A/N: Wow, guys! Those reviews were really great! Thank you so much for taking the time! A special thank you to QueenoftheNight for actually returning to an older chapter and letting me know what effect that's had. Thank you!
Also, a great big thank you to ScrollMage, draegon-fire and Lucyole for following!
This chapter had to belong to Meg. She's always been one of my favourite characters though I don't know why. Maybe I liked her curiosity and belief in the supernatural, or the fact that she defies her mother and is the first to make it into the lair after Erik has disappeared. I always felt that there was an untold story there - and I firmly reject Love Never Dies' explanation for that. Plus, I had given her a bigger part in this story and she was too good to just waste on the funny sidekick role.
Anyway, this chapter had to end where it always ends. Epilogue to come but in the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Chapter 35: The Underground Lair
1883
Before the rushing of the water drowned out any sound – even that of her frantically fluttering heart which seemed to beat directly in her head – there was silence. She had heeded the Persian's advice, not out of fear for her own life, but because one of them had to make it to the house at least. That's where Christine was kept, of that she was certain.
The now uneven base of her prosthetic leg, slipped and skidded over the wet stones that had lost all of their rough edges thanks to the very own sway the water had possessed. She cursed angrily and loudly and in a language that would have made her mother blush and scold her thoroughly. But she did not care. All of these feelings were threatening to strangle her from within unless she gave words to them.
Into the fear she had for Christine's well-being mingled a sense of betrayal and guilt. She had been the one to calm her friend's fears. She had been the one who'd insisted that the Opera Ghost was a benign spirit. In her ignorance, her own naiveté to believe in someone who had seemingly believed in her, she had driven Christine into the arms of a madman.
Unshed tears had already formed a thick lump in her throat and it was becoming increasingly harder to swallow them down. He had made her feel safe, even when she had only thought him to be a spirit. The idea of someone in the wings, in the rafters even, casting a protective eye over her, witnessing her efforts and supporting her because of them had filled her with such determination and warmth that she had been able to push herself past the dreary, hopeless days. She had not thought him capable of any harm, not towards those that were kind and underprivileged. Before Christine had come along, he'd been her only true if also silent friend. Someone who had listened to her sorrows and respected her efforts; accepting him to be the man who had murdered and kidnapped was practically unbearable. But if she was forced to part with one friend to save the other, then she would do whatever it took.
Before the rushing of the water drowned out any sound and demanded her full attention, she caught a glimpse of the most peculiar house resting precariously on a rock-like structure. There were large tubes everywhere that protruded from it likes worms, and the house's underside seemed to be made out of a thick buffer which must have carried it easier when the lake was flooded.
Before the rushing of the water drowned out any sound, Meg possessed a flicker of hope that the Persian would bring the vicomte to his senses, that they'd all be united again to free Christine.
Then the rushing of the water came and with it returned the panic. Had she been closer to the perimeter of the space, she would have been overwhelmed by the sight of it running down the walls. But as it stood, Meg's experience was even more frightening. Except for the torches mounted around the house nearby, she could see absolutely nothing. But she could hear the power of the water as it thundered down upon the lakebed, and she could very well imagine just how quickly it would rise around her.
So despite the difficulty she had manoeuvring the slippery terrain, she hastened her footsteps until she became breathless. The breeze created by the momentum of her uneven stride made her shiver and pick at the wet fabric of the dress that clung firmly to her skin. The cold had infiltrated every single layer of flesh, slowly freezing her from the inside so that she doubted she'd ever manage to feel warm again.
It did not take long before she felt the water pool beneath her ordinary foot, before she heard the faint splash that occurred with every step. There wasn't much time, and still the house seemed unreachable. Breaking into an even more frantic pace, she kept walking, but in the end it was the expertly crafted spring of her prosthetic leg that gave her the power to make the jump up to the house and to safety before the water could rip her away and drown her.
Dazed, she lay on the plateau she had flung herself onto and heaved up nothing but empty air. As her fingers inched towards the edge to pull herself forward, she only saw blackness around her. The lake had swallowed up any trace of her companions.
Stifling a sob, she clumsily dragged herself upright again and scanned this new environment. It was difficult at first to really pay attention to it as her mind struggled to focus on one thing alone. Her brain, it seemed, was too overcome with a sense of terror to be able to cooperate. Still, she knew, that if she succeeded in distracting it, she'd start feeling calmer as well.
Touching her fingertips to the floor, she pushed herself upright. A shaky process, as her ordinary leg fought off exhaustion and her prosthetic leg fought for balance. She had wrapped the pendant's chain around her wrist as not to lose it in the dark and now it dangled down, grazing the ground as she pushed herself up. Quickly, she glanced at it but just as quickly surmised that it was of no use to her anymore. Its sole purpose had been to guide Christine to the docks. From there on, he would have led the way.
Meg, of course, possessed no such luxury. The options that presented themselves to her were fairly limited. Either, she could set foot into what appeared to be a little cottage which was marked by a striking clock that looked almost out of place. Or she could take a left and wander off into the structure of glass that was spiralling ever upwards, defying even – it seemed – the height of the cavern.
In the end, it was her never-dwindling curiosity that made her choose the latter. Freeing the chain, she wrapped it around her neck instead and wobbled towards the glass house, wondering fleetingly what she would do if she was to stumble upon Christine. She did not possess the physical strength to free her out of the arms of a man and their way back was cut off by the water.
The heat in what turned out to be a greenhouse hit her the minute she crossed the threshold. It slipped under her skin just as the cold had done and left behind a sticky film of moisture on her bare arms. Though the initial effect was pleasant enough, it soon began to feel as if poison had been injected into her flesh. Heaviness settled over her and the fatigue that had always been lingering there in the background appeared to win the upper hand. It was dreadfully tempting to forget the urgency of the situation here in this peculiar place where everything was beauty and warmth.
Once again she wondered how a man capable of creating so splendid an oasis belowground and in darkness, could also be capable of murder and abduction.
Gazing down upon the flowers one final time she ascended the delicate spiral staircase and stepped out onto a bridge that seemed to connect the greenhouse to the cottage. The cold and damp that resided out here was even more difficult to bear now.
Using the railing for support, she carefully set one foot in front of the other, noticing just how far away from the platform below she was now. The trapdoor she only noticed because her gaze was mostly directed down to help her uneven feet strike the right balance. She paused, pondering how strange it was to find a trapdoor up here, then lowered herself to her knees with a tired sigh where her fingers quickly began to examine the area around the hatch. It wasn't primed and as such posed no real danger, yet Meg wanted to see where it led.
In cold light of reason the only logical route would be down to the dock on which she had lain only minutes ago, but if the illusions they had encountered so far had taught her anything it was not to take matters at face value.
Eventually, she located the mechanism that made the hatch drop open and as she gazed down, she was surprised to find a black portcullis that extended lower and lower still. Her eyes flickered from the bottom of the pit that she could hardly make out to the side of the cottage and back again as she weighed her options. The wrong choice could mean wasting valuable time.
Leaning forward as much as she dared to, she squinted into the darkness where she thought to perceive a mere flicker of light. She was just about to push herself up again when voices reached her ear. She could not make out what they were saying but knew that they emanated from inside the pit.
Swallowing down her fear, Meg made up her mind and eased herself down into the abyss. She clung on to the edges of the trapdoor until her legs found footing on one of the bars. The journey was excruciatingly slow as she was all too aware that one wrong step would send her falling down below. Her arms soon began to shake as she was using up her strength quickly to hold herself upright while her feet scrambled to find security. But the lower she got, the more prominent the voices grew which spurred her on to continue. His sounded cold and unrelenting while Christine's only came out in a whispered plea for mercy. She sounded tired and terrified and Meg yearned to give her the re-assurance she so desperately needed.
The room she finally dropped into with a decided lack of grace was so strange it would continue to appear to her in her dreams. The chamber was submerged beneath the lake's surface as a window at the front revealed. It was barely illuminated which was in part due to the black mourning candles that adorned the walls and the muted, melancholy sheen of the water whose steady movement made it look as if it lapped at walls and ceiling. In the centre, elevated on a broad table stood a coffin whose fine white lining of silk proved the only sharp contrast.
To her, it almost appeared to be an altar of death.
Meg's groan of exertion upon impact thankfully went unnoticed and she crouched behind the altar to catch a glimpse of the Opera Ghost. He was lean with an almost skeletal hand which he used to gesture swiftly and elegantly. Had there not been any words at his disposal, that hand surely would have still managed to convey the anguish and fury that resided in his heart. The other, a prosthetic made out of firm metal, hung loosely against his side, the artificial fingers curled into a fist.
He was imposing, she thought, towering above Christine in a manner that made him appear broader than he truly was. And it was the mask that made him seem almost inhuman as it concealed most of his features so well, leaving only peculiar eyes of an amber colour exposed which burned with angry intensity.
Christine, on the other hand, was cowering on the floor still wearing the beautiful white dress that had been made for the role of Aida. Her hair was a tangled mess of curls and her face paler than it had ever been before.
"Now, my dear, you really mustn't despair," spoke the Opera Ghost in a voice that was surely much too beautiful to be used in such an underhanded way, "your fiancé is quite safe. You really can't have expected him to swim all the way to you. That would have been utterly unreasonable."
Meg lowered herself to the ground again and carefully inched around the altar, hoping to find some item she could use as a weapon if the need arose.
"I've told you once before, my dear, Erik keeps his promises."
He sounded quite unhinged and so Meg started to search more frantically. Every inch of the room seemed to be covered with something. Masks of all shapes and sizes, some of them even small enough to fit the measurements of a child, metal limbs cast across the floor, a strange device – a cross between a pushchair and a wheelchair – which leaned discarded in a corner.
"Ah, there they are now!" the Opera Ghost suddenly announced. "My siren has guided them to us."
Meg swallowed down the fear that had begun welling up anew and carefully peeked over the edge of the altar. The window that had previously revealed the depth of the lake now showed a strange, transparent structure of glass that floated ever closer. Parting the water around it with effortless ease was the curvaceous body of a woman who moved through the lake without using either arms or fishtail, simply drifting along, her silver braids trailing behind her in a magnificent train.
The closer the glass container came, the more Meg could make out the unconscious figure of the vicomte and the badly shaken face of the Persian.
"Raoul!" Christine cried out and Meg watched on in shock as she threw herself against the glass window, banging her fists against the unrelenting surface as if she hoped to break the man out of there herself, as if the room and the container were not separated by water.
"You mustn't be impatient, dear," the Opera Ghost mocked her efforts, "he will come around eventually. You'll make sure of that, won't you, Daroga?"
Trying to ignore the frightened faces, Meg ducked behind the altar again, barely managing to stifle a scream when a small horde of what appeared to be insects came scuttling towards her. They all looked like scorpions to her with beady black eyes, glistening bodies and deadly tails. It was only when they altered their course to whizz around in the same exact circle that she realised that they were not real at all, that she was, in fact, looking at finely crafted, minuscule automatons.
Positioned as she was on all fours, she stared at them in astonishment while secretly pondering what a strange place she had fallen into. It was all so wondrous, yet so utterly peculiar and sad at the same time.
On the other side of the room, the Opera Ghost seemed to pry Christine loose from the window as the sounds of a struggle and her angry screams indicated. Knowing that any second now she could be discovered, Meg stretched out her hand towards the shimmering object nestled in midst of the scorpions. A blade, perhaps, that she could use to her advantage.
She shuddered when their little mechanical legs scuttled over her skin and uttered a silent curse when the object remained firmly stuck to the floor. Scooting forward on her knees she tried once again with better leverage but was aghast to find the open-mouthed scream of a faceless child in the shimmering surface of the blade. In fact, it was not a blade at all but the broken shard of a mirror that cruelly reflected a series of drawings that had been fastened onto the ceiling.
All of them seemed to have been done using charcoal and all of them depicted truly despicable and atrocious scenes. The faceless, screaming child was kept behind bars while horrible faces, grimaces of mockery and contempt were swirling around it. Another showed the imposing figure of a person with vast layers of fat that was occasionally broken apart by phallic symbols, black holes or nipples that protruded vulgarly, oozing substances down the flaps of skin.
It wasn't long before Meg had to avert her eyes for the scenes were much too terrible to gawk at and they moved and frightened her in equal measure. Instead, she narrowed her eyes so that the drawings became nothing more than an assortment of blurred lines and used her remaining strength to pry the mirror shard loose from the floor. Armed with it, she shifted closer to the edge of the altar to watch the events unfold. Sooner or later, she'd have to make herself seen.
"There, you see, Christine. He's waking up. Good evening Monsieur de Chagny. We are delighted that you could join us."
The vicomte, still dazed, tumbled forward until his fists, too, encountered the glass wall of his cage.
"Let her go!"
His voice was muted – Meg truly did not understand how they could hear it at all – but his passion and determination remained unbroken.
"Oh, but you see, that's not how it works. You don't just get to demand your share and receive it. No, no," the Opera Ghost rubbed his mismatched hands together and laughed, "those days are gone. Your fate really lies in the hands of Christine."
At this he paused and whirled around to face her again, his frock billowing around him majestically.
"Your fiancé has been very brave indeed. He's overcome a great many obstacles to get this far." A pensive look suddenly entered his eyes and he turned towards the glass again. "Though perhaps he has been cheating. Though perhaps he's had some help from a…friend…"
The last word sounded foreign on his tongue, as if he was still deciding whether the Persian was his friend or the vicomte's.
"He looks a little bit bruised, my dear, but otherwise remarkably intact." He hummed to himself and then his voice dropped lower still. "Perhaps not the Sûreté, mmh, Daroga? But the Vicomte? Hell to my doorstep? You must be so proud."
She imagined his lips curling upwards in a sardonic smile.
"Have you, indeed, forgotten that I hold your heart in the palm of my hand?"
Out of the pocket of his frock, he suddenly produced a peculiar object. From her hiding spot, Meg could only make out that it was silver and curved like a dagger, yet looked far too robust and heavy to serve such a purpose.
"Erik, please, cease this madness!" the Persian pleaded, who seemed to have paled even more.
But his state did not appear to affect the Opera Ghost at all.
"Please, Nadir," he hummed in that same, dangerous tone, "this will be much easier if you just stay quiet."
She saw him squeeze the object tighter, hoped for a moment that he felt badly after all, but then the Persian groaned in agony, clutching his chest and she knew that she'd been naïve to think so. Whatever this item was, however it could be possible, it seemed to control the other man's heart.
"Fine, Erik, fine, as you wish," the Persian panted, every word encompassing the agony he must be experiencing, "but let the boy go. Let Christine Daaé go!"
"No, you haven't been listening, Daroga!" the Opera Ghost replied, his voice escalating into thunderous anger with every word he spoke. Then, as if reminding himself that he had an audience, he took a breath, touched a hand to his chest and continued softer,"The choice is no longer mine and we really must proceed. Your time is slowly running out."
It was only then that Meg noticed – and truly only because she was searching for an explanation to his mysterious threat – that the glass container the vicomte and the Persian were trapped in had started to fill with water. It wasn't very much yet, only a small pool that had accumulated around their ankles, but she had no doubt that it wouldn't take long before they were in serious danger.
If she attacked now, would she manage to free Christine? Would the men pitifully drown in that floating torture chamber? Would they all die?
Lost in doubts, the vital seconds ticked by and the window of opportunity closed.
"Now, my dear, it's really quite simple," the Opera Ghost proceeded, "you must choose to turn the grasshopper or the scorpion."
His footsteps drew dangerously close and Meg swiftly pressed herself against the podium to hide from sight. The footsteps paused, then sounded again, drawing further away this time. Still, she waited another beat or two before risking a glance.
Both animal models were much larger than those of the scorpions that continued to whizz nearby. The grasshopper possessed a thin body that shimmered in an almost emerald hue in the dim light of the mourning candles, its eyes deceptively kind. The scorpion, much like its smaller relatives, was imposing and black with a tail that was angrily poised to attack.
Both objects had one thing in common: a trigger button, plainly exposed on the underside of their body.
"Touch the scorpion, Christine, and you promise to be my wife. The Vicomte will be freed and the lake will be drained once more. Choose the grasshopper, however, and you condemn all of us to misery!"
He turned away from her then, from her and her hiccuped sob, as if he could not bear to face the consequences of his actions.
On the other side, the vicomte had started banging his fists against the glass again.
"You monster!" he yelled. "That is not an honest choice!"
"Honest? Honest?" bellowed the Opera Ghost. "There is no honesty in this world! No kindness! No compassion! Oh, perhaps for a man like you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he spat out with contempt, "but with a face like this," he paused anew to rip the mask away that had concealed his features, "blackmail and illusion are your only friends."
Meg felt herself tremble although she had not seen the face that had been so cruelly revealed. But there was something in the manner it had been done that felt like an act of violence.
"Her love will only be an illusion,too," Raoul bravely proceeded, although he also looked somewhat shaken, "you will have broken everything that was once real about it."
"Your concern is touching," Erik remarked viciously, "and now, Daroga, I advise you to ensure the vicomte's silence. You both may wish to preserve air. Christine has not been known to make decisions swiftly."
And as if to emphasise his point, he squeezed the button on the silver dagger once more which had the Persian sinking to his knees in agony, only capable of offering a pleading look to his companion.
The quiet that followed was truly more terrifying than anything else that had transpired thus far. It was only occasionally interrupted by Christine's soft sobs and the heavy footsteps of the Opera Ghost as he began to prowl up and down, clearly suffering just as desperately as everyone else in his lair.
"Make your choice, Christine," he at last hissed, "bear to look at this face or condemn us all!"
The water in the torture chamber had already reached the men's hips.
The moment Christine finally chose to meet the Opera Ghost's eyes was charged with some inexplicable emotion, and it was with considerable grace that she rose to her feet. She was smaller than him, barely reaching his shoulders, her pale face streaked with tears.
"I have gazed upon your face before, Erik," she answered evenly and it was then that Meg caught her first glimpse of the visage that was mangled beyond recognition.
Her breath got caught in her throat, but it was the sadness that resided in the depth of those amber orbs that was responsible.
"I have gazed upon it before without fear and by my own choice."
She took another step forward and it seemed for a moment as if he suddenly yearned to back away.
"It no longer frightens me, Erik. Can't you see?"
But he could not or would not acknowledge the plea that so poignantly resided in her words. Backed into a corner for which only he himself was responsible, he clung on to the only piece of armour that remained. His pride.
"Make your choice!" he repeated icily.
Once again, Meg steeled herself to attack but found herself frozen to the spot when Christine bridged the final distance between her and the Opera Ghost and clasped his face in her small hands.
They both seemed to be trembling as they kissed, both of them lost in the world and in each other in equal measure. His arms clumsily wrapped around her body, bringing her closer as he relished in affection he never seemed to have received before, as if he did not quite dare to believe that she was truly there, and when he drew away for air, it was her who reached up once more with searching fingers, bringing him back to that one moment that clung suspended in time.