Erik

He watched Charles as he slept.

The girls were each quiet in their own beds, lost in peaceful dreams, so Erik could stand near Charles and gaze down upon his child. The white mask was in his pocket, and with one long-fingered hand Erik gently explored the contours of his own face as he stared down at the sweetly innocent visage of his sleeping son. Reaching out hesitantly, the man once known as the Phantom of the Opera brushed at the air just above Charles' baby-soft skin, tracing the boy's features without ever quite touching him.

His eyes closed when he drew back.

The quiet noise—not quite a snore, much nearer to a gentle sigh—Charles made in his sleep flooded Erik's ears. It was deceptively peaceful, soothing even, belying the tearstains that had dried upon the boy's cheeks. They were not left from an angry tantrum, for those kind of childish tears were swiftly scrubbed away. No, the tracks were instead the result of a young boy waking in the night and softly weeping himself back to sleep, too weary and worried to allow anyone into his pain far enough to comfort him. Erik knew such tears well; he shared with his son the inner reticence that had made them both creatures preferring to be alone in sorrow.

Those tears were his fault.

Not Raoul's; not Christine's. Erik's fault. He had been too caught up with the joy of having his Angel near again to remember the delicacy of the situation they were in; he had repeatedly and selfishly provoked the man Charles held most dear, simply out of an old—and unfounded—jealousy. Erik, at least, knew that Christine's love for him was sure, despite his own doubts and fears. Raoul had no such comfort. The man was dealing with enough pain, his home burned and his place in his family threatened; Erik should not have added to it simply because Raoul had committed the grievous sin of daring to love Christine.

He would do better.

Leaving behind the sleeping child that had so effortlessly stolen into his heart, Erik went in search of his son's Papa.

Raoul

There was quiet, deliberate footstep behind him; it was a man's tread, not the light step Christine or the girls, and it certainly was not Charles. Without turning from his seat at the kitchen table, Raoul questioned, "Don't you keep any wine in this blasted house?"

He had not been able to sleep; the Louis-Philippe room, as comfortable as it was, held far too much history for Raoul to be at ease in it. That Charles had been conceived in that room, while he himself had never been allowed the privilege of spending a night in his wife's arms, was galling to Raoul, and he had taken himself into the kitchen in search of some form of relief.

"I do keep wine, but not for drinking oneself into insensibility." The master of the lake-house sat next to Raoul, apparently entirely at his ease in such close proximity to his rival; Raoul himself shifted uncomfortably. His discomfort increased when Erik continued, "And while morphine is remarkably adept at easing one's mind, I gave up that habit quite some time ago and do not have a supply on hand. I don't suppose you would indulge in it anyway."

"Some of us prefer to keep our wits about us, rather than abandoning them like beasts." Raoul retorted. There was a deep silence, then, with that word beasts echoing in the room, but to his surprise Raoul realized that he did not feel threatened by Erik's restrained stillness. What on earth was happening?

Erik's words, when they finally emerged, surprised Raoul further. "You should leave, you know. Take your family and get as far from Paris as possible," he said quietly.

An undignified snort burst out from Raoul. "Leave? Oh, yes, I can just imagine a scene in which I suggest that she leave you. My bags would be packed and on the boat before I finished speaking." He sighed. "And even if, somehow, she agreed, she would not forget you. No matter how far I take her, no matter what I do, she will not forget."

"I'm sorry," Erik whispered. Raoul's spine straightened in shock. There were many things that he had never expected to hear from his adversary, but an apology was undoubtedly at the top of the list. A sincere apology, even, for there was an undeniable depth of regret in those two simple words, a real sorrow filling that golden voice. "I wish . . ." the masked man trailed off with an impotent gesture of his hand.

"Me too."

They were silent for a few long minutes; Erik shifted, and two glasses and a bottle of wine appeared on the table. "A drink?" He asked lightly.

"Always the magician," Raoul noted, realizing that his own tone was dry and even bantering. "You implied that you were not going to give me a drink, if I recall."

Behind the mask, he could swear the other was smiling. "One must keep in practice. And I only said that I did not keep wine for the purpose of drinking oneself insensate." Erik began to pour the wine. "A couple of glasses in company, however . . ."

Raoul's voice became a little more serious as he contemplated his now-full glass. "It would shock her, you know, walking in on us sharing a drink."

"Shocks are good for Christine. They make her think things through, a habit she has a tendency to neglect."

The wine eased his throat; Raoul grinned a little. "Oh, yes. You know she cannot cook? Christine once decided to give our regular cook the day off along with the other servants; she was certain she could handle a dinner for just us three, and it was my birthday. She wanted to make a cake . . ."

Erik's laughter was startling; it was a sound of unrestrained amusement, rendered inviting and even musical by the pure tone of his voice. "May I ask whether the meal was recognizable as such?"

"I couldn't tell if it was edible, much less dinner! We ended up eating cold leftovers from lunch because even Christine couldn't eat her cooking. And the cook ended up throwing away the pan she had baked the cake in; no matter what we did, we could not get it out." Raoul sighed. "It was a good day, despite that. She almost . . ." He cut himself off. Raoul had no desire to discuss what Christine had almost given him, before she tore away.

The quiet drum of Erik's fingers on the tabletop caused Raoul to look up, but the masked man was staring evenly at the wall. "I had expected," he stated quietly, his voice almost hesitant, "Charles to have younger siblings."

Raoul stiffened. He couldn't possibly mean . . ."Whole or half?" Raoul spat sharply, setting his wine glass on the table with a harsh peal.

"For heaven's sake, she thought I was dead!" Erik answered. "She was mourning me. Which she certainly would not have been if we were having an affair behind your back. Do you have so little faith in her?"

"Yes," he retorted shortly, forcing himself to meet Erik's eyes. "When it comes to you, I have no faith in her at all."

Instead of anger, he was surprised to find pity in that yellow gaze. Finally, Erik answered quietly, "I cannot blame you. After all, I had no faith in her when it concerned you, either."

"Which was entirely justified, all things considering."

"I suppose it was," Erik replied. Another silence settled between them, less comfortable than before, but it was not as strained as it might have been. Erik had not exploded at Raoul, or threatened him, or flaunted his influence over Christine, and Raoul had not had serious thoughts about bringing the gendarmes down to the lair, which meant that for the two of them, this was an entirely civil conversation. They had both emptied their glasses and refilled them by the time Erik spoke again. "I should have stayed dead."

"Do you expect me to deny I wish you had?" Raoul queried tiredly. "Even so, I'm not sure anything would have ever changed between us if you remained a ghost." It was hard to admit that, but it was the truth. Christine had had five years to let go of her dead Angel, and she had shown no sign of being willing to do so, even if she'd had another fifty. Gritting his teeth, Raoul addressed Erik's earlier unspoken question. "Of course Charles does not have any siblings. How could he, when she will not let go of you?" Pushing his chair back, he swiftly drained his glass and left it negligently standing on the table. "Good night, Erik," Raoul said simply over his shoulder as he left the room. He knew his voice was still harsh, but he could not soften it.

Erik's reply was quiet and even, a curiously gentle "Good night" that somehow eased Raoul's spirit, just a little. It held a promise; not an oath of surrender, by any means, but an assurance that Erik would behave like a gentleman. For a man like Raoul, that was comforting.

Marie

Strangely reticent, Caron seemed unwilling to leave the nursery until Marie and Charles were with her. Marie eyed her older sister as they finished dressing the quiet child; there were tight lines around the seventeen-year-old's mouth. Normally, even at the manor, Caron would rise early and bring breakfast back to their room for the three of them, leaving Marie to get Charles dressed for the day—at least, that was their routine on the days Charles consented to behave. More often, the two of them wound up chasing him down after he had escaped them. Of course, they usually allowed such flights; they had found that if Charles was able to get his energy out in an early-morning play-chase, he was less likely to make a real escape attempt later in the day.

Caron walked slowly in the back as the three of them went toward the kitchen; Marie did not miss the way her sister went pale when she saw Erik quietly speaking with Christine over a cup of tea. The golden eyes flicked toward their little group and Erik stood swiftly, gesturing Marie and Charles to the table. Worried, Marie watched her sister tremble when the masked man moved toward her; she was almost shaking when he gently took her arm and led her into the hallway.

"She'll be alright," Christine murmured, and Marie flushed when she realized her concern had been so visible. "I hope you girls know I would never put you in danger. However, Erik did frighten Caron rather badly last night, and he wanted to apologize."

"She didn't say anything," Marie answered. As she fixed breakfast—to offset Christine's inability to successfully make more than a cold lunch, both of the girls had become adequate cooks over the last two years—she was striving to listen to the conversation going on in the hall. Marie could make out a few words in Erik's smooth voice, but none of them were close enough together to make any sense. Erik and Caron re-entered the kitchen just ahead of Raoul; the red-head was still a little stiff, but she was less white than she had been. Marie decided to let it drop; she would get the story out of Caron later.

Charles was fussy this morning; he would only eat if Raoul was the one coaxing him. The boy kept giving Erik questioning little glances, though, like he was demanding a silent answer. Finally, the child asked, "Where is the rose, Angel?"

Everyone froze.

Erik cleared his throat. "I . . . do not know, Charles." The faintest touch of a grim smile lit his voice. "I returned it to your father quite some time ago, that singing rose of his." This was said with a significant glance at Raoul; Marie remembered that the Comte had not been present for Erik's explanation last evening.

The young Vicomte turned to look at Raoul. "What did you do with it, Papa?" Raoul's blue eyes darted helplessly between Erik and Christine, begging for an answer. "Did you plant it?"

A slight smile lifted Raoul's mouth as he grasped onto that solution. "Yes, Charles. I planted it, in the most beautiful place in the world, where it would be watched over and protected."

Charles nodded, contemplating, and for a moment the little family believed that would be the end of it. A young boy's curiosity, however, is not something to be taken lightly. "Where did you plant it?"

This time it was Erik's tenor that answered him, falling into a rhythmic pattern Marie recognized; Christine used the same technique when she told stories. "East of the sun and west of the moon, in the land of twilight and fairytales, where such roses will bloom forever and a day before shimmering into the ice crystals that creep across your window on the coldest winter night. It was a white rose, Charles, which is why it will turn into an ice crystal; the red ones become the flaming scales of dragons." A melancholy note entered his tone. "I had a dragon once . . ."

Erik stopped speaking, and his five entranced listeners were allowed their breaths back. Marie shivered in delight; she loved stories, and Erik was obviously a master at telling them. No wonder Christine was so good at weaving tales, with such a teacher! Caron had told her as much of what had happened between these three five years ago as she could; Marie was anxious to hear the ending. It was good of Erik, to let the five of them stay in his home for the sake of an old love, even though she was now married; Marie had sighed at the hopeless romance of it all.

From where he had wriggled into Raoul's lap, Charles stared at his Angel with a bemused expression on his face. "Did you really have a dragon, Angel?"

The warm gold tones of Erik's laughter broke the remnants of the spell of sound he had woven upon them. "No, Charles. Even I could not hide a dragon in the basement of the opera-house," he explained lightly. "But it makes a pretty story, doesn't it?"

The boy nodded; his fingers had crept up to his mouth. Raoul gently pulled them out. "None of that, Charles," he murmured, his voice less stern than it might have been. "I think it's time for you to have a writing-lesson with your nurses, don't you?" Charles' complaints were minimal; he loved his writing lessons, and soon the three of them were ushered quite out of the kitchen.

Christine

Once the three youngest had left, the kitchen was silent. Christine allowed herself one moment of pure childish submersion, pressing the heels of her hands tiredly against her eyes, before looking up to gaze at the two men sitting side-by-side in front of her. She had forced herself to do what she rarely did last night, once Erik had left the music-room; she had gazed steadily back at the past and the present, doing her best to get into her loves' heads and looking at her own actions from their viewpoint.

Many of those views had not been pleasant.

There was an odd lack of tension between them, now, as she glanced between the two. Erik was reclining gracefully in his chair, steadily returning her gaze; Raoul had his arms folded across his chest and was looking off to the side. Christine settled her stare on the latter; hands cupping her chin, she waited until he looked at her. "Have I ever done anything but hurt you?" she asked sadly, once Raoul's blue eyes finally met her own.

He seemed surprised by both her tone and her choice of topic. Raoul pulled his gaze away from her again; evasively, he answered, "We have had happy times, Christine."

Before replying, she swiftly glanced at Erik; he nodded and quietly left the room. Standing, Christine came around the table to take his seat next to her husband. "That would be a no, then," she murmured. Hesitantly, not sure he would accept her touch, she reached out and laid her hand against his cheek. "If I could change things, I would, Raoul. I don't know how, but I would."

"Christine," he sighed and pulled away from her. "I don't want to discuss it."

She leaned her elbows on the table. "I know. But if we don't, then we will just remain here, forever in limbo."

"Can't you leave me alone, Christine?" Raoul growled. "For once in your life, can you not just leave me alone?"

Standing, she turned away from him a little. "I thought part of the problem was that I had left you alone rather too often."

Raoul was silent for a heartbeat; his voice was cold when he answered, but she knew he had every right to be angry with her. "And would you change that as well?"

"It was wrong of me to marry you," she answered quietly. "I know that now. Even though I love you—I do, Raoul, please don't laugh like that. Just not the way you wanted. It was wrong of me to marry you precisely because I don't love you as a wife should love a husband." This was the difficult part; Christine swallowed hard. "And once I had married you, it was wicked of me to turn you away. You knew I would have Charles; you knew whose son he was. But Erik was dead and I should have stopped grieving for him a long time ago."

"You didn't, though. And he is not dead now."

Christine pressed her lips together. "No. I could not stop grieving for him; how do you cease to mourn part of your soul, Raoul?" Gentling her tone, she added, "And you're right; he is not dead, and now instead of a remarried widow, I find myself the living bride of you both."

She turned to look at him; Raoul's eyes were still hurtful, but there was a small, rueful smile on his lips. "And you cannot have us both. So, Christine, we are back to where we started. The choice is yours."

It was then that Caron came into the room, Charles in tow, both of them looking about frantically for Marie.

Marie

It was dark.

She had left the other two in the nursery, pouring over letters, while she went to find a pail for lake-water. Caron was a strong believer in object lessons; she had asked Marie to get some water from the lake so that they could teach the boy about water that flowed under the ground. He had been asking endless questions about how Erik had managed to find a lake below the surface of the street, and none of them would have peace until Charles had an answer. The logical thing, of course, would have been to have Erik explain it, but the masked musician was nowhere to be found, and Marie didn't believe her sister would be anxious to find him anyway.

After locating a suitable bucket, Marie had carefully let herself out of the house and walked down to the shore. She had filled the bucket with the icy water and turned back to the house, but an outcropping of rock a little distance away had caught her eye. Wandering closer, Marie had discovered that the rock was, in fact, a carved gargoyle, exquisite in its detail. Thinking that Charles would love it, Marie had curiously walked past the statue, looking for others like it. She had found a few, and her aimless feet had taken her farther and farther from the light of the house, until quite suddenly she had realized she was lost in the dim shadows.

Panicking, Marie had dropped the bucket and spilled cold water all over her gown; she had picked the direction she thought she had come from and dashed forward, seeking a way out of the labyrinthine maze of tunnels and corridors she had found herself in. Half an hour later, she was now hopelessly lost and in a tunnel much darker than the one she had started in. Whimpering to herself, Marie sat on the floor and curled her arms around her knees, quietly crying into her damp skirt.

No one could possibly find her in the cellars of the Opera house.

She did not know how long she sat there; her body had grown numb, as had her mind, and all Marie could do was stare listlessly into the gloom, waiting for her spirit to dull to the point of oblivion. It was so cold . . . and so dark . . .

Points of yellow appeared, like two stars shining suddenly in a night sky. Marie blinked and they were gone; she must have been dreaming. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, and so did not see the tall dark shape that stooped down to her; she only felt cold arms gathering her up, and could not help but wonder if this was what it meant to die.

Warmth surrounded her and she woke; there were soft comforting shapes around her, blankets and pillows possessed of a heavenly silkiness. Marie sank further into them, not bothering to open her eyes; alive or dead, she was finally warm.

The voice that spoke in her ear was soothing and gentle, its heartbreaking beauty all the deeper for the masculine sense of assurance it gave to her. Marie flinched when cold hands lifted her head, but the voice eased her fear and she drank what was put to her lips. Not scalding, but not cool, the herbal tea spread its peaceful heat down into her center, and she sighed with delight as the laudanum in it sent her back to sleep.

Erik

"She'll live," he said quietly, coming into the music room where his other houseguests were anxiously waiting. Erik studiously ignored the pang he felt—still!—to see Christine sitting close to Raoul's side, holding his hand tightly; there were more important things for him to be worrying about. Caron drew his attention to her when she stood; she was shaking. Erik mentally berated himself for frightening her so last night; he had been sick to death of women fearing his face long before he built this house, and her reaction had been an unpleasant reminder of his past.

Of course, his angry use of his magician's skills to scare her further hadn't helped any, either. No apology made the morning after, no matter how softly rendered, could atone for such a fright.

"Monsieur?" Caron asked softly; Erik made his gaze as gentle as he possibly could when he turned to look at her. She was pale, her freckles standing out starkly on her otherwise fair skin; the disappearance of her younger sister had shaken her deeply. His heart filled with pity for the child—she certainly would feel responsible for Marie's wandering off. With a small gesture he bade her to continue. "May I see her?" The redhead's voice was still quiet, nearly a whisper.

Erik nodded. "She sleeps, but you may see her. Try not to wake her." He stepped aside and gestured into the warm little drawing room where he had placed the unconscious girl. With a small cry, Caron dashed out of the music-room.

"Wouldn't it be best to let her rest?" Christine asked, looking up at him with a worried expression.

He couldn't help chuckling softly, just a little. "She'll sleep, Christine," Erik told her wryly, thinking of the times his protégé had been put through the indignity of his sleeping potions.

"Oh," she murmured, a smile twisting her lips briefly; apparently Christine had remembered his fondness for using laudanum as well. She glanced over to Charles; though it was only mid-afternoon, the boy was stretched out on the divan, fast asleep. Christine raised an inquiring eyebrow at Erik.

"No," he retorted indignantly, "I had nothing to do with that."

She just smiled.

-Chapter End-

A/N: Grr! I wrote 90 percentof this late Friday night, but the bloody campus computer labs were all closed this weekend because school starts Monday, so I couldn't post until today! Heh, do you like quick updates? This is a one-time thing . . . it wrote itself in the late hours of the night, which means that it is either good or rather awful. Please tell me which (honestly) and how you think the character relationships are going . . . (grin)

I know that there are some . . . more adult . . . topics discussed in this phic, particularly this chapter, but I cannot ignore the fact that Erik and Christine have a son, or the fact that the Chagny marriage is unconsummated, because both of those issues have a great deal of bearing on how the characters are feeling. I don't write smut—at all—and will try to deal with these topics as tastefully as possible, but they do have to be dealt with, which is most of the reason I rated this phic PG-13. Just a note.

It rather amuses me that Marie doesn't get that the "story" hasn't ended yet. Of course she knows that Erik is Charles' father, but I don't think the idea that Christine might now love someone other than her husband has quite entered the girl's mind yet, heh. Well, toodles!

Phantomluvr: Lol, I might have problems denying such a kiss also—but she is married, after all, and Chrissy is a good 19th-century girl. Thanks for reading!

Mominator: I can HEAR you saying ECR after this chapter. I can just hear it. But nope, they're just (slightly) getting along right now.

Yes . . . the borrowed line . . . heh, sorry, when I sent you the bit of that last chapter to look over I put in a comment saying "do you mind?" but I must have forgotten to tell you to put 'view comments' on in Word. Oopsies. . . forgive me since I'm updating? Heh, kidding. Thanks for your review (as ever!); I was quite fond of the rose explanation myself, lol.

Naomipoe: Hey, wow, I feel special! CL recommending this to you! Awesome (thanks, CL). Lol, yeah, I love my Erik too. Thanks bunches and bunches for reading and reviewing . . . er . . . did I review the last chapter of Attack of the Muses? Hmm. I will have to check. Yummy angst? Oh, you just wait . . . .

DarkMoonLightBright: Thanks! Yeah, after this updates will DEFINITELY be slower . . . I mean it this time! Lol, muchas gracias for reading and reviewing, glad you like it!

Hisinspiration: Hey, I'm glad you like Charles—he's actually kind of hard for me to write, since my own little brother hasn't been four since I was nine. He's a cutie, though, isn't he? Just love the kid. And thanks for reading; here's another update for you!

Onelastchance: lol, short and sweet. I liked your review. Thanks a billion! Here's some more . . .

phantomlovin4ever: heh, how does updating three days later sound? Good to you? Good. Of course, this will NEVER happen again—ever—but it flowed and so I wrote. Hope you like; thanks!

intoxicated by eriks music: (glomps brownie with sprinkles) Hey, thanks, savy!

Clever Lass: Billions of Erik dolls (lol, I guess in phic this you might prefer Raoul dolls . . .) for your great review—merci, merci! I love it when you make me think things through and make sure I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Hope that Erik is a little more congenial in this chapter; you guys are not supposed to be rooting for an RC ending, which means I have a few things to look at seriously. My deepest thanks for your honesty—how else am I supposed to know what I need to be looking at? Be talking to you later!