Disclaimer: I don't own anything, sadly.
I discovered the Phantom's lair before the police. I slogged through the misty lake and stared in awe at it. The grand organ or piano (I couldn't tell from this distance), the beautiful candelabras that filled the place with soft light . . . I sighed dreamily in spite of myself. Such grandeur was only seen on gala nights above, in the Opera House.
Suddenly I spotted a very familiar head of brown ringlets. I nearly screamed, then went closer to examine what had frightened me. It was a wax figurine of Christine. It had apparently been wearing something before, for it was bare now.
I spotted a passage and strided down it, anxious to find Christine. I came upon what must have been a bedroom. It was empty of any life form. There was an oddly shaped bed with floaty black curtains. Looking around, I saw a musical box topped with a monkey. I cautiously stepped over towards it, and noticed that the infamous mask of the Phantom lay next to it. I picked it up in trembling fingers. Does this mean he is dead? I wondered with something that felt remarkably like worry. I shouldn't be worried. Good riddance! That man killed and lied . . . and he put my best friend in danger, I reasoned with myself firmly.
And yet . . . all those times . . . when this all started with Christine singing at the gala in place of Carlotta . . . my heart brimmed with joy for her, but there were undercurrents of despair I ignored and hid. Surely the Phantom was listening to her, too. My mother had told me about how he'd come to live at the opera house, of course. I remember clearly. I felt great pity for the person, and great pride in my mother for taking him away from the horrible life he knew. But . . . the life he had come to known couldn't have been much better. All alone, lurking in the cellars of the opera . . . I know it would've driven me mad. And maybe it had indeed driven he himself mad.
I was snapped out of my reflections abruptly when I heard the others approaching the Phantom's lair loudly. Still clutching the mask, I hurried back into the previous room. A line of mirrors I hadn't noticed before loomed into view. They were all broken, I noted with a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I stepped towards them and scoffed at the reflection I saw. Oh, certainly, the men of the opera house had called me beautiful many a time, but they were only looking at my face. But what was the point in having a supposed beautiful face if your soul was as ugly as, oh, perhaps the Phantom's unmasked face? I saw no point at all. I would gladly trade my "good" looks for a good soul.
I poked and prodded around the mirrors, trying hard to knock myself out of such a contemplative state. Perhaps it was being in the lair of such a musical genius (however mad) that was influencing my mind to be so deep in such a dangerous situation. Finally, I came to an end of the row of mirrors. It was a large velvet curtain, of sorts. I gently placed a finger on it and, to my surprise, it fell gracefully to the stone floor. A misty passageway loomed before me. I stood there, dumbstruck, as the party I'd organized came closer and closer.
Making an on-the-spot decision, I hiked the cloth back up to where it had rested previously, and disappeared down the passage alone. From the other side of the curtain, the party had entered and, from the sounds of it, was ransacking the place. Nobody noticed that their unofficial leader was currently following a mysterious passageway.
I walked down it cautiously, reminded strongly of the time I'd walked down the hidden passage behind Christine's mirror. Only this time Mother wouldn't be around the pull me back into reality. Nobody could yank me out of the nightmare I'd entered.
I continued following the passage for a good time. My ears and eyes seemed sharper and more tuned in than usual, but I vaguely thought in the back of my mind that it was because I was merely scared.
Finally, the passage opened to an underground cave of sorts. It held none of the magnificence of the previous chamber. The walls were barren, and there was no underground lake, but another passage entrance that I assumed led to the outdoors. It was very dim; I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. However, movement at the end of the chamber made me focus. A dark mass was huddled on the ground. I stepped closer, and realized it was a man lying facedown on the rough floor. It sounded as though he was sobbing a name. "Christine . . . oh, Christine . . ." the man moaned. With a jolt, I finally realized who it was. The Phantom.
Apparently he hadn't heard me approach, so I stayed frozen in place, trying to persuade my heart to stop beating so loudly and quickly. Surely the Phantom would hear the ruckus it was making!
Finally, I collected my courage and said in a remarkably calm and detached voice, "Phantom. You can't stay here." He whirled around, and I recoiled in spite of myself. His face! Oh, the horror! It had looked terrible enough from a distance when Christine had ripped his mask off during their passion-filled performance, but this was awful! If Hell ever took a form, surely it was this . . . this deformity standing before me!
The Phantom merely gave me a hard, cold look and said roughly, "I do not care. The Music of the Night is over. Christine . . ." Whatever the Phantom was to say about Christine, I will never know, for then he burst into a fresh wave of sobs and turned from me again. This is truly madness in its most warped form, I thought with disdain.
The Phantom seemed to forget my very presence and continued his sobbing. I stood there for a long while, watching him with swirling emotions. Of course, anger was the emotion taking center stage. He had killed! Lied! Kidnapped! And done who knows what else! Behind that anger there was disgust. That face! That horrible face! And he was sobbing so it made me shameful to watch! All this over Christine! But, in the very far corner of my emotional stage, there was pity. This must have been the very same pity Mother had felt when she moved the Phantom to the opera house.
I finally stepped forward towards the Phantom. He did not notice nor seem to care. I stepped lightly in front of him, so that he was looking at me. "If I can find you, so can the police," I murmured in a surprisingly soft and gentle voice.
The Phantom blinked at me for a long time, and exclaimed suddenly, "You are Madame Giry's daughter. Little Giry." It was not a question.
I bowed my head with grace and answered as though it was one. "Yes. And I plan to help you get out of here to a safe place. Come." Almost as if it were acting on its own, my hand left my side and stopped in front of me. I was offering it to the fallen Phantom of the Opera.
Author's Notes: I hope you liked it! This is my first Phantom of the Opera fanfic, so I'm a bit nervous about posting it. This is intended as a one-shot only! I left the reading hanging at the end on purpose. Send me your theories about what happened to Meg and our beloved Erik after that scene, won't you? I'd love to read them. :)