A/N: For those unfamiliar with my other Phantom of the Opera stories, in my personal headcanon Mathilde is Madame Giry's given name. In all of my PotO stories, Erik should be pictured as Leroux's version, with the more severe deformity and the mask covering his entire face, while his voice is that of Michael Crawford's magnificent stage portrayal. All other characters can be pictured as those from Webber's 2004 movie.


Written for the Caesar's Palace "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?" challenge, Prompt: Tightrope. I drew inspiration from the song of the same name in The Greatest Showman. Also fits the Caesar's Palace Color Challenge, Prompt 14: Gold.


Word Count: 400


Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No copyright infringement is intended.


"Are you scared, Mademoiselle?"

I stared at the skinny, bone-white hand extended towards me, then down into the masked face of the boy perched between heaven and earth, with only a narrow wooden beam between him and the vast empty blackness plunging down to the stage below. He had the grace and calm of a cat that knows it will always land on its feet, but I, the little ballerina, could feel my legs growing steadily more leaden.

He smiled, and I caught a devilish gleam in his golden eyes that made my heart race.

"Come on, Tilde. I won't let you fall."

And I believed him. I stepped out into the darkness.


"Are you scared, Mademoiselle?"

Scarcely daring to breathe, I stared up into the masked face of the man beside me. His body always felt deathly cold, but wrapped in his arms, I felt warmth racing through my body, vivid and alive. Outside the Palais Garnier was a world that could never accept him, never accept us, but here in the depths of the opera house, that world seemed hardly to exist.

He smiled at me, and his golden eyes shone with love. Slowly, I lifted my hands to the sleek white mask that covered my angel's devilish face. With a swift motion, I swept it off and raised my lips to his.

"It can be like this, Mathilde," he whispered when we broke apart. "We can forget the world outside. It can be just us, our love, forever."

And I believed him. Until the outside world called again, and I had to go.


"Are you scared, Madame?"

I stared into the masked face of the man once more standing in my dressing room mirror. Decades of wrong choices and bitter betrayals lay between us now, and whatever might have been was lost. Now here he was, a fallen angel with blood on his hands, and if knowing too much was the crime that had killed Joseph Buquet, then I was dead where I stood.

He smiled dangerously, and his golden eyes gleamed with the reflection of the very fires of hell.

"Come now, Mathilde," he said. "Did you think that I would harm you? Why should I make you pay for the sins which are theirs?"

But this time I did not believe him. Backing swiftly to the dressing room door, I flung it open and fled.