It was the week the baby was due, and Erik was in tormented fear. As overjoyed as he was about the thought of himself being a father, he was riddled with agony over the thought that his son would be cursed with his scars. How could he do that to a child? How could he force his repulsiveness on his own flesh and blood? Of course, there was a possibility that the child would be born perfect, and that was all the hope that Erik had left. Maurissa was no help; with regret, Erik remembered the first, and last, conversation they had ever had on the subject.

"But surely there is a chance... a chance that the child will resemble you.... The chance he won't be cursed with my appearance!" The thought had plagued him all that month.

"Yes, " Maurissa had replied, grave, and sounding obviously regretful. "But we can only hope that won't happen..."

He had been shocked by that, and certain he had misunderstood her. "You wish to hope that he is born with my scars?"

At that, she had smiled, and Erik was reminded of the madness that lurked within her soul. "Of course, my love! Why ever would I want a son" -she'd been so sure it was going to be male, though Erik wouldn't care either way what it was- "that looks as disgustingly good as all the hypocritical bastards up there? He will resemble you! You, my love! You in everyday..."

That thought had nearly brought Erik to his knees in frightened revulsion. No... No, surely the sins of the father would not fall on the son. Not this time. While Maurissa prayed for the replica of the father that she longed for in the son, Erik prayed even harder that his son would be flawless.

That Friday, the moment came. Maurissa, who'd been sitting on the couch, watching the fire, and listening to Erik singing softly, gave a soft cry, and curled around her abdomen. Water flooded between her legs and then the contractions started.

"Erik!" She had cried softly, jarring his melody. "Erik, it's time... Please..."

Panic had immediately struck him, and he had swam for a moment in uncertain paralysis before snapping to, and rushing to the door. Maurissa had insisted that she did not wish to go up to a doctor, not even during the birth, and Erik had at last reluctantly agreed, not wanting to exasperate her in her condition. But just because she wouldn't go up, didn't mean Erik wouldn't bring a doctor here...

"Please, chérie, wait just a little while longer... I will call a docteur to us..."

"Erik, no!" She cried, but it was too late; he had donned his mask, cloak, and hat, and already vanished out the oaken portal.

Fifteen minutes later, he startled hell out of André by bursting into the managers office. André had jumped to his feet, having never seen Erik so alarmed, and gone to his panicked side.

"What is it?"

"Un docteur!" He had cried, ignoring the look of surprise, and nearly shaking André in his hurry. "Un docteur! Depechez-vous, m'sieur! Get a docteur here now!"

"Erik, what is the problem? What do you need the docteur for?" Regardless, André immediately went to his office phone and called for one of the most talented of the Opera's doctors.

"The child! Maurissa is going to have the child!" He had explained in a rush, wondering what in the hell was taking the doctor so long to get there...

André made some muttered curses, pressing the button for the doctor again and again, and a short time later, Doctor Charles Brynner came rushing in. Erik had removed himself to the shadows of the room, pacing agitatedly back and forth.

"You rang for me, M'sieur?" He asked André softly, sensing the alarm in the room despite the man's presence of calm.

"Indeed. The matter I am about to present to you is being given to you in the strictest of confidence, M'sieur..." André started, severely. It would do no good to have the doctor help with the birth, if he went around later and spread rumors about the opera ghost. Erik had escaped the mob only by a hair's breadth of quick thought, and André didn't want to go through that again.

"I understand, M'sieur." The doctor did indeed. Many of the higher officials all around the city went to Dr. Brynner for a number of things that they did not want disclosed to public; sometimes they had gotten a mistress pregnant, and didn't want their wives to find out, sometimes they had unsightly diseases that the public mustn't no about. Yes, Dr. Brynner knew well about secrets, and if there was one thing he could do, he could hold them to his grave.

Then he felt the presence behind him, and turned, right into the face of a large, powerful being, wearing a dark cloak and hat, and masked. Yellow eyes, much like a cat's, burned out at him, and he took a startled step back. Then he remembered all the hullabaloo that had been made over some kinda of monster living in the Populaire. He, himself, had heard time and time again through his dealings with the Opera, about the 'ghost,' but, having never seen or heard anything mysterious, he had been quick to consider them fanciful superstitions. He quickly amended that.

"Dr. Brynner, please meet Erik, a close friend of mine who needs your aid." André said softly, quickly, before Charles panicked.

The man in the mask nodded curtly, eyes cold and wary, but completely sane. Dr. Brynner forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. He nodded back, becoming completely professional with the knowledge that the man before him needed his aid.

"What appears to be the problem, Monsieur...." He lost his calm a moment. "M'sieur...?"

"Erik, please," came the man's soft, cultured voice. For just a moment, Charles was swept away by that voice; the sonorous beauty of it both captured his senses, and almost made him want to weep.

He nodded, breaking himself from the trance. "Erik, then. My name is Charles Brynner. Dr. Charles Brynner. Now, what seems to be the problem?"

Did he catch a hint of a smile on the man's face?

Erik had only met one doctor before in his entire life, and he was nothing like Barye. Instead of having the cold, calculating expression of a man not yet in his prime and still green and eager to know the workings of everything, Dr. Brynner had the face of a man who had come to grips with advancing age, and was now as doting as a grandfather on anything that needed his help. He seemed like nothing more than a kindly old man, and Erik breathed a soft sigh of relief, doubting that this one would be trouble.

"It's my wife, Monsieur." He murmured, softly, remembering Maurissa and once again having to surpress the quiver of his emotions. "She is pregnant, and has started labor."

The man's eyes widened in startlement, and then he composed himself and nodded. "Take me to her then. I can help her."

Erik led him down below. Maurissa was waiting.

Four hours later, he heard Maurissa's soft voice calling him into the bedroom. She had begged him to wait in the library, not wanting him to see her in the distress, and, worried, he had at last assented. She had already sent the doctor out when he came in, and he entered slowly, nervously.

She lay on the bed, face flushed with blood, hair stuck to her face and neck and draped around her pillow, and completely soaked through with the perspiration of labor. She was covered with a white sheet, and she held in her arms a bundle of cloth. Movement came from the cloth, and Erik realized that that was where she held the child. His child...

"Take it from me." The voice was cold, and Erik, whose eyes had been riveted on the bundle in her arms, flicked up to her in surprise.

"Maurissa? What's wrong?" He moved to her bedside quickly, wanting to hold his son, see if God had been merciful just once, but first he had to see to her.

"Take the boy, Erik." Her voice was full of thick disgust, as though she was reviled by the newborn she held, and Erik realized she was holding it at arm's length away from her. The knowledge that he had a son only boyed his spirits up for an instance before Erik's spirits fell into gloom; the boy, then, the boy was cursed with the scars... He had brought his own curse down upon his flesh-and-blood, his son, his child...

Gingerly, he took him into his arms, almost too pained to look, but realized he had to. Holding the baby close to him, one massive hand gently cradling the tiny, frail skull, he pushed aside the cloth that hid him from sight with one finger, taking his first look at the creation of him and Maurissa, the seed of his loins.

There was no blemish on the pale features that held orbs of the deepest blue; his child, his son, was perfect.