A/N: Thanks to Jema Moda for all her kind reviews and for pointing out a NASTY typo in this chapter. (ACK! It is too horrible to even comprehend! WHAT WAS I THINKING? NO! NO! NO!) I AM SO SORRY! It has been corrected now. (See reviews if you want to know what the heck I am going on about. I can't bear to type it again.)
Ch. 47 - Weary of This Life
Nearly two months had passed since he had left his beloved Bella on the steps of the Marseille Opera House. True to her word, Bella wrote nearly every day and Erik and the boys lived for her letters.
Erik-Philippe was thirty-five now with three children of his own. Theirs was a happy, loving family, although the little cottage was nearly bursting at the seams with its rapid growth. The architectural firm had prospered under Erik-Philippe's capable hands, just as Erik had predicted, and his son's fame as an architect now rivaled his own.
Alexander had married three years earlier to a gracious, raven-haired beauty named Lizette who possessed a marvelous wit and an eye for fine art much like Alexander's. The two enjoyed each other's company immensely and were expecting their first child later that spring.
Soon after Alexander had become engaged, Frederick had at last seemed to become serious in his search for a wife. His family often joked that it was the legendary competitiveness between the two twins that had driven Frederick to become engaged just six months after his brother, but Frederick had simply countered that he had had so many more female admirers to choose from that the selection had taken more time. His new wife, Gabriela was a passionate, fiery redhead who managed to finally spark some ambition in her dreamer husband, convincing him to begin writing for the local newspaper, as well as to begin on several books of poetry and even a novel.
The boys and their families visited nearly every weekend, but during the weekdays, Erik felt very much alone. His only comforts came in the form of Bella's letters and his nightly visits from Christine. He had never again been able to play the piano after the night of Bella's audition, and his voice was no longer what it once was. As always, Erik could not suffer imperfection, especially in himself, so rather than to subject himself to it, he simply chose not to sing instead.
One stormy night in February, Erik sat before the fire listening to the wind howl outside the window. As he began to doze off, he saw Christine there in front of him. This time, she did not kneel down beside him or sit on the arm of his chair, but chose instead to stand before him, searching his eyes. "I am here, my darling. And I am worried about you." Erik smiled sadly. "My love, I have done all that you have asked. Our family is safe and provided for and all is well, but I grow weary of this life." His eyes filled with tears. "I miss you, Christine. I no longer have Bella or my music to comfort me. My boys are all grown and are occupied with families of their own. I wander this empty house like a wraith. Why can't I come with you tonight, my love? Do you not miss me a little? Do you not want me anymore?" His voice shook and he dropped his face into his hands, weeping bitterly. He felt her soft touch upon his face and could smell the scent of her hair as she knelt down before him and leaned her forehead against his own. Raising his face to meet her eyes, she said softly, "You and I are bound beyond death, beyond time. I will always want you, my love, but I accept that for a little while longer, our children still need you." She touched a hand to his lips when he would have spoken, tenderness in her eyes as she whispered gently, "No, my love, not tonight, but soon, very soon..." As always, she began to disappear, but he threw himself from the chair, trying desperately to hang onto her somehow, to hold her there for one more moment. When his arms met emptiness, he fell to the floor on his knees sobbing bitterly.
Sara, a trusted servant who cared deeply for her master and his family listened to the sound of the Comte's anguished sobs outside the door. Rushing down the stairs she heard him cry out in anguish, "You have asked too much of me, Christine! I cannot do it anymore. Please, please take me with you..." As his voice faded, Sara reached for her cloak and stepped out into the night to fetch young master Erik-Philippe. He would know what to do.
As the early rays of winter sunlight begin to filter into the room, Erik-Philippe knelt down by his father's side on the floor. His eyes filled with tears and fear clutched at his heart as he reached down to find his father's pulse. Breathing a sigh of relief, he felt it at last – faint, but steady. With the help of Gerard, Sara's husband, Erik-Philippe lifted his father onto the bed and helped to make him as comfortable as possible, while Sara went out to send for the doctor.
After a few moments, Erik opened his eyes in surprise to see his eldest son sitting on the corner of his bed wearing a look of intense concern. "Father," Erik-Philippe whispered, "It's alright. I am here and Bridget is downstairs making us some tea. I've sent Sara for the doctor. Alexander and Frederick are on their way. Just rest now, and let us take care of you for a change." Erik-Philippe smiled gently down at him and Erik sighed, closing his eyes once more. Yes, it is nice to be taken care of, he thought drowsily and he allowed himself to slip back into the comforting darkness.
An hour later, the doctor had finished his examination, and Erik was still asleep. Closing the door behind him, the doctor looked up into Erik-Philippe's anxious face. "Doctor, please, my father, what is it?" The doctor laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and replied gently, "I believe, good Vicomte that your ever-youthful father is at last succumbing to old age. And unfortunately, dear lad, there is no cure for that." He turned to pull on his coat which had been draped over a chair in the hallway, but after a moment paused thoughtfully, "By my calculations, Erik-Philippe, the Comte must be nearing eighty years old, though somehow he has never seemed it up until now. But there does seem to be something else upsetting him. He was very restless just now, and he kept murmuring your mother's name. She's been gone for nearly eighteen years now, and yet he has never fully recovered, has he?" Erik-Philippe shook his head slowly.
The doctor donned his hat and picked up his bag once more. With a kind smile, he turned back to the young man that he had helped deliver years ago in that very same house. "Erik-Philippe, your father is old. His body is betraying him, and he is alone in an empty house which once held so many loved ones, so much joy and laughter. I think he senses that his time is nearing, and now that his family is grown, perhaps he wishes it so. I don't think he will ever be truly happy again until he can rejoin your mother. A love like your father and mother had for each other is an undeniable blessing, but it often leaves a gaping wound when it is gone that never truly heals. There is no way to mend such a wound, monsieur, I'm afraid." With that, he tipped his hat to Erik-Philippe and headed down the stairs.
Erik-Philippe paused to dry his eyes and regain his composure before entering his father's room. Stepping inside, he walked over by the bed and pulled up a chair. Looking down at the lined face of the strong man he had always tried to be, fresh tears sprung to his eyes. What would they all do without Father? He had been their rock for so long. His quiet guidance and unconditional love had been the driving force for all of his children's ambitions and the infallible net to catch them whenever their plans went awry. It would be hardest for Bella, he reasoned, for she and her father had always shared an extraordinary bond. But right now, all he could think of was his own pain and loss. This man who had always seemed to him immortal, unchanging, forever strong and steady - this man was dying. The doctor had said as much. As the bitter truth of it hit him full force, Erik-Philippe, now a thirty-five-year-old man laid his head on his father's chest and wept like a child.