Lachesis' Weavings
by AngelCeleste85
Disclaimer, Blame and Setting: Same as before.
Other notes: At this point I have read all the reviews from everyone who's read up to Chapter Five. To everyone who has so far read and reviewed, thank you very much for your comments! They're just the encouragement I need to continue with this since this is not going to be an easy one for me to write. I'm allowing the story to go where it will. A warning for E/C fans, or those who just don't like E/M, sorry. Author's intuition tells me that it's going to be really difficult for me to turn this into an E/C (and I prefer E/C myself), *but!*. I will try to make this a good story for everyone who's stuck by me and supported me thus far! I know it seems to be going slowly, but I'm rather intrigued by the relationship developing between Erik and Meg. Chapters 4 and 5 have been updated, by the way.
One last thing: according to this story, Meg is seventeen, and has been dancing for eight years. She's worked for the Opera House for five of those, and is there mainly because of her mother's influence as the ballet teacher. :-) (Mme. Giry, whom I'm using artistic license to name Isabelle, has been there for twelve.)
{{ Meg's thoughts }} // Madame Giry's thoughts //
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Lachesis' Weavings by AngelCeleste85
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Ch. 7 - Friend or Phantom?
Meg went home that night. At least she had told Madame Giry that she wouldn't be home early that night, but there was a good chance that her mother would stay up late for her. If that was so, Meg was sure to run into her. Of course, Madame Giry would not ask too many questions, but if she slipped even a little in her answer the woman would jump on her like a duck on a beetle.
Fortunately the older woman was asleep when Meg eased the door open: she had obviously fallen asleep waiting for Meg. Her knitting lay in her lap where she sat in the chair that had once been Meg's father's before the fireplace.
The younger Giry smiled. {{ Maman knows I don't always come home with her, and she still waits up for me. }} A glance around at the sparsely furnished home, rich in comparison to what she had left behind underground, showed her several of her mother's knitted blankets and she tucked one gently around her mother's sleeping form. It had always been her favorite, red and gold yarn held and worked together in a delicate but warm lace pattern.
{{ Erik's not in need of blankets, but he does need food, and soon. And does he read? Of course he must, they burned so much music, and I never saw so many books in one place before they stole them. Why did they do that? He'll want something to do or he'll try to get up to his old mischief again and he's not strong enough for the flywalk yet, he shouldn't be allowed out of bed until he's gotten more than water into him for a week. }} Meg quickly changed for bed on her side of the curtain that partitioned the single room, leaving the fancy invitation out in the kitchen where Mme. Giry would be sure to see it when she made her morning tea. All the while she pondered how to be able to nurse Erik back to health. {{ I can't carry any kind of hot liquids over there, they'd be too cold to be any good to him by the time I got there, but there is the fireplace there and I can carry some of the wood from old props down, if they're not too heavy, and carry what I need to make something simple for him down there. Doesn't Maman have an old pot around here somewhere? She won't wake me in the morning so I'll be able to find it when she goes, if it's still here. And I have a little bit of money though she'd blister my ears if she knew where it came from, enough to buy some food. At least clean water isn't a problem though. That reminds me- oh, God's bones! }}
Meg turned red in the darkness and privacy of her bed, and resolutely put that idea out of her mind. After all, it was pretty clear to her that the dreaded Opera Ghost was a man, and only a man, just like any other.
~*~*~*~*~
The elder Giry awoke with a start as dawn light began to tint the tiny slash of sky in the small window a lighter shade of blue. // Meg came home safely, then, // she thought as she lifted the blanket off of her. She could hear her daughter's quiet snoring in the room on the other side of the curtain.
What had woken her so early? Certainly not Meg's snoring! Usually she didn't wake until the bustle of traffic outside was too loud to ignore, which was always at dawn itself. She got up anyway, set about heating water for her tea, and her gaze fell on the ornate paper addressed to Meg that had been left on the countertop. // I was dreaming, wasn't I? //
Isabelle Giry went white as she remembered. Those dreams, of the cloaked and frightening figure all in black . . . they had returned. But the man himself was dead.
Wasn't he?
The last time she had dreamed of the Phantom of the Opera, the disaster it foretold, and then the Phantom's ringing voice echoed, had indeed befallen the entire house, cast crew and management. She had tried to stop it, tried to get the managers and the Vicomte to listen, but a mere ballet teacher was not important enough to be heard. In mid-note of that fateful performance, La Carlotta's acclaimed voice had become the horrible croaking of a bullfrog - Isabelle was not superstitious but if anything smelled like witchcraft it was that! - and Joseph Buquet's dead body had crashed with a sickening thud to the boards below. The famous chandelier had been flung to the floor by the Opera Ghost as he laughed like a madman, and killed an innocent bystander. It had nearly killed Christine Daae.
Isabelle prayed that her dream this night was not a precursor to future events, but even the hot tea would not dispel the heavy sinking feeling in her stomach.
~*~*~*~*~
Meg woke up to the whistling of the teapot. She had not slept well, dreams had haunted her sleep that disturbed her but she could no longer quite recall them. When she heard the door close a little while later, Meg sprang into action.
She dug out the chest that her mother had packed away her father's clothes in. She had no idea if anything in there would fit the man below the Opera House, but he needed something to wear and something was better than nothing. Fortunately, it seemed the father she had never seen or heard much of had been a pretty large man and it would be better if what she brought was too big for Erik rather than too small.
In no time she had found two laborer's shirt, two sets of pants. There wasn't anything the little dancer could do about boots for him, but that could be taken care of in time, with a bit of caution. {{ He doesn't need them yet anyway. If I catch him walking around I'm going to lecture him until his ears turn blue. }} A quick search in the kitchen turned up the old pot she had remembered and even some fairly fresh vegetables. {{ Cut them up a bit so that it's easier for him to handle and he might be able to keep them down, but I still need something else if I'm going to get real food into him. Chicken or fish won't be strong enough, but meat's expensive, I might not have enough, I'll have to stretch that. And there'll have to be enough for two of us, though he can't eat very much yet - I can eat a fair amount, and the lake will serve to chill it all until he gets hungry again. When was the last time he ate, or does he even know? }}
A little while later after a quick trip to the market, Meg walked into her home with a little bit of meat. That and the beef stock she found in the kitchen, plus the vegetables, went into the bottom of the pot: on top of those went the newspapers, the day's Moniteur and l'Epoque she had picked up, Erik had to be incredibly bored down there without any music! Soap - he was going to have to bathe somehow and she'd be red the whole time but if it came to it she'd help him - went into a spare bowl with a spoon and a rough cloth. Then she folded the two dark pairs of pants and the two white shirts.
Meg looked around, wondering if there was anything else she should bring but not really seeing the room she stood in. What she saw was the little room, so elegantly furnished for Christine by the man who loved her, and the man himself surrounded by all the things that must remind him of her.
Why had she been so thoughtless?
"Oh, Erik," she whispered as her gaze fell on something. She took the topmost shirt from the pile in the pot and folded the item into it neatly. Then she departed, the sun high in the sky overhead.
~*~*~*~*~
Erik awoke again. He was alone, neatly tucked into the warm comforters with which he had furnished Christine's bed and the lamps were turned low. [[ First things first, how in hell am I going to manage to get to the necessary?]]
It was when he moved his hand that he became aware of the paper in his hand. Frowning, he opened it up. It was difficult to read, but with some effort Erik deciphered the scrawled hand and poor spelling. Meg had had to leave to see about getting some food and to make sure she hadn't missed any rehearsals - he could well believe her mother would be harsh with her for missing them - but not to worry, she would be back as soon as possible and had left water for him.
In surprise he studied the spelling of the note. Equally surprising and telling was the handwriting in which it was written: charcoal, as he guessed when brushing it with his hand to find the telltale black residue transferred to his waxy skin, wasn't the most reliable writing utensil but this was a surprise. [[ She's illiterate. She can speak well enough and knows a little bit about spelling, but she doesn't really know how to write. I can't imagine Madame Giry failing to teach her daughter something like that unless. That is certainly a surprise, though. I would not have suspected it of either one. ]]
Nature was calling, and wry smile or not, he really couldn't ignore it any longer. It took both time and a good deal of the strength that remained to him, but he managed to stagger there and back using the walls and furniture as support. As he passed in front of the vanity that had been Christine's on the way back, he had to look in the mirror. Erik had never been vain about his appearance, but this was really shocking.
His eyes had sunk into his head, they seemed to be staring out of dark caverns. A light sheen of sweat from his trip covered his forehead, accentuating the waxy pallor. His cheeks were sunken as well, and the shirt that had fit him perfectly the day Christine had left - not the same one, he dimly recalled going through the motions of living for what seemed an interminable amount of time, but similar to it - hung on him like a tent now. It was not very clean, he realized, and at the same time realized that the damp and chill would have gotten to the rest of his clothes by now, he had never had many to start with.
"Merde," he muttered, turning slowly away from the mirror. Erik rarely swore, but this time it just seemed the only thing that could be said, and if he didn't hear something, anything, he thought he would go mad. Not satisfied with the sound of the word in French this time, he swore again in English. "Shit."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking a little from the effort. The shirt was ruined and frankly it was rank, as well. So were the trousers, but not so badly. He removed the shirt and cast it carelessly into a corner. Tried to, anyway: it didn't go much further than the foot of the bed. With a sigh, Erik laid down on the bed, ignoring the water on the night-table.
~*~*~*~*~
Erik, as she saw upon opening the door to what was once Christine's room, was very much awake though lying down. From the way he lay, Meg guessed he'd already tried walking around. She nearly started and for a moment stared, then tried not to look at the strange white lines, white like snow against white parchment, running every which way on his bare chest. By the look on his face, Meg wondered if there was someplace she could slip off to before the tempest broke. She wasn't given the chance.
"It's about time," he snapped out. "Where have you been?"
"I am sorry, Monsieur," Meg replied crisply. Rarely would she rock the boat, but this time she let indignation flow freely. "I could not get here sooner, I did try."
"Have you any idea," he said slowly and with exaggerated emphasis as though speaking to an idiot, "how unutterably dull it is to sit in one place with literally nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and wait for nothing in a place where time has no meaning?"
Where she got the courage to say it, she had no idea: part of her was still very much afraid of this man. "If time has no meaning here, Monsieur, then it must not have been too great a strain on your patience."
"Don't bandy words with me, girl!" the man nearly shouted. It sounded as though his voice rang from all the corners of the room: an unfortunate effect, since it only magnified the strain Meg picked up in it.
That put Meg's back up all the way. Very few people had ever yelled at her, she made it clear that she would not put up with it from those she did not have to take orders from and Meg was determined not to let even the Opera Ghost think he could run her roughshod like that. "I don't suppose you know, Monsieur Opera Ghost who knows all and sees all, but we have had late rehearsals every night for the last week. Andre and Firmin are rushing through repairs to the foyer and auditorium to be ready for 'Il Muto' in two weeks. Don't think it was easy getting all this over the flywalk, either, or into the opera to begin with."
Erik's temper seemed to have cooled under Meg's return fire, though. He even smiled a little bit, letting a cool, almost mocking tone enter his words. "Whose fault is it that I don't know all that is happening? Back to the same old repertoire, it seems, is that all that screeching cow of a Carlotta can sing? Better to teach La Sorelli to sing and put her in the lead soprano role. Yes, I know very well she's a contralto and incorrigibly tone-deaf. And you should have used the boat."
Meg was about to retort to the remark about La Sorelli and paused, changed what she was going to say. "What boat?"
"Wha- I see." For a moment he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was the carefully concealing tenor she was used to hearing from him. "There's two boats, but Christine took one when she left and I don't know what happened to it. Though it is probably good that you did not know where to find it, I will teach you to handle the boat myself. Once you understand how to work with it, you should use that. Until then, if you find either one I forbid you to use them, for your safety. There is a river running through this lake deeper down and the currents can be treacherous."
Indeed his foul temper was subdued for the moment, and Meg felt that the conversation was in safer waters as she removed a small kettle from its perch on her shoulder, evidently where it had hung by its swinging handle for the journey over the flywalk, and the makings of some broth. "I'll see if there's any way to clear out the fireplace for this," she said, gesturing to the kettle, "and if so you might be able to get a bath. You look like you could use one. But if you leave the covers on, you won't catch cold, and Maman always says that light talk makes light work.
It was easy enough, Meg realized, to find kindling for a fire in the fireplace. It was all around, the remains of Erik's shattered Louis- Philippe furniture. Dated and unattractive the furniture was certainly, and yet Meg felt terrible about putting any of the splintered fragments into the fireplace. Erik, when asked, only gestured vaguely and she could only guess she had permission. Much of it was already badly charred from the depredations of the lynch mob and she used only those pieces that bore some scarring from previous flames. None looked quite dry enough for use, but that could not be helped. Soon a small if somewhat acrid and smoky blaze was going in the fireplace, water bubbled in the cast-iron cauldron, and the wet soot that hadn't made it onto the second dress she had borrowed from Christine's wardrobe had been deposited outside in a heap. It wasn't long after that when Meg carried the bowl of mash and the tin cup with fresh water in.
"I'm not a wonderful cook," Meg said modestly, looking aside from Erik's bared chest - {{ So many scars! }} - to the strange dark borwn-gold eyes she could at least look at, "but Maman taught me something of how to feed someone who shouldn't eat much, I was sick a lot as a little girl."
Erik would not let her feed him this time, though his hand trembled slightly each time he brought the spoon to his lips. "This is good," he remarked quietly after tasting it. Was that a trace of surprise in his voice?
"When was the last time you ate, Monsieur?"
The older man sighed almost imperceptibly. "I do not recall... I know I tried to eat, but it all tasted like ashes. I couldn't stomach it, after a while, but I... I've lost track of time entirely." He looked at her sharply. "Shouldn't you eat as well, Mademoiselle?"
Meg jumped a little and almost blushed, but in short order she'd seated herself on the vanity chair, still by the door where she had left it, with the bowl from home holding some of the same in her lap. They ate in a slightly strained silence, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Erik finally pushed the bowl away three-fourths empty and Meg set it on the bedstead.
"Monsieur," Meg said hesitantly. She held out the little package of white shirt that she'd pulled out of the kettle on arriving. "I don't know if you want this back or not - I found it that night, kept it safe for you." Oddly, she felt a little nervous about this, not knowing what kind of reaction it might provoke from the infamous and dangerous Opera Ghost, but it was his by right. Slowly he took the proffered package, as if unsure whether it held rose petals or an old rococo figurine or a viper to bite him. Meg watched the long hands move with an unconscious sensuality through the thin white cloth of the laborer's shirt and emerge again with his porcelain mask.
Erik's hands trembled as they held the mask, cradled it in his palms. His voice trembled as well, but quickly she realized it was anger that shook him.
"You bring this back to me now? You came down here yesterday like a thief in the night expecting to find a body, and would have buried me without the courtesy of a mask?"
"I -" But Erik steamrolled over any argument she could have made.
"I asked you once before, Mademoiselle Megan Giry, and you didn't answer the question. Now I'm demanding a response and I will not let you go until I have one. Why are you here?" As she jumped up in a near-panic, he snatched her wrist almost unconsciously. "Answer me! Run if you want after that, I won't chase you, but answer me first!"
Meg felt the fluttering of fear again in her stomach. Erik had only just gotten some beef broth and cool water into him, yet already he seemed unaccountably stronger. Certainly she would have had difficulty in freeing her wrist from his grasp, why had she not realized before now that he was so strong? And yet Erik was nowhere near recovered!
"Release me," she said tightly. Erik held on a moment longer, fixing her with his amber stare from eyes that sparked with more life than she had yet seen within them, then nodded and leaned back against the pillows, his arms folded behind his head. Meg could not read what was going on inside that mind and she remembered uncomfortably that she was alone here with this man, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, who had killed one man already to get his way and another out of spite.
"As I thought. Pity? Is that why you are here? It is misplaced, girl, I never asked for your pity or anyone else's. What do I need with pity? It does not clothe the body, it does not feed the body or spirit, it does not heal..." Erik's eyes snapped open, hard and cold, as unforgiving as razors, and then softened as his words trailed off, looking at Meg. Without realizing it she had inched slowly away from him toward the door. "Fear and hate, or fear and pity," he whispered. "Is that all this face will ever inspire? Go, you do not need to be here. You have a warm house to return to, your mother is likely waiting. Go. I can take care of myself."
To Meg's surprise she heard hoarse bitterness in his voice, hidden well but not well enough to someone who had for all intents and purposes lived for five years within an opera house. {{ Maybe voice isn't my strongest talent, but I should think I could tell when someone's acting and when someone's hiding after this long here. }} It was that bitterness, the full expectation that she would go as quickly as her legs could carry her, that arrested Meg's feet where they were.
Erik was no longer looking at her: he had turned on his side and was struggling to reach the dented tin water cup on the nightstand: it just barely evaded his fingertips. Tears blurred her sight and before she comprehended what she was doing, she had knelt by his side and was holding the cup to his lips.
"I can't leave, Erik, because you can't take care of yourself again. Not yet. You need a friend."
His eyes regarded her almost pleadingly from within their darkened caves in his face. "A friend," he repeated slowly when he had drained the cup. The words almost sounded foreign to him. "And you would be a. friend. to me? A friend to the Phantom you fear?"
She could not hold back the tears any longer and they spilled down her cheeks. Truth had hit her full on, she had to be honest with the man behind these pleading eyes. Watching him, the terrifying Opera Ghost unable to reach a water cup from his sickbed, had brought the realization home.
Perhaps it was the metaphoric value of the picture, but... How could she be afraid of someone so absolutely vulnerable?
Fear faded from her, finally and forever she knew, as she watched the reflection of horror in his face.
"Don't cry," he whispered, sounding every bit as terrible as he looked: his cold hand rose and brushed the falling drops off of her cheeks.
"I was afraid of you, before." Meg admitted and then hurried on, knowing that in his place, such an admission would have crumpled her. "Some of the things you do still frighten me. But I see you, Erik. I see you, not the mask you always wear, and I'm not afraid anymore, not of you."
He exhaled heavily. "And what do you see, when you say that you see me? Look at the legacy others have left, when they thought they saw me!" He gestured, sitting up now. "You've looked away from this all night. Look at it now, can you see past what others couldn't? Can you see past what they did? Tell me, am I a human or a monster?"
Meg gazed at the scars that crisscrossed his bare chest with horror. All of them were white in age, but some evidenced deep wounds. Their whiteness stood out against the general pallor of his skin like brands. He turned and his back was revealed to be nearly covered in the same kind of scars. More ran down his arms, and her eyes widened when she saw the ones that trailed down the softer skin of each forearm. They traced the blue veins precisely and yet somehow, they didn't seem like self-inflicted wounds. The marks of ropes had not yet faded from his wrists, nor had the scars of whips and knives and coals healed. In one place, his right arm seemed a little crooked and another scar, a large patch, lay right over that - a compound fracture. Meg was filled with grief and horror, not at the scars themselves, but at the hate they evidenced his endurance of. How had he borne the pain inside? How had he found the strength to heal the outside? She could see so much in him now, but how could she find the words to express this?
"What do you see, Mademoiselle, when you see this? Others thought me a monster, too, and tried to make me look the part better."
"I don't think you're a monster."
"Then what do you see? Tell me, I want to know!" Erik's voice brooked no argument now. "I swear, no harm will come to you for an honest answer, regardless of what it is, as long as it is honest."
"I see a man who has many scars, inside and out, from being hurt too often. I see someone, a person, who is so used to being feared that he manipulates it to get his way. Someone who hides from the world and tells himself that he is separate from it, when he only reinforces their judgments of him. Someone who calls himself a ghost to be on equal terms with the ghosts of the past that he runs from. In many ways, he really is a ghost, a shadow, of who he could be if he allowed himself the chance. I see someone who has lived alone for too long and barely remembers what a friend is."
Erik's iron self-control had shattered, she saw, and the eyes that glowed with an amber flame in darkness now let fall single tears, all that his too- dry body could spare but the emotion was clear in his husky voice. "You do see. You really do see me."
{{ Propriety be damned, }} thought the little ballet dancer. {{ He needs someone to hold him now. He really is just a man. Not an angel like he told Christine, not a phantom like he tells the world, just a man who needs a friend. }} She rose from the floor and sat herself down on the pillow with Erik and leaned back against the carved oak headboard, cradling his head against her stomach as they both wept, for the past and for the sacrifice of a little boy's life.
"Erik," she whispered, looking down at the ravaged ruin that was the left side of his face. {{ Erik, not "monster," or "beast" or "Opera Ghost." Erik. }} "Erik, you do need a friend. If you want a friend, I'm willing to stand for the job. If you'll have me, that is."
His only response was to wrap his arms around her waist as his dry sobs shook them both and eventually rocked them into a gentle, dreamless sleep.
~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~
That last was a twist *I* didn't expect, please tell me what you think! Your opinions mean a great deal to me!
AngelCeleste
Disclaimer, Blame and Setting: Same as before.
Other notes: At this point I have read all the reviews from everyone who's read up to Chapter Five. To everyone who has so far read and reviewed, thank you very much for your comments! They're just the encouragement I need to continue with this since this is not going to be an easy one for me to write. I'm allowing the story to go where it will. A warning for E/C fans, or those who just don't like E/M, sorry. Author's intuition tells me that it's going to be really difficult for me to turn this into an E/C (and I prefer E/C myself), *but!*. I will try to make this a good story for everyone who's stuck by me and supported me thus far! I know it seems to be going slowly, but I'm rather intrigued by the relationship developing between Erik and Meg. Chapters 4 and 5 have been updated, by the way.
One last thing: according to this story, Meg is seventeen, and has been dancing for eight years. She's worked for the Opera House for five of those, and is there mainly because of her mother's influence as the ballet teacher. :-) (Mme. Giry, whom I'm using artistic license to name Isabelle, has been there for twelve.)
{{ Meg's thoughts }} // Madame Giry's thoughts //
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Lachesis' Weavings by AngelCeleste85
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Ch. 7 - Friend or Phantom?
Meg went home that night. At least she had told Madame Giry that she wouldn't be home early that night, but there was a good chance that her mother would stay up late for her. If that was so, Meg was sure to run into her. Of course, Madame Giry would not ask too many questions, but if she slipped even a little in her answer the woman would jump on her like a duck on a beetle.
Fortunately the older woman was asleep when Meg eased the door open: she had obviously fallen asleep waiting for Meg. Her knitting lay in her lap where she sat in the chair that had once been Meg's father's before the fireplace.
The younger Giry smiled. {{ Maman knows I don't always come home with her, and she still waits up for me. }} A glance around at the sparsely furnished home, rich in comparison to what she had left behind underground, showed her several of her mother's knitted blankets and she tucked one gently around her mother's sleeping form. It had always been her favorite, red and gold yarn held and worked together in a delicate but warm lace pattern.
{{ Erik's not in need of blankets, but he does need food, and soon. And does he read? Of course he must, they burned so much music, and I never saw so many books in one place before they stole them. Why did they do that? He'll want something to do or he'll try to get up to his old mischief again and he's not strong enough for the flywalk yet, he shouldn't be allowed out of bed until he's gotten more than water into him for a week. }} Meg quickly changed for bed on her side of the curtain that partitioned the single room, leaving the fancy invitation out in the kitchen where Mme. Giry would be sure to see it when she made her morning tea. All the while she pondered how to be able to nurse Erik back to health. {{ I can't carry any kind of hot liquids over there, they'd be too cold to be any good to him by the time I got there, but there is the fireplace there and I can carry some of the wood from old props down, if they're not too heavy, and carry what I need to make something simple for him down there. Doesn't Maman have an old pot around here somewhere? She won't wake me in the morning so I'll be able to find it when she goes, if it's still here. And I have a little bit of money though she'd blister my ears if she knew where it came from, enough to buy some food. At least clean water isn't a problem though. That reminds me- oh, God's bones! }}
Meg turned red in the darkness and privacy of her bed, and resolutely put that idea out of her mind. After all, it was pretty clear to her that the dreaded Opera Ghost was a man, and only a man, just like any other.
~*~*~*~*~
The elder Giry awoke with a start as dawn light began to tint the tiny slash of sky in the small window a lighter shade of blue. // Meg came home safely, then, // she thought as she lifted the blanket off of her. She could hear her daughter's quiet snoring in the room on the other side of the curtain.
What had woken her so early? Certainly not Meg's snoring! Usually she didn't wake until the bustle of traffic outside was too loud to ignore, which was always at dawn itself. She got up anyway, set about heating water for her tea, and her gaze fell on the ornate paper addressed to Meg that had been left on the countertop. // I was dreaming, wasn't I? //
Isabelle Giry went white as she remembered. Those dreams, of the cloaked and frightening figure all in black . . . they had returned. But the man himself was dead.
Wasn't he?
The last time she had dreamed of the Phantom of the Opera, the disaster it foretold, and then the Phantom's ringing voice echoed, had indeed befallen the entire house, cast crew and management. She had tried to stop it, tried to get the managers and the Vicomte to listen, but a mere ballet teacher was not important enough to be heard. In mid-note of that fateful performance, La Carlotta's acclaimed voice had become the horrible croaking of a bullfrog - Isabelle was not superstitious but if anything smelled like witchcraft it was that! - and Joseph Buquet's dead body had crashed with a sickening thud to the boards below. The famous chandelier had been flung to the floor by the Opera Ghost as he laughed like a madman, and killed an innocent bystander. It had nearly killed Christine Daae.
Isabelle prayed that her dream this night was not a precursor to future events, but even the hot tea would not dispel the heavy sinking feeling in her stomach.
~*~*~*~*~
Meg woke up to the whistling of the teapot. She had not slept well, dreams had haunted her sleep that disturbed her but she could no longer quite recall them. When she heard the door close a little while later, Meg sprang into action.
She dug out the chest that her mother had packed away her father's clothes in. She had no idea if anything in there would fit the man below the Opera House, but he needed something to wear and something was better than nothing. Fortunately, it seemed the father she had never seen or heard much of had been a pretty large man and it would be better if what she brought was too big for Erik rather than too small.
In no time she had found two laborer's shirt, two sets of pants. There wasn't anything the little dancer could do about boots for him, but that could be taken care of in time, with a bit of caution. {{ He doesn't need them yet anyway. If I catch him walking around I'm going to lecture him until his ears turn blue. }} A quick search in the kitchen turned up the old pot she had remembered and even some fairly fresh vegetables. {{ Cut them up a bit so that it's easier for him to handle and he might be able to keep them down, but I still need something else if I'm going to get real food into him. Chicken or fish won't be strong enough, but meat's expensive, I might not have enough, I'll have to stretch that. And there'll have to be enough for two of us, though he can't eat very much yet - I can eat a fair amount, and the lake will serve to chill it all until he gets hungry again. When was the last time he ate, or does he even know? }}
A little while later after a quick trip to the market, Meg walked into her home with a little bit of meat. That and the beef stock she found in the kitchen, plus the vegetables, went into the bottom of the pot: on top of those went the newspapers, the day's Moniteur and l'Epoque she had picked up, Erik had to be incredibly bored down there without any music! Soap - he was going to have to bathe somehow and she'd be red the whole time but if it came to it she'd help him - went into a spare bowl with a spoon and a rough cloth. Then she folded the two dark pairs of pants and the two white shirts.
Meg looked around, wondering if there was anything else she should bring but not really seeing the room she stood in. What she saw was the little room, so elegantly furnished for Christine by the man who loved her, and the man himself surrounded by all the things that must remind him of her.
Why had she been so thoughtless?
"Oh, Erik," she whispered as her gaze fell on something. She took the topmost shirt from the pile in the pot and folded the item into it neatly. Then she departed, the sun high in the sky overhead.
~*~*~*~*~
Erik awoke again. He was alone, neatly tucked into the warm comforters with which he had furnished Christine's bed and the lamps were turned low. [[ First things first, how in hell am I going to manage to get to the necessary?]]
It was when he moved his hand that he became aware of the paper in his hand. Frowning, he opened it up. It was difficult to read, but with some effort Erik deciphered the scrawled hand and poor spelling. Meg had had to leave to see about getting some food and to make sure she hadn't missed any rehearsals - he could well believe her mother would be harsh with her for missing them - but not to worry, she would be back as soon as possible and had left water for him.
In surprise he studied the spelling of the note. Equally surprising and telling was the handwriting in which it was written: charcoal, as he guessed when brushing it with his hand to find the telltale black residue transferred to his waxy skin, wasn't the most reliable writing utensil but this was a surprise. [[ She's illiterate. She can speak well enough and knows a little bit about spelling, but she doesn't really know how to write. I can't imagine Madame Giry failing to teach her daughter something like that unless. That is certainly a surprise, though. I would not have suspected it of either one. ]]
Nature was calling, and wry smile or not, he really couldn't ignore it any longer. It took both time and a good deal of the strength that remained to him, but he managed to stagger there and back using the walls and furniture as support. As he passed in front of the vanity that had been Christine's on the way back, he had to look in the mirror. Erik had never been vain about his appearance, but this was really shocking.
His eyes had sunk into his head, they seemed to be staring out of dark caverns. A light sheen of sweat from his trip covered his forehead, accentuating the waxy pallor. His cheeks were sunken as well, and the shirt that had fit him perfectly the day Christine had left - not the same one, he dimly recalled going through the motions of living for what seemed an interminable amount of time, but similar to it - hung on him like a tent now. It was not very clean, he realized, and at the same time realized that the damp and chill would have gotten to the rest of his clothes by now, he had never had many to start with.
"Merde," he muttered, turning slowly away from the mirror. Erik rarely swore, but this time it just seemed the only thing that could be said, and if he didn't hear something, anything, he thought he would go mad. Not satisfied with the sound of the word in French this time, he swore again in English. "Shit."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking a little from the effort. The shirt was ruined and frankly it was rank, as well. So were the trousers, but not so badly. He removed the shirt and cast it carelessly into a corner. Tried to, anyway: it didn't go much further than the foot of the bed. With a sigh, Erik laid down on the bed, ignoring the water on the night-table.
~*~*~*~*~
Erik, as she saw upon opening the door to what was once Christine's room, was very much awake though lying down. From the way he lay, Meg guessed he'd already tried walking around. She nearly started and for a moment stared, then tried not to look at the strange white lines, white like snow against white parchment, running every which way on his bare chest. By the look on his face, Meg wondered if there was someplace she could slip off to before the tempest broke. She wasn't given the chance.
"It's about time," he snapped out. "Where have you been?"
"I am sorry, Monsieur," Meg replied crisply. Rarely would she rock the boat, but this time she let indignation flow freely. "I could not get here sooner, I did try."
"Have you any idea," he said slowly and with exaggerated emphasis as though speaking to an idiot, "how unutterably dull it is to sit in one place with literally nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and wait for nothing in a place where time has no meaning?"
Where she got the courage to say it, she had no idea: part of her was still very much afraid of this man. "If time has no meaning here, Monsieur, then it must not have been too great a strain on your patience."
"Don't bandy words with me, girl!" the man nearly shouted. It sounded as though his voice rang from all the corners of the room: an unfortunate effect, since it only magnified the strain Meg picked up in it.
That put Meg's back up all the way. Very few people had ever yelled at her, she made it clear that she would not put up with it from those she did not have to take orders from and Meg was determined not to let even the Opera Ghost think he could run her roughshod like that. "I don't suppose you know, Monsieur Opera Ghost who knows all and sees all, but we have had late rehearsals every night for the last week. Andre and Firmin are rushing through repairs to the foyer and auditorium to be ready for 'Il Muto' in two weeks. Don't think it was easy getting all this over the flywalk, either, or into the opera to begin with."
Erik's temper seemed to have cooled under Meg's return fire, though. He even smiled a little bit, letting a cool, almost mocking tone enter his words. "Whose fault is it that I don't know all that is happening? Back to the same old repertoire, it seems, is that all that screeching cow of a Carlotta can sing? Better to teach La Sorelli to sing and put her in the lead soprano role. Yes, I know very well she's a contralto and incorrigibly tone-deaf. And you should have used the boat."
Meg was about to retort to the remark about La Sorelli and paused, changed what she was going to say. "What boat?"
"Wha- I see." For a moment he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was the carefully concealing tenor she was used to hearing from him. "There's two boats, but Christine took one when she left and I don't know what happened to it. Though it is probably good that you did not know where to find it, I will teach you to handle the boat myself. Once you understand how to work with it, you should use that. Until then, if you find either one I forbid you to use them, for your safety. There is a river running through this lake deeper down and the currents can be treacherous."
Indeed his foul temper was subdued for the moment, and Meg felt that the conversation was in safer waters as she removed a small kettle from its perch on her shoulder, evidently where it had hung by its swinging handle for the journey over the flywalk, and the makings of some broth. "I'll see if there's any way to clear out the fireplace for this," she said, gesturing to the kettle, "and if so you might be able to get a bath. You look like you could use one. But if you leave the covers on, you won't catch cold, and Maman always says that light talk makes light work.
It was easy enough, Meg realized, to find kindling for a fire in the fireplace. It was all around, the remains of Erik's shattered Louis- Philippe furniture. Dated and unattractive the furniture was certainly, and yet Meg felt terrible about putting any of the splintered fragments into the fireplace. Erik, when asked, only gestured vaguely and she could only guess she had permission. Much of it was already badly charred from the depredations of the lynch mob and she used only those pieces that bore some scarring from previous flames. None looked quite dry enough for use, but that could not be helped. Soon a small if somewhat acrid and smoky blaze was going in the fireplace, water bubbled in the cast-iron cauldron, and the wet soot that hadn't made it onto the second dress she had borrowed from Christine's wardrobe had been deposited outside in a heap. It wasn't long after that when Meg carried the bowl of mash and the tin cup with fresh water in.
"I'm not a wonderful cook," Meg said modestly, looking aside from Erik's bared chest - {{ So many scars! }} - to the strange dark borwn-gold eyes she could at least look at, "but Maman taught me something of how to feed someone who shouldn't eat much, I was sick a lot as a little girl."
Erik would not let her feed him this time, though his hand trembled slightly each time he brought the spoon to his lips. "This is good," he remarked quietly after tasting it. Was that a trace of surprise in his voice?
"When was the last time you ate, Monsieur?"
The older man sighed almost imperceptibly. "I do not recall... I know I tried to eat, but it all tasted like ashes. I couldn't stomach it, after a while, but I... I've lost track of time entirely." He looked at her sharply. "Shouldn't you eat as well, Mademoiselle?"
Meg jumped a little and almost blushed, but in short order she'd seated herself on the vanity chair, still by the door where she had left it, with the bowl from home holding some of the same in her lap. They ate in a slightly strained silence, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Erik finally pushed the bowl away three-fourths empty and Meg set it on the bedstead.
"Monsieur," Meg said hesitantly. She held out the little package of white shirt that she'd pulled out of the kettle on arriving. "I don't know if you want this back or not - I found it that night, kept it safe for you." Oddly, she felt a little nervous about this, not knowing what kind of reaction it might provoke from the infamous and dangerous Opera Ghost, but it was his by right. Slowly he took the proffered package, as if unsure whether it held rose petals or an old rococo figurine or a viper to bite him. Meg watched the long hands move with an unconscious sensuality through the thin white cloth of the laborer's shirt and emerge again with his porcelain mask.
Erik's hands trembled as they held the mask, cradled it in his palms. His voice trembled as well, but quickly she realized it was anger that shook him.
"You bring this back to me now? You came down here yesterday like a thief in the night expecting to find a body, and would have buried me without the courtesy of a mask?"
"I -" But Erik steamrolled over any argument she could have made.
"I asked you once before, Mademoiselle Megan Giry, and you didn't answer the question. Now I'm demanding a response and I will not let you go until I have one. Why are you here?" As she jumped up in a near-panic, he snatched her wrist almost unconsciously. "Answer me! Run if you want after that, I won't chase you, but answer me first!"
Meg felt the fluttering of fear again in her stomach. Erik had only just gotten some beef broth and cool water into him, yet already he seemed unaccountably stronger. Certainly she would have had difficulty in freeing her wrist from his grasp, why had she not realized before now that he was so strong? And yet Erik was nowhere near recovered!
"Release me," she said tightly. Erik held on a moment longer, fixing her with his amber stare from eyes that sparked with more life than she had yet seen within them, then nodded and leaned back against the pillows, his arms folded behind his head. Meg could not read what was going on inside that mind and she remembered uncomfortably that she was alone here with this man, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, who had killed one man already to get his way and another out of spite.
"As I thought. Pity? Is that why you are here? It is misplaced, girl, I never asked for your pity or anyone else's. What do I need with pity? It does not clothe the body, it does not feed the body or spirit, it does not heal..." Erik's eyes snapped open, hard and cold, as unforgiving as razors, and then softened as his words trailed off, looking at Meg. Without realizing it she had inched slowly away from him toward the door. "Fear and hate, or fear and pity," he whispered. "Is that all this face will ever inspire? Go, you do not need to be here. You have a warm house to return to, your mother is likely waiting. Go. I can take care of myself."
To Meg's surprise she heard hoarse bitterness in his voice, hidden well but not well enough to someone who had for all intents and purposes lived for five years within an opera house. {{ Maybe voice isn't my strongest talent, but I should think I could tell when someone's acting and when someone's hiding after this long here. }} It was that bitterness, the full expectation that she would go as quickly as her legs could carry her, that arrested Meg's feet where they were.
Erik was no longer looking at her: he had turned on his side and was struggling to reach the dented tin water cup on the nightstand: it just barely evaded his fingertips. Tears blurred her sight and before she comprehended what she was doing, she had knelt by his side and was holding the cup to his lips.
"I can't leave, Erik, because you can't take care of yourself again. Not yet. You need a friend."
His eyes regarded her almost pleadingly from within their darkened caves in his face. "A friend," he repeated slowly when he had drained the cup. The words almost sounded foreign to him. "And you would be a. friend. to me? A friend to the Phantom you fear?"
She could not hold back the tears any longer and they spilled down her cheeks. Truth had hit her full on, she had to be honest with the man behind these pleading eyes. Watching him, the terrifying Opera Ghost unable to reach a water cup from his sickbed, had brought the realization home.
Perhaps it was the metaphoric value of the picture, but... How could she be afraid of someone so absolutely vulnerable?
Fear faded from her, finally and forever she knew, as she watched the reflection of horror in his face.
"Don't cry," he whispered, sounding every bit as terrible as he looked: his cold hand rose and brushed the falling drops off of her cheeks.
"I was afraid of you, before." Meg admitted and then hurried on, knowing that in his place, such an admission would have crumpled her. "Some of the things you do still frighten me. But I see you, Erik. I see you, not the mask you always wear, and I'm not afraid anymore, not of you."
He exhaled heavily. "And what do you see, when you say that you see me? Look at the legacy others have left, when they thought they saw me!" He gestured, sitting up now. "You've looked away from this all night. Look at it now, can you see past what others couldn't? Can you see past what they did? Tell me, am I a human or a monster?"
Meg gazed at the scars that crisscrossed his bare chest with horror. All of them were white in age, but some evidenced deep wounds. Their whiteness stood out against the general pallor of his skin like brands. He turned and his back was revealed to be nearly covered in the same kind of scars. More ran down his arms, and her eyes widened when she saw the ones that trailed down the softer skin of each forearm. They traced the blue veins precisely and yet somehow, they didn't seem like self-inflicted wounds. The marks of ropes had not yet faded from his wrists, nor had the scars of whips and knives and coals healed. In one place, his right arm seemed a little crooked and another scar, a large patch, lay right over that - a compound fracture. Meg was filled with grief and horror, not at the scars themselves, but at the hate they evidenced his endurance of. How had he borne the pain inside? How had he found the strength to heal the outside? She could see so much in him now, but how could she find the words to express this?
"What do you see, Mademoiselle, when you see this? Others thought me a monster, too, and tried to make me look the part better."
"I don't think you're a monster."
"Then what do you see? Tell me, I want to know!" Erik's voice brooked no argument now. "I swear, no harm will come to you for an honest answer, regardless of what it is, as long as it is honest."
"I see a man who has many scars, inside and out, from being hurt too often. I see someone, a person, who is so used to being feared that he manipulates it to get his way. Someone who hides from the world and tells himself that he is separate from it, when he only reinforces their judgments of him. Someone who calls himself a ghost to be on equal terms with the ghosts of the past that he runs from. In many ways, he really is a ghost, a shadow, of who he could be if he allowed himself the chance. I see someone who has lived alone for too long and barely remembers what a friend is."
Erik's iron self-control had shattered, she saw, and the eyes that glowed with an amber flame in darkness now let fall single tears, all that his too- dry body could spare but the emotion was clear in his husky voice. "You do see. You really do see me."
{{ Propriety be damned, }} thought the little ballet dancer. {{ He needs someone to hold him now. He really is just a man. Not an angel like he told Christine, not a phantom like he tells the world, just a man who needs a friend. }} She rose from the floor and sat herself down on the pillow with Erik and leaned back against the carved oak headboard, cradling his head against her stomach as they both wept, for the past and for the sacrifice of a little boy's life.
"Erik," she whispered, looking down at the ravaged ruin that was the left side of his face. {{ Erik, not "monster," or "beast" or "Opera Ghost." Erik. }} "Erik, you do need a friend. If you want a friend, I'm willing to stand for the job. If you'll have me, that is."
His only response was to wrap his arms around her waist as his dry sobs shook them both and eventually rocked them into a gentle, dreamless sleep.
~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~
That last was a twist *I* didn't expect, please tell me what you think! Your opinions mean a great deal to me!
AngelCeleste