Alright, five months from its beginning, we are at the end of our little tale. Thank you all so much for your support and patience with me, you have all been a wonderful group to write for.
iii
When Erik pictured fatherhood—whenever he would allow the thought to escape the tight hold he held upon such fanciful dreams—it was never quite like reality.
Time was not one's own. While he was used to dividing his pursuits between his own desires and that of Christine's, even transitioning from Catherine to little Erik was a struggle. He did not resent their demands on his time, but it was still rather tedious when compositions must be entirely abandoned because Cat had determined it was the optimum time for her to settle upon his lap and begin her first piano lesson.
She was only five—five and three quarters as Catherine would solemnly remind him should he mention her age—and he could have easily told her to go find a story book to look through, but when she looked at him with those large blue eyes that so greatly reminded him of her mother's own pleading looks, he resolutely stomped down the annoyance and settled her more firmly upon his lap and took her tiny hand in his.
"Thisis middle C."
Though she only pressed the key due to his own involvement, she still turned to him upon her success with a large smile. "I did it, Papa!"
He wanted to grimace—remind her that encouragements should be given for actual achievements so that the child does not become spoiled—but instead he simply ruffled her hair slightly. "Indeed."
Erik was reminded of their attempts at singing lessons not a month ago.
Never could he have anticipated a greater disaster—he was quite certain his ears were still ringing.
There was nothing wrong with her voice—quite innocent in its childlike tones—it was the screaming she would emit when requested to do so.
He felt dreadful that he might have inspired such reactions from instructing her mother. While he was not as harsh as he was in their early years, he did tend to adhere more to his maestro persona when instructing, and while Christine took such reprimands as all part of her education, Catherine was a far more sensitive soul.
So she resolutely refused to sing for him.
He would catch her at times, when playing with her dolls or some other toy he had constructed for her, mindlessly humming the lullaby he and Christine would sing for her.
Apparently instruments were a different matter.
Their lesson on the piano did not last very long, as just when he was introducing her to the full range of scales, little Erik ran hurriedly into the room.
"Papa!"
He should call for Christine—inform her that their daughter's musical education should come before her son's incessant need for further stimulation—but when the toddler took his two pointer fingers and began plunking out a slight tune and his daughter's laugh filled the air, he further resigned himself to the household being entirely run by his children.
Perhaps such a thought should have bothered him more than it did.
"That isn't right, Erik, this is middle C."
And suddenly Erik remembered why it was important to praise Catherine for every little accomplishment. Her brother—three years her junior—was already beginning to understand the fundamentals of music more with his own explorations than she did in a formalized lesson.
He would be damned if she would grow up feeling inferior to her brother.
She was a bright child, eager to please and of a mild temperament on most occasions, but he feared when her brother grew and excelled faster in certain areas, she would grow to feel lesser to his intelligence.
A fact that Christine could attest to readily.
His wife never complained about their differences, but he knew she felt intimidated by the ease of his ability to learn. If only she knew he would have sacrificed half his acuity if it meant he could have been normal.
In the past at least.
He found himself startlingly content with his current arrangement, deformity and all. His children never marveled at it, and his son had given it no further thought than his sister had, though it was uncomfortable the day she had enquired of it.
Christine had been the one to field the question, and Erik remained frozen in his place beside them on the sofa, nearly clutching his son to his chest for reassurance that his children would accept him.
But just like she always did, his wife thoroughly surprised him. She once accused him of always being able to say the proper thing at precisely the right moment, but he was convinced it was she that possessed that particular power.
Moments like this only confirmed his theory.
"I believe Father Martin told you once that God has specific plans for every person, but we do not always understand precisely what that is." Her voice grew low, and even with his acute hearing he strained to hear her. "But I shall tell you a secret. I believe your papa was made this way so we could have him with us. If he had looked like everybody else, he might not have married me!"
Catherine's little mouth dropped open at the thought. "But you're mama! He has to be married to you!"
Christine tapped her daughter's nose lightly. "And God knew that, so here we are."
His Cat never mentioned it again.
But Erik knew that such questions were likely to be more involved when his son began to ask them. Already the boy had a tendency to destroy things—not because he was bent on the destruction of his mother's favorite items as Christine was so thoroughly convinced—but Erik could recognize his own natural curiosity even at such a young age.
He would most likely require a more scientific explanation as to his father's deformity.
One that Erik could not provide.
But for now, he was content to play with whatever toy was put before him, and expend far more energy than he should chasing after Armand and Catherine as they wandered the garden on scientific expeditions.
Erik did not mind as it lent more time for kissing his wife behind the shrubbery.
That was a particular aspect he had not foreseen. The more children that were procured, the more instances for discovery of more intimate moments than one would wish said offspring to witness—especially now that Catherine was of an age that such things would be remembered.
Though Erik remained convinced his children had complete control of their faculties since birth.
It was because of this that it was resolutely determined that an additional bedroom must be added to their cottage. Little Erik was perfectly capable of sleeping in his bassinet—fully draped so peering eyes could not see his parent's activities—but as soon as he was able to crawl, Erik determined it was necessary he be removed from their sacred space.
Unfortunately that required the sacrifice of another of their rooms.
It was entirely inappropriate for his children to share being of differing genders, and though he felt dreadful for the solution, he allowed Christine to sacrifice her front parlor in favor of it becoming a bedroom for their son.
"Truly Erik, I would much rather we keep the study and the music room as we spend most of our time there in any case. And it can be only a temporary solution if that comforts you, just until we are able to acquire something more permanent." Her arms had come to rest around his neck and her breath was warm against his ear. "For I am unwilling to part with the activities that make his vacation a necessity."
He heartily agreed.
So the furniture was stored until a future time when it might be restored to its rightful place, and little Erik was moved into his new bedroom—with his bassinet safely away from the front windows.
"Félin!"
Erik had made the mistake of lowering the lid of the piano so as to muffle the sound somewhat and not disturb his children during their supposed nap time, but by doing so he had finally come to realize what had caught the attention of his son in the first place.
Félin Christine was currently lounging across the structure.
Was nothing in this home his own?
Feeling sulkier than perhaps he should have, he settled Catherine and little Erik upon the bench and allowed his daughter to explain in her rather imperious tones the lesson he had just given.
And then he proceeded to look for his wife, hearing the dulcet tones of tiny hands slightly abuse his instrument in his wake.
He tried desperately not to cringe.
Now that her parlor had been absconded, Christine could mostly be found in the kitchen. Either baking or simply sitting at the small table with a cup of tea, the domestic setting suited her beautifully.
Perhaps she was never truly meant to be the diva of his stage.
She was always to be the diva of his home.
His heart still clenched when she smiled at him so becomingly as he entered, though it faded slightly when she saw his faint scowl.
"Erik, what is wrong?"
He huffed as he sank into the chair across from her. "Your children have overtaken my music room. Your cat also appears to be in league with them in their plot."
Christine's eyebrows rose. "My children? I believe félin Christine is far more yours than mine, and I can hardly take credit for little Erik." She calmly took a sip of her tea. "Besides, surely you can handle two children—a cunning ghost such as yourself."
Erik rolled his eyes. Obviously his children received their impudence from their mother. "Perhaps that priest of yours should have a word with my disobedient family before I am forced to flee back to my Opera."
He was not serious of course. Nothing would ever convince him to abandon his family. They could burn the entire cottage to the ground it if made them happy, he would simply look on with slight remorse before taking them to whatever spot kept them safe and content.
Such was his life now.
Christine however seemed concerned. "Erik, it does not make you a terrible father to request privacy for your own thoughts." Her fingers skimmed the lip of her teacup and her eyes were fixated on the motion. "I would much prefer your temporary withdrawal than driving you to frustration."
While it horrified him that she could possibly believe it necessary for him to withdraw from them at all, he did see her point that it was also important he take time for himself. Music was his outlet—the way he was able to fully express his emotions without first dousing them in a thorough dose of normalcy, and to lose such a thing to constant interruption would surely lead to his madness.
And he could not remember the last time he had an afternoon to purely compose.
But it did not seem at all right that Christine should bear the burden of complete care while he locked himself away in his music room.
If anything, she deserved her moments of solitude while he tended to their children. She was the one who had borne them, and while it pained him acutely to see her in such torment, it was nothing to what she must have endured.
It was a terribly confusing thing, this balance between selfishness and self preservation.
But what had he learned through the entirety of his marriage?
He must trust his wife. If she told him of her preference in his behavior, he should not ignore it as some test of sacrifice on his part, but instead embrace her suggestion as her loving gesture toward his continued sanity.
That did not mean he could not reciprocate.
It was a rarity that Christine was not in some way tending to something. Either the house or their children, Erik always was attempting to discover some new technique in reminding her that her own rest was important.
And if it meant agreeing for her, then was it truly selfish?
"Very well, Christine, but that also means you must do the same. If I am allowed an afternoon to shutter myself away from distractions, you must also be allowed such a luxury. Little Erik has not nursed for some time, so there is little reason why you should feel obligated to remain at their constant disposal."
His hand reached to grasp hers. "You must have your own rest, my wife."
She smiled then—a tender smile that showed so very clearly how much affection she held for him—and squeezed his hand in reassurance. "As you wish, husband. Shall I retrieve them for you now? I am sure I could keep them occupied for a few hours at least."
Erik tugged her hand insistently until with the same girlish giggle she possessed in her seventeenth year, he had pulled her into his lap, her cup of tea entirely forgotten. "We can hear them perfectly well from where we are. All I require now is you."
She kissed his cheek softly, and she rested her fingers in the silky strands of what few hairs he possessed.
Why should he require solitude when he could have her?
"You know, if our children have made it impossible for you to make use of your piano, perhaps later you shall simply have to compose on another instrument altogether." Her mouth was smiling in that wicked way that warmed his blood and made his thoughts turn to more illicit imagery.
"You are a temptress, wife. I suggest you do not make propositions you do not intend to keep."
She smiled against his withered flesh. "Never."
Perhaps it was alright they were selfish. Perhaps it was permissible to enjoy the laughter and arguments of their children from across the hall while they remembered the passion that had begotten the children in the first place.
Perhaps there was no such thing as the perfect parent. Perhaps there was only what they could offer each child day by day, and it was together that made such prospects a joy.
Perhaps it did not truly matter, not when Christine continued to nibble at his flesh.
"Tonight, wife."
"Yes, husband."
-X-
It was an unspoken rule that birthdays be ignored in their little household.
A rule that her husband consistently broke at every opportunity.
She had pleaded with him to pick a day—any day of significance so they could celebrate his birth if he insisted on doting on his wife and children on their special days—but he continued to simply shrug his shoulders and tell her it was of no great importance.
But it was of importance to her.
She had told him thusly, and he had kissed her soundly before informing her that he had no intention of celebrating anything except their anniversary, as that day was truly worth remembrance.
Though she had tried to come up with a valid argument against such a statement, unfortunately she could understand his point.
His parents had never valued his birth, so why should it be celebrated?
Their anniversary was the solidification of her choosing him.
And she was more than happy to celebrate that particular day in any way he wished.
But this morning was not a wintery February day.
Her birthday was always spent at home. After her seventeenth was lost in the birthing of their daughter—and Erik's subsequent plans were circumvented—Erik had attempted each year to make up for the loss.
Seeing as Catherine was not in fact born on the same day as herself, she could hardly argue that their daughter had been gift enough.
But seeing that her daughter's birthday was the day after hers, her birthday generally consisted of breakfast being delivered by her husband and Catherine—though she was certain now that little Erik could scamper on his own, he would also be leaping onto her bed just as robustly as his sister.
She was not disappointed.
Her eyes were not open more than a few moments before her daughter's head peeped in through the slightly open door. "Mama is awake!"
Christine could plainly hear little Erik's careful footsteps up the stairs, but was soon distracted by her daughter joining her in the bed.
A rarity to be sure.
For all of the concessions Erik made for their family, his strict policy of disallowing children in their marital bed was one that was firmly adhered to—except for birthdays and holidays.
Christine did not mind such a restriction, as she still clearly remembered Father Martin's speech during Catherine's baptismal regarding the necessity of the healthy marriage state, and their children did have a tendency toward clinginess.
Catherine more than her brother.
While Christine would happily shower him with affection all the day long, her son was far too busy to allow most of it. He was a quiet child, and though his time in her womb would have led her to believe he would simply sit and be appeased for long periods of time, in truth he was a very active boy.
Just with the terrible tendency to remain as silent as possible as he flitted from one interest to another.
Of all the traits he could have inherited from his father, that particular peculiarity was not one she had considered.
Soon she would not even be able to hear his pattering footsteps, and he would be able to startle her in equal measure as her husband.
Hopefully their mischievous tendencies would not feed from one another as they delighted in tormenting the ladies of the household.
She grimaced at the thought.
Catherine had nestled against her and was waiting patiently for her mother's traditional smoothing of her hair and good morning kiss, to which Christine readily obliged. "And what pray tell has you up so early, little enfant?"
There were times when her daughter steadfastly refused the endearment—for truly, what child a day before their sixth birthday would accept such a phrase?—but Christine always reverted back to the old adage when her daughter cuddled with her so.
"Papa told us we must prepare for your birthday!" Catherine wrinkled her nose. "Couldn't you sleep in later, Mama? Then we could have slept more."
Christine chuckled and kissed her daughter's silky curls. "I shall see if I can oblige you next year."
Little Erik had finally managed the stairs—cautious child that he was, it always took him far longer than Christine would have thought possible—but his excitement at seeing his sister in his parent's bed overruled his natural prudence.
"Mama, it's your birthday, Papa say so!"
Christine reached over the side of the bed to help the squirming boy into her lap. "Thank you for informing me, lest I would have gone all day without knowing!"
Twenty three.
Perhaps she would have enjoyed the day better had she not been reminded it was her birthday.
It was ridiculous of course. Her husband was far older than that, though he was no worse for wear than the day she married him. She should try more astutely to pinpoint exactly how old he was, if only to give her an indication of how long she should expect such continuances in health, but truthfully, she did not wish to know.
She would simply adore each day that was given them.
Such morbid thoughts firmly pushed from her mind, she chose to ignore her own age and simply embrace the excitement of her children.
And with such resolution, Christine smiled happily at her husband when he entered with a tray of tea and scones—with preserves and cream for delectability.
How she loved her husband.
The rest of her family had already eaten downstairs as, "There was no chance I would allow the amount of crumbs they bestowed on our poor table to enter our bed."
In that she was in agreement.
Sipping her tea she listened to Catherine regale her with tales of their baking adventures, and she succinctly informed her that her papa was not nearly so adept in the kitchen.
Christine met Erik's scowl with a beaming smile.
For all his genius, it was a very pleasant thing to be told she was capable of excelling in something of her own.
She was forbidden from assisting in the dishes, and Erik even went so far as to draw her a bath filled with sweet smelling potions. "Take extra care, my wife, you may wish to luxuriate while you can."
And with that mysterious hint as to the rest of their day, he kissed her once before disappearing.
As if she could relax now with her mind filling with possibilities.
She imagined a picnic with the children, possibly even Armand coming. Autumn had not so entirely set in as to make the afternoons unpleasant, so she was surprised when a modest travelling dress was awaiting her on the bed.
Trusting her husband's planning, she donned the dress hurriedly, anxious to see what awaited her downstairs.
She was not expecting the carriage to be drawn, nor her children dressed and awaiting her descent. "Are we going somewhere?"
Erik startled her when he appeared, and it disturbed her how her son's eyes twinkled when he saw her jump. "It would not be a sufficient surprise if I informed you of our destination, Christine. You shall simply have to trust me."
And with that he picked up little Erik and deposited him in the carriage before lifting Catherine in as well. Christine soon followed, but not before giving Erik's hand a squeeze in encouragement.
She did so love surprises!
Their separation was short lived as they paused before Marie's house who was waiting for them with a wide smile. "Running a tad late, aren't you Erik?"
Erik huffed in mock annoyance. "You may thank your friend for that. Apparently I made her bath entirely too tempting."
Christine blushed. "I was told to lounge. Some would call it simple obedience."
Marie laughed merrily before herding Catherine and little Erik through her gate. "Armand and Paul are out in the back waiting for you." She whispered conspiratorially. "I think they may be hiding."
The children required no further encouragement as they both hurried to find their comrades.
"I shall not keep you with idle chit chat." Marie embraced Christine before returning to the house with a wave. "Have a wonderful time, Christine!"
Christine looked to her husband who was resolutely looking away from her. "I take it we are going somewhere alone?"
Then he did look at her, simply so she could witness his dramatic eye rolling. "How very astute of you, Christine. Now, would you like to sit in the carriage or join your poor husband as he drives?"
She should inform him she would prefer the cushioned interior on this unknown journey, but he could always tell when she was lying—a skill she was not entirely sure she approved. Sometimes it would be nice to know that if she wished to surprise him as well he would not immediately see through any excuses she provided.
He chuckled as he helped her reluctantly settle beside him.
Over the years she was happy to note that she was not as completely blind to direction as she once was. She knew the way to market and to church well enough, and though the particular road Erik was taking was not one she travelled by herself, it still quite clearly led in only one direction.
Paris.
They had returned here only once when they made a visit to the doctor who had first diagnosed Catherine, just to ensure she was not worsening. He had announced her lungs were developing nicely, and as he suspected she would not suffer many future episodes as she aged.
He was partially correct.
On one particular spring day, Armand and Catherine were participating in a game of chase and Catherine had one of her fits as Erik referred to them.
Armand had been near tears in his apologies, and it was only through bed rest and cool liquids that Catherine was able to breathe steadily once more.
But that had been nearly three years ago, and she had yet to experience once of such severity since.
She had a suspicion of where they were heading, but the time of day seemed very odd. Surely if he were taking her to an opera they would have departed after dinner.
Conversation was nearly nonexistent as any attempt at dialogue was met with Christine biting her tongue as she nearly begged for a hint of what was to come. Whenever she did open her mouth she was met with Erik's expectant look and twinkling eyes as he enjoyed her torment, and she resolutely refused to give him the satisfaction of mocking her with his knowledge of their destination.
But she did enjoy the drive of mild weather and sitting quietly with her husband.
Erik stopped at a little café she used to frequent when living in the dormitories, and she was quite certain now they were in fact returning to the Opera Populaire.
But why in the middle of the day? She supposed he might have planned for them to return to his underground home, but she hated to think how dusty and abused it must be after so many years of disuse.
Not exactly a romantic setting for an afternoon interlude.
She watched the bustling city while Erik retrieved their lunch, and she wondered at the normalcy they had achieved. It was a mild autumn day on her birthday and she was enjoying the city with her husband—the only thing that made it even more wonderful was that he was about to feed her.
Perhaps she would have to speak to Father Martin of her willingness to be bought with food.
But when she peeked in the brown paper bag Erik deposited in her hands, she thought better of it. This particular failing was between her husband and herself.
She did not suffer the same feelings at seeing the Opera's stables as she once did. Time truly did heal the wounds of the past, and through getting to know Fille so well she had come to enjoy the presence of horses.
The feel of Erik's hand slipping into hers as he led her away from them was even more enjoyable.
"Erik, what are we doing here?"
His face was one of shock. "My dearest Christine, have you never been to an opera before? Surely I must have taken you on more than one occasion."
She shoved playfully at his arm. "You mock me, husband. It is not a very nice thing to do on one's birthday."
He gave her a formal bow and kissed her hand in a great show of gentlemanly gallantry. "My apologies, madam. How could I have forgotten my manners?"
Erik tucked her arm in his and led her into the darkened passage of the Rue Scribe. Unlike the last time they had traversed this tunnel, Erik lit a lantern and for once she had the ability to see the path ahead of her.
When she saw the third rat she wondered if perhaps she preferred the darkness.
He was not heading in the direction of his previous home, but instead of leading her up through the Opera itself—and when they reached the little outer sanctuary she knew he had brought her to the ceiling where they had watched the operas before.
"Marie was correct, we do appear to be slightly behind schedule." He looked reproachfully at the stage, where the characters were already beginning to perform.
"A dress rehearsal?" She scanned the stage quickly for familiar items. "Oh, it is Faust!"
"How perceptive of you, Christine, it is indeed." He turned to her—a feat not at all difficult in the close confines of their perch. "Are you disappointed? I should have liked to take you to the actual performance, but we would never have returned home for our Cat's birthday."
She pressed a kiss against his lips but frowned after a moment. "Erik, can you not take your mask off now? I should like to spend the afternoon with you."
Christine knew what she was asking. He had no difficulty removing the obstruction in their home where he felt safe and loved, but here was an entirely different manner. He had faced rejection and loss in this building, but she so very much wished to kiss him without obstacle.
And he could not very well eat lunch with her while wearing it.
His fingers trembled slightly as they pulled off the mask of normalcy, and she could see his eyes darting around to ensure no one else could see.
Perhaps a distraction was in order.
"May we have lunch now?"
His eyes softened as he relaxed beside her. "Of course, my dear."
He produced the brown paper bag which had been safely tucked within his cloak and produced the simple sandwich and apple from within.
It may have been the fact that this was merely a rehearsal, or she supposed it could have been that they were so far removed from the perfection of the stage for so long, but watching the opera they had striven so long to learn from the rafters was a far different experience than Christine imagined.
They laughed.
Quietly of course so as not to bring unwanted attention, but when the actor's fumbled their words or tripped on props, Erik did not scowl in contempt of the art, but chuckled alongside her as they enjoyed the rapture of the moment.
And Christine thought she could become intoxicated by his amusement.
The singing was not superb, but neither Erik nor Christine truly cared. It was delightful just watching them from high above, munching on sandwiches and apples and feeling so comfortable in each other's presences as they remembered their humble beginnings.
Christine was beginning to suspect however that Erik's flask was not filled with water.
Between pregnancies and nursing, it was a rarity when she had more than a small glass of wine, and she wondered if that aided in the production of her giggles. And when Erik deemed it entirely possible that people would begin to notice her exuberance, he kissed her soundly before tugging her back into the anti-chamber in an attempt to take her home.
In truth she knew she was not drunk from the alcohol. She was merely so very happy, and when he began to help her down the stairs, she tugged at his arm until she could grasp his face in her hands and continue the kiss he had begun.
They were not exhibitionists. Their love making was built in tenderness and affection, but when Christine opened her eyes, she remembered the fornicators of long ago who had shown them both that pleasures could be gotten from both parties.
And it was not as though they were going to be able to continue this once they reached home. Little Erik and Christine would most likely wish to ply her with their gifts—little handmade trinkets that would make her eyes water at their thoughtfulness and the obvious help they had received from their loving father—and she was not so very impassioned so as to allow their actions to be continued in a carriage.
She was not that comfortable.
Christine took Erik's hand, but instead of going toward the door, she pulled him toward the wall where they had once witnessed such strange happenings.
She kissed him then, trying to express her desires without the use of words she did not know how to express.
And though his eyes flickered from the door to his wife, she knew he remembered quite well.
But he was not ravishing her yet, so with practiced hands, she began to unbutton her travelling blouse so the ample swell of her breasts supported by her light stays could become visible. "Please Erik, it is my birthday."
With a groan he was on her. She was too short and he was standing too close for their kiss to be as fervent as it demanded, so with strong hands upon her waist, he balanced her between his body and the wall. Her skirt pushed around her waist, and it felt so entirely right and exciting, and she laughed once more in exhilaration.
They had come so far together.
She did not know that Erik had since devised new locking systems on the door since their last unexpected encounter with people in what he considered his domain, so truly they were in no danger of interruption.
Christine only cared that his fingers were cool against her heated flesh, his lips moist as they laved attention on her breasts, and when he finally moved his coaxing fingers slightly lower so they pressed just there, she was entirely unprepared when he joined with her.
The wall was less forgiving than their bed, and he was able to fill her so very completely she thought she might burst from the ever coiling tension in her womb, and with his fingers continuing to ply her with affections, her moan of completion was swallowed by Erik's mouth as he moved against her.
His own was not far after.
He lowered her carefully to the floor, brushing the back of her head in a not so subtle check for injury. "Are you alright, Christine?"
She pulled him down once more to convince him of exactly how alright she was.
Would she ever tire of his lips?
"I think twenty three shall be a wonderful age."
Erik smirked at her in response. "Indeed."
-X-
This was not how Christine intended to spend her day.
There was some laundry that needed tending, and when she had tucked Catherine into bed the night before, it was with the idea of kissing her husband goodnight and following suit.
But the pleading began for a bedtime story.
It was rare for Catherine to request such a thing from her mother, her father being the one who was able to make such fantastical noises and voices that seemed to echo throughout the room. But Erik was in the music room, finishing off the last vestiges of a composition, and had requested Christine settle the children while he refined.
"What would you like to hear?"
Catherine pulled the blankets up to her chin as she contemplated. "Tell me how you married Papa."
Of any stories in any of the fairytales she had been read through her short life, never did Christine think she would want such a story as that.
And how was she to tell it?
That story was not a happy one. While the result was beautiful and perfect and filled with so much love and happiness, their wedding had not been.
Their courtship was destructive.
Their engagement had nearly been deadly.
It was filled with pain, lies, and betrayals, and her little girl wanted to hear it as a bedtime story.
How she wished Erik would walk into the bedroom and save her with his well timed lullabies!
But Catherine kept looking at her expectantly, and though she had just put little Erik into bed, kissed him goodnight and wished him pleasant dreams, in the same ghosting manner of his father he was suddenly at her side, looking at her with the same pleading look for story time before bed.
This was not at all fair.
Grumbling slightly as she did so, Christine tucked her son next to Catherine and sat in the chair beside the bed, contemplating how best to begin.
She would not lie to them. There would be no fairy tale princesses and handsome heroes who came to save them from the horrors of wicked stepmothers, because in actuality her husband would more likely be categorized with those of malicious intent.
So instead of beginning with 'Once upon a time…' Christine began in a very ordinary way. She spoke of her father's tales of the Angel of Music, how when he passed—this caused quite an uproar amongst the children regarding the mortality of their father, but was quickly subdued with reassurances of his good health—she became sullen and despondent, retreating from most people as she awaited her Angel's appearance.
And one day he did.
She spoke of singing lessons and loving her Angel so entirely, and the utter devastation when she discovered he was merely a man.
And though she knew Erik would scold her if he knew, she spoke of Raoul.
That particular character held particular interest for Catherine. "Was he like Armand?"
Christine frowned at the comparison. While they were both childhood friends, Armand reminded her far more of Erik than he did Raoul. He was protective and even at his young age cherished Catherine in a way that far more resembled Erik's devotion than Raoul's youthfulness.
Catherine seemed to accept this explanation well enough.
When it came to explaining the events of that last fateful night that paved the way to their actual marriage, Christine was slightly more discreet in her dictation. She focused less on Erik's madness, and more on her choice in the matter, for in reality, it was only her choice that mattered.
Erik was who he was forced to become, and it held little relevance to the man he was now.
Though to Christine the end of the tale was not at all their wedding—but indeed extended far into the future—she ended it for the night by regaling them with meeting Father Martin and the ceremony itself.
Their reaction was not what she anticipated. "Can we go underneath the Opera House too?"
"I want to be a ghost!"
A throat cleared behind her. "You shall now go to sleep, and I believe ghosts do not sleep, ergo you are not a ghost."
She eyed Erik with trepidation as he glided into the room and scooped his son from Catherine's bed and made to deposit him in his own. "Say goodnight to Catherine, Christine, for I would like a word with you."
This did not bode well.
Christine waited for him in their bedroom, deciding there was no reason why they needed to have a word while she was still in her day dress, and hoped she might garner more pleasant thoughts from him should she be in a nightgown.
That did not stop her nervousness for his arrival.
Was he terribly angry with her?
She should have consulted him first. Perhaps he did not want the children knowing the details of their past, but Christine could not imagine keeping such details from them.
But she should have asked, for it was not just her story she told.
It was his.
She found herself already apologizing before he had even fully entered the room. "Erik, I am so very sorry, I should not have said anything to them without discussing it with you first." Christine hung her head ashamedly. "It does not occur to me to be secretive."
Erik sighed before preparing for bed himself. "I am aware of that, Christine, and I suppose I should not be surprised the subject would arise. I was not expecting it so soon."
He came to her side and touched her face softly. "I am not angry, my love, you need not look so dejected."
She looked up at him hopefully. "Truly? It was not my intention to offend you."
Erik chuckled humorlessly. "If the story is offensive to me it is of no fault but my own. They were my actions, and though it pains me to hear of them, I cannot change the past." He leaned down and skimmed his lips across her jaw. "Nor would I choose to."
Perhaps she should have scolded him for not wishing to change his deranged behavior—the fear he had instilled in her through his actions—but she had long ago come to terms with the notion that it was the culmination of all such wrongs that led them to their present state.
And she would not change it either.
But it was that bedtime story that led to Catherine's pronouncement over breakfast.
"I want to get married today."
Erik nearly choked on his tea.
Christine was taken aback as well, never dreaming that her six year old daughter would be making such an announcement over the breakfast table. Perhaps when she was older…
She told herself not to be ridiculous, and smiled at her daughter indulgently. "And who pray tell are you going to wed?"
Catherine returned her mother's look with one of which clearly stated her mother's question was beyond absurd. "Papa of course."
Little Erik who had remained silent up until that point, determined his sister would best listen if half of his biscuit was thrown at her. "You can't marry Papa, he's married to Mama."
Christine was torn between scolding her son for throwing projectiles and agreeing with him.
Catherine pouted before looking to her father. "Really? Then who can I marry?"
A barely audible, "No one," reached Christine's ears but before anyone could offer a suitable reply, Armand could be seen through the kitchen door, knocking slightly before entering.
"Oh, I am sorry to interrupt your breakfast. Shall I wait?"
Catherine turned to her father. "Can he be the groom?"
Christine practically begged Erik with her eyes not to take their daughter's fun too seriously, and she was relieved when he muttered a simple, "If he must."
Armand looked terribly confused, but not altogether against such a game, and the rest of the morning while he was studying with Erik in the study was spent preparing the bride.
The more painful subject of why Christine could not provide her own wedding gown was not one she would share. "I am afraid there was bit of an incident and it was not able to be mended."
She did not add that the dress had been burned. At least that was what she thought became of it, for she had never actually seen the garment again.
Catherine seemed devastated at the prospect of her mother's wedding gown being unavailable for play, and Christine had to smile at her enthusiasm.
For all their faults, she and Erik were still able to provide their daughter with an imagination and play dress up like other little girls.
Christine was certain she would have liked to have tried on her mother's bridal endowments had she the opportunity.
They settled on one of Catherine's own white dresses, and Christine promised to put a garland of flowers in her hair for the pretend ceremony.
She even went so far as to promise special treats for their tea time reception.
Catherine properly appeased in her attire, Christine allowed her to continue looking at herself in the mirror hidden in the door of her wardrobe and hurried to the study to enquire as to the readiness of the other parties.
It would not do to interrupt something truly important for the sake of Catherine's amusement.
She paused before entering the room, peeking through the slightly open door when she heard the hushed voice of her husband.
"You may be disappointed to know you were not her first choice in bridegroom. I am afraid I was the one with such an honor."
Armand gave a nervous laugh. "Sir, I can assure you I take no inference from this little event. This will not be the first time I've played pretend with her, though we have generally used her dolls." Christine could clearly hear the sigh at the end as he stated this.
He was after all a twelve year old boy. No matter how much he cared for Catherine, dolls would never be a favorite pastime.
"You may come in, Christine. Lurking does not become you."
Her normal reaction would have been sheepishness, but that would have allowed Erik the satisfaction of knowing he caught her so she simply entered as lady like as she could manage given the circumstances. "You make gross accusations, husband. My feelings could have been hurt."
Apparently she was not the only one capable of indulgent smiles. "A grave error on my part then, wife. I take it our daughter is ready?"
Christine nodded in affirmation. "Prepared and asking if Father Martin will be presiding."
Erik glowered at her. "Our son may play that particular part then. I believe I shall be charged with giving her away."
Hopefully little Erik would not throw the Bible at her instead of providing the vows.
The play ceremony was held outside, and as promised Catherine had little flowers interspersed in her curls. Erik was dutifully walking her across the lawn while little Erik stood looking rather bored at the entire venture.
What else could be expected from a boy his age?
Once Armand and Catherine were situated before the boy, Erik drifted back to Christine so they could properly watch a children's interpretation of a wedding ceremony.
It did not in the least resemble the reality, as the presiding boy was fashioning rather ridiculous demands of what married life could be like while his sister corrected him.
Armand simply smiled at them both.
"Do you think they shall ever marry?" It nothing else, this entire topic had brought the subject to the forefront of her mind, and she wondered terribly if Erik had suffered the same thoughts.
His hand clasped hers and he drew her to his side. "They are all passable children, I am certain they shall all find prospective mates eventually. I found you…" The last part was whispered and she wondered if she was meant to hear.
"I find it interesting that even after I told our story to them, Catherine should look so favorably toward marriage. Apparently our tale was not so traumatic as I had feared."
Erik chuckled ruefully. "It was a risk you took by giving them any details at all. I doubt I would have done so." He turned to her then, their eyes finally drifting from the squabbling children. "You think Armand is more like me. You think that she shall grow up and find happiness with him like we have."
It amazed her that these were statements instead of questions, and it struck her once more how much he had truly changed. He did not doubt their wedded bliss, nor did he think of the boy who so obviously loved his daughter already was the same threat that Raoul had posed to his happiness.
He accepted it, and was appreciative of the life that was given should they choose such a path.
"I would not have changed anything, Erik, surely you know that. It was our choices that brought us here, and I shall never regret them."
He kissed her temple softly and their focus went back to hear little Erik declare them husband and wife, and Christine found herself entirely grateful he did not know it was customary to seal with a kiss.
"And yes, I believe Armand shall marry our daughter."
Snuggled against her husband's side, she did not feel the pang of loss she might have done, and it was with a smile she and Erik escorted their little band of merry makers back into the cottage.
She had told her children of her role as a living wife, and while she may have thought it an unbearable burden at the time, she had come to understand it as the culmination of love and contentment.
And when her husband whispered in her ear that perhaps they should celebrate the wedding night with a consummation of their own, she offered no argument.
A living wife indeed.
Sooo… I can hardly write fin for truly, how can there be an end?