I Am Here With You, Beside You

"Do you want me to leave a light on for you?" Erik asks Gustave, as he finishes tucking him in. "As I recall, you sometimes have bad dreams."

"Just leave the curtains open – I like to see the sky," the boy answers, snuggling down into the bed.

"Good enough." Erik walks to the window and adjusts the ties so the room is flooded with moonlight. "You are certain this is what you want…the shadows…"

"I like to make up stories about the shadows, it helps me sleep."

"You certainly are my son." Erik allows himself a chuckle. The boy is so much like him, yet with a loving heart Erik never thought he could possess himself. He was learning, but this is damnably hard. Why did the baby have to die? A part of him wanted to curse whatever it was in the universe that seemed determined to damn everything in his life that brought him joy. But he pulled himself up short – this beautiful child was his son. The boy's mother loved and wanted him. His precious angel. Why did she have to suffer, though?

"Papa Y?"

"Yes, son."

"Did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No, I did not."

"Were you lonely?"

"Yes, I was often lonely. I loved music and I loved to read and draw buildings like my father – so that filled my time." This was turning into one of Gustave's nights of a thousand questions. Was that so terrible, he himself had boundless curiosity. The boy was also troubled about the events of the day – so many changes in his life in such a short period of time. Still, he felt old wounds being re-opened. Unlike the physical remnants of his past, harsh emotional memories never scarred over. They only lay waiting for the scab to be picked and the bleeding start again.

"Did your papa play with you?"

"No. My father died just before I was born. There was an accident…a building he was working on had a flaw and collapsed."

"Before?" Gustave's eyes widen. "Oh, no, that is terrible."

"Yes, I was born on the day he was buried."

"So you spent a lot of time with your Maman?"

"No. My mother found my presence unpleasant. I suppose it was because of my father's death. She mourned for a very long time."

"She did not like your face."

"She did not like my face," Erik agrees, fingering his mask. "I have always worn a mask of some sort, but I suspect she did not like me in general. In retrospect, I cannot blame her – I could be very petulant and annoying. She was quite young and losing her husband, then giving birth to a child looking as I did…well, she was quite distressed with the fate life bestowed on her."

"Did you have no one to play with?"

"There was a nice lady, Marie, who took care of me sometimes and I had a lovely dog named Sasha," Erik says. At last, a break in the questioning – proud of himself for not breaking down or becoming cross. Perhaps he was changing. "Speaking of which, Mr. Khan and I were talking about getting you a dog. Would you like that?"

Gustave face breaks into a wide grin. "Really, I can have a dog? Our gardener in Paris had a dog he would bring with him every day. I used to play with her – her name was Missy. Pere Raoul did not want any dogs in the house. He said they were messy and he had no time to train one. I would train the dog. I promise."

"We shall have to ask your mother, but I think a pet might be nice. If not a dog, perhaps a kitty."

"Oh, yes, a kitty would be fine." Gustave claps his hands. "Chef has a cat for catching mice. He said if she has babies, I can have one – if you and Maman say it is all right. I did not want to ask because...well, if there was a baby, having a kitten might not be a good idea."

"I do not think there would be a conflict, but your mother would have to approve in any event."

The burst of excitement lighting his face vanishes. "Is she going to be all right?"

"I believe so. She is just very sad right now and does not feel entirely well."

"Did the baby hurt?"

Erik cocks his head, a wry smile curves his lips. The mysteries of life and death – how does it feel to die? There were a number of times he came close – in every instance from being beaten by the gypsies to being fed the ground glass in Persia – he recalls he was in pain, but does not recall the pain itself. Death had not come and he recovered. The mind does protect one at least while awake. Dreams were another story entirely, but even those were becoming kinder.

Does a child so tiny, barely formed, know pain? Quite likely – the nervous system is present. Is there consciousness? Unlikely, but who is he to say? Brushing the boy's hair away from his brow, he says, "I cannot honestly say. It is quite thoughtful of you to consider the idea, however."

Gustave shrugs. "I just wondered. I hope not," he says. "Is Maman going to come in to kiss me good-night?"

"Yes, she is," Christine announces from the doorway. A rose pink dressing gown replaces the stained green dress, giving her wan face an illusion of color. "I am sorry, I only meant to nap for a few minutes – I wanted to bring you this." This being a tray holding 3 mugs of cocoa and a small plate of cookies. "I see you are already tucked in."

"Nothing that cannot be remedied," Erik says, taking the tray from her and pulling a chair over to the bedside. He waits for Gustave to scoot back up and Christine to sit down before handing each of them a mug, taking one himself, before offering the cookies.

"I like this."

"Do not get used to it, young man. I simply wanted to remind you how much you mean to me."

Erik situates himself behind her, massaging her shoulder with his free hand.

Christine crooks her head to look up at him. "I never knew that about your father…or very much about your childhood…except for those words you spoke after…" She cuts off her comment, aware of Gustave's eyes focused on her.

So much of her past with Erik was fraught with conflict. So much of Erik's past itself was fraught with conflict. More than she could ever imagine, even if she tried. He would always answer any questions she had – primarily those times when they were intimate and she could see the scars covering his body as witness to torture and abuse no one should suffer.

Generally, he responded with a few words. This was from the time I ran with the Thuggees in India, they taught me how the Punjab lasso was use…by using it on me. This was from the guards at the Shah's palace when I refused to obey an order. He seldom went into detail – protecting her from the horrors that formed the man who felt the need to pretend to be an angel in order to speak with her.

"After what, Maman? When did Papa Y tell you about when he was small?"

"When I was performing at the Opera House and Papa Y was teaching me how to sing."

"You said after something happened."

Erik and Christine exchange a troubled look. Gustave's eyes shift back and forth between them.

Christine sighs. Her son's curiosity is both bonus and bane. "Gustave, I am not sure this is the time…it is late…"

Erik squeezes her shoulder. "No time like the present, my dear, it is all right." he says. "Raoul and I were both in love with your mother. We were very angry with one another."

"Like when we came here?"

"Something like that, only it was more serious. A lot of other people were mad at me, too."

"Who? What did you do?"

"They thought I hurt someone else and I ran away, taking your mother. So they chased me…us. I told her during my life people would chase or hurt me because of my face. No one understood that it was just a face, not a person. That it made me angry and I would want to hurt people back."

Nodding in agreement, Gustave says, "I understand. I get mad when someone hurts me, too."

Christine frowns. "Did someone harm you? Why did you not tell me?"

"When I wanted to play piano instead of soccer, they said I was a sissy. One of the boys knocked me down…he saw my funny ear and said I was a deformed freak."

"Gustave, oh, my darling boy. I did not know." She cries. How did all of this happen? Was she so wrapped up in her own misery, she did not see what was happening to Gustave. She should have left – after she started singing again, she should have left. Money would have been sparse, but her own weakness bound her to life with the Chagnys.

"What did you do?" Erik asks.

"I punched him in the nose."

"Good for you."

"Erik!"

"He defended himself. There is nothing wrong with defending yourself against a bully."

"I suppose you are right." Raoul was a bully. Much as she tried to avoid the thought, he was. Thank god Gustave has such a good papa now. Thank god, she had such a good…fiancé…husband…angel. The irony being that had anyone been asked, Raoul would have been given those plaudits.

"The problem arises if you become the antagonist," Erik continues, smiling down at the boy. "I do not see that being a problem with our young man. Judging from our conversation tonight, he appears to be quite the diplomat."

"Are you having problems with anyone now – here at Phantasma?" Christine asks, still concerned. From all appearances, Phantasma was free of many of the problems she experienced in traveling with her father – lack of shelter and food, the primary concerns. Some of the carnival owners were often cruel to the performers – taunting those who were the least successful, especially if they were growing old or very young.

Of course, this was not a moveable fair or carnival, but Erik had somehow managed to create a family of sorts. Many of the vendors and performers left when the season was over to go south to find other work, but, in leaving, were invited back in the spring. What a different place the Palais Garnier might have been had Erik actually been in charge of the opera and the artists. What a different life they all might have now.

"No." Gustave scrunches his nose. "But Mr. Squelch has me lifting weights. He said I was scrawny…an easy mark for some ruffian with a chip on his shoulder. He said the best way to discourage bullies was to be really strong so they will not bother you in the first place." He pushes up the sleeve of his night shirt and makes a muscle. "See how much stronger I am."

"This is quite scary," Erik laughs, poking the bulge on Gustave's arm. "You may well be following in his footsteps if this is any indication."

"Yes, sir," Gustave puffs up in pride, joining him in the laughter. "I love him so much."

"Good – I am glad all of that is settled," says Christine. "Now, it is time for sleep. Are you finished with your chocolate?"

"Yes." He hands his cup to Erik.

Christine tucks him in once more, kissing him on the forehead. "Sleep well."

"Good night. I hope you feel better in the morning, Maman."

"I shall do my best."

"Can I fix you something to eat – something more nutritious than cookies?" Erik asks as he washes up the cups and pot Christine used to heat the milk. "You barely touched your meal. No desire for pickled herring?"

"Ewww, no," she laughs lightly, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head on his back, breathing in his cologne the intriguing combination of cinnamon and myrrh*. At one time she believed it to be the smell of death. Erik explained the oils were sacred and were often used on dead bodies, thus the association she made.

"I thought that fish was like manna from heaven for you."

"Not at the moment." Letting him go, she sits down at a small round breakfast table, picking at the table cloth. "You are such a good father."

"His mother raised a good son – he is easy to love and spend time with – if sometimes more inquisitive than is comfortable."

A tear drop falls on her folded hands. She stares at the single bead of water wondering how many more she would shed before the sorrow overwhelming her stops. The sobs follow, twisting her gut, the pain fighting to get out.

Erik drops the towel he has been using to dry the dishes. Falling to his knees in front of her, he cradles her in his arms – rocking her, humming one of his nameless melodies into her ear.

She nuzzles her head under his chin. After a while, the tears stop. "I cannot remember ever feeling so weary." The weight of the baby's death is so heavy. Even more than Pappa's – what might she have done to prevent this happening? Why was her body not a safe haven? Erik believes he is at fault, but she was the guardian. Things had been going so well for all of them – how does one recover from the death of a child?

"Let me put you to bed – we can worry about food tomorrow," he says, rising to his feet, offering his hands to help her up. "I will prepare some tea and a remedy called Ignatia for your grief. Do you wish to visit the bathroom first?"

"Yes, I suppose that would be wise."

Closing the door behind her, she presses her back against the solid wood, fighting off a new round of tears threatening to flow. When Mamma died, she cried. The memory was vague, but she recalled tugging on Rebecca's nightdress, demanding she wake up and Pappa peeling her fingers away from the heavy flannel. His own grief put aside to deal with hers. He never cried in front of her – not in the fourteen years they travelled Europe playing at fairs and carnivals and taverns and on street corners. When he felt assured she was sleeping, he would grieve for his bride. Christine would hold back her own tears, not wishing to disturb his moments of mourning. On those nights, they both cried themselves to sleep alone.

Losing him nearly tore her apart – a night did not go by during his last days when she did not pray her father not be taken from her. She was so alone – the Girys were good to her…to them, but Pappa was Pappa. It was only when Erik appeared as the Angel of Music, did the pain lift from her heart. His music, their music. She so wanted him to be a man, but when he became a man, it frightened her. Then Raoul appeared confusing her even more. More tears, so many tears. So much loss.

"Why, God?"

A small cramp brings her back to herself. Putting memories to the side, she goes through her bedtime ablutions – unpinning her hair grown messier as the day went on. Taking her time, she combs the curls before making a single braid, securing it with a white satin ribbon.

Following the routine for her monthly cycle, she replaces her disposable pad – putting the used one in a bag with others for burning. How long would the bleeding continue – the cleansing her womb? An idle thought crosses her mind about the stain on her dress. The skirt might have to be cut and remade. The green silk was a favorite of hers and she would hate having to discard it. Mathilda, the head seamstress, was helping remake her wedding dress, she would simply add the day dress to their tasks.

A final look in the mirror at a face that was different, yet the same as the one she viewed that morning. Her eyes red and puffy from the tears. Although naturally pale, her skin tone was creamy with a natural pink blush to her cheeks. Now it appeared the blood had been drained leaving a white visage that might rival one of Erik's porcelain masks. A splash of cold water brought some color back and calmed the inflammation around her eyes. This will have to do. Perhaps the remedy was starting to work, she was feeling calmer. Sleep will be good – not having to think for a while.

A single table lamp casts a golden glow in her bedroom. It takes her a moment to see Erik. Her heart skips as beat…for a moment she is concerned he straightened the bedclothes and left. A silly thought, she realizes when she spies him sitting in the wing chair next to the window overlooking the sea. His shirt is open at the neck, sleeves rolled up – jacket, waistcoat and cravat folded neatly on her vanity bench. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, fingers strangely quiet, legs spread out in front of him. The porcelain half-mask lies on the end table.

What must have gone through his mind? Blaming himself.

She must remind him how often the ballet rats at the Garnier experienced the same loss. For most, they were grateful for what they considered an easy ending to a difficult situation. No need for the midwife to assist the passing of an unwanted child. They could maintain a relationship with their patron…or another. She often wondered about Madame and Meg. Had Madame wished Meg never been born? There was so much she did not know about the two women, even having lived with them.

When she realized she was pregnant with Gustave, she believed the child was Erik's and prayed no one would know or guess. The marriage to Raoul immediately following her night with Erik, gave her protection from questions. That his father's deformity was present, but hidden, was a blessing. Had it not – well, she would have done whatever was necessary to care of the baby. Oh, how she wished Erik could have been there. How grateful she was for this second chance.

"How long are you going to stand there looking at this wreckage, my love?" Rising from the chair, he walks over to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "You need to get some rest."

She allows him to lead her to the bed to sit down. "I thought you were asleep – I did not wish to disturb you. Besides, I love looking at you."

"Then you truly are a madwoman." He picks up a cup and saucer from the night stand, handing it to her. "Here, drink this, it will ease you."

Holding the cup to her lips, she breathes in the sweet fragrance of the chamomile before taking a sip. "Are you all right? Gustave was in rare form tonight – even for him."

"I think he was anxious. Had I thought of it, I should have taken him for a long walk on the beach to burn of some energy," Erik says. "In any event, he was asking reasonable questions."

"Come to bed with me."

"The boy…we agreed…" he says, shaking his head. "I will sit here until you fall asleep."

"You will sleep in this bed with me tonight and every night hereafter," she says, handing him the cup.

"I do not sleep well – I might disturb you." He sets the cup and saucer back on the table.

"Then I will deal with that when and if it happens. I cannot bear to be alone – not now, not ever – for as long as we are blessed with life."

"If you are certain," he says.

"I am certain," she says, taking his hands, pressing them to her lips. "We have spent too much time apart. If today taught me anything, it is not to take this…you for granted."

Caressing her cheek, he says, "Very well, but do not say I did not warn you."

Looking up, she examines his face – there is no humor in his eyes – he is not joking with her. "What happened to you? Even the abbreviated explanation you gave Gustave…and your scars…you do not sleep?"

"When I sleep, I dream, but this is not the time to be discussing my sleep habits," he says, drawing her up, so that he might turn down the bed before helping her remove her dressing gown. "We shall talk, but for now, you need rest. Tomorrow we shall speak to the doctor."

Slipping under the covers, sliding to the other side of the bed, making room for him, she pats the bed. "Come."

Removing his trousers, he folds them over the arm of the wing chair. Keeping his shirt and drawers on, he turns off the light, toes off his shoes and stockings, before joining her in the four poster, drawing the duvet over the two of them.

Christine snuggles close to him, pulling his arm around her, resting her head on his shoulder. "This is how things should be."

"I have never slept with anyone before," he says. "I am afraid I will roll over and hurt you."

"I, too, am unused to sleeping with anyone…be assured, I will advise you, if you are in any way disturbing me." With that she kisses him lightly on the cheek and closes her eyes.

"You did not sleep with…"

"No, I did not sleep with…" she mimics him. "Your tea is working. I am very sleepy."

"Chamomile – good for the nerves…pain…"

"Shush. Go to sleep."

"As if it was that easy," he mutters, kissing her forehead. Feeling her warm body pressed against his, the scent of lavender blending with her sweet breath on his neck settles him. The dance of the shadows on the ceiling are hypnotic, encouragement to push the events of the day from his mind. His eyelids soon grow heavy and with a deep sigh, he joins Christine in peaceful slumber.

*Please check out my one shot of the same name on FFN