Erik

July 1887

Erik had been trudging the Eurasian landscape for nearly four years. Battered and dilapidated, the outer appearance of a gentlemen had, little by little, been stripped away. He looked absolutely horrible. Well, worse than was normal. Once he had reached France, after finally losing the pack of men searching for him in somewhere in the Russian wilderness, he rode. Hard.

Keeping to the coastline and riding North, he had avoided Paris, not willing to risk his sorry hide after the many years of evading capture. By his own estimation, he would reach La Rochelle soon. Very soon, indeed. Oberon was almost wheezing, but he couldn't abstain from the chance of seeing them, today. This foggy, damp morning constituted the reasoning behind his life's motivation for the past six and a half years. He briefly regretted avoiding Paris, adding even more time to his journey. Would people even remember the mysterious affair of the Phantom? Surely, it was out of Le Epoque by now. It would be nearly a decade since the disaster, since he almost lost Christine. He dismissed the thought. He was right to avoid the temptation, deciding it was not worth the risk. He had risked everything by bringing that picture. He would not repeat such a foolish action.

And what of Christine? His wife. Was she still? His heart threatened to break away from his chest cavity, the scant muscle physically feeling weaker. Bony fingers were practically wringing the leather of the leather reins. He was sweating. Had she left? Had Nadir even found her? There was no way of knowing until his arrival. She very well could have remarried, and what would he do then? Or, worse, she could not want him at all. Until death do us part. To her, her husband could have died years ago. He had told her a year. And it had been well over six. Why would she have not moved on? It was what he told her to do. He was wrong, wrong to have never explicitly say the words: goodbye. Remorse stole over his body, yet again, filling out his veins and tremoring the blood to his core. How would she, could she, forgive him? What if she hated him for it? It was well within her right. Who was he to assume that everything would continue as it had before? Still, he would enter that house like a dog, pitiable and meek, and beg mercy, beg her to take him back.

Alexandre, his dear boy. He must be tall by now, at the age of eight! Would Christine allow his father to see him? After being gone so long, Erik wondered. Why would Christine want the absentee father back in her son's life? Perhaps she had told Alexandre that another man was his father, had she remarried. It certainly would be better for the boy. A fresh start, without a stain such as himself on her darling son. He doubted Alexandre even remembered him. He was so young, and while Erik had lived with them he spent most time either working or composing. Christine had done most of the care towards their child. Were he able, he vowed to maintain an active role in his son's life. So many years had been stolen already.

The morning mist, which clouded over his path, forced him to hinder Oberon's pace to a loping canter. He was nearly there, but he did not allow himself to hope. It would be too devastating. In the midst of forming a plan as to how he would track down Christine were his aspirations slashed, a small form, nearly blending into the silver fog, apart from a black spot near the top, made its way towards him. Oberon nickered in suspicion.

The spot evidently made sounds. It sounded like a small girl, judging from the figure's high pitch vocalizations. Erik lightly tugged on the reins, bringing Oberon to a halt. The child was giggling as if she had just heard to most comical jest ever told. Suddenly, Erik did not remember the last time he had heard laughter. Instead of welcoming the feeling, however, he was unnerved.

The stranger plummeted towards Oberon, the stallion pawing his front hoof in restlessness. What kind of parent had allowed their child to explore about the countryside, alone, risking running into someone like him? And in nightclothes? He grew anxious at yet another hitch in his goal of finding his small family. Dismounting in annoyance, to calm the horse, Erik looked down to see the black-haired child landing just inches from his dirtied boots, yelling out a cry of surprise, the thud splashing droplets of mud randomly. His horse huffed, dismissing the threat in indignation.

She appeared to have been holding a toy of some sort, which Erik spotted somewhere in between Oberon's back hooves. Retrieving the object, and expecting to continue onto his desired destination, something halted his pursuit. The girl, getting up in haste, stared back up at him, face locked in fascination. He certainly was not unfamiliar to gawking children, but something was off. The child's irises were nearly yellow in color, directly matching his. It disturbed him. He had never known of another person with such eyes. The odd feature is what made him something feared, his yellow slits had aided in his inhuman characterization. It was the priest that exorcised him during his childhood that had first pointed it out. He pitied the child, to have the same feature that demonized him all his life. Apart from his face, of course.

What struck him, though, was the longer he looked at her, the more her eyes complimented her features. Although alarming at first, the girl felt somewhat familiar.

Breaking from his thoughts, he remembered his manners. He would ensure the girl's lack of injury and be on his way. Children cannot wonder that far. What was she, four, five? Surely, she was able to locate herself home.

"Mademoiselle, I must inquire as to the state of your health." He said formally. After initial confusion, her face distorted into something the resembled happiness. The girl had taken quite a tumble, though she seemed unaware of it. Splotches of sludgy earth covered her nightdress, and she seemed unaware of that too. Strange child.

Before he knew it, she was grabbing his hand, placing it into her own two small ones.

"You must be my Papa, I am sure of it!"

Erik did not understand. Children jest, do they not? They play games. Imaginary games that do not concern themselves within the limits of reality. Papa? Alexandre was beginning to utter the term regularly when he left. He longed to hear it from his son again. But this girl? He would take her to her home, obviously she was incapable of doing that herself.

Remembering he still held the object, he awkwardly returned it to the girl. She embraced it fiercely, corners of her mouth upturned in thanks as she watched him in fascination. Lowering himself to the child's level, to seem less intimidating, he spoke with a steady, even tone.

"Where do you live, child?"

She pointed in the direction she had come from, turning back to face him.

That was where they lived. Good. The girl's home was hopefully on the way. Before he could raise himself up, however, the child practically flung herself on his person, her tiny hands grabbing around his neck. It was suffocating. The toy horse flew out of her grasp yet again.

"Oh, Papa, you've come home!" She paused. "My name is Josephine."

In an attempt to register the child's words, he removed himself from her grasp, pulling her thin wrists off. He looked into her eyes, a serious gesture, deciphering what truth he could find in them. There were two possibilities. Either this girl was mad – running out at dawn with nothing but a nightgown on, and stumbling, at that- or…

How could anyone, even a child, mistake him for someone else? And the girl's eyes. He was close to home, he could sense it. All these evidences pushed him to ask her.

"Child, do you have a brother?"

The tension of the moment was broken. Her eyes lifted.

"His name is Alexandre! You know that."

Alexandre. His dear boy. But surely, the name was common enough.

"And your mother's name?"

"Oh, Papa, this is silly! You know maman's name!" Initially giggling at his seriousness, she picked up on his look of apprehension, waiting for an answer.

"Christine."

Christine. So, she had stayed, had waited. But this did not mean the situation was transparent. Children have a way of simplifying things, social cues and rules. Christine was here, but she could have remarried, it may very well be much more complicated than that. But it didn't matter to him. At that moment, he had to see her. Nothing else was relevant. Well, except-

"Josephine. How old are you?"

"I turn six in November." She said proudly. Innocent. Unknowing. True.

She was five. Five years old. In a sudden wave of realization, Erik understood why this girl seemed familiar. She looked like his mother. Madeline had been beautiful, pale regality and a searing gaze, though this girl displayed no malicious countenance. Mentally counting nine months after he left, he froze. It was getting close to march when he received the letter. Had Christine been pregnant? Oh, fate had cursed him. All these years, and he didn't know. He looked at this child, his child. Erik was terrified to the bone. His daughter.

Exhaling loudly, he attempted to summon at least a façade of composure. His eyes glistened. She waited, patiently, as if knowing the heavy weight that this meeting carried.

Lightly taking her hand, Erik forced himself to smile. He did not remember the last time he performed the action.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, ma cher." The last phrase resembled more of a gravelly whisper than the polite endearment it was meant to be.

Josephine smiled. With less force than before, she enclosed her arms around his neck, squeezing gently.

"I am happy you're home, Papa."

His arms hung limply at his sides. His daughter, embracing him with childlike excitement alight her features. It never even occurred to him that Christine could bear another child. Alexandre's birth had been quite taxing, and although they had discussed it, they thought it not possible. Now, he bore the evidence of their incorrectness in front of him. And she had gone through her pregnancy alone, he prayed Meg had been there to help her when he had failed to do so. He thanked his wife's Christian God that he spared the mother and child.

Shaking hands lightly brushed said child's back, eventually pulling her small form up with him. Leaning away at the movement, her face carried surprised joy realizing how high up she was, in his arms. His deep, rich laugh resounded, tears now spilling forth freely now.

A hand reached towards his face. He flinched backwards, ever-cautious of curious children. Despite this apparent setback, though, Josephine continued on to her goal, roughly palming the tear away in her urgency. He stared at her.

A wet spot, seeping to his skin through his shirt, forced him to regard its source.

"Where are your shoes?"

Muddied feet had dirtied his already tattered waistcoat. She looked like a culpable convict, wary of answering her accuser. The false strictness of the conversation was revealed, however, by Erik's low chuckle.

"Never mind. You will show me home, yes?"

She could only nod, head moving fiercely up and down. Grabbing her yet again flown about toy, Erik clicked his tongue twice. Oberon responded in kind, walking forward. With her light form secure in his two long arms, they paced forwards in an unexpectant silence, both content with the other not knowing what to say.

The house came into visibility. Erik's head pounded. His stomach felt like it was in his throat. Seemingly out of nowhere, he asked his daughter.

"Why were you outside, in the first place?"

She shrugged. "I like it out here."