Author's Note: Important! L'Chantseur has been changed to Chantseur in All Chapters out of respect to French Grammar rules. Thank you to my friend 'Metv' for pointing this out to me and offering this little explanation!

The first half of this chapter was Supposed to be in the last posting, but after the matter of "Means," it took on a life of its own. I normally don't go 6200+ words in a chapter. There is a lot going on and many little things to find. I am so proud of this.

Origin and the Lie

The next day, they ventured out when the lively city was at its quietest. It was a fine morning with clear skies and warmer temperatures creeping in as nature shifted towards Spring. While most of the population attended Sunday Mass and other Holy Services, Christine and Erik walked along the Seine with her hand nestled in the crook of his arm and a wicker basket in his free hand.

It was a relaxing stroll where they savored their company more than they talked. Christine was wearing a simple pale-yellow frock patterned in a loose scattering of small mauve-colored flowers on faint green vines, trimmed in purple. In turn, Erik wore black slacks, a gold paisley vest, a cream cravat, and a deep gray tailcoat. While he opted for the wig he used as Chantseur, it was only by her insistence that he donned his usual white half-mask, it was her favorite of his masks, better than the full ones, or the leather one he used to blend in.

Her argument? If she were to be courted, she would only be courted by the 'face' she was most accustomed to seeing. Erik in his usual mask was her Erik, and anything else seemed wrong. Yes, his masks were going to be a part of their daily lives where they would change, depending on needs and situations, but she desired familiarity in this instance. If others took issue with him or them, that would be something she would need to adapt to as well.

They continued their walk, ascending the steps leading from the river and weaving through quiet streets without issue. The route they traveled was deliberate, avoiding populated areas and markets, and wandering through small scenic parks until they reached their destination. It was just a street over from a bustling square where cafés littered every corner, a small three-tiered fountain sitting at the center with numerous young trees planted nearby with symmetry in mind. She had no idea what he had in mind, but Erik always had a plan. Proof of that came forth when he led her to a narrow passage, and they slipped into a public house's back entrance.

"It will be worth it," Erik promised, shifting to grasp her hand with interlaced fingers.

Christine glanced between Erik and the staircase before them. It was a horrific design for its narrow passage, each steep step reached beyond comfortable stride and lacked any sense of uniformity.

"Are you mad?" she groaned, hating whoever thought making servant's stairs like this was a fabulous idea.

Erik took a halting breath and turned to her with an arched brow. "…That is often debated…"

She cast him a quizzical look.

A lop-sided smirk crept into view.

In a moment of cheekiness, Christine sucked in her lips a moment before noting, "I'm sure…"

A chuckle escaped him as he moved into the claustrophobic stairwell, Christine following his lead and tightening her grip on his hand.

"If I stumble…" she griped.

Erik glanced back, gently squeezing her hand, "You will not tumble."

"You're sure of yourself."

"Well, if you manage a stumble into a tumble against my wish, then I must apologize in advance, for I am likely falling along with you and I am heavier than I appear."

She snickered at the dry delivery, eying his slim frame and knowing firsthand there was no meat on him at all. "Is that so?"

He cast her another glance as they reached the sharp turn for the next flight, "It is."

Stairwells never troubled Christine. Even those traversing the cellars between Erik's home and the stage failed to slow her. Training in Annette's ballet had its perks in her fitness and endurance for strenuous activities. While Christine was not as graceful or controlled as girls who spent years perfecting their art, she prided herself on keeping up with them enough to remain on the stage, when dancing was the only thing keeping her at the opera.

But those stairs…

They winded her.

Her lungs never struggled to keep up with her body's demands as they did now, with every long drag of air. Her legs announced their protest with the familiar, throbbing ache of strain. It was not the stairs that troubled her, but rather their irregular and steep height. It was a climb.

They stood on the landing, Erik's tentative arm wrapped around her back as Christine took a moment to recover. By comparison, his exertion was noticeable by the mild uptick in his respiration.

"I'm sorry," she muttered the apology. Her hand rested over her stomach as though the motion would ease her strain.

Erik shook his head, "Take your time, my love. I only wish you did not have to wear that," he said with gentle fingers brushing over her corseted stomach.

"It would be indecent, Erik."

"I am hardly concerned about decency when you stand there winded, Christine. It still has to grip you to remain in place, does it not? It restricts your ability to breathe without hindrance, to what end?"

"To fit into a dress properly and to have some support. As much as I have enjoyed your hands, I do require something more practical."

Silence fell between them as Erik's eyes flicked over her form, more analytical in manner than not. He spoke when he lifted his gaze, "If those requirements are met, will you discard your corsets outside the necessities of the stage?"

Christine blinked, "Wh–wha–?" she blinked again and shook her head. "Yes, there are such dresses, but those are for cleaning the house and other chores… but that doesn't stop matters of support. I don't much like —" her cheeks flushed, "– movement."

Erik's brow rose.

"It can get uncomfortable—" she mumbled.

His hand shot up, silencing her. "That was not the question."

"I… I don't know…?"

His brow furrowed and a muscle twitched in his jaw. Turning away to open the door to their destination, Erik watched her from the corner of his eye. The conversation ended when he pulled the door open to garish sunlight that washed away any visual details.

"It is no fine restaurant or stimulating museum, but I hope this will be a suitable offering instead."

Though his hand remained at the small of her back, almost hovering there now, Christine shifted closer with her arm slipping around his waist. While her eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness before them, she did not see him glance down at her but felt his arm coil tighter.

Stepping into daylight, Erik allowed the picnic basket to slide from the crook of his arm to his hand as he led her onto a flat section of roof that appeared to be a forgotten patio, which overlooked the square below. The sun's warmth kissed her skin as Paris's skyline came into view with numerous landmarks that defined Paris's height restrictions. While she could stand there and try to discern every one of them like the nearby Notre Dame or the distant Palais Garnier, she paid more attention to the square. There, music rose from the heart where a small band with unfamiliar stringed and brass instruments played, and a rebel among them played percussion on a mish-mash of buckets; some metal, others wooden, and one or two with leather stretched over its maw.

The vibrant music those players produced projected an earthy feel with peculiar ribbons of melody dancing through the air. It was grounding, as though it came from nature itself, yet it held a whimsy that reminded her of reading some medieval fantasy that pulled her into another world. It brought an exciting sense of 'newness' as the musicians displayed their art with skill.

It was not as good as Erik's music, but it sparked exciting imagery in her mind's eye in ways that classical styles of music could not.

"They play by whim and not by score," Erik explained. "One starts and the others build upon the foundation that is given. Each one tells their own story while managing to not overshadow another until a moment demands otherwise, which there seems to be an unspoken agreement between them for such instances."

"They are lovely…" she murmured, "How do you know of them?"

"I have heard them on occasion when I come out to complete necessary tasks and have watched them. I rather enjoy the ethnicity of their instruments and the music they conjure. It tends to remind me of pleasanter moments from my travels."

"You knew they would be here?"

"I knew there would be music played here that we could enjoy in privacy. Their presence is merely happenstance."

She gave a nod, drifting closer toward the stone balustrade and letting the music fill her spirit.

Erik watched her sway to the rhythm, a smile creeping to life on his twisted lips. After taking in the moment, he turned to prepare their picnic. They soon dined on garlic-buttered baguettes with cheese and indulged in a nice white wine as they lounged on a large blanket. As idle conversation carried on and they listened to the music that floated across the breeze, Erik gave in to the rising warmth of sunlight bearing down on them and discarded his jacket.

The fedora remained in place, in stark contrast to the bright golden color of his vest and white shirtsleeves. He kept that black hat angled against the sun until they settled into an activity of her selection.

Erik's jacket became a pillow for his head, while his shoulder became hers as they looked heavenward at the fluffy clouds floating across the rich cerulean sky. They cloud-gazed and mentioned the various things they saw gliding by, creating new creatures for the ones that were wildly shaped but deserving of a name.

"Erik, what would a marriage look like between us…?" she shifted to her side more to look at him, which Erik mirrored with a turn of his hips. "I know you mentioned companionship and such, but what is to become of me?"

His brow rose, "In what regard?"

"Domesticity…?"

"Will I have you follow the route of most wives and keep you at home all day to do what is often entailed?"

She nodded.

Erik gave a solemn head shake, "Christine… I have taught you to harness your voice so you may grace the world with your gift. Even in my most wishful dream, I scarcely imagined having your affection as I do now. In those imaginings, if I could have you as my wife, I still saw the stage for you." His hand came to rest over hers where she had her fingers hooked into the seam of his waistcoat. "If our lives become forever entwined, I do not expect or require you to give up your career. If you wish to continue to work, then that is my wish. If you wish to give up the stage and stay home with me, that is also my wish — so long as I still have the pleasure of you singing."

Christine shimmied closer to him as they continued to lie on their sides and gaze upon each other. "What of… means?" It pained her to ask, but it plagued her mind in that state of unknowing that left her unnerved.

Erik's mouth twitched into a small smile.

"It's not as though the new managers have paid you your salary, and the Ghost has been quiet lately. Not that I exactly… approve either…"

The brow went up, but the smile remained, "Yes, the Ghost has become so distracted as of late, that he has been considering his imminent retirement from opera hauntings. However, I assure you, if the Ghost never saw another franc from the Opera, we married at this very moment, and you decided to never work again, we would still have the means for a very comfortable life in a proper house. I have a habit of keeping several contingencies at hand."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Years ago, I had the opportunity to take over two small construction companies when their owners died. I took ownership as a means to stabilize a once hopeful future and merged them into one. There is an office in Rouen and one here in Paris. They did well enough with a catalog of my designs, and those of their original owners. I also still possess a considerable sum from those palaces I built in the east. They were especially lucrative."

"Hmm… the Phantom? A business owner?" she crooned and stroked his sternum. "Who would have thought?"

"For a time. When one wears a mask, it is hard to acquire proper employment. One has to become the employer. Which I did for several years. The foremen and my solicitor managed most of the day-to-day, until circumstances changed which required me to forfeit my ownership."

Rather than press for the circumstances, Christine could venture a few guesses, and she pressed to where she sensed a more meaningful story. "Who were the owners before?"

Erik went silent, tracing the bones at the back of her hand in consideration. "The firm in Paris was owned by my mentor, a Master Mason named Giovanni. He was a contractor who worked on laying foundations for the Opera," a flash of a smile appeared for a second at the memory of being there at the Garnier's birth, even if he was but a small lad in Giovanni's shadow. "He liked tucking secrets into every project he took on and showed me how to do the same."

"Your home?"

He gave a nod. "It was just rooms. He died of pneumonia shortly after the foundations were complete. I hid there when the Prussians came. I had many idle hours to fill, so I connected the rooms and added a few of my own since construction halted. During the Commune, I stopped the attempts to bomb the Opera many times."

"And the other?"

His eyes clouded with a dry murmur of, "Inheritance. It belonged to my Father. When he died, I took over what remained since I possessed the skills needed to restore it. However, by the time I came to own either firm, they were but shells that barely existed. The foremen who worked for my Father knew of me. They liked working together and I offered a way for that to continue. With Giovanni's firm, it was largely having my solicitor find and hire those who had worked for him that I believed would be beneficial to my plans and tolerant of my existence."

Christine lifted her hand from his chest to caress the outlines of his mask, with a shy focus on the masked brow and then his exposed ear which made his eyes flutter closed. "Tell me," she coaxed with all her warmth. "Tell me of your family. Tell me where you come from. Who gave you music?"

"That is a rather unpleasant story, Christine," came the flat response.

"I want to know your story, Erik. Don't keep me out if you want to share our lives and our future."

"It is morose, and I do not want to sour the day or our outing."

Christine's hand left his ear and pressed his shoulder back. Erik offered no resistance as he lay flat on his back and she swung a leg over him to saddle his hips, earning a groan from her intentioned positioning. "The day is young still," she intoned as she leaned forward until they were chest-to-chest. The movement made her tingle for him and she knew she was not alone in that need. "We can make up for any sullen moments that may occur."

The blanket beneath them bunched as he clutched it into white-knuckled fists, but he gave a defiant lift of his chin. "You underestimate my restraint," he breathed and bucked his hips to shift her from his pelvis to his abdomen. "How close I came to taking you on that counter, plunging into your warmth and indulging in your paradise with excruciating patience."

Heat rushed through her like no other flush before and that tingle resonated in every spot she wanted him to touch her in that moment. The worst of it was how Erik maintained eye contact and never stole a glance at her cleavage right before him.

Damn it! she thought. "You're trying to distract me."

"Speaks the temptress who aims to bribe me," he retorted through gritted teeth.

Christine let out a sigh and caressed his left cheek. "Tell me the story…"

"It is scarcely a story worth telling."

"Erik," she groaned her growing exasperation, then thumped her head to his shoulder. She pressed her case, though every word was muffled, "I know this is our first proper outing." Christine shifted her face so he could better hear her, "But the time we have shared since you revealed yourself weeks ago makes it feel like we have been a coupling for far longer than a mere two days, does it not?"

"A lifetime…" he whispered. Erik's hands released the blanket and rose to her hips where he hugged her to him for a long moment and several deep breaths before he sat her upright, but did not remove her from his waist. Instead, he traced the lines of one the of flowers on her abdomen. The thought of imparting any detail of his horrid upbringing to her left him feeling nauseous.

"You know my parents," she reminded in the gentlest tone. "Papa was a concert violinist. Mama liked to garden and paint."

"Gustave and Helene," he noted their names, recalling a conversation they had months ago for her, and years for him. It was a bit of a strain to recall the name of Christine's mother, a French native who moved to Sweden with her family when she was young. It was upon Helene's death that the senior Gustave brought his daughter to France to take in her heritage.

"You remembered," she smiled brighter than sunlight.

"I remember everything when it comes to you." Every detail. Every painful heartache.

Christine softened and twirled a finger around one of the brass buttons on his vest.

Recognizing her efforts to remain patient for some modicum of insight into his life before her, Erik released a long breath and stopped tracing the flower on her dress. Needing to be grounded, despite their almost lewd positioning, Erik rested his hand over hers and stilled her fiddling with the button. However, Erik did not mind their positioning. It was very enjoyable to have her on his abdomen, even if a lower position would be more exciting.

He was not ready for that yet.

"My Mother was a cruel woman, Christine. In every sense of the word. Her name was Bianca. She came from Austria to be a ballerina at Salle le Peletier and was a Petit Rat. My Father, Amile, was an up-and-coming mason who became an Abonné in his growing wealth. While I have no way of knowing the circumstances of their situation, I do know they married quickly and moved to Rouen."

"You?"

"It is very likely," he murmured after a hard swallow. "She often said I ruined her life. She blamed me for many things. If something went against her wish, it was my fault." The subtle spark of life and confidence that often lit his eyes dulled to a bleak dark hole. "Everyday."

Christine slowly slid off him, though remained draped over most of him. A knee hitched over his hip, an arm around his torso, and her ear pressed to his heart as she tried to pour all the affection her spirit held for him into his being while she clung to him. "Why? You cannot help how you were born… or even conceived."

"It's… I think it is more than that," he replied with an unfamiliar heft to his voice. "The marriage surged her from a lower-class to an upper-middle-class existence. With that in mind, I suspect that she did as many women would do: socialize and try to crawl into a higher standing with other ladies while Amile worked on one of his job sites.

"There was an accident when he was inspecting one of his projects. Lime dust – used for mortars and concrete – fell on him. Lime is normally quite harmless until it comes into contact with moisture. If it gets into your eyes, nose, or mouth — it will start to burn. In his case, he lost most of his vision and it damaged his lungs. Between his inability to apply his trade and my birth, her aspirations were extinguished."

"That's not your fault," she protested, rubbing his sternum and fighting a rush of anger that started to pulse within. "She cannot possibly blame you for that."

"She did."

"What of your Father?"

A shaky sigh escaped him. "He was neither cruel nor kind, never uttered a word of affection, and preferred to be lost to his state or the drink. I assume being unable to apply his trade or ascend stairs without wheezing left him in a perpetual state of melancholia."

"You loved him though…" she sensed aloud.

Erik gave a small nod. "In the moments he came out of his stupor, he made it a point to educate me in the fundamentals: reading, writing, and arithmetic. 'I may have an ugly son, but I will not have a stupid one,' he would say. But in rarer moments, whenever Mother left the house, he would teach me music…"

Christine felt her eyes well with tears as she heard Erik's voice start to crack with a shuddering breath.

"Piano mostly, because that was what his mother taught him. But he knew violin too because of his Grandfather, and he taught me what little he remembered. There were many times when the house was ours because she was out, and he would just play for hours… I heard his life fall from a hopeful future to a pit of misery and sorrow."

Music filled the house with a few moments of wonder whenever she left. Father would hear the door to the greater world shut, and he would almost fly from his chair to navigate the memorized path to the piano in the next room and plant himself on the bench. Music poured from his fingers. There came the rare occasions when Father allowed him to sit beside him on that narrow little bench, and Father cited every simple note as he played by ear, in tune with its sound.

"He was the only one who would allow me to be in his company for any length. My Mother made certain to remind me that this was only because he could not see how monstrous I was, for if he did, he would disown me. I came to believe that he was the sole reason I came out of childhood alive."

Clutching him more, Christine tilted her head enough to press a kiss to his chest while she felt his hand stroking her hair.

"Bianca was not a woman who should have had any offspring. She treated my brothers poorly too. Father had to force her to tend to their needs– to even feed them. It made little sense to me why she rejected them too, with their perfect faces."

"You have brothers…?" her voice was small. She did not want to interrupt this rare moment of Erik opening a fraction of his life to her, but this was a facet that she never considered. Yet, being an only child tended to have that effect on her.

"Two," came the distant murmur. "They are quite a bit younger, by seven and ten years."

"What of them?"

Erik trembled and his beloved answered his pain by giving him a tight squeeze in her effort to soothe him. It still stunned him how much something so simple as her small touches kept him from falling into oblivion. How could the world take these little affections for granted when he craved every little caress and squeeze? Those gestures eased the torments of old traumas. Traumas that he dared not tell her yet. Perhaps not ever. He was careful in what he revealed. But the matter of his brothers was more sensitive by proximity alone.

She would question the absence of their names. It was a mistake to mention them at all.

His hand curled more into her hair as he swallowed that hardening lump in a dry throat. "Liam and Valen," he choked their names aloud for the first time in decades. Speaking them held such a visceral effect on him, that tears sprung forth without restraint. Damnit! "I know little of them. Shortly after Valen's birth, Amile took me away from them, to be Giovanni's apprentice. To rid me from that house and their lives. I did not wish to leave, because I thought maybe at least my brothers could… could love me. He insisted it was for the best, for everyone."

Erik felt the dam cracking now. Years of pent-up hurt pushed harder against stone walls, forming new cracks faster than he could pack mortar into webbing crevices. When he blinked to fight back the tears, he saw the moment. The catalyst that changed everything.

Liam running through the house, laughing madly.

He sucked in a deep breath to ward off the memory. It stalled the tears, but carried him back to that moment.

He chased him to catch him. To stop their Mother's anger from growing any hotter. She was already screaming at them for not listening – he was! Even as Father's deep and controlled voice demanded them to stop. He would! He wanted to, but Liam would only keep running if he was not caught.

Then Mother would become angrier.

Maybe she would start hitting Liam too…

Too late!

Liam crashed into the table, and he was the first one to reach him, Mother and Father close behind.

Mother did not know Father was there.

Or she did not care.

She cursed him for breaking the table, and her hand flew…

Again…

Father was there this time. He either saw the shadow of their forms or heard her strike and his cry when he hit the floor and the broken shards littering it.

Father's response was swift with the back of his hand flying into Mother's cheek. They argued, and Mother went running after moments. In turn, Father followed their sobs. He shuffled towards them with a hand on the wall to orientate himself, then bent over, reaching for Liam until he caught the toddler's arm at the bicep. When Father reached for him, he dared to reach back. The calloused hand clamped down on his wrist and both boys were pulled upward and navigated toward the kitchen.

Erik did not say a word to this memory as it flashed through his mind in seconds. As unwelcomed as it was, it held back the tidal wave of emotion that built up deep within his soul. "When we traveled to Paris, he spoke little to me. When he did speak, he was telling me what I was to expect from Giovanni and that my name was now Erik."

"He changed your name?"

"Mother deemed me unworthy of a proper name, something he decided to rectify."

She gave a small nod and appeared to sense that was all he would say on that subject.

"The day he gave me away, he did not speak to me. Not one word… not even a goodbye. Instead, he just gave me his ring," there was a brief pause as he placed the gold ring with the black onyx on his chest before her, "and his Grandfather's violin."

Christine grasped the ring and turned it between her fingers for study. It was something Erik always wore and its constant presence on his little finger made sense since it became clear that, for all his failings, Erik's Father did seem to harbor some bit of caring for him. Yet, as she took in the tasteful and masculine curves that were molded into the thick gold band, a jarring wave of déjà vu rolled through her with such ferocity that she swore she had held it before, although she knew better.

"Your brothers…" she began after a pause, but gazing deep into the onyx. "What became of them?"

"They are… grown. Bianca died just before the war. Father died in seventy-three, from complications from his injury. The moment I learned of his passing; I went back to check on them. I made sure their inheritance went to them, which was more than enough to cover their expenses, boarding school, and set them up comfortably. I only claimed five percent and the firm for myself."

"How old were they?"

"Ten and thirteen."

With numbers running through her mind, she pressed her next question, "You did not take them yourself?"

"I was in no position to care for them then, Christine. I could not give them a chance at a normal life, nor could I bear the thought of them coming to loathe me too. I did what I could for them and stayed away so they may live a life unburdened by my existence."

In brief reluctance, Christine sat upright, her legs tucked beneath her. When Erik mirrored her, she looked into those eyes, reddened and puffy. Unspoken agony roiled beneath them. There was more he did not tell her. Holes left in his life and she wanted to know each stage. He told her a little of his family, just as she asked. Enough to sate most of her curiosity.

"You cannot know if they would hate you, Erik."

"Christine… you are an abnormality in my life. No one cared for me, or will even speak with me as you have. Whether they manage to accept me or not, would my presence in their life not hinder their chances at happiness? What woman – apart from you – would want to have a family with them knowing that this," he jerked his hand to his mask, "might be hereditary?"

Christine bowed her head to his point, knowing firsthand that she had struggled to accept Erik as a romantic interest because of that mask. Any other man? She knew she would have leaped at the opportunity. Rather than press the matter of the brothers, whom she knew Erik held much affection for, she leaned into another observation. Perhaps an important one. "I don't think I am the first one who has cared for you, Erik."

His distant gaze snapped to her.

Looking down at the onyx ring she twisted in her fingers, she took a steadying breath and forged ahead. "It is fair to say that your Mother resented you, be it an unplanned pregnancy or face," she shook her head. "But I must say, regardless of those reasons, her treatment of you goes beyond the pale. I cannot imagine being so cruel to any child, much less one that I bore…"

Erik remained silent, though the heat of his gaze remained upon her.

"Your Father?" She twisted the ring a final time in her fingers and pressed it back into his hand, with Erik tracking her every motion. "I think he loved you, Erik, in his way. If he taught you basic literacies while he could not see enough to work, that had to come from a place of love and caring. He gave you music… his ring, your name, the violin… how can that not be him trying? I don't know why he sent you away. I cannot fathom it. But I've seen the world demand a man to be emotionless while a woman is deemed too emotional for voicing a disagreeable thought."

She saw his eyes gloss over as numb fingers closed around her hand and the ring. A rare tremble rolled through his lanky frame. The stony barriers he held around himself cracked in a web of fissures. Those beautiful eyes glistened with unshed tears and became portals to glimpse the thoughts firing through his mind. She sensed the brink rolling forth with the momentum of an avalanche cascading down snow-covered mountains.

Sliding closer to him, Christine slipped into his stiff yet languid arms and gave him the fiercest embrace she could. "Tell me I'm wrong," she challenged in her love. "Tell me that I'm wrong, and your Mother and the world have not twisted your mind so much that you believe no one but I could love you. Tell me you didn't know he loved you all along. Tell me you're not scared of what that could mean."

Another violent shiver ran through him.

Erik could not tell her these things. He could not tell anyone.

A choked sob escaped him.

How many times had he lied to himself to steel against the pain of rejection? To keep his fractured mind intact enough to merely exist? Was that lie the true reason why he stayed away from his siblings? Was it why he left Christine that night so long ago? Did he tell himself his Father must hate him to make sense of why he sent him away with such callousness?

The dam broke and Erik's trembling form sagged forward until Christine was the only thing keeping him up as he let out a violent sob, and the pain and lies of his reality rushed forth in a raging torrent. Decades of pain and loneliness that he spent lifetimes locking away hit him with such force that it stole the air from his lungs, and his cries were but weeping gasps.

Christine wept with him and held him close. Although the embrace was not reciprocated, he was malleable to her touch. "I love you, so much…" she crooned into his ear.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Paris, 1863

There was light and dark. There were muted colors and shapeless forms, blurs of people bustling through the train station, and outlines of architecture that Amile LeMaitre could no longer appreciate. Seeing the world was like looking through frozen glass submerged in water.

It was the one moment that Amile appreciated his inability to see with any clarity. The look that must have been in his son's eyes would have destroyed him. The pleading sound of that perfect little voice already tore at him. Even now, the constant buzz of countless voices and machinery did nothing to drown out the sound of his son's desperate call for him.

He would not turn back.

For his son's sake, he would not…turn back…

The house was no longer safe for him. Amile could no longer trust that Bianca would not end up killing him.

Amile knew why she hated Garlaid — Erik.

His name was supposed to be Erik.

Bianca was not a loving wife. Not after the accident. Not when it was determined that Amile would never work or breathe normally again. He knew why she ended up in the hospital with him while he recovered. He knew why the pregnancy, and her life, were nearly lost when she was six months along.

He knew why there were heinous grooves and deformed flesh when he felt his son's face upon his birth.

Bianca never admitted what she tried to do, but Amile knew.

She hated their son because he lived.

If France permitted it, Amile would have divorced her years ago. The woman he fell in love with years back then was a farce, to the point he wondered if she ever existed. His accident and the agonizing pain he suffered meant nothing to her beyond the fact that it robbed her of the fantasy of the 'perfect' life. Drinking became a means to cope because tinkering at the piano always gave her headaches. It numbed the pain, and it nullified most of his ire towards his wife. It allowed him to disregard every little snide comment she made while he battled his growing sense of worthlessness.

Striking Bianca was never an option, until the moment he did.

He saw what his father did on the daily to his mother until the day that man suddenly disappeared. He did not want to be the cruel man his father had been.

But for the sake of his son? He did not think. It just happened. The back of his hand found his wife's peach-colored cheek without an ounce of hesitation. For this one instance, that circumstance she brought him to, Amile did not regret it for an instant.

Erik was a rather docile child, even as an infant and toddler. Amile used to cradle that boy for hours, even when he was not feeding him a bottle, up until Erik started becoming mobile. There was a kind of solidarity Amile had with Erik that he did not share with Liam or little Valen, which made this decision weigh all the heavier on his spirit.

As the attendant led the stoic Amile to the correct train and his private cabin, he fought the urge to turn back. Erik had a better chance in life with Giovanni than if he remained in the same house as the 'mother' who hated him.

This was best for his son.

That thought was not enough as Amile stepped into the lonely cabin and latched the door shut. It did not stop the flood of emotion that overtook him in knowing he was alone and unobserved. As he sank down onto the stiff bench and allowed grief to overcome him, Amile buried his face into his hands and wept.

A/N 2: Credit to Bolshevixen, Aviertrist, and my Beta, PhantomoftheBroadgrass, for assisting with the naming of Christine's Mother. Special note that H is not pronounced in French so for any sticklers out there like me, basically the name is 'Elene.'

How was Erik's Origin? It was a chore to create and keep accurate to Webber, aka "Hounded out by everyone! Met with hatred everywhere! No kind words from anyone! No compassion anywhere!" I had to keep this as true to him as possible. Someone had to care for him to have him survive childhood, right? Does this satisfy a Webber history for him?