I had to allow Erik to rest, couldn't permit myself to invite the disturbance of his soul's peace by falling back into the miserable and isolating patterns of pure grief, but I could not allow the occasion to pass unmarked. He deserved more respect than that, and I had to prove to myself that I was stronger than the bitterness and unfairness of my loss.

Charles placed flowers on the graves of his eldest sister and his father as I held fast to Evelyn. It was silent for a time, a relative and reflective calm broken only by a soft and chilled breeze around us.

My son bravely broke the silence first, addressing the engraved stone before him quietly, "Bunny is here to see you today, Daddy," then to me, "Do you miss him, Mama?"

"Yes," I responded softly, "Very much."

"So do I. But I dream about him," he said proudly, "He talks to me then."

I smiled, "And what does he say?"

"That he misses us, too," he paused, "He looks different in my dreams."

"How so?" I asked, raising an eyebrow to the unexpected turn of the conversation.

"He looks like me."

"Is he a little boy, then?"

"No, he's Daddy," he said lightly, as if that knowledge should have been obvious to me all along, before continuing patiently, "But he looks like me, his face is all the same."

All the same. His words were so innocent and uncomplicated, holding all of the simplicity of a child's mind - yet even so, they resonated deeply within me, their meaning not lost to me then. Somewhere at last, it would seem that perhaps Erik was finally walking equal to other men, that he was no longer plagued with the deformity that had brought him so much misery in his life. I could only smile at that - even if the notion was merely born of my son's fanciful imagination, it brought me great comfort to consider nonetheless. I fervently hoped it was true.

Innocently ignorant to my thoughts, Charles began to sing a light tune to Evelyn, eliciting a breathy laugh from her as he continued his song. He had such a beautiful voice. It did not surprise me that his tone was so clear, that even in his youth he had a firm grasp of vocal musicianship. Music was deeply ingrained in our family; its very essence was something that undeniably drove us on, that flowed within our veins - it was through that music that Erik and I had come together in the beginning and had triumphed over our greatest downfalls in the end.

As the cemetery breeze carried my son's song through the air, I could not keep myself from thinking about Erik once again. In my mind's eye, I could clearly see us together long ago as we danced to the tinny notes of a music box, saw the blissful occasions throughout our marriage when we walked together hand in hand and entirely lost in a world we created together - whether through music or words, Erik had always been capable of spiriting me away at his will, the levity he elicited in doing so absolutely inspiring. I recalled so many years of embraces and tender kisses, of shared confidences and broken barriers. Before that day at the cemetery, it had been so long since I had allowed myself to recall those blithe and joyous memories, to open my heart to times long since passed when we were truly happy - content simply to be within one another's presence. I was surprised that such images did not ignite the flames of mournful agony within me as they once had. Rather, each memory seemed to act as a stitch to mend my broken heart. I was simply able to see them for what they were, and moreover to realize that in each of those memories, Erik had been happy - truly happy, able to overcome the sorrow we had shared together and the bleak existence he had known for too long. He had been allowed at last to carry on in his life like any other man, no longer broken or fearful. I remembered clearly the last night we spent together, my thoughts then focused on his triumphs.

For as much as humanity had tried to defeat him, he would not be conquered. Even in his lowest moments, even when he had convinced himself that the battle would never be in his favor, he carried on. He fought for a life without the pain brought about by something over which he had no control, and in doing so he had built something extraordinary to share with me. Long ago he had given me the beautiful flame of his existence that burned brightly with my own - a flame that would not be snuffed out by violence and cruelty. He gave me his music, his genius, his love; together we created our children, built a respectable and even relatively normal life against all odds. Amid our greatest triumphs we fought through seemingly endless tragedies, only to always find redemption in one another in the end.

Yes, we had found redemption in one another - and in that spirit, Erik had broken free from the shackles of his past; even though the gypsy had taken his life, the man had not stolen that redemption away. In the end, Erik had ultimately conquered his demons. His life had meaning, redemption - something that could never be taken from him, and in the end he had known the happiness that he had only been able to dream of yet so fiercely deserved. At the finale of his life, he had only wanted that dream to live on with the family he so adored. Realizing all of this as I stood before his grave with our children, I suddenly knew a moment of peace, a true and enveloping healing of which I had only experienced glimpses before. It was a bittersweet understanding, but deeply consoling nevertheless. Erik had not died in vain, and his life had not been without meaning. Our children alone were proof enough of that singular fact, the love that we shared ran deep and enduring. I missed him so terribly that some days I was sure that I could never go on, and yet I had. Each new day I experienced was because he had given everything to ensure that his enemy could never harm us again, that we could go on in life better people for having known him. And finally, finally it seemed as if I could draw a full breath again, that my heart was truly beginning to mend. A part of me still felt hollow, even lost in some ways, and I was sure it would always be that way - as with my parents, with Estelle, the pain would linger throughout my life, but I knew without a doubt then that it would not end me.

Grief is a terrible thing, powerful and enduring. But the love that Erik and I had known was just as powerful - it was stronger than the hatred and fear that had defined him for so long, and that was enough. His happiness was enough. And that day, a year after saying our tearful goodbyes, I felt that at last I could truly endure our separation. It would not be forever, not really - I knew that we would come together in the end, that would find one another beyond the veil between worlds. Looking back on my cherished memories of our time together, it seemed that we would always be meant to find one another, and that singular fact was enough for me. In the meantime, I would live, and live well. Anything to bring Erik the happiness that he deserved.

I brushed a tear from my eye - one of so many shed for the man I loved - as I looked upon my children once more. I smiled at them, and decided then that it was time to go home.