A music box played somewhere far beyond him. The tinkling melody echoed lightly around the misty void he found himself in, and its simple tones were absolutely chilling.
"Erik." Christine's voice, dulcet and smooth as ever, called to him. Strange, but he couldn't remember her ever calling him by his God given name before. "Erik, come to me," she beckoned, and through the mist her little form stepped. Dressed in soft pinks and with her dark hair gloriously unbound, she looked lovelier than he had ever seen her. Oh, how he wanted to reach for her, to finally take what he had striven for so long.
"Erik?" Another voice called to him through the mist. This one was different, soft and sweet but masking surprising power. Meg had found him in this unholy abyss as well, it seemed, and his heart felt rent in twain.
"Don't keep me waiting, Angel of Music." Christine's voice was hauntingly seductive. As ever she was his siren, the greatest weakness he had ever known. He had crumbled before her, spiraling into unbound madness for the sake of unrequited love. Should he run to her, then? What sweet pleasures could be found in those sleek little arms of hers?
Meg had appeared far across from Christine. She looked purely angelic in every sense of the word, dressed all in flowing white and with golden hair so bright it nearly blinded him. And yet her dark eyes glowed with compassion, with strength, with determination. She would not beg him, nor would she attempt to persuade him. As still as a sentinel in the night, she waited without words.
"Don't you want to see what I have for you?" Christine pressed, tipping her head quizzically and allowing a few dark curls to slip tantalizingly across her cheek. And suddenly, as though a light had flickered on in this unending night, he was struck with an epiphany.
Drawing back as she advanced towards him, he couldn't help but smile sadly. "No," he called to her. "No, Christine. You don't want me, and from this moment on, I don't want you." The dark haired beauty stumbled, furrowing her brow in obvious confusion.
"But Erik, you're my Angel! You cannot turn me away." She was pleading, even close to tears in her appeals.
"It was not I who turned you away, Christine." She stumbled again, faltering as though she'd just received a physical blow. "Good bye, Countess de Chagny." Regarding him for one final moment, stunned and utterly speechless, the image of the young woman dissipated into the mist from which it had come.
He felt no remorse. She'd been gone for years, truth be told, and though he had never believed it before, he was beginning to realize that time truly did have the power to heal even the deepest of wounds. Turning to Meg, that glorious vision in white, he smiled as he stepped toward her.
She smiled back at him, serene but strangely aloof. "Meg?" he questioned, even as his feet were rooted to the floor. Erik was alarmed to find that she was not alone. There was someone else, a man… The manager. Taking her by the hand, Edmund drew her fingers to his lips. He kissed them slowly and possessively, his cold green eyes glaring triumphantly at Erik.
"Come away, Meg," the manager beckoned, and without even blinking she obeyed. She seemed distant, practically blind as she followed Edmund's lead without truly looking at anything around her. In short, she was as powerless as Erik, unable to fight what she couldn't possibly have desired.
"Meg, don't!" Erik cried out, reaching for her with an outstretched arm. "Don't leave with him! Meg! MEG!"
The dream faded away slowly. Erik fought to free himself from its grasp, moaning and thrashing against the silk pillows that cushioned him. "Meg…" he muttered, his breathing becoming harsh. "Meg, don't! Meg!" He was awake with a burst of movement, literally bolting upright to finally break free from the dream.
Yes, a dream. That was all it had been. Unwilling to wallow in his grief and regret after his tirade against her, he had wasted no time in collapsing onto the bed upon his return and surrendering to a fitful slumber. Of course he had not wandered through the mist of a dark abyss, nor faced the two beauties that for one reason or another constantly laid claim to his thoughts. It was not the first time he'd been the unwilling victim of a nightmare, nor would it be the last. Yet there was something significant about this dream turned nightmare, a message that had found him in sleep since he would not allow it access in his waking world.
Christine, whom he had loved so passionately, was no longer the woman that laid claim over his heart. Meg, the daughter of his old ally, now held that distinction. When this dramatic change had begun to take hold, he could scarcely begin to imagine. Perhaps it had started the very night they had crossed paths again, when she had faced him with as much boldness as she could muster despite his terrible wrath. It could have begun when next they had shared a moment in his most sacred lair, when Meg had so readily listened and loved his brilliant composition. They had understood one another then, if only for a moment.
The truth was that it was all of these things, combined as one powerful force to lay waste to the walls around his heart bit by bit. There was no violence in this assault against his heart's defenses, and his final surrender was not nearly as painful as he would have expected.
And yet he had already lost her. One moment of horrible rage was all it had taken to send her running from him forever. How cruel God was to give him such enlightenment after it was all but terribly useless. Then again, Erik had never been entirely sure there was a God at all, not after the kind of tortured existence he'd been forced to lead.
Something new was stirring inside of him. There was a powerful pull, combined with whirling thoughts of notes and bars of the musical sort. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he rose slowly and took several deliberate steps toward the grand piano waiting in the corner.
Inspiration. For the first time in nearly five years, Erik was feeling true inspiration expanding within him. It was utterly glorious, that familiar demanding sensation that filled him with such purpose and power. Closing the remaining distance to the piano in two quick strides, he settled himself on the bench and immediately placed his fingers on the keys.
One chord, then another and another; a majestic run and then the soaring melody began. Through his hands he began to create such wonderful music, and suddenly he knew well what he would do. He would not lose Meg just yet; he couldn't. Whatever had transpired between them, he at least had his promise of protection to fulfill. That, coupled with a new plan brimming in his mind, was enough to send him back up to the surface as he had never arisen before.
Erik smiled triumphantly. All of the Opera House, even all of Paris even would soon know that the Phantom of the Opera had returned, very much alive, and more powerful than ever. His days as a dead man were at an end.
"Raise your arms up. Meg, darling, raise your arms. Meg?" Martine's warm voice broke finally broke through to the befuddled blonde, and realizing what she had been told to do, she jerkily hastened to raise both of her arms. Martine shook her head slowly, her wide blue eyes regarding Meg carefully as she continued her work. Examining the sequined corset-like bodice, those orbs continued to flicker to the ballerina's expressionless face.
"You can put your arms down, now," she told her softly, stepping back with hands on hips. "I think I've loosened it sufficiently so that it still fits you like a glove but you have the added benefit of being able to breathe." Meg said nothing, nodding slowly in drone-like motions. "And I've embellished the tutu with some orange, so when you twirl, you'll really create the illusion of flames." Again she nodded, her dark eyes staring straight ahead. "Oh, and of course, I went into your room a little while ago and took all your dresses. I'm using the fabric from your gowns to create little sundresses for poor, orphaned little girls, and I sold all of your jewelry to raise money for them. I hope you don't mind."
When Meg continued to nod, Martine threw her arms to the air in exasperation. "Meg, what is wrong with you?" she cried, taking the stiff girl by the shoulders and giving her a firm shake. Fire flashed in the dancer's eyes, and in an instant she was back to reality.
"Don't shake me, please don't shake me," she demanded of Martine, throwing the girl's arms away and taking a step back. "Why does everyone try to shake you when they don't get what they want?"
Martine looked on, bewildered and alarmed, as Meg sank onto a stool, her shoulders drooping and her face buried in her little hands. "Everyone?" she questioned gently but urgently, going to kneel beside her. "Who is everyone, Meg? What has happened?"
"No one. Nothing," Meg quickly responded, shaking her head violently. "I'm sorry, Martine, I'm so sorry. I'm just so tired from all of the rehearsals." Martine sighed beside her, running a coarse hand through her inky black curls.
"That damned ex-fiancé of yours works you like a horse," the seamstress agreed bitterly, sitting back on her heels. "I didn't want to say anything before, but you look dead on your feet, Meg. These past three days you've been wandering around like a spirit, silent and solemn, so unlike yourself. What you need is a vacation."
"What I need is somewhere to rehearse my aria." Martine furrowed her brow at this, tilting her head curiously.
"There are plenty of rehearsal rooms here, you silly thing. Why don't you pick one of them? I'm sure they're yours for the choosing, seeing as no one other than you has done any real rehearsing. The good manager has seen to that."
Meg laughed half-heartedly, dropping her hands and glancing at Martine. Her face was unusually pale and dark shadows lurked beneath her eyes. "I can't bring myself to rehearse in the Opera House." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Not when he's here, anyway. I'm so afraid he'll be nearby, listening and seeking to interfere. I could never get a good practice in when I'm thinking about him." Did she mean Erik or Edmund? Even Meg wasn't sure who she was more afraid of at the moment: Edmund, for the obvious reasons; or Erik, for reasons that she did not understand?
She was wounded, disturbed by what had transpired between she and Erik, but she could not bring herself to hate him. No, never hate; shock, disbelief, anger and some despair, but never hate. If she hated anyone, it was herself; she hated that after all that had transpired, she desired more than anything to see him once more, to hear his voice again. Foolish mortal that she was, the sleep she had lost was over him alone and nothing else.
Naturally, Martine took her words to mean the Edmund. "I have a solution for you," she told Meg happily, that playful grin of hers finding its way across her lips. "Go to the Bistro. No one goes there in the mornings and afternoons. There's a piano there, and I'm sure Henri would be more than happy to let you use it to rehearse."
Meg pondered on her words, deciding almost instantly that Martine had truly found the solution. The Bistro was popular to all of the Company, and old Henri, the Bistro's owner, was a friend of her mother's. She would be more than welcome there.
"As always, Martine, you are my voice of reason," Meg said with a smile. At least one part of her future was decided.
As the flaring music from the orchestra pit died away, an audible sigh came up from the wings when Edmund strode onto the stage. Meg wanted nothing more than to disappear into the elaborate tree-filled scenery that occupied the stage, but there was nothing to be done. Folding her arms, she prepared herself for another absurd critique from a man who could not possibly know anything about ballet.
"It's much better," he began with a smirk, surrounding himself in an aura of self-importance, or so Meg thought. "However--" here the stagehands and cast members alike sighed again, aggravated and annoyed by their new manager's behavior, "--I'm afraid that during that rather long spinning part of yours, somewhere towards the end, you stumbled. Now, truly, it wasn't markedly noticeable, but I believe that with one more try you're sure to get it right. Again, if you would be so kind."
Edmund had no idea how deadly close he was to having a mutiny on his hands. The entire Company was beginning to loathe him entirely, and they each swore to one another that through his ridiculous ministrations the Opera House's grand reopening was sure to be a humiliating failure.
"Sir," Meg muttered contemptuously, her voice hoarse from the exertion of the past several hours. "I have practiced far longer than is necessary for any ballerina. If I am beginning to stumble, it is because I am fatigued and more than ready to call it a day. There are other parts to be rehearsed, in case you have forgotten. I am not the star, and therefore I do not deserve so much unwarranted attention."
Her words were fiery and forceful, but they seemed not to breech Edmund's powerful façade. He smiled in a patient, fatherly sort of way, as though Meg was a child who had just said something very silly indeed. "Mademoiselle Giry, your humility is truly touching," he told her slowly. If his unbearable fatherly tone was not enough, he had the audacity to reach out and squeeze one of her bare shoulders. Meg was not quick enough to avoid his touch altogether, but she hastily shook out of his grip with visible violence.
Edmund continued, apparently unperturbed, although Meg could see a slight tic in his jaw. "However, seeing as you are our prima ballerina, you are very much a star of the show. Sorsha's role is quintessential to the opera." A gross exaggeration in Meg's estimation, and it was obvious the rest of the Company shared her sentiment. The rotund Armando Bellini, the most powerful baritone of the Company and a diva in his own right, was turning a nasty shade of red. From where he stood in the nearby wings, it appeared that at any moment he was prepared to explode onto the stage to launch some sort of a tirade in Edmund's direction.
Fortunately, Meg understood that no one taking part in the opera found any fault in her. They saw her exactly as she was; a talented ballerina at the whim of a truly inept manager. Perhaps that was why Armando remained where he was. She could hear him almost shouting in his native tongue to another singer nearby him rather than exploding onto the stage to loudly voice his displeasure.
Edmund was turning to leave, gesturing to the conductor in the orchestra pit to begin again. Stamping her foot, Meg charged towards him, full of fire and ready to challenge him. His despicable treatment of her and the rest of the Company had gone on far enough. Caution be damned, she would not obey his ridiculous demands anymore. Let him fire her, let him throw her out of the home she loved so dearly; he was a tyrant, and tyrants always required immediately removal.
"Edmund!" she shouted, provoking him to whirl on his heels to face him. "This has gone on long enough, Edmund! If you insist to totally disregard the majority of your priorities as a manager, you force me to respond. I will not rehearse this number any longer today, nor will I rehearse it tomorrow, or even the day after that. Until you devote enough time so that the rest of the cast gets the rehearsal they so desperately desire and need, I will not so much as grace any part of the stage with my presence. Do we have an understanding, sir?"
His green eyes, so vibrant and clear, blazed in fury. The tension between them was dangerously palpable, felt by every living being within earshot. "Meg," he ground out, stalking to her and standing mere inches away from her. "Do you think that because of our relationship to one another, I should give you any preferential treatment?" A shocked murmur went up through the stage.
Meg was left reeling, stunned to her very being by his accusatory words. "Relationship?" she gasped, eyes narrowing. "What relationship do we share, Monsieur, besides that of a tyrannical manager and his mistreated prima ballerina?"
He openly scoffed, tossing his golden head dramatically. "Don't pretend, Meg, it won't do any good. You know as well as I that our relationship runs deeper than that." She stumbled back a step, painfully aware of this new and dangerous game he was playing. He was deliberately insinuating that they were far more intimate than they appeared to be, incriminating her before the rest of her peers in another cruel attempt to break her.
The hushed whispers had grown into a roar of heated conversation. Undeserved shame shook her to her very core. She could feel bitter tears stinging her eyes, but by God, she would not shed them. Defenseless and undone, Meg prepared to retreat, the only option left available to her now.
"A man who knows so little of opera cannot know very much of women." A few frightened gasps, and then silence. The dark voice of a man had broken through with tremendous power, its taunting tones seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at all. Meg felt her body stiffen, her skin tingling at the familiarity of that voice.
"I should think, Monsieur, that your time would be better spent devoted to your pathetic opera rather than spreading pathetic lies."
Edmund appeared as lost and forlorn as a small animal, wide-eyed in fear and looking as though he would faint dead away. He puffed up his chest, gathering his wits about him as his fearful gaze darted all about the stage in an attempt to locate the disembodied voice. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice surprisingly strong. "I won't tolerate childish pranks on any stage of mine!"
"The stage you stand on and all of this Opera House belongs to ME!" The voice roared.
"The Phantom!" a wiry stagehand cried out, grasping the arm of one of his companions beside him.
"The Phantom of the Opera has returned!" a soprano of the chorus echoed, and in a most dramatic display she collapsed into the arms of a nearby tenor. The Company erupted in fearful whispers and panicked shouts. And Meg remained still, so very still, waiting and watching for whatever Erik would do next.
"Phantom?" Edmund drawled disdainfully, glaring harshly at several people in the wings. "There is no Phantom of the Opera. That deranged lunatic died in the fire, everyone knows that!"
"Ah, but you can't kill a Phantom, can you?" The voice seemed to be drawing nearer, yet still it was dreadfully omnipresent. "I shall be seeing you presently, Monsieur. You have been warned." There was a long period of expectant silence, but the voice did not speak again.
Edward swore loudly, his mask of bravery cracking. Outraged and petrified at once, he barked to the Company to cease their loud speculation. He was promptly ignored, and realizing he had lost control over the cast, reached out to seize Meg's wrist and dragged her along behind him as he stormed into the wings.
"You will tell me everything you know about the Phantom!" he demanded vehemently over his shoulder to her, narrowly avoiding knocking aside several loitering stage hands. "You were here when the madman first ran amok, and so you will help me root out whoever the fool is that thinks he can impersonate him."
Meg stumbled behind him, trying unsuccessfully to jerk her wrist free of his painful grip. "I cannot, I will not help you!" she burst out. Dear heavens, where was he taking her? Not to his office for another horrid interrogation? "How do you know it is not the Phantom?" she challenged.
"I do not believe in ghosts!" he raged, and Meg found herself terrified. She'd never seen him in such a rage. Redoubling her efforts to escape him, Meg turned a pleading eye to search for anyone that could help her. They were deep backstage now, hastening through a labyrinth of props and set pieces. Even the occasional stagehand could not be found, likely having rushed to the stage after the Phantom's already infamous reintroduction to the Company.
It happened so quickly, Meg did not have time to cry out. There was a flurry of movement, a shadowy shape, and then she was pulled away by a powerful arm and wrenched free from Edmund. She found herself surrounded by darkness, held in the powerful embrace she recognized so well.
Suddenly and inexplicably alone, Edmund jerked around to see where Meg had escaped to. She must have torn herself away with incredible strength, for he was no weakling lad. Screaming his frustration to the heavens, he realized that she was gone, nowhere to be seen in the labyrinthine surroundings. He would have to seek his answers elsewhere, yet he was far from finished with his ballerina. Dead or alive, no man could change that.