Hey all I'm back again. Sorry, need to find a car, a place to stay, and about two days ago I started freaking out when I realized how much work would go into a double major and a move across the country. Not because I'm worried about the work, but because I'm going to slack even more on the updates.

I hope that stems the influx of assassins you all might hire but if not I do of course understand. So far nothing but the car thing has affected my life so you don't need to worry for now, around July though, if--God willing--this story is still going I will start to slack then. I'll talk more about that later for now know that I own nothing and want only for you to enjoy.

WARNING:

The FADA (Fanfiction Addiction Detection Agency) has come to the conclusion that this story can be highly addicting. The Author cannot be held responsible for drops in the reader's grades due to new chapters. Large doeses of Requiem can lead to dependence. The Author is not responsible for withdrawal symptoms which can occur when author fails to update speedily enough.

The lake lapped at the shore lightly and if she strained her ears she could just make out the especially loud noises from Le Rue Scribe high above. Erik sat beside her and held a long stick in his hand that looked suspiciously like the conductors baton that one of the guest conductors had lost a few months ago.

Soon after starting their lessons Erik had decided that teaching her with paper was too costly and the chalk dust agitated her nose. So he had this long baton and he drew in the soft soil that ringed the edge of the lake. Slowly he scratched out something in the sand and Megan was told to read it aloud to him. He decided they would focus on reading first, it would in the end be most important. Reading would give her spelling and the letters all at once and then she just had to mimic what she could read. She wasn't sure what he meant but she trusted him and so she would let him do whatever he liked.

She watched what he was writing and sounded it out softly in her head. Then, when he was done she grinned and stumbled through reading it aloud, pointing to the words as she said them. "Currently Tristan and Isolde is no longer playing at the Opera house." She managed, and then looked up at him with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Erik never smiled at her; she couldn't even get him to take his mask off for their lessons, it was those walls. The walls he had built to defend himself from a world that did not understand that his face said nothing about who he was. She had told him that he could trust her, and that she did not mind his face.

However he never smiled and he never removed his mask. Still, thought, she could tell when he was pleased with her. His eyes would get softer and he would murmur a compliment very softly, sometimes so soft that she couldn't even hear him. She could see his mouth moving through and that was enough for her. She was used to not being the center of attention and she could handle life without praise, she didn't expect that much from life.

Not that she knew what she wanted form life anyway. She had realized that one of those times when she could not hear his compliment and was left wondering what he had said. She still could not name what it was that she wanted but she liked this. She liked spending time with Erik, and when the lessons got too hard they would retire to his library and she would sit on the floor on the thick, soft carpet and she would play with the fringe on the ends while he read one of his thick, leather-bound tomes. He found—somehow—a few small books for her. Things the boys of rich families were taught to read with in schools. She read from them haltingly while he read from his larger books and if she didn't understand something she asked him about it. He was patient with her and he would help her sound it out, slowly, and then he would teach her to say it at a normal speed drawing the sounds of the words together into the words she knew so well.

It was hard, when she wasn't practicing her dance she was down here studying or at home sleeping. Her mother was frustrated with her daughter's recent rash of disappearances, and since the older woman wasn't working as much anymore Meg was supposed to be the responsible one, she was the one who had to support their whole family, small thought it was. 'Megan, you need to be strong for us now.' Was said as often as'You will be a great woman some day Meg,' around their small home.

More and more Meg was spending time learning to read just to get away from her mother. Madam Giry wanted her daughter to be something more than a dancer. In those hard, jaded eyes dancing was not good enough, Sainthood might not be good enough. Erik just wanted her to do her best. She didn't know what had put the thoughts of greatness into her mother's head but Megan hated it. She hated that her mother thought it wasn't enough, it was never enough until Megan could bathe in milk and wrap herself in silk. Madam Giry wanted to see diamonds dripping from Megan's fingers and until all this came to pass, nothing was enough and Megan was not good enough. Erik didn't seem to judge her. He got frustrated if she couldn't read just right but it was fine, he didn't think her "unworthy" merely a little slower.

It was a first for her, someone not thinking her lacking, and she loved it, relished it even. It made her regret when she had to leave this place, this land of dreams, better than dreams. She hated having to trek up through the cold and the dark and the dank and return to the overly bright world above where no step was good enough; her fingertips were spread too far apart…

Erik of course did not have a life above in the light to go back to, and he did not look at this place below the light of day as a world of dreams. He thought of it more as a nightmare world akin to hell. It was the little pixie who occasionally lost her wings and fell to his level that could break the tedium and torture of his personal hell. He didn't like the analogy, but he worked on Don Juan more and more these last few weeks and often he was still in the mind-set of writing operas. Pixies did not have wings of course, at least not in the stories that he had read.

Megan was not an angel so she could not forgo her wings and come down here to see him. Christine had been an Angel, a Goddess, more, his angel of music. Megan was playful and light, she didn't fear him, she didn't revear him and she didn't tread lightly when she was in his home here beside the lake. She was like a ray of sunshine that got lost in the labyrinth beneath the Opera House. A spirit of mirth, Pan.

Though unattractive she was not so twisted as Pan, he was a more fitting character for Pan, a man half-goat and half-man while Erik was half-devil and half-man. Though he could find appropriate words to describe Megan she still confounded him and made him happy all at once. He didn't know why she did half of what she did and he certainly didn't understand why she returned day after day.

He watched her sometimes, when she was up in that strange "day-lit" world. Watched her throw herself into dance, throw herself into making her mother happy and then she would descend to his level and work as hard as she could trying to learn to read from a monster like him. Christine had a reason, she had talent, she could be someone and go somewhere. She was an angel and they often took pity upon demons and mortals like him. No, not pity.

More like she could feel something for him other than revulsion, which until Christine no one had been able to do, or had tried at the very least.

Megan was no Goddess and she certainly wasn't an angel. He had heard her curse—though surely her mother would have boxed the little dancer's ears—and heard her defend herself against some of the younger stage-hands who got rowdy when drunk. Megan was real. He could touch her, he could tap her shoulder when her attention wondered and he could ruffle her hair to offer her a goodbye instead of putting it to words. It was a rare occasion when he could draw himself to touch Christine, because he was not worthy to touch Christine she was Athena, Aphrodite, or even Cleopatra. She was a marble statue an artist's masterpiece, every curl, every fold in her dress, and her skin forever captured in smooth white stone. She was a Requiem, the last thing you saw when you closed your eyes and that point where you life culminated into a few brief moments of strings singing, violins wailing and flutes laughing, perfection and loss, near enough to touch and yet infinitely far away.

While Megan was more like a painting, an oil painting complete with small globs of paint that collected on the rough surface of the canvas. She was light playing with shadows across a medium incapable of really expressing the true beauty of an object. Not that there was all that much beauty in anything that could spring forth from Madam Giry. She was plain and simple but there were enough paintings that had come out of England's Renaissance to assure Erik that there could be beauty in something plain. Megan was beautiful when she danced. It was more sensual than song, she became one with the music and unlike singing where one enhanced it when she danced the music curled around her and she moved against it like a woman moving against her lover. There was something adult about the way Megan danced opposed to the innocence of Christine's singing.

He slammed his hands against the desk in front of him and growled, his mask rattling along the surface and teetering on the edge for a moment before the Phantom grabbed it and moved it to the middle out of his way. What was the matter with him?

He couldn't do it anymore. The lessons, he couldn't do them anymore. They had been going on for almost six months now, Megan could read and write probably better than most girls, even the rich ones who got tutors. She was a quick learner and she certainly had a base to work off of, with what she had she could teach herself. He might leave her a book or two but that was it, he was done. Something was wrong with him and he had a sinking suspicion that he knew and he just wouldn't let himself see. The pit dropped out of his stomach and he felt nervous and alone whenever she was down here, invading his space. He would not let her bother him long enough for him to find out what this emotion was, because he knew that he most certainly didn't want to know.

He pushed against the desk, hard, and stood while the chair clattered behind him. He wouldn't put it off and he wouldn't put up with her another second he was the Phantom of the Opera and no little rat was going to stand up to him. He had made his decision and he would not yield.

He fairly flew up through the winding halls to the world which would never accept him and finally came out in the rafters above the small vestibule where the dancers waited between acts. Megan was right below him as lady luck would have it and she was smiling, beaming, glowing. One of the stage-hands, the one to replace one of the oafs he killed, held a bottle of brown liquor in one hand that he had no doubt purloined from elsewhere. Someone of his means could not have afforded it regularly, or at all really.

"Little Meg." A cajoling cry slurred with drink.

"You're drunk Eliot." She informed the man, her smile not wavering even for a second. Erik couldn't help but wonder what had caused the smile, but wondering what caused her smile lead him to that place that he did not want to be. That horrible place of knowing and yet with knowing would come all knew questions he was even less enthusiastic to answer.

"Ahm no' drunk." The large man assured the ballerina. He could have fooled even Erik but his pudgy face was bright read and he was sweating and someone with sharp eyes could pick out the slight waver to his step. Someone like Erik could pick out the slight waver in the man's steps. Erik did not want to make his presence known, he liked the anonymity of being lost in the shadows, the kind he had never really had before. It was as close as he could come to being normal, for at least this way people did not bother him. They did not revere him, they didn't fear him, they didn't care enough to torment him. He was left alone with his personal demons and until Megan had come that had been all he wanted. Now he…his fingers released the railing in front of him and then curled around it even tighter. He didn't wear gloves when he was down in his lair and he did not wear them around Megan. He wore them here mostly to pretend he was a part of society, but also out of habit. The Punjab lasso would burn your flesh if one was not careful.

"Fine then Eliot you're not drunk." Megan sighed. "But you're well on your way there so why don't you go drink with some of the others? I know for certain that the lead trombone could drink you under the table." She explained, her smile was still not fading off of her face. In the soft and silent moment that waited between the two people below him Erik's mind wondered once more to the question of, 'What had made Megan smile like that?' For he knew it could not have been what she read, the little primer book was dull and she often told him how horrid it was to read.

"You did good. Dancing. In the show." His sentences were short and choppy but that was more-likely to be because of his own stupidity rather than the drink.

"Thank you." Megan moved to get past him, but one massive arm reached out and pressed a fatter hand against the wall, trapping her at least on one side. Cold shot up Erik's spine. Megan paused for a moment, her breath catching in her throat and holding there for a moment before she remembered to breathe again. Erik knew what was coming. He had seen it before. Megan knew what was coming; she'd heard the stories before. It had never happened to her because her mother had the Phantom's ear and so people were too afraid to do anything that might bring the wrath of the Phantom of the Opera down upon them. "Let me pass." Her smile was gone now, her face just slightly pale and her hands were trembling at her sides. Erik knew that Eliot could see the girl shaking just as well as he could.

"Give us a kiss." Eliot said, his face pushing close to hers. Megan's body twisted and she took a step back. Eliot swiveled around and his other hand slammed against the wall, trapping her in even smaller of a space. "Come on Little Meg, give us little kiss." The words poured out of his mouth in a hot gust of air saturated with the smell of the cheapest liquor he could find. Megan pushed herself hard against the wall behind her and tried to flatten herself against the surface. Eliot stepped closer, his body pinning her against the wall even more, his hands gripping the front of her top, twisting the fabric and forcing his knobby knuckles into the soft flesh within.

"Eliot, no." She yelped but it would do no good and she knew it. Erik had kept her late today reading, the Opera House would be nearly deserted, deserted enough that screaming would certainly do no good. Megan's back arched as she tried to push herself away but it only served to press her breasts against his hands even more. Her neck craned and Eliot laughed moving her towards him and then slamming her against the wall. Erik acted before he realized that anything had happened. He did not have his lasso though he had the gloves for its use. He leapt off the small walkway he was on and—though he didn't know about it—made quite a dashing figure with his cape fluttering behind him and his eyes glimmering with something oft mistaken for anger but a purer emotion on the whole.

He landed noiselessly, like a cat, or a ghost.

Megan's eyes widened when she saw him and there was a moment frozen in time—an oil painting of the scene—Megan staring at him over Eliot's shoulder with a look of hope, of faith, a look that said she really believed that he was going to save her. She welcomed his coming. He couldn't have known it, she was too scared to speak and the words got caught up in her throat, but she had been calling for him. His name had been on her tongue and there it had gotten stuck and now, she swallowed it, trying desperately to catch her breath. The moment ended with Erik's startled face and for a moment that pure emotion flickered out of his eyes and all that was left was confusion, a question, and undeniable, unadulterated—

"Who'er you?" Eliot asked, though he shouted the question, still pinning Megan against the wall and Erik could see the bruises forming on the pale flesh normally covered by the butter-colored shirt she wore. Megan's hands came up and curled around Eliot's wrists, she was struggling again, her will to fight was back and she would not be a princess in a tower, waiting for Erik to save her.

"I am hurt that you do not know me monsieur." Erik said in that deep, dark voice of his that he was wont to use when he was being theatrical. Normally his voice was warm and enveloping like brandy. When he sang it was thick and rich like chocolate. Free and wild and untamed, but it was warm when he sang. When he was Erik, when he was the Angel of Music, his voice was warm. When Erik retreated to the dark and the Angel of Music left for a moment in exchange for a demon it was the turn of the Phantom of the Opera and it was his voice that was so dark, so deep, so foreboding and cold. Megan felt a trill rush up her spine and she was not quite sure if it was born of fear or of excitement.

"I don't kno' yew, ge' out o' here." The drink made him stupid and his stupidity made him brave. Erik reached for the man, his eyes burning like dim embers in the shadows of the hall. The man jerked for a second and shook Megan once and then dropped her. "I'll be back." He growled and to her it sounded more like a curse rather than a promise. Eliot was strong but the drink had made him stronger because now he didn't worry about hurting himself, he thought only of his anger. Erik had the advantage. He was a trained fighter, and he was fast and capable, he was not muddled by drink, though he was certain that being near Megan was never good for his judgment.

This was just as well. He would kill this man and Megan would see the monster he really was, he would not need to explain to her the ways she bothered him and so he would not need to face those emotions himself. Eliot swung at the other man and Erik moved like the morning mist. Erik's gloves were smooth against the man's flesh. The sounds of gasping breaths filled the small wood hall and then they were suddenly quiet. Silence, golden and true with the echoing sound of bones snapping, Under his pianist's hands Erik could feel the bones in Eliot's neck pop and break, and he could feel the vibrations of the bones snapping, the sound echoing, and then there was silence. Meg was huddled against the wall and sniffling. There was a small trickle of blood staining her skin, curling around from the back of her neck. She was shaking badly and Erik waited for the scream.

Monster

Demon Child

Anything other than those big green eyes staring at him and wavering with tears. With the speed of a dancer she was off the floor and huddled against him, trembling all the harder and laughing through her tears, something that Erik hadn't known was possible. Her arms were curled up against her chest but her small hands curled up in the fabric of his shirt. He stumbled back when she first slammed into him, curling up against him as though he were a normal man who could comfort her, but she was laughing.

"I thought—I was so scared—you came." She babbled sobbing and laughing all at once and against his chest. She was taller than Christine. Her forehead was against his shoulder and she would almost be as tall as him if her head weren't bent like this. "I was so scared. I didn't think you would come. You came." She froze instantly and turned. "Is he dead? Did you kill him? Is he—you. Are you okay?" From the far left, a distant sound, Erik could hear curious stage-hands approaching. He could run, he had to run. If he could run they would never know it was him. The rumors would start but with Christine safe they would not think it anymore than talk, than someone smart enough to murder where everyone would assume it was a ghost.

He couldn't leave Meg though, they may blame her, it was impossible that she could break a man's neck with her hands but they would blame her just the same because she was there and she was a woman.

He owed nothing to her. He had saved her once already, more than that even and he had taught her to read and write and had let her into his life no matter what it was that he wanted.

He couldn't leave her here, she was silent now but she was shaking and he had seen illness like this before, in his travels. People, especially women, could go into shock, be too scared and go into shock and maybe die or injure themselves.

She had wormed into his life. He had told her to leave. She was probably scared of him.

She said she trusted you.

Christine said she trusted you, kissed your twisted forehead and shed tears for you. Where is she now; in the arms of the Vis—the Counte now, if you really thought about it.

You owe Madame Giry so much.

And she led that damned Counte down to you. Straight to your lair and Christine might have stayed with you.

But this feeling around Megan?

You loved Christine, she was the only one for you and she turned you down. She turned away from your song!

She did not love me and she did not love music.

You were her angel of music.

I was a demon to her and she did not love music, she would not have given it up so easily if she truly loved it.

Loved it as you loved her.

He was so confused. All he could do was stand there in the little hall with his back as straight as an arrow and Megan clinging to them as though she would drown if she let go for even a moment. Still all his mind could do was argue with his heart, argue as to if he could save Megan once again or if he should leave Little Meg here forever, seal the fate he had decided not long ago to abide by no matter what.

He loved Christine…

Those words sounded so empty, so dull. You did not love an opera the way you loved a woman. You did not love a deity the way you loved a mortal girl. That was not love it was adoration it was worship.

He was a demon and he had no right to any of those emotions in relation to beautiful Christine.

So what was this warmth within him?

Why did he save Megan when there was nothing in it for him?

Why did he watch Operas just for the ballet when ballet was nothing without the music he and other geniuses created from their souls?

What was this feeling? This want to lift his arms from where they hung uselessly at his sides and curl them around Megan's trembling shoulders?

What was wrong with him?

The force of the revelation hit him all at once and startled him so that he gasped in surprise, startling Megan. He moved his arm and grabbed her hand, curling his gloved fingers around her shaking hand and moving away from her. "We have to run now Megan." He whispered, dragging her off through the long halls down paths than only he, the trap-door lover knew. Because he knew what these feelings were and they scared him. Scared the great Phantom of the Opera witless.

He was...

He was in love with her.

He was falling in love with Megan Giry.

Serendipity: And again I went much too long without updating. Sorry, but life has caught up with me and decided to destroy me.

Alexis: You and so many other people seem to really like the way that Erik keeps talking about Meg being imperfect. I rather like that because I love these imperfect characters. I think the imperefections are much more interesting.

Quixotic-Feline: One of my favorite reviewers you're always so nice and great and make me want to write and write and do nothing else. You quoted me so I think I need to quote you now. "like some energy radiating from your words" That made me smile. I have recieve such high compliments from you its no wonder this has become my favorite thing to write EVER. I try very hard to keep them all in character and keep everything as good as Leroux (glad you can prounce his name now ) did so when I hear things like that it makes my day and I want to try even harder.

Darth: Always glad to hear from you. :) when you give me such high compliments it makes me want to live up to them, because I'm sure I'm not as good as all that. I'm usually so bad at keeping character like Erik in character, I keep waiting for that moment like "Emperor's new clothes" when one person stands up and reminds you all that I'm not all that great. : But I love the compliments anyway and I'm sorry I've not been reviewing lately but College apps and finding a house and...well I have been reading it and I love it a bunch. I've a few chapters to catch up on though...:(

Forensic-Photographer711: Great to hear from a new person . I agree that too many of these E/M stories are awful. It was part of the reason that I started this. I hoped maybe if nothing else people would want to write more and be inspired. I love E/M and the few I can find are...lacking, or they end sadly or they'd be saturated with Christine-ness (which in the last few chapters I've felt like I'm doing anyway so...) and its not an E/M at all. I've not changed the Viscounte thing but I changed it in this chapter. (I think I got it right...) But I did make a concious effort so I hope that counts for something. I love how excited you seem (and I think you are) about this story. Its things like that that just make me AMAZINGLY happy and the happier that I am the more and faster I write.

Norris: BTW Awesome, I wish I could visit Turkey. I am glad that you like this story and I hope I maintain those high standards you seem to think I'm keeping up with (I like to think I am.)

PeachyApples, Airmid Star, Soulpoet, Blondearianne, anime-queen46, and everyone who reads this and makes me so happy.