4.27.18 I am going to rewrite a few of these chapters. I'll add rewrite dates as I finish.

Giver of Life

My son came into my life unexpectedly, like a flash of lightning consuming the absolute darkness of my existence. Before his sudden arrival, my days blended together, my thoughts filled with longing for the woman I still loved, whom I would love no matter what. Time no longer mattered, and I stayed awake for days on end. With each shallow breath I relived every detail of the last night I had seen my beloved Christine Daae.

There had been sadness in her eyes as she walked away from me, deep melancholy that echoed how I had felt since she had pressed the small wedding ring into my palm and turned away. It did not matter how many months or years passed since I had last seen her; foolishly I waited and longed for her return. Perhaps if we stood face to face one more time she would hear me out. Perhaps if I fell to my knees and begged for another chance at winning her hand she would look down at me, offer her hand, and agree to a courtship.

Storms had passed through Paris, thunder rumbling in the distance, which was unusual given it was late February. A mix of snow and rain rolled down the windows, which would likely turn to ice by sundown. I sat in my small room, the air damp, candles unlit, and darkness shrouding me. The weather suited my foul mood, and I shivered in the lightless room. I should have been hunched over my desk composing and yet I sat and stared at the blank page.

Music had abandoned me for weeks on end. As thunder rumbled along the outskirts of the city, I contemplated why I remained in Paris. There was nothing here for me, and as I wallowed in misery, I considered packing a single bag and disappearing into the night. Not a soul would have dared ask me to reconsider-aside from the woman stomping through the down stairs hall.

"A moment, please!" Madeline muttered a curse under her breath.

Her cane thumped along the wooden floorboards as she approached the front door. On a daily basis she did not use her cane to get around the house, but the weather bothered her knees. I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs out, half-expecting to hear Madeline sign for a parcel and then holler for her daughter Meg to deliver it upstairs to me as she could not climb the stairs with her swollen joints.

"What are you doing here?" Madeline gasped.

"Madame Giry, please, a moment of your time. May I come inside?"

"You should not be here."

The unmistakable sound of Christine's voice drew me to my feet. I stood rigid, my breath hitched, my heart thudding as fiercely as it had the day she had walked away with that de Chagny boy. Quiet as a cat, I slinked to my bedroom door and turned the knob. The door cracked open, a rush of damp, crisp air caressing the left side of my face.

"Please, Madame, I have nowhere else to turn."

The desperation in her voice gave me pause. She had returned to me. At last, she had returned to me, her teacher, her loyal servant.

I stepped into the hall, drawn to her voice like an unsuspecting fool trailing in the wake of a siren. She could have spoken nonsense and I would have fallen to my knees, worshiped her as she deserved. I would have done anything to win her favor.

Halfway down the steps, a piercing cry tore through the quiet house and drowned out Christine's sweet voice. My lips parted and I inhaled sharply as I peered around the corner and watched Madeline accept a bundle of squealing rags.

"My God, how old is this child?"

"A couple of days," Christine answered. "Three, I think?"

"You do not know when he was born? He does not look three days old."

Christine ignored Madeline's question. "You must not tell anyone he is mine. It will ruin me."

Madeline attempted to shush the screaming newborn by bouncing the child in her grasp, but the movements only seemed to further agitate him. "Your husband does not know of your son?"

"No one knows."

"When was he last fed?" Madeline asked as she continued to bounce the screaming mass settled in her arms. "He is inconsolable. My God, he is not dressed for this time of year."

I walked down another step, my hand gripped tight to the banister as I longed to catch one glimpse of Christine. She was true perfection both inside and out, an angel I did not deserve but still yearned for nonetheless. One glance would sate me. One small smile would revive my dying heart and lift the broken melodies in mind. She would give me back my worthless life.

Either she sensed me near or heard the stairs creak beneath my weight. Whichever it was, Madeline shot me a warning glance and kept me in my place out of sight behind the door.

"He was last fed this morning. Around eight," Christine replied over the constant wails of the newborn she had handed to Madeline.

"Eight this morning? How often does he eat?" Madeline shouted.

"Every two to three hours."

Madeline's eyes narrowed. She flashed another glance toward me before setting her gaze on Christine. "Madame, the hour is close to six. You have not fed him in nearly ten hours?"

"I have not." She spoke without a hint of remorse and no apology to her words.

I turned to the clock in the hall and saw Madeline was correct. My heart sank and I turned back to Madeline. In silence I begged her to allow me a moment of Christine's time, a moment of standing with a mother and her child. The mother of my child.

"My God, no wonder he is so upset."

"There was no time to feed him," Christine said defensively. "I should not have him still."

"Does he have a name?" Madeline asked, ignoring Christine's excuse. The nameless infant quieted a moment as he sucked on his fist.

"No. Name him as you wish," Christine said, sounding rushed. "Only….don't."

"I beg your pardon?" Madeline asked.

"Christine," I whispered without a second thought. I knew she would flee from the house and into the night. I knew if I did not reach out, she would be gone again.

"Thank you," Christine said under her breath. "Make sure he doesn't harm him."

"Christine," I said firmly, knowing she would hear me then.

"You cannot leave this child here," Madeline protested. "He is your son."

"I cannot keep him."

"Christine-"

"Please, Madame, you were like a mother to me. I cannot keep him a moment longer. If you refuse him then I will leave him all the same on the nearest doorstep. I would have done so already, but I wanted to ask you first. If this is a mistake, then I will leave him elsewhere. The choice is yours."

Madeline gaped back in horror. "Why would you do such a thing? Are you mad?"

She attempted to return the infant to Christine, but from the stairs I could not see what happened. I assumed Christine turned away and took off running as Madeline stepped forward before she walked back inside the house and shut the door. The baby cried louder, his screams so piercing my ears rang.

Before the moment registered in my mind, Christine Daae was gone again. I ran up to my bedroom and flung back the curtain to see her fleeing from my home without daring to glance back. She darted across the street and toward the corner where a carriage awaited her. She carried no umbrella and made no attempt to shield herself from the rain.

If she had looked back she would have seen me in the window, my eyes wide, jaw set, and mouth begging to ask why she was doing this.

A year had passed since I had seen her. Twelve months since she had kissed my lips, placed her arms around me and shown me merciful affection. An entire year of days blending into one another had passed since she had spoken to me…touched me. Now she was gone again before I could see her beautiful face, her angel eyes and bee-stung lips. Her cruelty knew no end. Moments ago she had stood so near, and yet not near enough.

Her words still haunted me, plagued me with pangs of anguish. There had been many cruel words directed at me over the years but Christine knew how to inflict pain like no one else I ever knew. Despite that agony, I wanted her back. If anything, it was at least familiar. Alone in the dark, with the screams of the child we had created echoing through the house, I thought of the night she had told me she was expecting, of this bliss turned to hell in an instant.

oooOooo

She held her hand over her stomach and stared at me, her eyes hardened, mouth set in a scowl. Her skin glowed, the dim firelight caressing her delicate features. When she came to me I kept few candles lit as I knew she disliked my appearance, even with the mask and hairpiece. My only concern was her comfort.

She looked anything but comfortable.

I would do anything to satisfy her, to see her smile at me. I was little more than a whipped dog at her feet, waiting for a soft hand and expecting another beating. By the look in her eyes, I knew she would leave my heart bloodied, but I did not care. As long as she stood before me, I would be grateful.

"Did you hear what I said?" she asked me bitterly.

Through my nervous excitement I managed a smile she didn't return. "A child," I said. The word was so foreign to my tongue yet felt like something I wanted to say for the rest of my life. "You are carrying our child."

Our child, a product of my adoration for her. Eight weeks to the day she had gifted herself to me, and this night she had come to me once more, her hips swinging seductively back and forth, back arched like a cat. She offered herself to me once more, told me she could not wait a moment longer. That was all she needed to say.

Christine nodded before she turned away from me. I stepped up behind her and placed my hand on her shoulder, needing to feel her warmth, hoping to sense the life she carried within her. I gripped her softly, but she immediately shrugged me away.

"I love you," I said when she did not offer a reply. "So deeply I ache to please you."

She stood within arm's reach of me, so close I could still smell her feminine scent in the air, still feel her body close to mine as we made love for a second time. My heart rate was still wild, still caught up in flesh and blood and soft sighs. How she made me whole and undid me all in the same breath, and how I wanted to feel put together and torn apart by her and her alone.

"Christine," I pleaded. I wanted to hold her close, to wrap my arms around this woman I loved with all of my heart.

"Tomorrow I will bleed and it will be done."

I was terrified to ask what she meant. Without thinking I grabbed her by the arm and she whipped around to face me, her lips twisted and features contorted. "What are you saying?"

"This thing will not survive the night."

"I want this," I said slowly. Tears pricked my eyes, my hands trembling as I reached for her again but she swatted my hand away. "I thought tonight I proved how much I wanted a life with you, with our family, with our child. Please, Christine, I swear I will do whatever it takes to please you from this day forth."

She turned to me with a wicked smile on her face. "This does not want you."

"I don't understand," I said before she walked away from me.

"A child of your essence, true wickedness of the world."

"This child is yours as well," I said in one last moment of desperation. "And you are perfect."

"You with your insatiable appetite, with your need to take what was never yours. You have been his undoing," she seethed before she stormed away, running up the stone steps and out of my sight.

oooOooo

Somehow I made my way out of my room and into the foyer. I stared at the closed door, the physical barrier between us. She was gone again, leaving only a trace of the beauty we had shared. I longed for her acknowledgment, for a glance or a word.

She offered nothing in return-and yet she still gave me everything. I turned, drawn to the sound of my son.

Madeline protectively held the screaming ball of rags to her chest, shushing and bouncing the inconsolable mass to no avail. When I held out my hand she shook her head.

"Give it to me," I demanded.

She shook her head again. "He's hungry. You heard what she said. He hasn't been fed all day." Her eyes left mine in favor of the infant, whose red face I could see between the dingy white blankets.

"He's suffering," I said.

"He's hungry, not suffering," she shouted over his cries.

Quite frankly, I didn't see a difference.

"Give him to me and find him something," I insisted, holding my hand out again. The tone in my voice changed from anger to desperation. I feared this little thing would die before I could hold him. "Give me this child, Madeline. Now."

"No, you don't know what to do."

My son, I thought with a surge of apprehension. This starving little creature was my miserable son.

"Madeline," I warned, staring directly into her eyes. "Give me my son. Please."

Her eyes filled with tears as she handed him to me with great care. She arranged my hands, showing me the proper way to support his head and cradle his tiny body.

"He's wet," she mumbled.

I stared at the squirming child in my arms. "He's….what?"

"Wet," she replied. "Soiled. I doubt he has had his diaper changed all day considering he has not been fed. He must be starving and uncomfortable in his soaking wet clothes."

I gave a curt nod. For the first thirteen years of my life I had been cold and hungry day and night. Confined to a cellar, my misery had gone unnoticed. With this screaming child tucked in my arms, I felt as though we already shared much in common. "Bring whatever is necessary to keep him content upstairs," I said.

"Take the linens from the closet. Swaddle him," Madeline replied.

"Swaddle him," I repeated as I stomped up the stairs. I had no idea what the word meant or how to do it, but still I intended to remove linens from the closet and make a valiant attempt to appease my son.

"Erik," she called out. "He is fragile."

"I know," I said without looking at her. We were both in a fragile state. I loosened my grip, afraid I would crack his ribs if I held him too tightly, yet also fearing if I did not clutch him to my chest he would fall from my arms.

With the door closed, I examined him for the first time.

I pulled the blanket away from his face with my trembling hand and thought about touching his cheek. Fear stopped me. Fear of hurting him made me pull my eyes away, tuck him close to my chest, and bring him to rest against my heart briefly.

He screamed even louder once I stripped him of his coverings. His clothes were, just as Madeline had said, soiled. He had soaked himself through the blankets, which I removed, wrapped into a ball, and tossed on the floor.

The moment I had him uncovered, he urinated on the bed sheets, writhing and screaming all the while. Flustered, I covered him with a clean towel, then unwrapped him and made a second attempt. Nothing I did seemed to settle or comfort him, and I hoped Madeline would be able to find bottles and proper diapers before he perished from starvation.

My God was he small. I had never seen a baby and he was nothing like what I imagined. Truthfully I expected a doll with smooth, alabaster skin and bright eyes. This heap of ungodly noise was blotched with red, his tiny eyes squeezed shut and features pinched. Rolls of flesh kicked and he swung his arms, his tiny hands balled into fists as he blindly punched at the air, at the creature who failed at providing for him. We had not been together even five minutes and already I had proven myself a disappointment.

He kicked and screamed as I wound the blanket tightly around him, attempted to swaddle him as Madeline said. The blanket seemed too tight around his legs and too loose around his chest. Again I uncovered him and made another attempt, but he managed to free his right leg. Rather than torment him yet again, I simply wrapped the blanket around his small body to keep him warm.

He was in pain. There was no other explanation for his howls of protest. I lifted him from my bed, stripped off the soiled sheets, and attempted to shush him as I had seen Madeline do unsuccessfully near the door.

"I don't know what to do for you," I explained, sinking into despair and desperation. He had only been in my home for a half hour at the most and already he had learned to fear his useless father.

The sound of my voice quieted him for a moment, his eyes opening to show sea-colored irises. He let out a little whimper of agony and opened his mouth wide to begin crying anew.

"I understand your hunger," I said. We both hungered for attention, for a caring, kind hand. In one way or another-often at the same time-I had hungered and been denied many things in my life. "I have gone hungry many nights in the past, but you will never worry. You will be fed soon today and for the rest of your life. I will make certain your belly is always full. I swear to you, little one, I will do anything in the world for you."

Again he paused as if the sound of my voice captivated him. I swallowed, walking him around the room, bouncing him furiously. "I will find something for you. I swear it. You have my word, whatever that is worth. I know we are still very much strangers, but I am grateful for your company. I did not expect to ever meet you, and now that we are face-to-face I feel quite unprepared for your arrival."

He hiccuped pathetically, lips trembling.

"We—we're alone now. She's gone," I said, my voice unsteady as reality settled in. His mother had abandoned him at my doorstep with no promise of ever returning for either of us. "She has given you to me and I will make certain I give you whatever you desire."

She is gone. My own words were a punch to the gut. I laid him down on the bed beside me and took in a deep, desperate breath. She was gone. Christine was gone from my life—from this child's life. I had not seen her in a year and there was a possibility he would grow up never knowing his own mother.

Where had she gone? Would she return for him in a day? Perhaps in a month? When would she realize she needed him back, this flawless little baby she had shoved into Madeline's arms. My heart raced, each pulse of blood furthering my trepidation. There was a child in my stead and he was my son. She had given me a son.

He was crying again. Howling like an animal. I had achieved absolutely nothing and lost hope he would ever find comfort in my arms or in my home. Tears streamed down my face as I stared at him and knew he deserved better. I gathered him up in his blankets and tried to calmly explain to him that I had asked his mother to give him to me a year ago when she first discovered she was with child. The crying stopped and he listened intently.

"You have my word," I said softly. "I will not send you away, not unless you choose to leave this home. I will purchase the finest clothing and toys for you, I will allow you whatever comforts you desire, and I will never, ever turn you away. You are mine. You are my son. I hope you are not too disappointed now that we have met."

He stared up at me, his eyes filled with wonder. In a heartbeat I was desperately in love with him, mesmerized by his perfect features, the way he was somehow all mine yet nothing like me.

"I will do anything for you," I promised. "But please, I beg of you, do not leave me. You are truly the only one I have."

The only thing that destroyed our meager bond was a knock at the door. With a deep breath I forced myself to recover from a bout of emotion before I pulled the door open.

Madeline stood in the hall with a glass bottle in one hand and several flour sacks in the other. I snatched the bottle from her hand and began to shut the door but she stopped me.

"He's crying very hard," she said as she peered at him. "Is he injured?"

"Do you mean to accuse me of abusing him?"

"I said no such thing, Erik."

"He's fine. Leave us."

"Did you make certain she didn't hurt him?" Madeline asked.

I paused and stared back at her for a long moment, realizing she hadn't accused me of hurting my own son. I wasn't sure what to make of her words, as despite how often Christine had hurt me, I didn't think of her as capable of injuring anyone.

"He is hungry," I said at last.

"You don't know how to care for a child," she argued. "Give him to me. I will return him when he's fed."

I glared at Madeline, hating her for being right and despising her for knowing what to do. She would know how to provide for this pitiful creature, but she was neither his mother nor blood relation. I had sworn to care for him and I would be damned if I did not follow through on my promise.

"Tell me what I must do," I demanded.

She started to protest once more.

"Show me how to care for him," I requested. Again she started to shake her head, but I stopped her. "Please, show me what I must do to make him content. I do not want him to fear my presence. I do not want him to be like..." Everyone else.

Her lips parted as she understood my trepidation. At last her features softened and she nodded. ""Here, sit with him so that you are comfortable."

In silence she placed the bottle in my hand and pushed the nipple into his open mouth. He protested a moment, then began sucking furiously, grunting and kicking until at last he sighed. Madeline kept her hand on my forearm and nodded as he consumed most of the milk. She smiled at my son and praised him for calming down.

The sight of him in my arms put a lump in my throat. He was entirely too innocent, too perfect to be left in my care. His eyes became heavy, his arms and legs settling down as his belly filled and he tired himself out.

Madeline nodded toward my desk and told me to sit with him, which I did, doing everything in my power to remain perfectly still for him.

"You must change him every few hours," Madeline instructed softly. "And burp him once he finishes the bottle so that the air does not stay in his stomach."

"How do I burp him?" I questioned, keeping my gaze on his face as if I feared he would suddenly vanish from my sight. I would do whatever was needed to keep him content, so that perhaps he would even learn to love me in time. I did not expect it would be easy to convince him, but I hoped my son would learn to feel love toward me.

"Here, let me show you." She placed a towel over her shoulder, took him from me, and gently patted his back as she held him upright, which made him scream even louder than before until he released a belch much more impressive than I expected from such a small creature. Madeline settled him back into my arms and stood watching, her expression guarded.

"Is this sufficient?" I questioned as I continued to pat his back.

At last she offered a smile and nod of approval. "These things take time," she said. "Eventually you will know what to do."

"How will I know?"

She sighed. "You're his father," she said, her eyes meeting mine. I wasn't certain she believed I had any part in creating such perfection, but I nodded. "You will learn in time, just as all mothers and fathers before you have learned to care for their children."

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"Are you certain you wish to keep him here?"

I was not sure if she meant in my room or in the house, but the answer to both questions was a resounding yes. I wanted to be with him. From the moment Christine had told me she had conceived, I wanted a child. Our child.

And now he was in my arms at last.

Without a word, Madeline took the balled up linens I had tossed onto the floor with her and excused herself from the room, leaving me alone with my son. I wasn't sure which of us was more helpless.

He sucked furiously on the remaining milk inside the bottle, grunting and breathing so hard that I thought he would inflate and float away from me. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around my index finger, holding me tightly. I had never experienced such gentleness in my life, such innocence in its purest form.

Swallowing hard, I stood and moved across the room where I sat down on the end of the bare mattress and cradled him close to my chest, watching in fascination as the once-desperate attempt to drink down the bottle turned into a languid, leisurely activity. Milk streamed from the corners of his mouth and down to his chin where I dabbed the excess away.

He opened his eyes one last time, gaze drawn to the covered right side of my face, the stark white mask I was never without. He met my eye and I swore he knew I was his father, his protector. Perhaps in my embrace he knew he was safe, that these hands that surrounded him would hold him forever.

My God, I thought, this is part of me.

He eventually lulled himself to sleep and the bottle's nipple slipped from his mouth. My racing heart slowed as I patted his back with the tips of my fingers and he burped again. His eyes opened only for a moment, but he looked at me and smiled before he fell asleep.

He has no name, I thought. Three days he had lived with the woman who had birthed him but did not name him. She couldn't love him because she had never wanted him. He was part of me, and I was a corpse walking through her darkest dream, a pathetic carcass she had gifted with her virginity. I looked at him and hoped he had not suffered at her hand. In a whisper I promised him that he would never suffer at mine.

While he dreamed, I studied his tiny face. The red splotches faded and revealed his flawless alabaster complexion. Both sides of his face were smooth and soft as silk. My finger trembled as I traced from his forehead down to his jaw, feeling almost guilty for touching a living work of art.

There was no hint of my appearance in him, save for perhaps his long fingers. I swallowed hard and silently thanked God for giving my son a real face, a good face.

I had thought about him over the last year. Once, several weeks after Christine told me she would never see me again, I dreamt of him. In my dream he was dead and Christine had handed him to me, telling me to bury him or toss him into the lake. The devastation I had felt the moment I woke had haunted me for days afterward. I was in mourning.

And suddenly I was profoundly grateful that my dream was not a premonition.

This was my son whose blankets now collected my tears. This was my child who slept in my arms, whose breaths fell upon my fingers as I caressed his perfect cheek. I didn't want to blink or look away in fear that he would disappear or cease to breathe if I didn't watch him.

As carefully as I could, I pushed the bed against the wall, covered him in a blanket, and lay down beside him. He sighed softly, his hand reaching out from the coverings to grasp my finger. The warmth of his touch made me sob in gratitude of having him with me.

"You have no idea what a miserable wretch I am," I said as I left his side briefly and turned down the lamp. In the moonlight I could still see his face kissed by silver light. My lips were wet with tears when I kissed him lightly on the forehead. "You have no idea what a miserable wretch I used to be. You have changed my life, my son."

I didn't fully understand how it could be so, but I knew in my heart that he was my savior, my redemption, the only thing in the world that could scrape away my bitterness. So many years wasted in anger and at last I had a reason for joy.

I named him Alexandre, my savior, a tiny angle whom I had helped create. I looked at him and thought of my uncle, of the man who had wanted so desperately to save me long ago. It was a good name, a strong name for the child who gave me my life.