This story is based in Kay, set shortly before/during the epilogue. If there are any ALW or Leroux influences, it's because those versions of the characters have taken over my mind and I can't imagine them otherwise.

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable.

Christine de Chagny

I fell back against the sweat-dampened pillow. I panted heavily for a breath of cold, clean air to alleviate the burning pain. But there was none; the room was hot and airless. There were shouts around me, urging me to go on, but I could barely hear them. I found myself concentrating on the candelabra that burned bright above my head. Through my pain-induced haze, the flames flickered in and out of focus. I could have sworn that the gold-gilded candelabra was swaying back and forth overhead, almost with a life of its own. It reminded me of a time not so long ago, when a chandelier had crashed onto the stage, and I was spirited away by a masked man. I wondered what would happen if this miniature chandelier, which was currently suspended above me, swayed and fell on my head. When the candles ignited on my hair and skin, would the pain match the sensation that presently burned within my body?

Was the pain endless? Would I be torn in half before my suffering was over? I knew that I was on the verge of passing out; that I was about to surrender to the cool, numbing darkness of unconsciousness. But the midwife's triumphant cry was strangely clear to my ears: "You are nearly there, Madame!"

I was so, so close to seeing my child; I could not give in so easily. I had to fight the tempting darkness that invited me with the cool hand of an old friend and instead embrace the fires that threatened to consume me. I must, to see my child. The child I created with him – with Erik. By the time I realized I was carrying his child within me, Erik was dead and I was engaged to Raoul. I had vowed then to give our son or daughter the life Erik never had; the life Erik deserved. A part of me had been proud that my firstborn would be the child of my only love. No doubt I would bear Raoul other children throughout our marriage, and no doubt I would love them as much as I already love my unborn child. But I could imagine waking the children in the nursery several years later, and recognizing something of Erik's countenance in my eldest. Perhaps it would be his dark hair and golden eyes, or her lithe, graceful movements; perhaps it would be his musical talent, or her sharp wit. Although Erik was dead, seeing a little of him alive in our child would be my pleasure and comfort.

Then came a pain like no other before: a burning, tearing, ripping pain that I was sure left a gaping, bleeding hole in my lower parts. Surely there was a wide, red wound, edged with torn flesh and dripping with dark red blood.

And then, silence. The thickest, loudest, most ominous silence I have ever heard.

I looked up desperately at the small circle of faces that now surrounded me. The midwife and two maids of the de Chagny household. Three pairs of eyes concentrated on a spot between my legs. My baby. My baby, that did not cry, nor move, nor make a sound. Was it dead? Was all my suffering for nothing? Was I being punished for marrying Raoul while knowing I was pregnant with another's child? Surely my innocent child would not have to bear the price of my sin!

I could barely find the strength to lift myself off the pillows, but I endeavoured my best nonetheless. "Give him to me!" I demanded, struggling to reach forward. None of the three women answered me. They were all staring, transfixed, at the newborn.

"Vicomtesse –" it was the midwife who spoke first, her thin voice filled with numbed shock. "It is dead."

I fail to describe the sound that then poured from my throat. It was an instinctive, animalistic cry; the sound of pure grief. Losing what little strength I had possessed, I fell onto my back in hopelessness, numbly realising that tears were falling ceaselessly from my eyes. My baby was gone. The child I had carried for nine months; the child in whom I had hoped to see Erik; my dear, dear child. Gone. Dead.

It was then that the tiny creature that lay in the pool of my blood gave a feeble cry.

All was silent for a moment, save for his wail. It was thin and weak as a thread, yet it was an insistent cry, a resilient cry, a proclamation of life and survival. I dared not believe it. My baby was alive. Tears wet my cheeks; tears of joy now. I sat up, renewed hope giving me strength, as does the pale, grey light of dawn that battles the darkness of night. It was not over. The reason for my being was there again. It had not been in vain that I struggled through the difficult pregnancy and birth. It was love; pure and instinctive, a mother's love for her child even when he was in the womb, my unconditional love for the child I had yet to lay eyes on. "Give the baby to me." I reached out with both arms for my child.

In my joy, I had failed to notice the looks of fear that had dawned on the midwife and maids' faces. "What is wrong?" I demanded. There was no reply. "Give me my baby!" My voice rose in panic. What was the matter? Why were they all dumbstruck with horror? Why was I denied seeing or holding my child?

My lady's maid, Marie, reacted first. With shaking hands, she took a cloth and wrapped the baby in it – cringing every now and then in horror, I noted. And with a look of utter fear, she lifted the child and brought him to me. "It is a boy, Madame."

That was when I saw the sight that struck them dumb. Several minutes into the world, and my son was already the likeness of his father. The skin that stretched over his skull was thin, exposing the bone. Blood vessels were grossly drawn over his face, as though his flesh had been carved by centuries of rivers and mountains. His eyes were sunken deep into the head, not yet opened to face the harsh light of the world. Deformed and ugly as he was, he was my son, and I felt only love for him. Instinctive, primitive love, the kind that is harrowed into all animals since the beginning of time. The kind of love protective, sacrificing, all-consuming love that would make me die for him if it was asked of me.

The three anxious faces melted away. All I could see was him – my son, my imperfect yet infinitely precious son. I was unaware of the older maid laying a hand on Marie's shoulder and telling her in a hushed whisper to inform the master. I was unaware of the midwife shaking her head sadly in indication that the child was not going to survive for long. I was unaware of the maid's reply that it was a mercy. All that mattered was my son. My Charles.

A/N: I have struggled through this story for so long. Despite the whole thing being pretty short, I was never quite satisfied with how it turned out, especially near the end. But now, a year after I started writing it, I am going to start uploading. I'm still not very happy with it, especially with the ending, but I think that I'll never be quite satisfied with the story and if I don't start uploading I might never do it. I originally intended for it to be a novella, but that felt too long (it's about 10k words long). So now, each chapter is going to be in one character's POV. I'm not entirely happy with this, it feels too slow. But tell me if that works :]

I'll try to update as often as I can, I'm hoping for every other day or so. Please, please, please leave a review to tell me what you think. I know the beginning is a little slow, but I promise that there will be a satisfactory ending.

(Btw, Meghan, FEEL BETTER)