A/N: Hello everyone! Whittney here, with my first attempt at something (hopefully) beyond just E/C fluff. This story is set five years after the ending of Susan Kay's Phantom (the "real" end, not the Raoul-comes-back-seventeen-years-later end). Erik is believed to have been dead these past five years, and in accordance the de Chagny family has taken vacations to France every winter. Little Charles is four years old, and there is a slight difference between this and Kay's: Raoul and Christine didn't get married until they both knew she was going to have Charles. (See if you can spot the point in this chapter where I am very bad and quote Kay almost directly). I know this chapter may appear a bit RC, but it isn't, I promise it is wholly EC. I'm just being nice to Raoul in this story.

Oh yes—I apologize for a very severe lack of Erik in the first few chapters . . . but he IS supposed to be dead, after all. wink

Chapter One: Her Son

Christine

Erik was dead.

She awoke every morning to that knowledge; the knowledge that the man she had learned to love beyond all reason had left her forever, shackled as she was to mortality. Five years had not given any ease to the pain in her heart; indeed, without Charles, she would have been content to slip into a catatonic oblivion.

Thank you, bless you, Father, for Charles. Getting out of bed was the hardest part of her day; to make this ordeal easier, Christine always first knelt by her bed and expressed her gratitude to Heaven for the gift of her boy. And then, after she had spoken the amen, with the hope that her Angel could still hear her, she would whisper I love you.

Raoul invariably knelt with her, and another prayer, a silent one of thanks would rise from her heart for his kindness. She knew that, far from praying with her for her sake, he too was sincerely grateful for Charles' existence—the only heart Charles was wrapped tighter around than his mother's, if possible, was that of the man he called Papa. Raoul had given them everything; his name, his home, his affectionate, gentle love, and—what she perhaps needed more than anything—his silent understanding. Every morning, without fail, he pretended not to hear that softly murmured I love you.

He knew it wasn't meant for him.

Christine did love Raoul, in a way; she had even grown into an easy sort of companionship with him. Together they were good parents, on the whole; Charles was adored, but he was also disciplined. And Christine was determined not to fall into the same sort of mental trap that, according to Erik, Madeline had. To Christine's mind, Madeline believed that because her child looked like a demon, it was inevitable he should act like one; Christine refused to believe that her son would be unscrupulous simply because his father had been. In truth, Charles was certainly mischievous, but not more so than many boys and much less trouble than some.

He was a good child. But there were certain things that Christine could not deny, not even in the forefront of her mind where she lied to herself daily.

The first of these was that Charles had his father's gift. Not all of Erik's frighteningly prodigious genius, perhaps, but a certain un-childlike propensity toward the things Erik had mastered. His long, deft hands—which looked so odd attached to the wrists of a child—were remarkably adept at learning any task they were taught. He adored architecture, but seemed not to have inherited Erik's obsession with illusion. Charles wouldn't have, after all; there was no need. Like his father before him, however, it was in music that he found his dearest love. At four, Charles was a good, if not terribly complex, pianist, and he had begun to write short, simple original melodies that were unfailingly soothing. Christine loved to sing them; they were peaceful, and brought a layer of ease to her heart that she otherwise would not have known.

Even though she loved them, there were certain of his young compositions that she would not sing.

No matter how often or hard he begged, no matter how good he promised to be, Christine never sang one of his duets. She would sing to him, she would sing for him, she would sing any piece of music he placed before her, but she would not sing with him. Perhaps this was a harsh thing for a mother to deny her son, something that could be looked at as senseless and even cruel; but it was not something Christine could change. She did not refuse to sing with him because she disliked his singing; far from it. His voice was beautiful and pure and she could listen to it for hours on end.

That was the problem; that was the second thing that Christine could never deny about her child, no matter how much she may have wanted to: he had Erik's voice. And though she could listen to him without hurt, singing with Charles brought forward too many painful memories—memories of that same voice, matured and used with the skill of decades, harmonizing with her soul.

One of the few conversations Christine and Raoul had in which they acknowledged Charles' paternity was when they occasionally admitted to each other their fears that Charles had not only inherited Erik's voice, but also the strange ability to control other men that Erik had used so devastatingly. At four, it was impossible for them to tell, particularly when he was well-loved by their entire household—were his requests humored out of love, or was obedience compelled? Usually, however, they managed to put such thoughts out of their minds and concentrate on the day-to-day business of living.

Some mornings were more difficult for Christine than others; she knew this one would be the hardest yet. She lay awake for nearly an hour, lost in memory and not stirring even when she felt Raoul begin to awaken on the other side of their bed. It was only when a decidedly un-Raoul-like body jumped between them that Christine opened her eyes.

Charles, dressed half in his night-clothes and half in his day outfit, grinned at her from where he sat on the invisible line that divided the bed in two—the line between Raoul and Christine that had never been crossed. She smiled and sat up, holding her arms out for her son.

"What shall we do today, Mama?" Charles asked after seeking the comfort of her arms. His dark hair showed all signs of having avoided his nurses' combined attentions thus far; it was adorably mussed.

"Well," Christine replied, stroking his head "It is our first day back in France. Maybe we should just work on your lessons," she teased.

Beside her, Raoul snorted even as Charles protested. Hearing an ally, the boy wriggled out of Christine's hold and sat on Raoul's chest. Mock-groaning, the elder de Chagny asked, "What do you think we should do today, son?"

"Is there snow, Papa?"

"Yes," Raoul drawled with a smile.

"Then we should go outside." Charles stated this as though it were the very pinnacle of reason. "We can build a snow-house, oui?"

Christine forced herself to smile at him. "Yes, Charles, we can build a snow-house. You appear to have lost your nannies; find them and get dressed, then . . ." her voice betrayed her with the slightest of pauses, "Papa and I will join you for breakfast. All right?"

"Yes mama," Charles turned guiltily at the knock on Christine and Raoul's—previously locked—bedroom door. At Raoul's beckon, Marie and Caron pulled entered and gave their young charge similar scolding looks. Christine considered herself fortunate to have found the pair of girls to watch over Charles when she could not; Marie and Caron were sisters, born a year apart, who had been daughters of a highly educated family. Tragedy had struck their home in the form of a fever, and they were left with only each other and mounting family debts. Both were quiet, good girls who enjoyed music; besides this, they were in their middle teens and quite capable of keeping up with a rambunctious and occasionally strong-minded boy.

"Come now, lad, you know you're not to be sneaking in here," Caron chided as Charles reluctantly slithered off the bed and walked toward them. "Let's finish getting you dressed, m'boy, and put some food in you before you think of doing anything else."

"Thank you, girls," Christine called after them as they firmly closed the door. She sighed, letting her smile drop, and pressed her forehead into one hand. "Where did he learn to pick locks? He's four." she murmured tiredly.

"I haven't the foggiest." Raoul got up and came around to her side of the bed. Kneeling down, he gave her a long look. "Come, Christine," he told her quietly, tugging on her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then in an even softer voice, added, "I know it hurts today, but you need to get up." She looked at him, a tiny half-smile pulling at the side of her mouth. Encouraged, Raoul added, "If you don't, he'll pull the house down around our ears."

Christine allowed her smile to grow a little. "True enough. It's a good thing—"we don't have a chandelier, she started to say, but she could not quite get the words out. "Forgive me, Raoul," she whispered, kneeling next to him.

"Christine, cherie, anything I ever needed to forgive you of has been forgotten long ago."

"Liar," she replied softly. "How could you forget, when I won't let us?"

He sighed. "Not forgotten, then, but . . . absolved." Raoul gently took her hands in his and kissed them. "Let us continue, or your son will be bursting in again demanding his breakfast."

They turned to the bed and Christine murmured her simple prayer. She finished with a soft "Amen."

"Amen," Raoul echoed quietly as he stood, turning from her so that he could ignore the. . .

"I love you."