The night was cold, and Suicide Hall was, as it always seemed to be, eerily silent and dark, in contrast to the noise and lights of Phantasma, which could be seen just beyond the pier. All which could be heard were the soft splashes of waves against the shore. The occupants of the boardwalk did not dare utter a word. The tension was palpable.
Meg Giry's blue eyes, once bright and seemingly permanently filled with mirth, were completely devoid of emotion as she held the gun to her head. Her hand was nearly imperceptibly trembling. This detail, however, was not lost to the man dressed in black, the white mask which was covering half of his face reflecting the moonlight, giving him almost an ethereal quality.
"Give me the gun, Meg," said the Phantom softly, taking a small step towards her, his hand held out in front of him, just as one would do if they wished to comfort an injured animal. "Give me the hurt and the pain and the gun, Meg." His eyes were firmly trained on hers, not threatening, but almost – searching. "Give me the chance to see you clear at last!" The gun lowered slightly. The Phantom stepped closer still. "Give me the chance to make things right!" A note of desperation tinged the Phantom's voice as he spoke. "I know that there is beauty underneath!"
Meg gasped, her eyes suddenly gaining awareness, as if the Phantom's words had pulled her from a trance. Her hand went slack, and the sound of the gun clattering to the wood at her feet felt deafening to her in the silence. Her eyes widened in horror at her own actions, and an involuntary sob escaped her lips. As she collapsed, the Phantom was by her side in several large strides, cradling her in his arms as she wept. For several minutes, they stayed like that, Meg's head against the Phantom's chest, and his elegant, warm fingers gently stroking her blonde curls, which were falling from their proper place pinned atop her head. The embrace, Meg suddenly thought, was a cruel echo of what could have been.
But could it? Could it really have been? And the more frightening thought was did she want it to be? It was as if the night's events had finally calmed her tormented mind. For years, she'd felt lonely, unwanted, imperfect. She'd often sought validation from her mother, from whom she got none. She had been jealous of Christine and her beloved Angel of Music, the cause of her success and her rise as France's best-known diva. And after Christine had left, Meg had often made attempts to gain Mr Y's favour, all of which failed. And with every rejection from both her mother and Mr Y, Meg sank deeper and deeper into despair. It was horrific, Meg realised now, that her jealousy had driven her to threaten the life of an innocent child. What she needed, she knew now, was not Mr Y, but merely somebody – anybody – to understand her, to accept her, to love her; someone who could give her their whole heart.
Meg closed her eyes, enjoying the simple comfort which came from listening to the steady, definite heartbeat of another human being.
After what seemed like an eternity, Meg looked up, meeting the eyes of her childhood friend. "Christine," she said, her voice raw and cracking, in stark contrast to the almost melodic timbre which it had formerly possessed. Albeit now silently, tears which mixed with the dark eye make-up she had taken to wearing continued to make dirty tracks down Meg's pale face. "Christine, I'm sorry! I – I didn't want to hurt your boy!"
Christine's eyes held no trace of accusation as she gazed at the shell of her dearest friend. In a moment, she had gently pushed Gustave back and was kneeling at Meg's side, stroking her hair and wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Oh, Meg! It is I who should be sorry! I – I had no idea! I never meant for you to feel this way!"
Meg looked suddenly decades older. "I know, Christine. I'm sorry for all the pain I've caused you –" she turned her head from its place on the Phantom's shoulder to look into his eyes "– and you, too, Mr Y."
The three were suddenly interrupted by Madame Giry's voice; Christine abruptly stood and stepped back to Gustave.
"Meg! Oh, my little Meg!"
"Mother…" replied Meg weakly as she met her mother's eyes. She was suddenly finding it difficult to make her mouth form words. "Mother, I want to go home. Take me home. I'm tired."
She attempted to stand, but collapsed immediately, too drained of energy to hold her own weight. Gently, the Phantom took her hand, pulling her up. Supporting her around her waist, he helped her into her mother's arms. Madame Giry's gaze was questioning, but the Phantom held up a hand to halt her as she was about to speak. "Not tonight, Giry. Your daughter must rest. This is no time for answering your questions. I will speak to you tomorrow. For now, make certain that Meg is comfortable and well-nourished."
Noting the authority in the Phantom's voice, Madame Giry nodded once and turned, helping Meg to the waiting carriage which was being prepared for departure by the two tall men and the tiny woman who were the ringleaders at Phantasma. For a moment, the Phantom watched the two women go, before turning to Christine, who was now cradling a trembling Gustave in her arms.
"Oh, Christine," he said softly, barely a whisper. "Christine, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did – what I've done to you."
Christine disentangled herself from her son, then stepped towards the Phantom. "Erik…" she said.
Erik. It had been ten years since he'd heard his name on her lips.
"Erik," she said again, "Thank you. Thank you for protecting Gustave tonight. Thank you for helping Meg to see sense." She stepped towards him, hand extended as if to touch his, but just as soon let it drop, her eyes shifting away from his. "If you hadn't been here…"
Erik's eyes hardened, and he was suddenly the imposing Phantom once more. The dark eyes flashed and the hands balled into fists as he said, "If I hadn't been here, none of this would have happened! If I hadn't been here, the child –" he spat out the word as if it were poison, " – wouldn't have nearly been drowned. If I hadn't been here –"
"I would have no child!" cried Christine, her whole body trembling, but refusing to cower from Erik's malevolent stare. Her voice softened as she continued, "He is your son, and you protected him –"
"What?" said a meek voice from behind the two, startling them. It was as if they had temporarily forgotten that they were in the presence of the very child of whom they spoke. Gustave carefully stepped forward, surveying Mr Y, Erik – dare he even think it? – his father. "My – my father?" he asked.
Christine took several paces backwards to give the two their privacy as Erik knelt before his son, head bowed as if he expected Gustave to strike him across the face, avoiding the curious gaze. "Yes, Gustave," he finally confirmed. "I am your father."
There was a brief silence, and then, "Will you not look at me?"
Slowly, hesitantly, Erik looked at his son, now at his eye level, for he, Erik, was on his knees. Erik's eyes were wide and shining, desperate, seeking approval. It was the first time since Christine and Gustave had arrived that Erik had truly let down his guard.
"Father," was all Gustave said as he met Erik's eyes. He hesitated for only a moment before embracing the broken man before him. After several precious moments which did not seem long enough, Gustave gently broke away and took a small step backwards, surveying the wide, clear brown eyes of his father, the quivering mouth, the seemingly unconsciously fidgeting hands. Look with your heart, his mother had said. That, Gustave decided a split second later, was what he had to do if he were to alleviate this man's sadness.
It was a moment before Erik felt Gustave's small fingers wedge themselves beneath his mask, but he made no move to stop him, merely closing his eyes and waiting. After a brief hesitation, the mask was gone, his face revealed to the boy who was his own flesh and blood. The scream for which Erik had been waiting never came. Instead, Gustave only touched the marred side of his father's face with the back of his hand, ever-so-gently stroking the ruins of the uneven, damaged skin, learning its feel beneath his fingertips. A soft smile made its way onto his features, his gaze holding no fear, but only question and curiosity. This was his father. It was his father's face. It was only a face. There was no need to be frightened.
Neither father nor son noticed that despite the fact that silent tears gently made their way down Christine's face, her lips were upturned in a gentle smile as she gazed upon the two.