A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Rue Marie. To the rest of you...I'm terribly sorry, but it's like moira, only I'm the Three Fates in one.

The End of the Song

♫

Michel Varens

I stared, dumbfounded, at the two on the balcony. Marguerite…how could she? How dare she? She loved him. I could see it. They stood there, staring at eachother. Words were said. I did not know what they were until I faintly heard the Ghost say,

"Will you marry me, Meg?"

"Are you…yes, Erik," Meg answered. After a moment's silence, the clock tolled midnight and a lone violinist began to play a tune from one of the Ghost's operas, called All I Ask of You. The tune was drowned in a wave of applause. I dropped my head into my hands. My heart was torn to shreds and tiny pieces seemed to float in a mock dance to the music. Broken dreams were in the air the first moment of the New Year. He would have to go. When I looked up, however, he was gone, and so was MargueriteA cloud of smoke swirled at the spot they had occupied thirty seconds ago. I ran up the stairs, tearing off my mask and drawing the stage sword I had borrowed. It was blunt, but so much the better. I fully intended to drive it through that Ghost, solid or not.

I reached the balcony and looked around. There was no arrow pointing me in the right direction. Only a candle bracket in the wall, ironically in the shape of a cupid, and a painting of Venus and Adonis. And the railing. I sheathed my sword and knelt to examine the floor.

Suddenly three hands had me by the shoulders. "What do you think you're doing, little brother?" Jacques oiled in my ear.

"I am going to kill the Ghost," I hissed through clenched teeth.

"Are you now? Have you got a reason for it, other than the general?"

I looked at him. "You mean you can't guess?"

"I think I can, actually." I raised an eyebrow. It drives Jacques mad, because he can't do it. "You are jealous because he has Mme. Giry."

"Precisely." I tried to shake him and Charles off 4, but they are stronger than I am when they work together. They dragged me to my room, locked it, and barricaded the door.

"Don't rush in blindly," Jacques admonished through the fortress.

So I paced. Up, back, up, back. I brandished my real, sharp sword sometimes, imagining the things I would do to the Ghost when I got out of this room. Wait. I paused in my pacing. He sometimes left notes in here. That meant he could get in here. That meant there was a trapdoor, and I could find him. I stuck the sword back home and got down on the floor to look. He wouldn't use a window. Not his style, I thought. For fifteen minutes, I crawled about on the floor, hunting for the Ghost's door. It was under the bed, and rather obvious, really. There was a track through the dust that ended at and oddly worn knothole. I put my finger in the hole and a trapdoor fell open. There was a clatter and a ladder-shaped patch of darkness unfolded. The air came out.

The air stank. It stank of stagnant water, old stone, mold, rust, wax, passion, and darkness. The air seemed to be humming, almost. The hum started in my chest and radiated out, making me feel like I had had one drink more than I should have. The dark was not dark, as such, but black. Velvety black that seemed to absorb light. A torch blinked doggedly in the blackness. I took a quick, deep breath and plunged in.

The torch was at the top of a staircase. At the bottom of that staircase was another torch, which showed you the top of the next. There were five flights, and the last ended in a lake. There was a lake, wasn't there? Yes, I had known that. Tied to the bottom step was a small boat, which I pushed off. Much later, I came to the Island.

When you arrive at the Island, you see a five-sided room. Two of the sides are open to the lake, while the other three have walls. In each wall is a wooden door with a musical symbol carved on it—on the left is a treble clef, on the right a bass clef, in the center two eighth notes. In the room open to the lake there is a desk, a piano, and an odd organ-like thing. I assume the Ghost invented the organ-thing, but I don't know. Everything in the room is covered with papers from operas, and on the desk is a music box shaped like a monkey playing the cymbals perched on an organ. It had begun playing for no apparent reason when I set foot on the Island.

I went through the door with the eighth notes on it.

Inside there was a bed. It had red curtains, and these were shut. The floor was covered with music. I drew my sword and approached the bed. I parted the curtains, and there they were. I felt, as though I was somewhere outside, my face contort into something terrible. They would both have to go. Unless….

♫

Erik

The applause echoed in my ears as I slept. It had overwhelmed me, and it had frozen me like bright light freezes a nocturnal animal. It was ours. It was for me. And now I had Meg. Everything was good. I was in that realm between asleep and awake where one is vaguely aware of the outside world and has the oddest dreams. This stage is usually where I have Inspirations.

A tune wrapped itself around my thoughts. But I couldn't get up now, I'd wake Meg.

Suddenly a hand clamped around my neck and hurled me against the wall. Meg screamed. I couldn't because something cold and unpleasantly hard was pressed against my chin. I opened my eyes, willing myself to be calm. This was a situation that called for the Phantom of the Opera in his entire splendor.

I saw Michel Varens. He held a sword. Madness swirled in his eyes.

"So you're going to kill the Phantom of the Opera, Michel?" a "demon" said in his ear.

The madness swirled faster as I stared him down. "Don't try to trick me with false voices, Ghost," he spat. "I am going to kill you. And she is going to watch." His other hand replaced his sword and he stabbed Meg. She and I screamed. Meg collapsed on the bed.

Michel turned back to me. Now he was not insane, but cold and serious as a Norwegian winter. "She'll live if I can get her to a doctor soon," he hissed. "If she'll come with me."

"Never!" Meg screamed.

An expression of pain slid across Michel's face and fell off the other side. "Then die, both of you." He stepped back to contemplate my demise. After a moment, he pointed his sword at my leg, but I slid down the wall as he struck and took it in the chest. There was no escaping it. There were no secret ways in or out of my bedroom. The Phantom was defeated at last. As Meg snatched the sword and killed herself with it, the music box plinked to a stop.

Masquerade...

Paper...faces...on...pa...rade...

Mas... quer...

ade.

A/N: My apologies espescially to my beloved Sannikex, who inserted many of the gimmicks and sanded off the scratches. O Beta dear, Erik could not have a dashing last line. Yes, this is opera and he is the phantom of it, but do real people go out with panache? Erik is a human at the end. The monkey speaks for him. If Erik said something, I would cry myself insane.

Stick with me for one more chapter. C'mon, you can make it if I can. I've gone through this three times.