Erik had not been at ease in his home across the lake since his return to France. Though he knew there would be no intruders, the sanctity of his former private abode had been defiled by the mob. When he was not wandering the secret passages in the opera house above, Erik spent much of the time cleaning what vicious men had trashed and smashed, lying under a decade of dust.
He gently wiped down the organ, evicting the occasional spider and razing their webbed lodgings. No one knew he was down here, except perhaps Meg Giry.
Running a white gloved finger across the top of the organ, he was satisfied with his efforts when it came away clean.
Erik had given consideration to terrorizing Meg and all the rest in the opera house; he smirked at memories of happier haunting days, when she would shriek "he's here!" whenever something went amiss, whether it was Erik's fault or not.
He was there, indeed.
Erik smiled thinly at the thought of Meg Giry, no longer the fiery little dancer who yearned to shine, though cast deep in her formidable mother's shadow. He was intrigued by her, this new Meg; ten years older, and a confident and poised beauty. She was calmer but he sensed the old fire was not far from the surface; a fire that the Comte did not deserve.
"He never deserved her either." He muttered and the room around him was suddenly clean of dust and (most) cobwebs and candlelight flooded the space. Christine was at his side, young and so beautiful, her brown eyes glittering feverishly as he coaxed her voice higher and higher through the octaves, sending chills through his body.
She was the true Angel of Music, that heavenly creature leading him from the night with just the power of her voice.
Erik shivered and blinked, returning to the present. His angel was dead, forever asleep in a cold marble tomb, her voice gone to where he could not yet follow. He sank to the organ bench.
"I should have never let her go." He rested his head in his hands, sagging under the doubt. "Why am I even here? There is nothing for me here."
Madness had driven him from France and madness had drawn him back. Christine had driven him mad and the loss of her, again, sent him racing back to Europe. In his more levelheaded moments, he knew should pack whatever else he could take and return to America and forget the Populaire; for good this time.
Erik also knew that he wouldn't leave; not yet. Dropping a sandbag on Meg had been childish even by his standards. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; and, no one was hurt.
"This time." He mumbled; there had been no way for him to know that when he cut the line. "I should go check on her, maybe find a way to apologize."
The theatre was crawling with people, what if someone caught him? What if Meg caught him? What would he do if they should come face to face, as it were? Erik furrowed his brow; he could not say. A faded memory of warm brown eyes brimming with kindness surfaced.
"Perhaps I would not be so unwelcome."
After a further moment of indecision, Erik donned his hat and wrapped himself in his heavy black opera cape and swept out of the house on the lake.
My apologies for the lack of updates this summer. I have been unwell and it has been notoriously difficult to move this story forward. Thank you so much for reading.