Ok, usually I am a die-hard EC shipper, but I had a weird little vision in my head and a regret softly spoken in my own voice. Strange that I've been called Meg all my life (my name really is Megan, go figure). I can just see little Giry, with hair more red than gold, a faint smattering of freckles and bright blue eyes, looking at someone who has had his heart completely broken and solemnly offering what little comfort she could. Meg's thoughts are in italics, and spoken words in the standard quotation marks. Please read and review for me please. Like all writers, I'm a review whore.
Little Meg had had to steel herself, brave the unknown darkness. She had to find Christine Daae. The Vicomte would only anger the Phantom further, but Meg knew, she knew, that the Phantom wouldn't harm Christine. Now all Meg had to do was go by the secret roads, far from the storming mob, to come to the underground house.
There was just one problem. She was utterly and totally terrified of the underground. She could feel it- the weight of the Opera- closing in about her like some massive stone set upon a frail box of card-board. The fear was strangling, but she resolutely kept on; one foot in front of the other, sharp blue eyes looking for pitfalls and traps. She thanked whatever gods there be for her costume change from the frothy red Gypsy costume to the white blouse and brown trousers which mirrored that of Don Juan's in the last act. She was able to move without the constrictions of skirts and that thrice-damned corset!
She stopped, took a series of deep, calming breaths, trying to keep the dizzying sensation of weight at bay. I have to go on. No matter, what. Christine needs me. Imagine anything. A wind on your cheek, the stars over head. Look, Meg, there's Orion! Your favorite. And the Lyre. I imagine if the Phantom has a favorite constellation, that one would be it. The sunset, all streaks of red and gold and deep plummy purple fading to satiny deep blue over in the east. You could see it all from the top of the Opera. They said it was the tallest modern building in the world.
Meg, with her strange claustrophobia, could believe that. She went often to the roof of the Opera, just as Christine went to the chapel. They each had their own little spot. Or had. Until the chandelier had come crashing down, bringing Meg's world down with it. How could something so beautiful be so destructive? Or was it the other way around? Meg wasn't sure of the answer, but the thoughts came, unbidden, like ribbons trailed about for kittens to snatch at. And then, there it was. The lake. That immeasurable glassy surface, it looked as if someone had laid a mirror on the floor. If it weren't for the faint, hazy vapor that hung over it, she could almost imagine walking across it. But it was an illusion, like much in the world of darkness. The darkness didn't bother her, she realized. She only had a very little lantern, nothing like what the stagehands and gendarmes carried. They had flaming torches, along with whatever makeshift weapons they could improvise. All Meg had was a little lantern, and her wits. The latter of which seemed to have gone begging.
What could I have been thinking! She moaned to herself, Christine has the Vicomte and all those policemen to rescue her! And what if she doesn't want to be rescued? Have you ever thought of that, you fool of a Meg Giry? With the mask on, he's quite handsome. And that voice! She stopped and shook her head, like a cat that had gotten water in its ear.
And the worst part is that you're jealous. You're jealous of the attention that Christine has gotten. Not to mention that you're absolutely disgusted with her inability to end this on her own terms. It's either the Vicomte's way, or the Phantom's. Add the fact that you think the Phantom is ever so much more interesting, well then. If only you had some sort of hidden genius! They'd all be quaking in their cravats at you. Meg Giry, Prima Ballerina de l'Opera!
Perfect, save for the stupid red hair rather than the honeyed locks of her mother's youth. She would have been an absolute lioness. The lion may be the king of beasts, but his lady always ruled the pride. Female cats always were the ones in charge. Meg grinned as she began to move through the knee-deep water. She could see her mother running all of France with the same absolute control that she ran the ballet.
But she noted the change in her surroundings. There were enormous high relief heads about her, ancient, some crumbling, others had been painstakingly repaired. They must be very old. They look Roman. She thought, pausing to look at them in wonder. Meg blessed the fact that her mother had encouraged her to read and Meg had often snuck into the Opera's library. With every spare penny she earned, she would dash off to find some new volume. After she'd first performed in Aida, she'd fallen in love with all things Egyptian. Proudly, she could even read some of the writing that Monsieur Champollion had first translated. If you can't be a ballerina, you could always serve as an assistant to an archaeological expedition, Meg surmised. All you have to do is learn how to be an artist. Or perhaps a detective, like that American author wrote about. Poe's detective was even French! You'd make a marvelous detective, you're an inveterate busybody.
Suddenly, she felt better, as if she were an adventuress in some ancient lost temple. A temple to music. She went on and further on, wading up to the knee. Another song playing in her head. She was too educated. No wonder she was ignored in favor of her beautiful best friend. Once or twice she heard what seemed to be echoes from the theatre. But they were gone soon enough, auditory wraiths in this odd world of half-light. But she pressed on, till it began to be lighter and lighter, and she suddenly realized that she did not need her lantern. Candles, there were candles everywhere. Some lit, some not. She followed the trail of light to a grotto, a portcullis rose, to accommodate... whom? Certainly not the Phantom. How on earth was anyone supposed to get about in this confounded maze without freezing off at the knees?
"Unless he has a boat, you fool!" She said aloud, her voice echoing faintly. She nearly jumped at it, but continued on. She reached dry rock and had never felt so relieved to be away from the water. It had not been deep; or very cold… but she had been in it for what had seemed forever.
It was the music box which drew her. She recognized the tune, that tinkling sound, like the patter of raindrops on the lead roof of the Opera. And she'd ever been lulled by the rain. It made her feel safe, that little sound, and looking out a rain-washed window was like staring at one of those paintings done by that new school- the Impressionists.
Meg's thoughts, wandering like scattered stars, pulled to attention when she heard the voice. So soft and sad, she suddenly understood why Christine had thought him an angel.
"Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you…" Such a sad voice sang the words, as if they meant so much more than what they actually said. Meg crept quietly to the portal. A bed, shaped like a swan dominated this small cavern. He sat at the foot of it, head bowed over the music box, his hands clenched together over something.
He wrote them. You've heard those words for how many years at the Bal Masque? Why did you never really listen to them? You listen to everything, Meg Giry. Some detective you are. He has to have read Poe. He came as the Red Death, like from that story. The skeleton at the feast. He's really quite handsome. Shame about the other side of his face. No wonder he loved Christine. She was everything that was beautiful and good. But she's not here! Why isn't she here?
He made a movement, relaxing his hand and then inhaling, as if to draw courage from whatever it was he held. He must think I'm the gendarmes. But Meg just simply stood there, a hand bracing herself on the doorjamb.
"She's gone." The words were quiet, although not a whisper. "She's gone, I sent her away," He repeated, then looked up, "You're the Giry brat. Madame's daughter."
Meg took a step back, surprised that he knew who she was. Then with a shake of red-gold hair, she thought, Of course he knows who you are. Till six months ago, you and Christine were nearly inseparable. She tilted her head and looked at him. He seemed so much smaller now, with tear-streaks running down his face. She nodded, "Yes, I'm Meg."
"The clever one. The one who actually knew what was a trick of the Opera Ghost and not some mere ballet rat's foolishness." He smiled a little at the thought, but it was a faraway smile. She stared at him, speechless. Then he broke the spell, "You don't much resemble your mother."
"No. I look like my father- red-headed and homely." Somehow, that unthinking comment of his had opened a draught of bitterness that she hadn't even realized was there. She blushed, her accursed freckles standing out even more as another thought crossed her mind, "You think I'm clever?"
He stood and looked down at the music box, which played its mournful, cheerful tune. How the melody could be both at once confounded the girl, but she knew with unerring knowledge that it was. Suddenly, he loomed over her, and she swallowed convulsively. He was once again the Phantom, frightening, all-encompassing in his power.
"Tell me, clever Meg Giry, why is it that the harder I reach for happiness, the further away it flies? Tell me, why must I never know what it is to be loved? Why must I always be cast away- like a toy that no longer amuses- ever alone, ever unwanted?" His voice changed again, back to that quiet, despairing, "No matter how much I love, it will never be returned… She kissed me. She kissed me and I knew. I knew she'd never love me. Not as I love her. Not as I needed her to love me. So I sent her away." He sounded nothing so much like a lost little boy, for all his height, "And now, I'll never know what it is to be happy. I just didn't want to be lonely anymore. Why couldn't she love me? Why?" And now the tears came again, fresh and bitter, and he wiped them away with an angry fist.
Meg glanced at the floor, then walked to where he stood, still as a statue in his grief. She curled her hand into a fist, nails biting into the flesh of her palm a moment, before unfurling like a white flag and placing it gently on his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the contact. He turned to face her and she saw that the left side of his face was so austere, and so beautiful; he was gazing at her with cat-green eyes. Like the peridots Mother sometimes wears, Meg thought irreverently. With her left hand, she reached out, offering the mask.
"For what it's worth… I'm sorry." Her voice was soft, like the mist you so often find in mountain valleys. She didn't know what else to say. There was so much anger, so much grief. It was too much for one man. Meg moved slowly, wiping away the ghost of a tear from his face. Then she said the only thing she could think, "Come, I expect Mother is waiting for you." And, summoning up all her courage, she took his hand.
There it is. Quite a departure from my usual fare, but sometimes that sort of thing helps. Thanks for reading! K.S.