Never, for as long as he lived, would Erik be able to explain why he had rescued the ballet rat in the tunnel. It wasn't until he had settled her onto the cot in the safe room and lit a candle that he realized that this particular rat belonged to the traitorous Madame Giry.
"How fortuitous." he murmured to the shivering girl. She was soaked to the skin, from head to toe. Mon Dieu, did she swim across? Erik vaguely recognized the costume from his opera. How could anyone dance in those boots? What had the wardrobe mistress been thinking? An angry red flush spread across her chest, her heart shaped face was pale and clammy with a feverish sheen. He stared down at her, uncertain of what to do with her, if anything.
"She's Christine's friend." Erik dropped to the hard floor, squeezing his eyes shut to will away the beautiful face of that dancer-turned-singer. This gnat had no business down here, no business seeking him out. "Leave me, leave me to this prison". Life had been easier before, easier without other people. Easier without love.
"No one can ever love Erik. Poor, unhappy Erik!" he wailed.
Letting Christine go had been the worst moment of his awful life. She had softened the heart he never allowed himself to have and the hope that she could love him blossomed, soaring with every octave of her bell-like voice.
And then she was gone; snatched from his grasp by that despicable fop. She had almost come back to him, beautiful and disheveled in her bridal clothes and his dying heart had quivered with reawakening hope.
"Christine would keep her promise to Erik." he drew his knees up and pressed his forehead to them. "She would be Erik's living bride. So pretty. So delicate." he whispered. "With a voice like an angel."
Her tearful doe eyes were the only answer he needed. The gold band he had angrily shoved onto her ring finger was suddenly in his trembling palm.
"Christine," he pleaded. "I love you."
His darling girl said nothing, only kissing his ruined cheek. Then she was gone. The flower of hope died a second time. Over the sound of alarm bells was the loud slap of the water against oars as the Vicomte rowed his love away as fast as he could.
Intruders were approaching but Erik had no longer cared. Only a habit of self-preservation, cultivated over decades, guided him through a broken mirror, through a long tunnel and into a safe room he had created long ago. Once secreted away in the darkness, surrounded by rations he never thought he would have need of, Erik gave into his grief and cried.
A small moan escaped the young Giry, drawing Erik back to the present moment. Resentment bubbled up within him.
"It would serve your mother right if I left you here to die, little gnat." Erik's palm itched for his lasso but it was still lying in the drawing room, in ruins. He should have overtaken her in the tunnel.
Her small hand was cold in his. "Erik could sit here as you shiver moucheron. Would you like that?" he stroked her palm lightly. "Erik could hold your hand and watch this fever burn you to ash." The girl's appearance could be a gift. A gift to his revenge on the indomitable Madame Giry, who had betrayed him at last.
Erik sighed, he was tired. He lay a slender hand upon her forehead. She was already hot and growing hotter.
His tattered heart ached and if it could not have Christine, then peace was what it desired. He gazed into the dark corners of the room where the chests were stacked. Erik had never known peace, not truly. And if peace was to be denied him, perhaps he could give it to another. Erik slowly stretched his long legs. There had always been a soft spot in his black heart for the sick, the broken, the disadvantaged. Little Giry needed dry clothes.
There were clean and dry chemises in the Louis-Philippe room. She was daintier than Christine but at least it would be dry.
Christine... he drew a shaky breath and rose to his feet. "Damn you, little Giry. Could you not leave a man alone?"
Erik flipped open a chest in the corner, feeling his way through the contents for something that would suit. The mob could still be in his home, there could be stragglers in the cellars, or worse, the gendarmes. He could not risk going to the wardrobe. Not yet.
"Ah, there." pulling out clean bed linen, he shook it out. It smelled like it had been shut up in a wooden chest for years but it would have to do. A pillow sham would make a fine bandage for her ankle. Satisfied, Erik tossed the linens on the floor and dropped onto a low stool. The black leather boots came off with a wet sucking noise, like he was pulling her foot out of a greedy swamp. Her thin linen blouse came next and beneath that, a cloth bound her chest. Erik shifted nervously on the stool, his hands trembling slightly.
"She needs to be dry." he reminded himself and gently he lifted her to unwind the binding. She fit neatly against his chest and seemed so peaceful. Erik did his best to avert his eyes once her breasts were free. Trousers were last and landed with a plop in the pile with the other garments, next to the soggy satchel he had found with her. He unfurled the dry linens quickly, looking at her small body as little as possible. He had seen a naked woman before, but never quite so close.
Erik pulled the sheet up to her chin and tucked it gently around her, trying to ignore how smooth and clear her skin was and the gentle swell of her breasts. Shadow concealed her most secret places but he was uncomfortably aware. Little Giry had the strong body of a dancer balanced beautifully with soft, feminine lines. Perfection enough to satisfy any great master.
"Fool." he spat, quashing the heat stirring low. "You have watched this one grow up." he turned away and willed himself under control. "She's a child. Don't be obscene." he lit more candles to better examine her foot.
But she's older than Christine.. the flames whispered. Erik winced.
Grabbing a bandage, Erik carefully pulled Meg's foot from beneath the sheet. His fingers nimbly probed the foot and ankle, feeling for any fractures. He noted swelling but it seemed unremarkable. It was likely just a sprain. She was lucky.
"Oh yes, she is lucky." he choked back a snort. What woman could be luckier than to be lying naked beneath the earth with the Phantom of the Opera?
He finished wrapping the ankle, tightening the ends of the bandage for compression and pulled the linen sheet back over her foot.
Erik pinched out the flames, leaving one candle burning low near the head of the cot. Dry and snugly tucked in, she still shivered, her chattering teeth making the only noise.
He settled back onto the small stool, uncomfortably hunched over, like a tall Quasimodo. It was time to leave the Paris Opera. The authorities and half the theatre staff knew he was down here; not a ghost to be feared but a man to be destroyed. Several of them even knew where to find his home. How long would it be before unwelcome adventurers grew bored with invading the cellars, looking for the Opera Ghost? Erik slowly rubbed his temples. There was nowhere to go.
"But I should go now." Erik glanced at the invalid, her shivers already beginning to subside. "I can't leave her here." he watched the light flicker weakly across her perfect face. "Yes, Erik can leave her here. She's not Erik's problem." The longer he remained, the greater the risk he would be captured. If she regained consciousness before he returned her to the surface, she could run to the authorities once she was free.
A small feather pillow appeared in Erik's hands, though he would never be able to say how. Sometimes, he seemed magical even to himself. This would be quick, even merciful and Erik congratulated himself on such a simple solution. The pillow fit so neatly in his hand, his long bony fingers looked claw-like in the candlelight.
Death was easy and he was the Angel of Death.
Erik frowned at the gnawing sensation in his chest. When had he last eaten?
The pillow darkened her face but still he hesitated. So easy. So quick. She would know nothing.
He had never hesitated before.
A flash of memory: a pretty young girl, alone in the cellars, dancing. Every move and every gesture suggested grace, her dark brown eyes shone like stars in the night sky. She paused in her dance, feeling his presence and although he would swear he could not be seen, she stretched out a slender arm and offered her hand to him, with the gentlest smile he had ever known.
Erik dropped the pillow as if it had burned him and dropped to the floor at her side with a sob.
"Forgive, cricket. Forgive poor, unhappy Erik. He is a wretched creature." Unclasping the dark heavy cloak from around his neck, he laid it reverently over her pathetic form.
The deeper shadows of the room beckoned to him and Erik removed himself to the furthest corner. Curling up on the cold floor, hot tears rolled down his withered cheeks. Erik wrapped his arms tightly around his abdomen, trying to hold together his breaking heart. Decisions could wait until later.
Later.