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Forever an Angel


They returned late in the afternoon in a trip filled with stony silence from Charles's inexplicably soured mood and Erik's guarded unwillingness to interact any further with him in such a state. The only benefit of that was when they were approached by the Police Judiciaire, all Erik had to do was instruct the boy to crawl into a tight corner under the bench seat. It was a benefit that seemed to have worked.

As infuriating at his interaction with the two investigators was, they did let him go. Even if Erik knew it would be fleeting. Suspicions were high and the younger of the two made no secret of that. It was rather amazing that Erik did not have to remove his mask to them, yet. How long would it take for them to come knocking at his door? Asking more questions? Watching him and Charles. It would be unreasonable to keep that boy locked away forever. That course of action never went well.

No matter, he would plan and adjust accordingly. If anything, they could play into the story they fabricated for the ever so chatty tailor. Messieurs Brossard and Joubert did like their conversations, but knew when to keep mum when it came to their best client.

The moment the cart rolled to a stop in the stable where the aisle was wide enough to accommodate, the boy flew from the back of the cart into the pasture with César.

Erik did not acknowledge his son's retreat as he quickly unhitched the Friesians and sent them into the pasture after Charles. Phobos instantly gravitated to the boy with playful nudges that went unanswered. No matter, Erik had a cart to unload and tasks to complete before the day was gone.

The small cottage in the middle of nowhere always felt more of a home to Erik than any other residence he held prior to its construction. At most, it probably could only ever house a small family comfortably. For Erik and now the co-habitant of his son, it was still more than enough space. It was a simple layout, but very beautiful in that simplicity. The external walls were stone with minor examples of masonry work that went into its build.

From the detached stable of a matching design, the house was best accessed through the back door. That was where the small kitchen rested with only a few cabinets, a stove, a table where the wooden bin still sat with all its medical supplies.

After lighting a few kerosene lamps, Erik proceeded to inspect the security of his residence, for any sign of a possible intrusion while they were away. It did not take long when the first floor consisted of three rooms, the kitchen, the music room parlor, and the first of two libraries.

The walls of the music room consisted of creamy off-white color with little art aside from the gothic figurines that sat atop of the mantel of the hearth located on the outer wall of the room. A piano sat the corner with a violin and a few other instruments out on display. Sheet music and compositions neatly arranged on the bookcase, which was against the wall where the stairs were located on the other side that led to the second floor.

The library was dark red in its color, with mahogany bookshelves lining the walls and framing the two windows. The exposed selves were lovingly carved and a plush dark red carpet covered the floor.

The texts themselves were on a wide range of subjects: art, architecture, medical, science, history, geography, and astronomy. The languages of the books were not restricted to French, but to any language that Erik could read and speak with fluency.

The upstairs consisted of four rooms, much smaller in size. The second library, located to the right of the stairs, was like the first in decorum but perhaps a bit more spacious in certain regards since there were not as many books. The selection of books were stories and poems from various parts of the world that Erik found most appealing.

There washroom sat to the left of the stairs and down the hall were two bedrooms. The first of them was Erik's which he now kept locked shut. The last room was a hastily cleared room that once furnished would serve as Charles's bedroom. It had just lost its function as Erik's study and a creative space outside of music. All those items it once held were hastily move to either the master bedroom, or the hidden basement below.

Of the four pieces of furniture purchased, only two of them needed some assembly. First, he assembled the bed by attaching the legs and headboard to the frame. The next piece to assemble was the dresser, largely consisted of bolting four sides together and putting in the drawers. Erik would have rather assemble the furniture with his son to keep the boy distracted, but taking over the task entirely on his own was more efficient use of time.

He roughly arranged the room with the bed on an interior wall with a small bedside table and the trunk for any keepsakes Charles may gain, at its foot. It currently held all of Charles's new clothing, blankets, and general bedding.

Once the room was made suitable for sleeping and the trunk unpacked, Erik finished unloading the few bits of general supplies and foodstuffs from the cart. After feeding Charles a rather light dinner, where no words of conversation were exchanged, Erik sent the boy to bed without the assistance of a pacifying substance. Too much of that would risk a dependency that Erik would rather not have the boy ever experience.

It was only now that everything seemed to settle. After two days going into three nights of constant commotion, Erik allowed himself a chance to relax in the confines of his room and the privacy of the locked door. The mask flew from his face with prejudice. It had been years since he had to wear it so chronically for long stretches. Feeling air on his skin was much to the relief of his face that had not had more than an hour of reprieve from it. Yes, he wore a mask every day as a normal part of dressing. However, two full nights of it was getting irritating and the buildup of sweat was sure to flare up rash.

Upon adding an ointment to a wash basin filled with warm water, Erik removed his dark brown wig and set it on the nearby mannequin head. Erik then cupped water into his emaciated hands and splashed it over his face spread some of it over his head and relished in the refreshing feeling. Next, he dipped and wrung out a soft cloth and began washing every centimeter of his face and head. Gently scrubbing every twist and groove of his curse, wiping all the salty residue of sweat and tears from his rather sensitive flesh.

Once everything from the neck up was wonderfully cleansed and patted dry, Erik finished his routine with the application of his gelled mixture of aloe vera. His skin rejoiced at its soothing coolness that kissed the air. As deplorable as his time was in the middle east, it did introduce him to that wonder plant at was simple enough to keep on hand, both potted and neglected for how little attention it needed to keep alive.

Just like him.

After settling into comforts, Erik made his way to the desk which made the move into his room.

A dozen pages of charcoal sketches and half-written documents lay before him. A candle on the far corner illuminated his various little projects, none of which could grasp his attention. His colorless eyes that glowed amber in shadow, could only focus on a painting he created of Christine so many years ago not long after their lives had parted ways.

She had been so happy in that time they shared. A magical interlude from the arduous life they suffered leading up to that point. The light and glow of her spirit was something he could never forget, even if ultimately resulted in her going back to de Chagny… again.

Erik managed to capture those sentiments into that little portrait he made of her, only now, he realized that the glow he recalled was likely from Charles. Only neither of them could have known it then. Or did they?

There was that one moment where they gazed upon a rather rare style of painting he created. It was not meant for her eyes, but Christine discovered it anyway. Much as he had discovered her little diary. She practically sat in his lap with his arm snaked around her waist, as they gazed upon the wistful fantasy his mind conjured. Christine guided his hand to her abdomen while she implored him for the names of the two little children.

The dream became half-way real, only in that Charles now lived in the very home that painting had inspired now. There was no Christine, there was no daughter. Just them.

Did they subconsciously sense the life they great then?

As his musings continued, Erik found himself missing the painting that came to pain him so. However, Erik had little desire to seek out anything he left buried beneath the opera of that past life. It had been hard enough to move on from it the first time.

"Oh Christine…" he whispered to no one as his long slender finger traced the outline of her angelic face framed by wavy golden locks of hair. "It should not have ended like that for you. You deserved better."

All the what-ifs and useless longing began to run through his mind as her ultimate fate came to torment him again.

If only she had come to the train station that night. If only he shirked his vow to vanish from her life forever if she chose not to join him. Maybe the pregnancy with Charles would have made her change her mind and decide to stay with him…

She could have lived; they could have had the dream.

Never was Charles's first moments to be in Erik's arms. Lost were his first steps, the first words, laughs, smiles, wide-eyed wonder—gone because both parents were irrevocable fools.

If only Christine stayed...

If only he were a better man.

He should have been there from the start. But he was not, and Charles called another man Father.

Words he would never hear in reference to him.

An agonized cry escaped Erik's throat at the thought. He is my child! My son! No one else should have been called Father!

He did not earn it the title… No, he did not even deserve it. He was not there from that first minute onward. Raoul was and he earned that reverence.

Erik brought a shaking hand to his sunken eyes to wipe away his tears. His shoulders sagged as a sob whacked through him in his grief at the thought of lost time, his lost love, and how fate cruelly turned against him once more.

His eyes drifted toward the pouch he discovered in the tatters of Christine's garments before he burned them. Not for the first time since he discovered its existence that Erik took it up into his hand and poured the contents of it into the palm of the other.

Out came a small brass key, two dark opal pendants framed with gold, two bowed ribbons of red and blue tied to what remained of snips of hair, then lastly was the Angel Skeleton key. The same one that opened the first gate to the Palais Garnier at Rue Scribe.

Every time he gazed up this small assortment of items, his confusion only grew by the moment. Both opal pendants were a of darker shade, but that darker coloring only highlighted all the fragmented pops of color that caught the eye dependent on how light caught it. Both were rather small but sized in a manner that they could either become the pendant of a necklace, the center piece of a bracelet, or be set into a ring much like the gold and onyx ring he wore on the small finger on his left hand.

What made these items so important to her that she brought them along in her plight of vicious men? Why the Skeleton key? What did the brass key unlock? How would he ever know where it led, precisely?

After focusing on it so heavily and thoughtfully, Erik came to realize the objects in his hand became hard to focus on with his eyes. He hated this part of aging; the few things he liked about himself were in the early stages of abandoning him.

With a resigned sigh, Erik donned the pair of glasses he started routinely keeping near him. However, seeing better did not grant him the chance to place the engraved designs on the brass key, because a frantic cry from the next room caused Erik to jump with a start in his chair.

He froze out of habit, holding his breath to listen to the sounds coming through his wall. When the cries and moans from the next room continued, growing worse by the moment, Erik took up his candle and donned his mask as he stood.

Heading straight to Charles's room, he entered without announcement and set the candle atop of the dresser. Erik went over to the boy's bedside, calling to him as he approached. "Charles," he crooned softly.

The boy was writhing in his bed, tangled in the sheets and his body in a fierce sweat. Hoarsely, he cried in his nightmare, "No, no! Please no! Let us go!" He flinched and cried out as if struck.

"Charles, Charles," Erik said grasping his shoulder and shaking him. "Wake up." But it was to no avail. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erik firmly grasped the boy's flaring arms and gave him a strong shake. "Charles!" Erik called firmly.

The boy jumped, his eyes flying wide open in fear as his breath caught in his throat. He was stiff, frozen in shock and fear.

"You had a nightmare," Erik told him softly. "You are safe."

Nodding slowly, Charles continued to remain tense and frozen in spot.

"Breathe," Erik instructed hypnotically, loosening his hold on the boy. Then drew away in belief that it would help the child relax with the distance. Despite the gesture, Charles flung himself into Erik's arms and wept.

Stiffening when Charles wrapped his arms around him, Erik felt something light within him that he never thought he would be able to possess. This was different from the embrace their shared in the wake of Christine's death. An instinct that long thought impossible to consider having, or capable of possessing. Slowly and hesitantly, he let his arms encircle the boy, his boy, and rock him gently. It was all he did, or could think to do.

Eventually, Charles came to find his voice. Though muffled, he easily heard, "I want the tea." So, the boy had come associate peace of mind with tea.

"You cannot have that tea," Erik said simply. "It is not good under prolonged use."

"Please," he pleaded.

"No," Erik said firmly with no room for argument. He added after a thought, "What did your mother do when you had a bad dream?"

Of course, Erik knew that it was not merely a dream. It was a memory, and it set a raging fire through his veins. He knew the child suffered a strike of the hand or a weapon in it; there was no mistaking from that flinch. He silently vowed to find the one responsible for Christine and Charles's suffering, and inflict a painfully slow death upon them.

Charles shivered in his arms from the nightmarish memories, but when on to reply, "Sing. She would always sing to me until I fell asleep… I miss hearing her voice…"

Erik smiled briefly. Yes, Christine would have done just that. Music was as much a part of her as it was a part of him. "What would she sing?"

"An old lullaby and one she said an Angel sang to her."

"Which do you wish to hear?"

When Charles didn't say, Erik chose for him. He began to sing softly in a hypnotic voice. "Hush my Angel, dry your tears,

I will protect you, from shadows you fear

Hear my voice, fear not of darkness…"

Charles eyes widened slightly at the selection, but relaxed considerably from Erik's soothing voice lulling him into sound slumber.

Even as sleep eventually reclaimed the child who slowly went limp in his arms, Erik continued singing the lullaby until its conclusion, not wanting to part from the moment. However, Erik did lay the boy back into his pillows with reluctance. Though as he covered Charles with blankets, the look of peace playing across Charles's face warmed him.

Slowly, Erik let his hand rest on his son's chest, and sang to him again. This time it was the song Christine's father had sung to her. Eventually when he felt exhaustion tugging at his own eyes, Erik brought two fingers to his lips, then pressed them to Charles's forehead before he left him to hopefully sweeter dreams.