A/N: This begins the night before the new managers take over. What started out as a single scene has progressed into a full story. Huge thank you to Ace of Gallifrey for all your thoughts and ideas! This first chapter is completely without dialogue. I do not usually write this way. However, this came to me as a single scene that required no words. I apologize if someone out there included something like the dancing scene in one of their own stories. I do not mean to copy anyone. And, of course, I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Anywho...
Meg turned over for the millionth time that night, but it did nothing for the thoughts racing through her mind. Rumors had been passing back and forth around her—rumors that the manager was leaving, and she couldn't help feeling that everything she had ever known and loved and called home was about to change. Forever. A few candles still burned in the dormitory in case one of the girls had to get up in the night, and her eyes easily found her best friend. She was with no doubt having a peaceful sleep, and Meg's thoughts turned to the changes she had seen in her friend over the ten years Christine had lived with them.
No longer was she the always-in-tears little orphan girl. Then, she rarely sang, as her voice was little more than a whispered croak. Then, her dancing was slightly passable, but that was excused as she had not spent her first seven years of life in the opera house. The only time she really opened up her mouth was in the chapel, and Meg only knew this from the few times she had foolishly gone looking for Christine and nearly walked right in on her. Her voice was full of anguish then...anguish over her loss and yet she heard a tiny bit of hope and faith in an unseen angel.
Meg could only share a small portion of Christine's sorrow, for her own father had passed away so soon that Meg had never really known him. There was, of course, the family portrait, depicting her infant self being held on her mother's lap, her father standing tall and important beside his wife. After his death, Madame Giry had returned to her roots at the opera house, raising and training Meg while at the same time becoming mother and teacher to the many other girls who passed through the opera house doors. Meg soon got lost in the shuffle, but she did not mind. Many girls meant many friends, and she was never alone.
Of course, her mother did not entirely neglect her. Very much the opposite, outside of rehearsals and performances. It was off-stage that Mme. Giry hid her under her protective arms. Meg always sensed that her mother was keeping a secret from her...a secret that embodied a whole other side to her...a side that allowed her to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Yet Meg did not fear. After all, to her, this was normal. This was home. Which is why, for the first time, she felt fear deep enough to keep her from her much-needed sleep. Final rehearsal was tomorrow, and she could not afford to lose focus over some silly rumor. And yet, no matter how much she tried, sleep would not come.
Frustrated and tired, she threw back the covers and stood up. She needed air. She needed space. And a dorm full of sleeping dancers was not the proper place. Neglecting her slippers, she silently left the room, making sure to grab an extra candle and light it before completely entering the dark hallway. She easily made her way to the stage, pushing away all thought of how angry her mother would be if she ever found out. The many stagehands were prone to drunkenness, but at this late hour they were no doubt passed out somewhere. Yes, she could afford a half hour at least. It was all she would need, and she would be safe and alone.
Slowly, she found candles set up on stage, meant for props and lighting during the production. She lit only a few, just so she could see where the different pieces of the set were. She also lit a few around the edge of the stage for guidance purposes. It would limit her view of the house, but that was the last of her regrets. She did not wish to be reminded of the audience that was not there. One day, maybe it would be, and she would gladly perform as the Prima ballerina. One day.
The candles being lit did not go unnoticed. From his unusual spot on the house floor, a solitary man dressed in black sat with his violin in hand. Who dared to disturb his second sanctuary? This was the time he was free to roam, to no longer hide behind a mask and wig. There were his caverns, of course, but he did not like to stay down there all the time.
For the first half of his time living here, he had been too afraid to emerge from the cellars, even at night when all the lights were out and the main part of the opera house was empty. He relied on his only friend heavily then, almost daily, for nourishment and materials. It was torture, however. Torture to be away from everyone and everything. Torture not to be in control of everything in his life. And when his caves were finally made into a home, he grew bored. So gradually he built his own set of passageways inside the walls of the opera house. Gradually he became accustomed to the routine of the hundreds of people who lived and worked there. And once or twice a week, he had recently begun sitting for hours in the house seats, imagining what it would be like to attend a performance out in the open, away from his precious Box Five and mixed in with the multitudes. Sometimes he played his violin, allowing the music to sooth his lonely, tortured heart. But mostly he sat staring at the stage, listening to the music in his mind and watching imaginary dancers and singers performing his operas.
But tonight...tonight he had not imagined candles being lit, forcing the reality of the stage and set to invade what he had been picturing. But he could not confront whoever it was...he was grateful that his trespasser had lit few enough candles that his face was still hidden. As his eyes adjusted, however, anger turned to confusion, for before him was one of the ballerinas. His friend's daughter...no longer a little girl, and not quite a woman. He had, of course, seen her before, but he had noticed her as one would notice a shadow or a tree in a forest. Yes, she was always near his friend or his chosen pupil Christine. Best friends, as some would put it, almost sisters. Intrigued, he sat back in his seat.
Having now memorized the placement of every prop and piece of scenery, Meg closed her eyes. How she wished she had music, but really she did not need it. Taking a deep breath, she began with small steps, half-forgetting her mother's constant warning to stretch before and after each routine. For now, this would have to suffice as warming up, as she lacked time for all precautionary measures.
Once he realized what she was doing, he allowed himself to look away from her thoughtful face long enough to move his violin into position. Not wanting to startle her, he began a soft tune.
She almost stopped as she heard a few notes being played from somewhere. In her imagination? No...it was in front of her and yet distant. An audience. She really did have an audience. Soon, her careful steps turned into an aimless and carefree dance. She knew how to use every bit of space on that stage, which she did now, floating and twirling, letting her mind break free of all its troubles and worries. She took countless leaps, feeling as though she were flying higher and higher. The violin music was so much better than she could ever have imagined, and it provided the support she needed.
Finally, she collapsed into a position that was like a bow and a kneel all in one, with one foot dramatically further out in front of her and her head on her knee. Catching her breath, she realized that the violinist had only stopped when she had, and even then he had managed to finish his piece beautifully. She also noticed that he was not applauding, but then, neither was she. Then again, this was not an ordinary performance. It was two complete strangers, creating together when they should both be in their own beds. This was not proper. Before she doused the candles, she quickly flashed a smile and a small curtsy at the darkness.
And then she was gone, taking the last lit candle with her. He sat frozen for what could have been a lifetime, catching his breath from what had just occurred. Never before had he witnessed anything so beautiful, let alone taken part in it. The tune he had played had been so aimless, he hardly remembered any of the notes. He had simply played to match her movements, so graceful and carefree. Surely, he had seen her dance before, but never with so much freedom. And to have witnessed it...to have been a part of it...
Erik blinked and shook his head. How long had it lasted? No matter. He placed his precious violin back in its case and stood up. Taking one more glance toward the stage, he silently made his way back down into his caverns.
Meg collapsed onto her bed, completely exhausted. Still, with her eyes closed, the events of the past hour or so replayed through her mind over and over again. Who had been the man who had played for her? The question was overwhelming, and yet, she almost didn't want the answer. To know would ruin the sheer beauty of it. No, best leave it to be the mystery it was. Smiling, she finally surrendered to a peaceful sleep.