Author's note: This story takes place following the Kay novel, which assumes that Charles is the son of Christine and Erik, though raised by Christine and Raoul. In that novel, Raoul comes to terms with the fact that Charles is probably not his. My story takes place when Charles is in his early 20s. The story is set in the early 1900s in Paris, which will become relevant later on.
This is something I haven't tried before, and I would appreciate all the notes I can get on it. There will be plenty of flashbacks to provide background on Erik, Christine and Raoul.
Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Charles and Raoul are not mine, or anyone else from POTO. Rosalind and the child are.
The door remained shut, forbidding my entrance, producing nothing and yet refusing to let me leave. It had been hours of waiting, and just as my eyes began to grow heavy, a sliver of light began to draw itself along the carpet. Immediately, I was at full attention, the midwife regarding me with compassion.
"Nearly there, I believe, sir," she said. "The first birth is always the hardest." She paused for a moment, and then a piercing cry from my wife turned her attention. "Excuse me, M. de Chagny," she said, retreating.
The hours grew less silent as moans and cries came from behind that door, the likes of which I'd never heard before from my wife. And then, just before three in the morning, I heard it- a baby's cry. I waited for the midwife with joyous anticipation, pacing before that door and almost colliding with her when she finally opened it, but the face I saw was not that of a proud nurse, but instead one pale as a ghost. She was shaking as if the devil himself had appeared before her. I could not hear anything anymore.
"Is my wife all right?" I demanded, civility getting thrown out the window in the face of what I assumed was a terrible tragedy. If something had happened- to either of them! - but the midwife stopped my thoughts.
"Yes," she replied. "She is fine. You have a son." The look on her face became unimportant in the face of this news. I had a son! I have to admit, my pleasure was not completely about having a healthy baby. My uncle had had two daughters, and both of them had managed to produce three girls each, I was an only child- the proud de Chagny line would continue after all. I could scarcely wait to write father, but the more imposing demand, of course, was my wife.
"But that's wonderful!" I exclaimed, rushing past her meager attempts to slow me and entering the bedroom.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong, as if the look on the poor midwife's face had not been enough. I'd never been present after a birth before, but the visions of my wife, tired but beautiful, reclining in our bed, our child nestled in her arms, vanished as I took in the sight of Rosalind, looking very upset. I ran to her before going to the cradle that sat in the corner of the room.
"Charles, I want to see our baby," she protested. "Suzette left before showing him to me and I don't understand why!" Rosalind on a good day could be demanding, and this pushed the limits past what I had previously known. Indeed, Suzette seemed to have taken an odd turn. She remained motionless in the doorway, watching this scene play out.
"Well, allow me to be the first to introduce you, then," I said, placing a kiss on her forehead and attending to the small bundle that lay, quietly fussing, in the cradle.
"I want to see him first," she said, with a smile. "I went through all that."
"But of course," I said gallantly. "I shall not so much as peek below the covers before you do. Or at least, when you do." I loved indulging Rosalind, always had, since the first day we'd met after one of my concerts. Of course, I had no idea who she was then, no idea what would come of our meeting, but the journey had been a pleasurable, if at times trying, one. I crossed to the cradle and lifted the squirming bundle carefully, without much practice, and, true to my word, did not peek below the thin blue blanket that seemed to conceal his face before bringing him to my wife. I drew back the cover, and involuntarily drew a horrified gasp, as Rosalind fainted dead away on the pillows. I yelled for the midwife to fetch the priest and doctor immediately, and she, grateful to be out of there, grabbed her cloak and slammed the front door behind her.
My son...
He had my green-gold eyes, the curious ones that only my great-grandfather had had, according to my father, and the dark brown hair both Rosalind and myself possessed. But the familial similarities ended there, for my son looked out at the world through sunken eye sockets. He possessed no nose that I could see, and the right side of his face was a mottled red that went beyond typical infant color. I could see the veins running below his thin, pale skin, and his lips appeared twisted. I stared at him with a curious disbelief, not allowing myself to feel horror at the sight of him, until I could take it no longer and held him so I did not have to look on his face. All instinct told me to put him down, leave this unfortunate creature who could not live past the hour in his cradle to die comfortably, and yet, I could not.
Rosalind stirred, easing back on the pillows until she was in a more upright sitting position, and stared at me.
"How..." she started.
"I have no idea," I replied.
"But...it's terrible! It's hideous!"
"Shh," I said. "He is our son."
"I don't see how," she wept. "No one in my family has so much as a blotch on their skin!"
"Well, mine, either," I retored, "but that's hardly relevant here!"
Musical types tend to be more calculating, and, repulsed though I was, terrified as I may have been, the logic of the situation prevailed to me, much like the sequence of notes appearing on a particularly difficult score. I had always had the ability to see past the daunting appearance of fugues and other complicated pieces in a way that put me above my competition, to the point that by my twenty-third birthday- scarcely six months ago - I was reknowned throughout Europe. And it seemed that calculating ability would be what brought me through this trial, however long it may last. Rosalind, far more romantic than I, seemed unable to get past the vision of a perfect son and was sobbing into the pillow, the first step in what I learned would be a deep denial.
I gazed down at him, taking in the long fingers and sharply angular shape to his hands and wrists.
He looked like me.
The priest took one look at my sadly misshapen progeny and immediately prepared a baptism. The doctor, on the other hand, was staring at him with a fascination.
"Amazing," he breathed. "I've never seen something like this in person."
"You mean," I said, "there are others like him?"
"Not that any of us have known," he said. "There are stories, of course, and medical journals allow for the possibility of mutations such as these, but never in my thirty years..."
"Madame?" The priest interrupted our conversation to gain the attention of Rosalind, as despondant as ever. "Madame, I will need his name." Rosalind looked completely confused.
"Charles," I supplied. "He is to be named after me."
"No!" she protested. "No child that looks like that will bear your name!" I stared at her for a moment, and then, cooly, said,
"Then what do you suggest?" When she was silent, I turned to the priest. "Charles William."
"I baptise thee Charles in the name of the father, and of the son, and the holy spirit..."
The priest offered the baby to my wife, who turned her head, and so laid him in the cradle. He departed with a blessing, and I returned to the doctor.
"Do you think he will live very long?" I asked him.
"I have no idea," he replied. "I have no way to know." And with that, he, too departed, and I sat down to write my father in London the news of his grandson.