A/N: Erik! DUN DUN DUN! Still not a whole lot happening, but at least more than there has been. And yes, I know I've said this is almost strictly off Kay's version, but I am using some of the ALW songs, occasionally mutilated to fit my thoughts (I don't own them, I don't own Erik but I wish I did, you know the drill, please don't sue me). Hope you like!

Erik

A shadow in the forest surrounding the de Chagny estate cursed softly to itself as Christine, the Comtess de Chagny, stumbled towards its hiding place. Behaving as a shadow should, it just managed to withdraw to a more secure hiding place before Christine passed by. It watched her concernedly, noting with relief that she did not head into the deeper woods but stayed in the relative safety of the estate. Soon, her husband followed, and interest sparked in the shadow when it noticed that, rather than hold her as most husbands would, Raoul de Chagny merely knelt in the snow by Christine's side and held her hand as she wept.

Almost as though he felt he did not own the right to comfort her.

It was abominably foolish of him, really, to come here every winter, the shadow—whose name was Erik—thought. The only thing a visit to the Chagny home guaranteed him was heartache. He could see his shade hanging over this family as clearly as he saw the misery in his beloved Christine's eyes every time he watched her from the darkness; the quiet pain of the couple before him was as much his fault as anyone's.

It wasn't supposed to end this way. Firstly, Erik was supposed to be dead. It had taken Nadir and him a good six months to realize that Erik's condition was, far from worsening, actually improving; six months after that, he had his full strength and former health back, as hardy as it ever had been. The irony had been bitter; if he had not believed that he was finally to be granted release from this earth, Christine would still be with him, and they would be raising their son together.

Secondly, she was supposed to be free of his memory by now, which was palpably not the case.

Their son. Erik looked back to the open yard where Charles was supposed to be playing and found, to his amusement, that the boy had snuck out a secret entrance of his snow cave and, unbeknownst to his nurses, was determinedly sneaking into the forest. They were losing him again; not that he blamed Marie and Caron. In fact, their appointment had been one of the very few ways he had anonymously intervened in the Chagny household. But keeping up with a boy who had an incredible knack for stealth was no easy task, and he could not fault them for occasionally failing at it. After all, who could expect a four-year-old to escape unseen from a snow-house that, to all appearances, had only one exit—an exit two concerned nurses were diligently watching?

Fortunately, there was another set of eyes on the scene—golden eyes that watched as said boy headed straight into the woods, a look of concern on his young face. Erik frowned; Charles did not seem to be paying any attention to where he was going. Walking dreamily along like that was most likely to get one lost in a very short space of time . . .

Erik followed.

He remembered the first time he had seen Charles; truly seen him, and known instantly that this was not the son of Raoul de Chagny. The boy had been over a year old; Raoul had been showing him the land he would someday own. He had followed their progress silently, but he had been astonished at the child's grasp of rudimentary language. Boys just out of infancy did not, to his knowledge, talk as this young Charles spoke. He had moved in for a closer look and then—well. Erik had ventured into the family home only rarely, so he had not heard much of the boy's musical talent; but those yellow eyes, that clear, high voice, spoke for themselves. Erik was fascinated. He had once, years earlier, made a drawing of what he might have looked like without his deformities; Charles was a younger mirror-image of that drawing. The thick dark hair, the thin, almost hauntingly beautiful face, the long and slender hands; it was all Erik. Though he could quite clearly see Christine in the boy's nose . . .

Dark was falling; he had been shadowing Charles for over an hour now. The boy must have had quite a bit of serious thinking to do; he was only now looking up and realizing that he was lost. Erik could see panic in the way Charles' eyes darted among the trees, but instead of rushing in one direction blindly, the child seemed to consider his surroundings and, though he could no longer see his footprints in the snow, picked a direction he obviously believed the most likely to take him home. He was generally correct; his path, if followed straightly, would certainly take him within hailing distance of the estate. Relieved, Erik turned to go—he had seen enough for today.

But what if Charles did not continue on a straight course?

Christine could not bear to lose her son today; not this, the day she thought she had lost him, Erik, as well.

He studiously ignored the possibility that he was concerned for Charles for the boy's own sake. Erik had had enough of love.

Charles, after a time, seemed to believe that he had gone far enough that he should have been able to see his home by now. In the distance, Erik could hear men shouting; the entire household would be out looking for the boy. He would surely be safe now, wouldn't he?

It was at that moment that Charles turned and set off on a new course—directly away from the Chagny estate. Erik swore under his breath.

"Monsieur?" The boy was looking around nervously, seeking the source of the voice.

His son, indeed, Erik thought wryly; like him, Charles had to have the ears of a cat to have heard that soft curse. Sighing, for he could see no way out of it, he emerged from the trees and crouched down to be at the child's level. "I will not hurt you, Charles," Erik said quietly.

"You know my name, monsieur?" The boy was considering him with frank curiosity; if the sight of his own eyes reflecting at him out of a stranger's face disturbed him, he gave no sign of it.

"Yes," Erik replied shortly. He forced himself to soften his tone; no child would come to someone who spoke to him that sharply. "I know where you live, Charles, I have come to take you home. Come with me." Nodding, Charles stumbled toward him, and Erik noticed for the first time how very tired the child must be. He's only four, for all he's your son, Erik scolded as he picked up the boy and began to walk in the direction of the estate. Half of his mind was continually ranting about how utterly foolish this was; the other half was listening to Charles' heartbeat.

"Do you know my mother?" Obviously, Charles was not tired enough to leave off the main pursuit of a four-year-old, which was—and is—asking questions.

"Yes."

"When?" Charles asked. Erik's reply, wry and cryptic and containing far too much information, escaped his lips before he could stop it. He clamped his mouth shut; the child had no such compunction. "And my father?"

"Yes, Charles, I knew your father as well." Hesitating, but in the end a victim of his own curiosity—on both sides, he noted wryly—Erik looked down at the boy. "Do you know what made your mother cry today?"

Charles looked down; his small face was troubled. "I sang a song to her—a song she sings when she is not paying attention to what she is doing. She doesn't usually cry when I sing; at least, I don't think she does." He frowned.

The worry, the self-doubt, in his tone touched Erik's heart despite its scars. "No, Charles, I am sure that she loves your singing. Perhaps it is a song that makes her sad; would you sing it for me?"

"Oui." He began, "Wandering child, so lost, so helpless—"

Erik touched his gloved fingertip to the child's mouth. "Yes, Charles," he whispered sadly, "it is the song's fault that she cried. She has . . . unhappy memories of it. Do you understand?"

He nodded; the golden eyes closed and he squirmed a little closer to Erik. The once-angel felt his breath catch in his throat; such innocent trust he had rarely seen. And that voice; he could hear his own childish tones in the clarity of that young voice. Oh, my son, the anguished thought groaned in his mind. What have we wrought, my white rose and I? What did the red rose suffer of its parents' sins, to make it turn the color of heart's blood?

There was no answer.

Suddenly they were surrounded by men and women, happy faces crying out "Thank you, Monsieur!" and declaring "We've found him—run ahead, we've found him!"

Erik stopped and tried to hand Charles over to the stablemaster. The man declined, grinning; the boy clung to him and said, "No, monsieur, come—my parents will want to see you."

That, I highly doubt, Erik thought dryly. But he had never been able to refuse Christine anything she asked; it was proving equally impossible for him to deny her son such a simple request. I will leave him in the yard. See him safely to his mother's arms and then just—leave. Without a word to anyone. The cowl of his cloak hid the mask; none of the household servants leading them to the Chagny home had seen it, of that he was certain. Of course, Charles had a vastly better vantage point, but that could not be helped.

They were there now, the snow-house hulking to the side as Christine, visibly held back from running into the forest herself by Raoul, cried out, "Charles!" She loosed herself from her husband's hold and ran toward them; Charles was equally adroit at wriggling out of Erik's arms and dashing towards her, calling for his mother. Erik backed away; slipping soundlessly through the noisy crowd, he had just reached the shadows outside the lamp-posts when he heard her call out to him. "Wait, Monsieur," Christine said breathlessly as she came up behind him—too close, she was far too close. He faded farther into the darkness, averted his eyes so she would not see their glow. "I do not even know your name to thank you," she whispered, her eyes searching for the place where he had disappeared into the night. "Thank you, monsieur. Thank you." Tears were still running down her face, but at least now they were of joy, not of the old pain.

I think you do know my name, my dear. I truly think . . . you do.