AN – Sorry this chapter took so long, it's probably because of all the work I have to do and the fact it's a completely original chapter in context. There's just one thing I'd also like to say to reviewers. I've never gotten a flame, or anything in constructive criticism, (Not that I'm necessarily complaining that all my reviews are saying I'm doing well.) It's just that, I get paranoid, and I'd like to say that if anyone out there ever wanted to, I'd enjoy it. I've never claimed I was the most amazing writer of our time. I would love to one day be a professional, but I'm still young, and I'm still an amateur. I know that some things might not add up, or might not be just quite right timeline/period/history wise. But I would like to say that I put A LOT of effort into this story, some may get the references I make, and some might not. But I do take time to research some things. I just hope that wins me brownie points.

Chapter Twenty-Six: When Everything's made to be broken

There was no tune, no soft melodies that could be heard, and still she danced. She danced nimble and softly along the stage that had been her home for years. She wore her oldest slippers, her hair in a loose ponytail, but it did not matter. This dance was for no one, no one but herself. Ballet was a strict art, one filled with Pique en arabesque's and Saut de Basque's, but as she danced, she had learned to drop all words and meaning around the actual art and just move. Her hand extended in front of her, her face stilled, and she allowed herself to think about certain events that had yet to leave her mind.

Raoul, she hadn't spoken to him since the incident, no matter how she had longed to. Her mother was right, her feelings for him were more than just empathy and companionship. She hadn't realized until it was too late. As she gracefully jumped, then stepped backwards, she felt her face tingle where he had laid his hand. She had had no right to bring up Christine's memory in such a fashion. He had had no right to use force against her, they had both wronged each other worse than either could imagine.

Oh Raoul, I'm so sorry.

( ' ) '
-

Could it be?
Could it be Christine?

He sat by the crackling fire, staring half asleep into its depths. His eyes heavy with exhaustion, his mind to busy to let him sleep, he could still see her lying there, the blood trailing from her mouth. He could still hear her soft whispers, as the flames flared all higher.

"Erik," she called to him, but he still thought it all a dream.

She had been a goddess, a natural beauty. But what most did not understand about his intentions was that half of his desires for her had nothing to do with her face. A good deal of it hadn't been about her singing either. It had been something else, some innocent air, some diligent kindness that had thrown him over the edge. He had longed to preserve that girl, but teach her to know her desires as well. To have her perspire above him, but blush at his touch, she had been his dream, his one true love.

It reminded him of a conversation he had had with an Irishman in a little town on the outskirts of Paris, when Erik had went for his little vacation away from Christine. They had been drinking wine in a dark and dank bar when the Irishman had started the conversation.

"Pining for your Galatea?" He asked.

Erik's body froze, his heart skipped a beat, and he forgot to breath for a moment. Not only did he understand the reference to the Greek Myth, but also was almost a perfect reference to their tumultuous relationship.

"What difference does it make? She does not need me; I only am her creator. Just a Pygmalion who had no idea what the cost was to bring his ivory virgin to life." Erik mused. This man's voice, it confused his senses, part of his dialect sounded faintly Scottish, partly Irish, and mostly English. It was obvious he was pleased that Erik got the reference, for he smiled and nodded.

"The irony of the story, I do so believe. Was it possible for Galatea, a woman of such beauty and purity, to love the very human Pygmalion? He had such high ideals, but could he live up to them?" The Irish/Englishman asked, but when Erik didn't respond he continued. "Or was it that the doting sculptor scared the young protégée away?"

"I do not wish to discuss my legend with you monsieur," Erik breathed menacingly.

"Ah…but I'm sure it's an interesting legend monsieur, as all legend's are."

( ' ) '
-

Her?
Meg Giry, Madame Giry's daughter.
Promising Dancer.

Most Promising.

Her steps became faster and more chaotic. Dance had always been a form of meditation for the young woman, and now she was letting her emotions control it. Images of Raoul happy with Christine, and Christine happy just for the sake of being happy flashed to her. Watching them dance at the wedding, she could still see the genuine smiles of the lover,

She could see his smiles when he first saw her again at the opera, she could see their smiles when they visited the one time at the opera before the show started.

As she moved hurriedly, jumping from side to side, ridged and angry her dance became.

She could remember the baptism, Christine standing there, looking down on her child.

"Christine, she is a blessing." She said.

"She is indeed, it is comforting to know that something good came from this marriage." Her friend replied.

Meg was taken back to hear her friend say such bitter and resentful words. She looked at her confused, wondering where it had come from.

"Don't mind me Meg, I just spoke a thought." Christine murmured.

"But Christine, what did that thought really mean?" Meg asked her friend. She watched as Christine looked back to Raoul who was shaking hands with the Priest and his older brother. They were putting on airs, too involved in their chatting to notice the two women holding the small girl.

"Do you ever think, Meg… that 'happily ever after' isn't the ending to the story?" Christine whispered.

"I… don't understand Christine." Meg stammered.

"Just think, the beautiful princess, the knight/prince who saves her, what if it was all suppose to end differently?" She asked her friend.

"Christine, are you suggesting you have stayed with…" Meg asked.

"Shhh… Meg, not so loud." Christine whispered panicked.

Before Meg could say anything else, Raoul had walked over to them, smiling briefly at Meg and then asked Christine if she was ready to return home.

Christine raw face became one of complete collection, rather cool and polite, smiling and nodding to her husband in agreement. It had sent shivers up Meg's spine, as they walked away from her.

What had Christine meant? What had happened to Raoul and Christine while Meg had not been apart of their life? She wished to know, she had always wondered, but she had let it go when seeing how Raoul mourned for Christine.

( ' ) '
-

The Phantom of the Opera is there…
Deep down, below….

"Erik," fell unto his ears, slowly he turned his head hoping he could find the source of the voice. As he looked towards the front door of the underground house, he could see it open, and a flash of white, pass by it.

He heard her soft giggle, her entrancing words. Could it be? Could it be her? She had been dead for a year, how could her sweet voice be carried down to him, after so much time had paced.

"You forget yourself monsieur, you are no longer in your home country, just because I am capably of English does not mean I wish to speak with you." Erik continued.

"Oh but, it's rather drawl to speak to anyone else, have you not noticed? I could lie and say Frenchmen are chauvinistic pigs, whom all bore me, but in all honesty, I myself find many men of that nature. The English are tedious, the Irish have been known for nothing but being drunken fools. I long for intelligent conversation, if it so please you I could speak in French." The man told Erik.

"I wouldn't matter if you spoke to me in the dead language of the sea scrolls, I wouldn't respond." He snorted, and then took a languid sip from his wine. The company was more pleasant than silence, however he wasn't exactly willing to divulge his life's secrets.

"Your pain blinds you. Perhaps it's not the story of Pygmalion that surrounds you, but one more along the lines of Frankenstein." The other man suggested.

"But that would make no sense by your own reasoning, if I am her creator, then I would be Dr. Frankenstein, and she the monster. No, she is no monster; I was more intrigued by your previous allusion to Galatea."

"Oh but hear me out kind sir, for it is all possible for her to be Frankenstein, Perhaps, she is your creator, you the monster?"

"Erik, where did you go?" she sounded displeased. He walked towards the front door, and followed the small path towards the lake. As he looked across it's shimmering black depths, and over to the side where a tunnel lead around a corner and up a flight of stairs, he was positive he had seen the slightest glimpse of something. He wanted to believe it was a woman's figure; he was desperate to understand what was happening. There was a part of him that thought he was wishing so hard, he was manifesting images of her.

As he rowed across the lake hurriedly, he thought back to Danielle asleep at home, but it was almost fleeting. If he could bring her back a mother, he was sure she'd forgive his abandonment.

( ' ) '
-

Wildly my mind beats against you
But my soul obeys

Between Pas de bourrée dessus en tournant and Pas de bourrée piqué dessous's Meg felt the tears fall. She had heard rumor of what he was doing now with himself, but she was too scared to actually write to him. If it were true, he wouldn't respond anyways, there was no way he could.

Why did she mourn for him so? After all, she had a handsome new suitor after her hand recently. A young man who seem troubled but absolutely devoted to her. Mother, of course did not approve, but how could she? When she knew that Meg's heart was hardened by the loss of something that was never truly hers?

He was handsome, this new stagehand, and he wanted to make Meg his. Why shouldn't she accept his hand? Who else would offer? If she was waiting for some fairytale ending it wouldn't turn out that way, after all, hadn't Christine told her that happily ever after isn't what it seems?

As she began her tour de force to finish, she sobbed angrily. Faster, she spun, realizing that the dance mimicked her emotions, spinning wildly out of control, and the dance being life, a cruel and strict exercise.

As Meg's ankle began to tire and she spun more and more widely out of control, she didn't notice that her mother had come to stand in the shadows at the edge of the stage, she had been there for minutes, watching reverently as her daughter's dance came to a halting end.

Oh my little Megan, Madame Giry thought, so, now you know what it is to love.

( ' ) '
-

Down this path,
Into darkness deep as hell!

"Mister stop, whatever he did, get off of him." Erik could hear quietly in the distance.


Sound was like the tide, creeping back into reality. He hadn't realized that it had all disappeared until people were trying to pry his fingers from the throat of his imposed companion. He didn't even remember how he had gotten there over top of the other man who's face was now turning a dark shade of purple. As the sound came rushing back to his ears he heard a 'whoosh' sound and a thud against his skull. Glass shattered around his shoulders and all over the floor; he released his victim with much reluctance.

"Let go!" He heard men screaming in various languages and tones. The Englishman grasped his throat, which convulsed as air rushed through the passage. Erik became docile in the arms holding him back, he knew if he struggled more that this situation could become much, much worse.

"Let go of him." The man rasped.

Several men, including Erik went deadpan, obviously surprised by the outcome. The man looked wearily around at the other bar folk then turned to Erik.

"Are you alright?" The Englishman asked. All Erik could do was nod.

"Then let him go, there was no harm done, leave him be."

Time was almost fleeting, as he climbed those stairs that led upwards, he realized that it was if he was following some guiding light, through the darkness, which had prevailed and guided him towards the surface.

"Erik," he heard her giggle, as he touched the damp wall to balance him. She was weakening his knees, causing him to feel dizzy, confused, but determined all at once. He couldn't tell if she was the lighthouse, guiding him away from danger, or she was his siren, who would lead him to death.

"Are you hurt?" The Englishman asked him.

"I would think I should be I asking you that question."

"I deserved that…At least, I do believe. It hadn't occurred to me why you wore the mask, until I was grasping at it and caught a glimpse of what was underneath."

"So… you have seen my visage." Erik murmured angrily.

"Yes… and before you ask, yes… I will not lie, I am terrified by it and would rather you keep the mask on. But I would hope you reward me for my honesty and my hospitality. After all, I fear that if the other men in the tavern knew what lay beyond the boundaries they would have certainly left you for dead."

Erik did not dispute this observation, he was sure that the man was right and that there was no reason to argue a point that was well made. He was honest, and even though he'd like to believe that he could take on any member of the tavern and that he was a deadly force to be reckoned with. Erik knew that pride had a tendency to cloud many a good men's judgment. Without his lasso, he was only half the deadly assassin he once was.

"What then, do you desire for a reward? My silence?" Erik asked.

"Oh, of course, but I think your intelligence is what keeps you silent. It's also what intrigues me enough to ask for my reward. I'd merely like you to finish the conversation we were carrying, of course, without my rude interjections. Please… have a drink with me, and we shall discuss great works."

"How shall I address you?" Erik asked.

"You may call me Bernard," was the reply.

"Then you may call me Erik."

As he reached the trapdoor that would lead to the stage, he heard her more strongly, and at the same time, distantly. His heart cringed, feeling her presence, and her voice, but knowing that it was more and more from within him than surrounding him. He pushed forward, although he started to realize that there was no reason for him to be continuing.

Slowly, he clicked the mechanism that allowed him to open the door and creep silently onto the stage. Maybe if he spent some time on the stage, he could recall her voice one last time, maybe those haunting tones that he welcomed and hated would return.

Before he could enter the light he saw the candles flickering center stage. Quietly, he slipped behind the back curtains, and watched a young woman spin wildly out of control and fall to the ground. It wasn't a graceful drop, and yet, it wasn't a complete wreck.

He watched as her shoulders rose and fell in agony, her sobs the only sound that resonated from the stage. He pitied her, for whatever reason she needed it, but he was disappointed, with her there, he would never be able to try and remember Christine's voice, especially when all he could hear were the little blonde's sobs.

At closer inspection, he realized it was little Meg Giry, Mme. Giry's daughter. She had been Christine's closest friend back when they had had a chance. As he watched her pound her little fists onto the floor, his heart flooded with empathy for the child. He did not know her reasons, but he wanted to protect her from whatever was tearing her apart. He knew all to well what kind of consuming pain caused someone to fall to that kind of destruction. Then he remembered Jacque's comments about Raoul and her. Anger flared deeply past the empathy, he hated the boy more than ever. He did not know why, he didn't believe Raoul to be unfaithful, not even now with Christine gone. However, even knowing this, he somehow knew the boy was to blame. Sneaking back the way he came, he left the youngest Giry on the stage.

( ' ) '
-

Love me,
That's all I ask of you.

Madame Giry watched as Erik retreated into the shadows. Had she been surprised that he had returned? No, in many ways she hadn't. Then again, not much could actually surprised Madame Giry these days. She had seen the best and worst times at the opera house, a place known for intense melodrama's on the stage and off. But at the moment, Erik wasn't her biggest concern; she merely tucked the information to the back of her brain and braced herself.

As Meg continued to sob uncontrollably, she walked swiftly over to her daughter. She had heard the gossip herself, and had asked around to reliable sources to see if it was true. To her relief, and to Meg's obvious dismay, it was. She lowered herself to Meg, and wrapped her arms around the girl in love and a small gesture of affection that she usually reserved for private anyways.

"Oh mother." Meg sobbed and clung to the arms as though they were her lifeline.

"I shall accept Claude's proposal."

LotRseer3350 – Do you not like my Meg/Raoul that's not going anywhere ness? I thought it made the story richer… in that whole "they only love each other right now because that's all they know kinda thing, but then it will turn to real love but by then it's too late! Ack! So complicated, everyone always ends up unhappy… is this realistic, it so could be if written properly…" you know, kinda thing.

soccernat11 – does Raoul being actually… a dimensional character, make you happy?

Mominator124 – babies are so much fun to write… they always produce miracles, even though my significant other dislikes them (

Computerfreak101 – I hope you liked it, more Meg angst!

My other reviewers – Happy Canada day… yesterday…now… cuz I took too long to write S Plus, I soooo hope someone got my 'Bernard' reference.