updated 12-22-21
SEPTEMBER 1907
ERIK
The day had arrived. One that I had never wanted to see in all my days since I had met her. The day of Christine Daaé's funeral.
An angel was to be buried that very afternoon.
I straightened the jacket of my suit in the mirror before slipping my black mask onto my face, completing my all-black ensemble. While it was not much of a stretch from my usual attire, the dark mask was a stark contrast to the crisp white mask that typically covered my face. For a moment, I wondered why I was trying so hard to fit the dress code; it wasn't like anyone would know I was there.
But Gustave would know, as would Christine; that I knew for certain. I would make my grief public for the two most important people in my life.
I glanced out the window and raised an eyebrow when I saw yet another one of the Vicomte's carriages waiting outside. While I had been less than pleased to take any sort of assistance from a man like him, I was glad that I would not be responsible for paying for housing during our stay. That man was good for one thing, at the very least.
"Gustave, are you ready?" The carriage is here," I said. I walked out of my bedroom, grabbing my cloak as I went, and stepped into the other room, but stopped when I found my son fiddling with his tie in front of his mirror. "Is everything alright?"
"Papa, I can't tie this," Gustave said as he turned to me for support.
"Ah. Yes, they can be quite finicky. Allow me to help." I walked over and knelt in front of him, taking the tie in my hand. "Well, you have the initial knot tied. Well done. Now, you simply repeat what you did before: pull it through here, wrap it around, bring it up, and then—do you see this loop here?" I asked as I looked to him for a nod of confirmation. "Pull it through that little loop and tighten it a bit. Simple as that." With that, I got back to my feet and stood behind him, setting my hands on his shoulders as he straightened his tie.
"Okay. I'm ready," he said, taking a deep breath.
"I know this is difficult for you," I said as I turned him around and tipped his head up so we locked eyes. "It's hard for me too. But, for your mother, we must be strong. I will be right there with you the whole time. You can do this; we can do this."
"Thank you, Papa. I'm ready to go," Gustave said as he slipped his hand into mine.
I laced my fingers with his, locking our hands together. "Come along then. We wouldn't want to be late."
༻ ️༺
After a relatively short ride, we stepped out of the carriage and began our procession to the cemetery. Neither of us had said a word since we left the hotel, though the air between us wasn't awkward; it was stiff. Almost as if neither of us wanted to be there, at that moment, with the other. Hesitancy hung heavy in the air.
It was silent for a while as we walked, but I eventually turned to him and said, "You're absolutely sure you're up to this? Because if you aren't, nobody would blame you. Least of all me."
"I can do this," he said, looking around at the graveyard. He kept a placid expression on his face for the rest of the way, almost as if not showing his emotions would make them go away. I was truly hoping he wouldn't inherit that trait from me.
We arrived at the gravesite, which was still only an open grave with a headstone, along with a few other mourners who had arrived sometime before, only for me to notice something that made my blood start to boil; her tombstone read Christine De Chagny—not Daaé. I knew for a fact that she had preferred to go by her maiden name despite her husband's protests. On top of that, her grave was nowhere near her father's as I was told it would be by Chagny's footman. I was enraged; Christine and I may not have ever discussed her funeral, but I knew that that was blatant disrespect of her wishes. She loved her father more than anything, and it wasn't right to keep them apart in death. I knew exactly who was responsible for it, and he was taking a swig out of his monogrammed flask as we walked up to him inside the nearby church that the graveyard belonged to, where the wake would be held.
"You have some serious nerve, Chagny. More than I thought possible given our previous encounters," I growled.
"You're one to talk, considering I'm the one allowing you to be here and to look after the boy," Raoul replied. I could tell by his disposition that he was already drunk; clearly, the man has no respect for the living or the recently departed, even if it was his wife.
"It's not 'looking after him' if he is my son. That, my dear Vicomte, is called parenting. Not that you'd be well versed on the subject." I hated that he knew exactly how to enrage me, but I could not afford to lose my temper, not in front of Gustave. "But back to the reason we're here, could you please explain why her gravestone bears your last name? And don't try to lie and say she changed it, because I know she never did. Also, would you care to tell me why her grave has been placed approximately a kilometre away from her father? If you knew her at all, you would know that she wanted to be buried close to him."
"Oh, I wasn't going to lie to you. She never changed it—I did. It would raise questions if my wife of ten years had kept her maiden name." He was so simple with his words, yet every single one cut me deep. "On the topic of her grave's placement, this is where my family lays to rest. Again, for the sake of not raising questions, I decided against having her close to her father. I know what he meant to her, but it didn't seem right. She was my wife, after all."
"You are truly more self-centred than I ever thought possible for a human being. There is no honour in denying final wishes to the dead." At that point, we were dangerously close to one another; he had stumbled to his feet and I had to keep my hands glued to my sides to stop myself from going for his throat. "You were supposed to love her. Protect her and her son. That is what a father and husband are supposed to do. You—"
"How would you know?" he demanded. "You know nothing of socialization! When I met you, you lived in a sewer, tricking people into thinking you were a ghost. Don't you dare talk to me about honour." He placed an accusing finger on me, right over my heart. The liquor was obviously taking effect and numbing his sense of self-preservation; otherwise, he would have thought twice before laying his finger on me. "I did love her; I risked my life for her to protect her from you. Although, it is hard to stay in love with someone who is always reminiscing about another time. Of another person. She would hum endlessly to Gustave when he was an infant; songs I knew none other than you had composed."
"Nevertheless, she chose you," I said, my throat tight. "Even you could have seen it! She chose you in the end. You were supposed to love her, understand her, listen to her, keep her close. You were meant to treasure her, damn it!" Tears were welling up in my eyes. On their wedding day, he had vowed to care for her for the rest of their lives. Instead, he had ignored that duty, that privilege, for a bottle of scotch.
"Yes, yes. Her ultimatum. She sure did choose me," he spoke slyly as he gestured at Gustave. That was the final straw for me; I was prepared to chew him out for everything he was worth and I couldn't care less who was watching.
However, his next sentence made me stop in my tracks: "Don't talk to me of responsibilities to her. You won our bargain. She was with you. You were supposed to protect her, and look at what a fantastic job you did."
I didn't want to let myself cry in front of him; that was the last thing I ever wanted to do. I could not show him weakness or he would surely tear me apart, but I couldn't stop it; tears were streaming down my face, out of both anger and pain.
"Don't you think I know that! Don't you think I blame myself for that night every second of every day! She is the only woman I have ever truly loved and I saw the light fade out of her eyes as I held her in my arms!"
He was taken aback by that, clearly not having been expecting me to show emotion. I hadn't even wanted to show them, but they had been inevitable. He obviously had nothing to counter my statement, as he decided to step away and take his place in a seat.
I turned back to Gustave to find him pale-faced and wide-eyed. I had never meant for him to witness that, but I couldn't possibly let that damn Vicomte get away without me saying something. I knelt down to his level right away; it hadn't seemed right to look and talk down to him in a situation like that.
"I'm sorry you had to see that. That got out of hand. I'm sorry you were brought into it. Let's go take our seats."
We walked over to our seats, which happened to be right in front of Chagny, and once we got there, Gustave let go of my hand, which he had been holding tightly as we walked, and placed something in it instead. I looked down to find his small handkerchief in my palm, then turned to see him look up at me with hope in his eyes.
"Ignore him, Papa. He means nothing," he whispered as he motioned for me to wipe my face, and it was only then that I realized that it was still wet from me crying. I dried it off and looked at him in hopes of lifting his spirits.
"Better?"
"Much better."
"Thank you, my boy," I said, shooting him a pained smile as I wrapped my arm around his shoulder for comfort as the funeral began.
༻ ️༺
The service was small with only the three of us in attendance along with the few mourners that had joined us at the grave. I was rather shocked; a talent such as hers should have been mourned by the population of the globe, not a meagre few. When we arrived inside the room where the wake was being held, I could tell that the Vicomte had been expecting more people as well, but there was nothing to be done besides avoiding conversation with that man at all costs.
We weren't a company of three familiar faces for long, as a fourth soon arrived; someone I didn't want to see almost as much as I hadn't wanted to see Chagny.
Madame Giry.
The nerve of people. First the outrage with him and then her too? She had no right to be in attendance. She was in all black; though fitting for the situation, it was no change from her traditional attire. That aside, if she was in Paris again, Meg wouldn't be far behind...
No, no, I told myself outright. Do not continue that train of thought. I could not let myself resort to such a low standard of response. I had to be an example for Gustave; I had to put my past methods and habits behind me.
"Hello, Erik."
I was snapped out of my daze when she acknowledged me with something as simple as a 'hello'. As if she did not realize the gravity of her arrival.
Without looking at her, I simply responded: "Madame."
"I've come to say a final goodbye to Christine," she said as she looked in the direction of the coffin at the front of the room.
"You shouldn't be here." I had to say it. I could tell that even the Vicomte did not want her there; a common enemy, on that we could agree.
"And why is that? I have been a mother to you and Christine for years."
"Your daughter is the reason we are here, damn it! Where is she?" I was fuming. She had no right to try and pull that kind of leverage; to use maternal instincts as an excuse to attend, and to arrive late as well. "If you're in the city, she can't be far behind. She has always tagged around you like a lost puppy. Why isn't she here? She's responsible for this, is she not?"
Giry clearly hadn't been expecting me to get angry so easily. If only she had been there earlier; she would know not to be testing me at such a time. "My daughter sends her condolences to you three, though she feared for her safety if she was to accompany me."
"Rightfully so. Your daughter is a coward," I spat out at her. "Bottling up everything like that, then taking it out on someone she considered a sister."
"As if you were any better."
"Well, who was I to talk to? She had you, and she should've felt that she could go to you with her difficulties." We were standing the same way Chagny and I had stood not long ago. I would not hurt her, but at the rate we were going, there was a potential for reconsideration. "You are just as much to blame as her for this. A daughter should be able to go to her mother for anything! Not just when she's grovelling for your approval."
"I came here to say my final goodbyes to the girl I thought of as my own, that I cared for as if she were my own. I did not come here to be insulted." She was getting angry as well; I knew her well enough to know that she was. Still, she took a moment to compose herself before continuing. "I also came here to apologize to you. I know what she meant to you."
"You have no idea what she meant to me. Do what you came here to do." I couldn't bear to look at her anymore, so I simply waved her off. She had no idea what my angel meant to me and could not claim to comprehend. After a deep breath, I returned to Gustave, who had taken a different seat at some point during the conversation.
"Papa, I know you won't forgive her, and you don't have to. But you should at least accept her apology. Perhaps it could be easier for you to be at peace with yourself," Gustave said quietly. He was right; of course he was right. I smiled at him, letting him know that I was okay with him telling me what was on his mind. I wanted him to feel comfortable telling me things, so I could not possibly discourage him when he pointed out such things.
"Since when were you so wise?" I inquired, and the statement earned a smile from him. That sight still made my heart melt a little bit. "I will talk to her after she is done. It would be rude to interrupt her at a time like this."
Soon enough, she began walking back from the coffin, and she was almost out the door when I called out to her: "Madame."
She turned slowly, her face expressionless. "What is it, Erik? Haven't you said your piece?"
"I accept your apology," I blurted out, determined to get it out before I had a chance to change my mind.
She looked shocked. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Some rather wise words from someone who has quickly become a large influence on my life," I replied. I couldn't help but turn back to him, and I found that he was watching me with a smile on his face.
"I appreciate your acceptance. I truly hope that you and the boy have a good life. You deserve a little goodness, Erik," she replied before smiling at me, shaking my hand, and taking her leave.
"Thank you," I heard Chagny mutter as soon as she was out the door.
That man never ceased to confuse me.
༻ ️༺
Giry had only been gone a matter of ten minutes when the director of the funeral home came to the front of the room. She seemed worn down by her employment, with dark circles under her eyes and a tired expression on her face.
"It will soon be time for Madame de Chagny to be laid to rest. If anyone has anything to say, please do so promptly," she explained. The room was silent for a few minutes before Gustave rose from my side. I grabbed his arm and gave him a look to silently ask if he was sure about the action he was going to take. He nodded resolutely, so I released his arm and he walked himself to the front of the room.
"My mother was the kindest woman I knew," he began. "She was like a queen in a book. I remember when I was younger, while she and I were home alone, a terrible thunderstorm was happening outside. I was so frightened; I went running to her room and climbed under the covers with her." He took a short breather to dry his cheeks and recompose himself, as he was so obviously getting choked up by the memory.
"She joined me under the sheets and asked what I was afraid of. I told her it was because the thunder was so loud, I thought the house would fall. She brought me out from under the covers and said that the thunder was just having a conversation with the lightning and the rain, that they were old friends and they didn't get to see each other very often. How the lightning told the best jokes and the thunder had the loudest laugh. I wasn't scared of the storm anymore after that.
"And after she finished her story, she sang. Her voice was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep. But the story of the thunderstorm wasn't her favourite though; her favourite one to tell was The Angel of Music."
My heart stopped. What had she told him? What would I later have to explain?
"I used to ask how she learned to sing so beautifully. She explained how when she lost her father, she was visited by the Angel of Music. How even though he turned out to be only a man, he was still one of the most important people in her life." I was tearing up, all my previous fear washed away when I heard the few details Gustave had been told; I would leave that story as just that for the time being. In due time, I knew I would owe an explanation, but for the time being, the Angel of Music would remain just a bedtime story for a young boy.
"Though you never would have guessed it, Mother was the bravest person in the world," Gustave continued. "She was always happy and smiling, and forgave everybody no matter what. And...I don't know what I'm going to do without her. Thank you."
He stepped down from the podium at the front of the room and came straight to me, and I was quick to hug him tightly. It was his turn to cry; he had been holding strong the entire time.
"That was beautiful, Gustave. You were perfect," I whispered, hoping that those simple words to him would calm him down.
When he let go of me, I took out my handkerchief, remembering that he had already given me his. He wiped off his face, just in time for the Vicomte to tap his shoulder. Gustave whipped himself around immediately, and I could see him visibly tense up, almost out of fear. It made me wonder what had happened behind closed doors.
"That was well done, my boy," he said, his nickname for my son practically making my skin crawl.
"Where were you?" Gustave asked. Though quiet, his tone made it seem like more of a demand than a request.
"What do you mean? I've been here this whole time."
"No! Where were you that night on Coney Island?" His voice was picking up volume and I could tell that that was a question that had been burning in his chest since that fateful night. "You were supposed to meet me backstage so we could watch Mother perform together. You never came. That's when Miss Giry came and took me to the pier. If you had been there, with me, none of this would've happened!"
"Don't raise your voice at me, Gust—"
"You aren't my father. I don't have to listen to you anymore."
"Alright, alright. That night...I was getting ready to board a boat back here." The man couldn't even look at Gustave's face as he said it; he simply knelt down to the boy's level, his eyes downcast.
"Why were you on a boat?" Gustave croaked. He clearly hadn't been expecting that; of all the scenarios that he could have come up with in that wild little mind of his, that most certainly hadn't been one of them.
A long pause and a deep sigh prolonged Raoul's explanation: "I made a bet with Mister Y. Both you and your mother were the stakes. The deal was that if I could convince your mother not to sing, she would stay with me. If she did sing, you and she would stay in America with him and I would leave."
"You gambled your family...you used us as a chip in one of your stupid card games. For what?" Gustave was breathing heavily, so obviously infuriated, so I put my hand on his shoulder as a sign of reassurance but kept silent. It was his fight, not mine.
"It was to see who your mother truly loved: me or your father."
"What was there to test? Mother loved you! Even after you yelled at her in your bedroom, when the door was shut; when I would go in there after you had left and found her crying. Even when she pushed me behind her after I made a mistake. I asked her myself: why did she let you do that? She said it was because she loved you but you weren't perfect. She did all of that because she loved you! You didn't care, you gave it away. I always wondered if you cared for me, and now I know that I had a good reason to."
"It's more complicated than that," the Vicomte replied, his voice shaking.
"No, it isn't! You could have fought and you didn't. You could have said why you hurt Mother and she probably would have forgiven you; she did that a lot. But I can't and I never will. You said you made the bet with him," he spoke as he gestured to me. "Well, fine then. Mother deserved to have someone to fight for her for a change."
Before I knew what was happening, I had reached out and was holding Gustave's wrist, his small hand curled into a tight fist. Chagny had his eyes closed ready for impact.
Gustave had meant to punch the Vicomte.
"It doesn't feel good, does it? To feel afraid of someone you cared about." His voice was cracking as he spoke, but he lowered his fist, cleared his throat, and continued: "I know what that feels like. I'm tired of it; I'm not afraid of you."
"I'm so sorry, Gustave..."
"I accept your apology, only because that is what Mother would want me to do. But I don't forgive you, and I never will. Goodbye." With that, Gustave shook himself free of my grasp and walked away.
Chagny and I stood there in silence, neither of us daring to make eye contact with the other, but it didn't take long for him to pick up his jacket and leave, without another word.
After watching him go, I went to find Gustave. He was curled up in the corner, still shaking, staring off into space, so I crouched down to look him in the eyes.
"How are you feeling?" I was fairly sure that I knew the answer, but I didn't dare to assume.
After breaking from whatever daze he was in, he answered: "I want to leave."
"I understand that. You can tell me what led up to that argument later on if you want to, but I won't make you." He seemed relieved that I wasn't demanding an explanation; his shoulders visibly lost tension when he realized I wasn't angry with him.
"I just have one last thing I want to say to your mother. Why don't you go get our coats and come back? I will be ready by then," I said, giving him a small smile.
He gave me a quick nod and got up to go do as I had asked. Once I was sure he was out of the room, I made my way towards the coffin at the front of the room.
Nothing in a million years could have prepared me for what I saw. I could not even bear to use the word 'who', for it wasn't her; it could only be described as a mannequin compared to my Christine. Her dress was emerald green, a colour she never would have worn. She had always chosen more navy blues, as they brought out her beautiful eyes ever so well. Her gorgeous mess of dark curls was tied back, with too many pins holding it in place; I had always thought it looked best when she had it down, her curls cascading down her back like a waterfall.
Her face. That was the only way I knew it was still her. I could find that face in a crowd of thousands any day. Her perfectly balanced features, her bright eyes that could hide no emotion from anyone who dared to look.
It hit me at that moment that those eyes would never open again. They would never crinkle in the corners when she laughed. Her perfect lips would never from a smile again, never utter a note of any song, never kiss my own. Never again would her dainty yet strong hand clasp onto mine or hold me close in an embrace.
"Oh, Christine. All the dark silent years were set right. How can a single night be filled with such pleasure and pain?" I wondered aloud. "You sang for me and the world seemed to make sense again. I was truly a ghost without you. I ate, I drank, I worked tirelessly, yet it all seemed pointless without you. And once I finally get you back, you are taken from me again, though this time by God." I could feel my throat getting tight as I spoke, so I took her hand in search of even some comfort and familiarity and nearly cried; it was so cold, her nails having lost nearly all colour. I held on, though; her hand was the only thing keeping me attached to the world.
"I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go. If only I had known then. I cannot imagine what you endured by his hand. Perhaps the world doesn't want happiness for me, for me to think I'm doing the right thing. But I've never been one to follow conventional rules, have I?
"I swear to you that Gustave will have the life you wanted for him. I am going to try. If nothing else, I will try until I am no longer able. I love you Christine, and I will always love you."
Carefully, I took her wedding rings off her finger, and in their wake, I put a ring of my own; the same onyx one she had returned to me all those years ago. It felt only fitting that amongst all the influence from the Vicomte, she would have a part of me with her forever. With that, I kissed her hand ever so lightly, as if any pressure would shatter her like glass, and carefully placed it back into the position it was in before.
"Goodbye, my Angel of Music."
I was about to turn and walk away, but I lingered just a moment longer. My eyes were locked on the rings by her side. Something seemed to have possessed me as I slowly took the wedding band, being ever so careful not to touch her, as if she were merely asleep and I could wake her. Once I felt my hand was at a respectable distance, I placed the ring in my pocket.
We would both have a part of each other forever, no matter what.
At that moment, Gustave returned. He was wearing his jacket and was having a bit of trouble holding my long trench coat in his small arms whilst trying to keep it off the ground. I quickly wiped a stray tear falling down my cheek and cracked a small smile as I turned to him, then took my coat out of his arms and slipped it on before reaching out my hand to him. With that, we walked out of the funeral home to the carriage, hand in hand.
"Take us to the docks," I told the driver as I followed Gustave into the carriage.
I could tell that I had incited some confusion in the boy, but he waited until we were inside and settled before asking, "Why the docks?"
"Well, I thought that Paris is filled to almost overflowing with memories for us both. I am taking us to London, where one of the many homes I had built over the years is waiting for us. It is a clean slate for both of us."
We were silent in the carriage for a few minutes, with Gustave sitting on the bench across from me, and I could feel the slight tension in the air from the earlier events of the day. As I glanced back at my son after gazing at the window for a moment, I immediately noticed that his eyes were filled with tears and he was choking back his quiet sobs. Almost instinctively, I patted the space on the bench next to me and he carefully sat up and came over to me. I needed to break the ice if there was any hope of us surviving the ride, and comforting him in one special way was my plan to do just that.
"You handled yourself very well today, mio soldatino," I said, his look of amazement and confusion at the nickname I had just given him putting a smile on my face.
"What does that mean?" he asked as a glimmer of wonder shone in his eyes.
"It's Italian. It means 'little soldier'."
A brief look of disbelief was washed away with a more sombre one as he said, "Why on earth would you call me that? I'm not a soldier. I'm not brave enough."
"But of course you are. It takes someone truly strong to do what you did today. Not many people could do what you did. You handled yourself with pride. You don't have to be in a physical battle to be a soldier, my boy; a mental battle is just as treacherous," I replied.
"You really think so?" he queried.
"I know so."
A small grin spread over his face, and I was relieved to find that I had managed to cheer him up slightly.
"Where did you learn to speak Italian?" he asked next.
I quickly ran through my time in Italy, making sure that part of my life was appropriate to tell him; not much of it was, so I had to pick and choose carefully.
"Well, I spent a few years in Italy as an architect; that was my job before I started writing music. I worked with a man named Giovanni, and he was like a father to me while I was there. He treated me like the son he'd never had. He was the one who originally gave me that nickname. I questioned him just as you did as to why he would think to call me that. He said: 'Because it takes a true soldier to have braved the constant battle that has been your life.' He made me promise that one day I would pass on the nickname to my son."
"He must have been really nice to you if you remember him like this," Gustave said.
"Oh, he was. I will never forget him." It didn't take much for me to recall the rest of the conversation that we'd had. I had shrugged off his comment about me having a family and him believing I would have a son. I had called his idea a fairy tale, but he believed I could make it come true. He had said I would have a loving wife and children and that I would be a brilliant father. Lost in my self-doubt, I had discredited him once more, saying that nobody could ever love me, and even if I could find someone, I wanted no children; I could not curse someone else with my face. I could barely live with it myself, so how could I condemn another—my own flesh and blood—to suffer with it as well? Still, he had told me to wait and see what the future held before we had shared a tight laugh and gone back to work. Presently, a small smile crossed my face at the thought of Giovanni laughing now from beyond his grave all the way in Italy. Almost as if he were telling me, 'I told you so.'
We sat in the carriage for another couple of hours, Gustave leaning on me and my arm around his small shoulders. As I watched the sun start to set, the sky turning a variety of oranges and pinks as it did, I heard his breathing steady and could feel his shoulders rise and fall slightly against me. In my hands, I held the tickets that I hoped to use to get us across the English Channel to London—to our new life.
"No fear, mio soldatino, we are going home. Just like you asked."
