A/N: My first-ever Phanphic. Inspired by an incident that occured to me last week that is almost completely irrelevent to the plot line of this. One-shot. Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the film nor the musical that inspired the film, The Phantom of the Opera.

Warnings: A bit more horrific than my other pieces. If blood makes you uneasy, well... I haven't mentioned it in excruciating detail. Slight (and I mean- slight) sexual content. And, also, as always- probably typos even after editing.

Half-Mask of Blood
By: Nuit Songeur

The new year's moon shone brilliantly through the inky black sky, illuminating the white, crystallized snow that blanketed the ground with its glistening layer. The air was still, the January weather not yet blowing one of its infamous icy sharp winds that bit at one's cheeks with a merciless stab, coloring them red. For the young French ballerina, Meg Giry, the frigid weather was a welcomed harbinger, signaling the fresh start of a new season. But, ultimately, Meg embraced the mind-numbing weather with a calm reverence, invigorated by its abrasiveness.

A few hours earlier, Meg had been sent to bed, dismissed from the Masquerade Ball, the party the Opera Populaire's managers organized for celebrating the new year. She didn't mind being sent to bed at the early time she was used to after many years, for her feet ached from standing and dancing for the most part of the night. And also, she was admittedly exhausted from the redundant show of talking, singing, and other such things that were required of her to help uphold the good name of the Opera Populaire to be adequately socialized.

However, on this night, the party's end deviated from that of previous years. There was an unexpected appearance, an unwanted guest: the Opera Ghost garbed in a costume depicting the Masque of Red Death. And so, Meg was not only sent to bed exhausted and with aching feet but also with a curious mind that buzzed with a longing desire to know of the circulating gossip about the sudden event. But, as always, Meg stifled her curiosity, knowing it would lead her to trouble. Besides, she was unsure if her mind's buzzing was a result of her own burning curiosity or from the small amount of liqueur that was slipped to her from some of the lesser stagehands having their own New Year's party back stage.

Now, within the wee hours of early morning, Meg had awoken from her slumber and did nothing to suppress the compelling urge to rise out of bed. After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Meg hastily went to her trunk for some suitable clothing as well as to don a cloak that would prove impermeable to the wintry weather. When she had dressed, appropriate as seen to the public eye, she quietly tip-toed past her slumbering companions including the form of Christine Daae who was breathing deeply in her sleep, her head tossing from side to side fitfully. Meg shook her head with pity, knowing it wouldn't be long before she awoke as well.

Meg carefully creaked open the door to the ballet's dormitories and jumped in surprise to see the Vicomte sleeping as well, just beyond the doorway and perched precariously on the wooden railing. Meg had to quickly cover her mouth with a hand to prevent a squeal that would surely rouse those sleeping around her. After taking several deep breaths to calm herself down, she closed the heavy door securely shut behind her and crept past the unconscious count before, finally, making her way outside the opera house.

And now, Meg was slowly strolling through the quiet streets of Paris, turning her head this way and that, gazing at the still sights before her. When she had passed by the stables, a horse pawed at the cobblestone ground and snorted, the breath escaping his nostrils becoming visible. Meg stopped in her tracks, her heart beating anxiously. She stood frozen to the spot and waited for someone to stir in the silent night and catch Meg on her small escapade.

But nothing happened and the horse paid no mind to the French girl so Meg continued on her way.

When she had made it out past the city limits, Meg could no longer feel her face even though it was protectively drawn into her hood. Her breath, though slightly panting with the distance she had just traveled, was as not as easily seen in the air before her as her own body heat had chilled in response to the temperature around her. Her fingers were slightly stiff but still had feeling within them thanks to the leather gloves she wore that her mother had granted to her as a Christmas gift just last week. And the heavy shoes that were on her feet proved themselves against the cold but were also a problem as they chafed painfully around her ankles. Despite these factors set against her, Meg did not let any quandaries dampen her spirits and continued onward, as the sky above her was steadily gaining light and the moon had disappeared some minutes ago, replaced by a thin line of light that enclosed the horizon.

Meg took the road less traveled, choosing the dirt pathway that led to the city's cemetery as it wound through the spindly forest. Meg quickly set off, not entirely sure as to why she fancied a visit to the cemetery but decided to follow her impulse and her curiosity rather than her better judgment. However, she soon had to avoid the road as the dirt had turned to slushy mud, the result of the melting snow. All the same, Meg could do nothing to prevent the dirtying of the hem of her cloak. It didn't bother her though, and she continued walking through the woods, the distance beyond the trees barely visible as it was filtered by a layer of fog.

It wasn't long after she had chosen this path that Meg heard the approach of another. Someone who was traveling by horse and carriage. She turned around slightly, halting in her footsteps, and saw an oncoming vehicle. Meg hurried away from the road, choosing to give them way rather than be trampled as she took cover behind the trunk of a large tree. After a few short moments they passed and Meg saw the two horses, the hidden coachman, and a brief glimpse of Christine.

And it was just as quickly that they disappeared from eyesight, speeding away until Meg could see them no longer.

She blinked, wondering why Christine was in favor for an early morning's journey as well. But then Meg took note of how she was heading towards the cemetery also and so, therefore, must be on her way to visit the grave of her father.

Meg stared at the space the carriage had previously occupied for a small, enduring minute as she debated whether or not to follow her friend to the cemetery or would it best to leave her alone. Christine had been going through a difficult time recently what with her secret engagement to Raoul, Carlotta trying to desperately upstage her even though it was quite clear which of the two was more talented, and- also- the appearance of the Phantom last night must have surely shaken her, especially when he singled her out from the rest.

It was then that Meg decided, after weighing her options, it would be best to follow after Christine, the young, extraordinary soprano, because in such times, a close and dear friend was often needed. It was true Christine had Raoul, her lover, but Meg knew full well that there were times when an aching in one's heart could not be satisfied with the consolations of a partner. Sometimes, only a friend could fill that void and that was just what Meg set out to accomplish as she marched, strides long and confident, imperiously toward the graveyard, following her Swedish friend.

When the fog had lifted, revealing the ground in its leafy glory, and the sun had levitated slightly higher, breaking away from the horizon, Meg sensed she was getting closer to leaving the sparse, eerie forest when there was a dull, constant thud resounding in the distance. Meg snapped her head to the left to catch a glimpse at the source of the noise. And what she saw was a majestic white stallion galloping at breakneck speed, it's rider skimpily clad in a billowy, white shirt, and heading towards the cemetery as well. However, the horse and its rider were so far away that Meg could not identify either of them, no matter how familiar the rider's hands seem to move as he spurred the horse on faster and faster. Within seconds, they had passed Meg, without a simple glance in her direction.

Meg could only wonder at why the horseman was in such a hurry. Was he going to the cemetery as well?

Meg shook her head, dismissing the occurrence from her mind since it was of no importance to her; her duty was to Christine now and, frankly, she had quite some distance before she reached her destination and so, therefore, Meg hurried along as if she were in the rider's stead. Her feet padded the snow lightly, giving small crunching noises as she quickened her strides. Soon thereafter, her breath came in short, sharp pants and her calves ached from picking up the weight of her heavy shoes and Meg promptly found herself stopping for a small break. She doubled slightly over, placing the cusps of her palms on her knee caps, chest rising and falling in rhythm to her breathing.

This was surely pathetic of her. She had been through more strenuous arrangements as a ballerina than by simply running! Why was she so easily exhausted now? Simply because of the cold weather? What nonsense! She was thoroughly disappointed in herself. What would her mother, the ballet mistress, say to this? Surely Madame Giry would reprimand her for such weakness! Meg had to keep pushing herself… for Christine's sake.

And, with that, Meg took one final gulp of bitingly cold air, and set off at a slow jogging pace to conserve her energy. After what seemed like ages, when the inside of her lungs numbed to nothingness and the muscles in her legs burned beyond recognition, Meg finally stumbled out of the forest, breaking past the barrier of the thickest trees to a small clearing where she collapsed into a heap of fatigue and weariness. She was breathing heavily, taking quite large intakes of breaths, her face stung red from the exercise.

Conveniently, there was a tree standing just behind her so that, when she leaned her head back, it rested comfortably on its bark. And, with this small reprieve, Meg closed her eyes only momentarily, thinking it wouldn't hurt to keep Christine waiting for a few short minutes. But, what she did not realize was that, with the few hours she had slept last night and the early hour she arose, Meg was extremely tired for her state and her heavy eyelids closed easily and her buzzing mind dulled in its inquisitiveness as her surroundings began to black and darken from her awareness.

However, after what seemed only a second of closing her eyes, Meg was jolted awake when the sound of hooves pounded on the frozen ground nearby. Meg scrambled to her feet, looking around anxiously. She turned in circles until, finally, her eyes caught movement in the distance. She squinted, only to see the white stallion again with its rider, this time galloping in the opposite direction and, also, with a new companion. But, it wasn't long before they were swallowed up by the trees and Meg lost sight of them once more.

The event slightly spooked her, with the sudden noise that is. So much, she had half a mind to turn around and return to the Opera Populaire, to her warm bed snuggled within the sheets, and to the scolding she knew awaited her that would be administered by her stern yet loving mother. But Meg shook her head, reminding herself once again that she was there for Christine and she had not yet seen her soprano friend. Meg had a task to complete and, by God, she would complete it. The cemetery was not far now, so Meg decided to walk briskly the rest of the way.

When she had reached the wrought iron gates, its spires pointed ominously toward the grey sky Meg peered cautiously around the stone statues, a new fear settling within her bones. She had never been to the cemetery by herself like this before; she always had her mother's comforting hand to cling to whenever the snap of branch frightened her into thinking that the dead had become the undead and were coming to get her.

But that was a long time ago and such notions were beset with youthful silliness. Meg knew better now. And, alas, she carefully tread past stone angels, blackened bells, and marble mausoleums her feet remembering the way to the Daae catacomb with ease. Before she reached it, Meg paused when she happened upon an ornately carved angel and upon a closer examination, was strongly reminded of the sculptures of Michelangelo with its smooth and refined features so realistic, so divine in its own nature. It was an austere face as it appeared to be breathing as if it were human such as Meg herself. But, unlike the nature of being human, it did nothing to shake the snow falling on its hair and wings and Meg briefly thought it odd until she had to tell herself that it was inanimate.

She stepped back, after noticing her curiosity had led her to move closer and closer to the face until human nose and stone nose where just a few inches apart, and took in the sculpture as a whole, taking into account its seemingly buoyant robe as it appeared to be creased with life-like fullness, as if a wind had influenced its shape rather than a simple chisel.

The snow around it only increased its breathtaking effect, the pure white color signifying the angel's innocence and purity, and Meg was awed into silence. Her attention to the angel's detail was only broken when a small sound met her ears from the direction she had been previously headed for and Meg was reminded of Christine and her purpose for being there. So, she turned away from the statue and made her way again to the Daae mausoleum. She took a turn, passing two enormous statues shrouded with an ominous cloak that had a hood to cover their faces, with the exception of their protruding chin, and Meg suddenly found herself facing the pathway that led straight to the Daae tomb.

A little ways from where she was standing was a human figure, Christine she suspected, clad in a black cape and facing away from her. Meg abruptly felt a wave of nervousness and anxiety pass over her; she was unsure of how to handle a distressed friend. She took a few tentative steps forward.

"Christine?" Meg whispered, her voice hissing through the silent air and echoing off the stone formations around them. The figure stirred, turning around to face her and Meg instantly saw that the figure, too broad and masculine to be her friend, was definitely not Christine but rather someone else she could easily identify after noticing its face, half-concealed behind an ebony mask. The Phantom of the Opera.

He considered Meg briefly, tilting his head at a slight angle, his eyes bright and curious. And then, he began moving toward her.

Suddenly frightened, Meg stumbled back a few steps until she managed to quickly lose her balance and fall on her bottom. And, within sheer seconds, he was standing above her, towering as threateningly as the guardian statues she had previously seen.

"I… I'm sorry, m-monsieur. P-please… please forgive me. I did… didn't m-mean to intrude upon your p-privacy. M-my mistake…" she stammered, her voice trailing away into silence as the Phantom drew closer to her, his face closing in on the distance between hers and until he was able to easily study her features with somber eyes. And then, those eyes widened suddenly as if previously been lost to a cloud of thought and just now recognized her.

"You…" he said in his deep, resonating voice. "You're the daughter of Madame Giry. That Meg girl…" Meg nodded her head vigorously, hoping that her connection to her mother would gain her some form of pardon.

"Yes, sir. I am," she said quietly, feeling her fear drain away seeing as, at the mention of her mother, his glorious, majestic face lost its violent detail.

"Christine's friend," he noted, his gaze dropping from her face to the length of her body, examining her fully. Meg sat there, absolutely frozen and unable to move, as if she were the prey being contemplated by the predator and any movement she made would lead to dire consequences. However, there was nothing that she could do about her labored breathing that caused her chest to rise and fall heavily, breaking that barrier of eerie silence in the cemetery.

"Little Meg," he mused to himself quietly before transferring his gaze back onto her face. "Tell me, child, are you frightened of me?"

It was a loaded question and all Meg could do was to stare at him dumbly as her mind spun rapidly, to a sickening degree. She did not want to anger the Opera Ghost for if she did, she was sure it the end result would be quite terrible for her. Though, which answer would infuriate the Phantom more? Did he want to be feared, want to hold some power over her? Or did he wish to be considered as a normal human and not be feared? Or, was he simply looking for the truth? Lost in the depths of his bright eyes, Meg could only stumble blindly around her head for an answer, for any answer she could partially conceive was lost due to the hypnotic effects the Opera Ghost held over her, as if he conjured a spell on Meg.

She wasn't necessarily frightened of him. If anything else, he fascinated her to the extent of being fearful. It was a myriad web of confusion. So, Meg resorted to a more or less coy answer, using her mother as a security blanket.

"Mother says that there is no reason to fear you, as long as we heed your commands." The Phantom's lips flickered into a rueful smile, almost with humor. Almost, but not quite. With his left hand, he cradled the right side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb and then passing it over the entire length, from forehead to chin, before he dropped his grasp.

"Silly little Meg," he said, more to himself than for her own benefit. "Always so naïve. It would be just awful if someone took advantage of that." With those words, his right hand moved toward her face, extending his index finger to her lips, as if to silence her. Then, his fingers slowly moved down to her neck and, from there, to her collarbone, at which point Meg felt her heart pound within her chest frantically. His fingers lowered even more, playing with the neck of her dress which was placed just above her enormous bust. He didn't venture further in but, rather, his hand moved down even lower- not before cradling one of her protruding breasts- down to her waist, gripping it gently yet firmly.

"Tell me, Little Monkey," he said, adopting a new pet name for her. "What would you do if I commanded you to submit? Or, to commit sin? Would you heed my words then?"

Meg gave a slight gasp of indecision as his fingers lightly pressed themselves into her waist seductively and he moved in closer to her, face hovering just centimeters from hers, lips only a hair's breadth away.

"I… I don't rightly know, monsieur," Meg said, breathlessly. He smirked at her in response.

"If you did submit, would you do it because I commanded of it or because of your own fleshly desires?"

Meg could say nothing, her mind was buzzing too erratically to form any sort of reply. Her incapability to react seemed to please him. Impulsively, she moved her right arm forward and gripped his shoulder for support and he dipped his head to her neck.

"Meg," he whispered. "Your mother serves me well. And I have no doubt of your loyalties. But you, your innocence is so… alluring. And yet, I feel something brewing beneath it, I feel heat gathering underneath your skin as if you've hidden who you truly are from yourself. You've masked yourself from the world just as I have masked my face. You would make a great lover. At least, a great lover for me."

After his short monologue, he bent his head further into her neck and lightly kissed it before immediately pulling back. His kiss sent an electric-like chill coursing through her body, traveling through her veins and all the way to her nerve-endings, making her shiver and twitch with anticipation. She felt the strong urge to groan with delight but suppressed it due to her own embarrassment. Instead, she exhaled sharply, closing her eyes to the Phantom's face, as her mind swam with light-headedness. The Opera Ghost smirked.

"A great lover, indeed, my little angel."

"M-m-monsieur," Meg stuttered, unsure of what to say to him as she opened her eyes once more. To her surprise, he released her from his hold and scooted a few feet away from her. Meg righted herself from the awkward position she had previously been placed in and deliberated him carefully.

He did not rise from his crouch but instead, rubbed his left palm on the white snow between them and traced an arc. The color red trailed after his hand, marring the chaste snow before him. And after a moment's brief consideration, Meg realized the red was blood and, also, that had been the hand to stroke her face. With her own shaking fingers, she patted her right cheek warily, just now noticing a thin layer beginning to cake on her face. When she pulled her hand away for inspection, her suspicions were confirmed, blood tainted her fingertips.

Upon this discovery, Meg Giry utterly and promptly fainted on the spot, her world blackening to the abyss.

---

Meg pried her eyes open slowly, her memories steadily returning to her. She instantly found herself in a darkened room that, upon first impression, she thought to be the dormitory. However, once she lifted her head, found that notion to be false; the room she was currently residing in was too spacious, too cold and uninviting to be the ballet dormitories. So where, then, was she?

Meg sat up, first propping herself up on an elbow before slowly swinging her feet out of bed. They hovered above the wooden floorboards momentarily until she lowered them further, toes brushing the floor before she transferred her whole weight onto both feet. The floor was hard and cold, adding more to the uninviting effect of the room. However, she persisted, taking a few steps away from the bed and looked round at her surroundings.

On the far side of the room was a wash basin, sitting just below an aged mirror that was within the confines of an old, rusty frame. Tentatively, Meg cautiously made a movement to step toward the mirror. But, with her first step, there came a whispering voice, ringing through the darkness with a captivating edge.

What would you do if I commanded you to submit? To commit sin? What then, Meg Giry?

Meg could not place the identity of the voice, no matter how eerily familiar it was. The meaning of the words, passed from her mind, suddenly drawn to the mirror before her. And Meg felt herself as if she were in a trance of sorts.

Go to the mirror, my Angel. My curious little monkey.

And a curious little monkey she was, drawn evermore toward the mirror. Left only with its compelling and tempting nature. But, why? She didn't understand it. It made no sense.

Come to me, my Angel.

The voice seemed to sing now which made it even more mesmerizing. And- finally, it seemed- she made it to the mirror and wash basin.

Come and see what you are. Come and see what I am.

Meg saw the outline of a face. She saw that half of the face was covered in blood, as if it were a mask. And she also saw that it was her face…

Meg emitted a squeal of revulsion and instinctively took a step back from the horrid and disconcerting sight. However, with her step, she bumped into a solid form, a figure that had not been there previously. Instead of turning around to see the source, her gaze consulted the mirror before and saw another masked face but concealed beneath an actual mask, rather than blood. And, finally, she was able to ascertain the voice and what seemed to be, ultimately, her master.

"Le fantôme de l'opéra!" she exclaimed, staring straight into his commanding eyes through the mirror. She swiftly turned around to face him only to have her vision clouded with the image a gruesome sight, the appearance of a hideously disfigured face. And Meg screamed, a high-pitched scream that tore at anyone's pity and eardrums within range. She squeezed her eyes shut and raised her arms protectively in front of her face.

However, the action was in vain as Meg soon found herself tossing and turning in a mass of twisted blankets, trapped within bed sheets and screaming to the top of her lungs. Someone rushed to her aide in order to calm her.

"Meg… Meg!" the feminine voice whispered soothingly. "It's all right. You were only dreaming. It was just a nightmare." Meg ceased in her struggling and lowered her arms to see her Swedish friend, Christine, standing opposite of her.

"Christine?" Meg managed in a hoarse voice, full of frailty.

"Yes Meg, it's me," Christine said maternally. Meg's eyes darted around the room frantically, expecting a human figure to be lurking within the shadows.

"What… what happened?" Meg murmured softly, afraid of those that might be dropping eaves.

"You were sleeping and well," Christine began explaining, almost with a reluctant hesitancy. "And then you started having a nightmare, I suppose. But everything is all right now."

"Oh," Meg breathed, looking away. "Okay then." Christine patted her back comfortingly.

"I must leave and speak to Raoul. You will fair by yourself?" Meg nodded and made a motion with her hand to dismiss her friend and Christine took her leave, leaving Meg to sit anxiously on the bed.

Had it all been a dream, then? Her visit to the cemetery? Her encounter with the Opera Ghost? A dream? It seemed hard to comprehend. It all felt so real. But, dreams usually did. It must have simply been a dream, then. Though, Meg found it a difficult task to calm the frantic pounding within her chest. She took a deep, even breath in an attempt to calm herself.

After a few moments of calming herself, Meg heard the voices of Christine and the Vicomte sounding distant yet close enough for her to depict their actual words.

"We must do something, Raoul. He's gotten to Meg and tortured her with frightening thoughts. Innocent little Meg. We cannot allow the Phantom continue what he's planning any longer or it could be dire for everyone."

"I know, Christine. I know." He sighed and paused for a minute as if he were deep in thought. "Tell me exactly what you know of Meg's condition, again."

"Well, when we got back, she wasn't in her bed. I didn't think anything of it but then when I stopped by the dormitories later, she was suddenly there, in traveling clothes and blood covering half her face. She was unconscious though and I cleaned her before she awoke, so as to not worry her." There was a sigh.

"You are right. We cannot prolong this madness any further…" said de Chagny. His words seemed to stop suddenly and there was a sharp intake of breath. "I have an idea," he said brusquely. There were footsteps, echoing off the wooden floorboards and becoming more distant until they were no more.

Meg sat upright in her bed, trembling. It had most certainly not been just a dream.

I apologize for the random French exclamation. I couldn't help myself. But, I've hoped you enjoyed it. Please review! I've slightly planned a possible sequel for this.

-NuitSongeur