Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom characters, mainly Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

Side Notes:
Yes, I am going somewhere with this; I have my research done, and an ending written! Of course, it will take a few twists and turns before we get there…

Thanks beta barefootadvocat, for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they were!

Into the Dark

"I don't, I can't...how, when?" Christine stumbled on, her knees slowly sinking, hand patting around behind her for the sturdy arm of the chair. Mme. Giry made a quick move as if to steady her, but the girl managed to stop herself, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands around her middle, warding off the waves of emotion threatening to consume her. Slowly, determinedly, she made a move for the door, crying over her shoulder, "Take me to him! Is he still down below?"

Mme. Giry sprung into step behind the young woman, stepping up her stride to try and keep up with Christine's frantic pace, then with a stomp of frustration, turned back into the room to grab up the girl's discarded cloak, shoes and stockings.

She darted around corners, back down the hallway, up another set of stairs, now heedless of any commotion she was causing. A handful of ballet rats peered around doors to see who was tearing down the hallway. "Christine!" several cried, shocked at seeing the Comtesse running down the corridor, barefoot, wet tendrils flying behind her, then sprung back as they saw their ballet mistress rounding the corner behind the fleeing diva.

"Mother! Christine?" Little Meg Giry called after the pair, and when no one replied, grabbed up her shawl, and jumped into the chase. She swiftly followed them into Christine's old dressing room, and nearly stumbled into the back of her mother as she came to an abrupt halt. Christine was frantically patting at the glass of her wall mirror, running her fingers along the back of the gilded frame, stirring up small puffs of dust.

After her infamous flight from the opera house and subsequent marriage to the Vicomte de Chagny, Christine's dressing room had once again reverted to a storage room. Rumors now flew about the "ghost of the Opera Ghost", the sad spirit of the deformed genius that had lived deep down below, terrorizing the Opera Populaire. Subsequently, no performer in their right mind would inhabit the cursed room. Meg knew better, however. After observing her mother's comings and goings, and cautiously peering up to the catwalks and balconies during ballet rehearsals, she had begun to believe that maybe the Phantom of the Opera still inhabited the land of the living, albeit quietly. I shall know soon enough, she cringed, turning her attention back to Christine's anxious searching.

"Ah, there it is!" exhaled Christine in triumph, the latch clicking back, swinging the mirror open to reveal the murky labyrinth behind.

The faint chattering and pitter-pat of ballet rats making their way down the hall towards the room drew their attention. Mme.Giry strode over to the hallway door and shut it firmly, effectively barring the descent of curious faces. "Well, my dear," said the ballet mistress, turning to face Christine again, gesturing to the dark tunnel.

Christine nodded slightly, and with trepidation, reached up into the doorway, and took the lantern from its hook. She reached out to Mme. Giry for her discarded clothing, replaced them on her person, lit the lantern, and journeyed into the shadows once more. Madame and little Giry followed behind, cautiously peering beyond the scope of the light, into the black path ahead.

"Meg, I would prefer that you stay here," said Mme. Giry sharply, pulling her daughter from the passage. "There are too many dangers in the cellars. Go!"

"Mother-" Meg began to protest, but with a stern look and a stomp of her foot, Mme. Giry sent the little dancer back to the dimly-lit room, squashing her résistance.

Little by little the two women made their way down, down into the dark, running their fingers along the grimy walls to guide them, careful for any tricks or triggers that may send a startled body hurtling through a trap door into the depths of the caves. Down through the cellars, one by one they wound, through the blackness, little puffs of dank breath misting in the pale light cast around the lantern. A small squeak here, a gust of wind there, coursing through their heavy capes, sending shivers up their spines.

"Keep your hand at the level of you eyes…" whispered Mme. Giry, striking a chord of fear through Christine, reminding her of the dangers of this forbidden place. "I am sure he is aware that someone has entered his domain by now."

"Surely he would never…" retorted Christine, shaking her head against the unbidden fears, refusing to entertain the idea that her beloved teacher would….

…but it had been several years since she had deserted him to his cold, lonely fate. Could he still care about her? Would he welcome her with his arms out stretched to her, pulling her shoulders into his embrace…fingertips trace along her neck, up into her hair…his other hand would press gently into the small of her back, drawing her closer to his smooth brocaded vest grazing her cheek…his breath tickling her ear warmly …

Mme. Giry sighed and grasped her hand, pulled her around and steered her in the opposite direction she had been treading. "No, my dear, this way," the woman said irritatedly, breaking through Christine's reverie. She chided herself gently for the turn her thoughts had taken. She had not allowed such fantasies to enter her mind for some time, as they would only make her ache for her loss, remind her that she was again alone in the world…

But now – glorious night!—she had been given a second chance. An opportunity to try and correct the wrongs, the pain she had caused him. Oh, the possibilities! The shock of what had been revealed to her, not even an hour ago, was draining away, and the full implications of Mme. Giry's revelation punched into her with a force so strong it knocked the air from her lungs.

Erik, her Angel of Music…not dead…but alive!…and waiting at the end of the labyrinth…

And then they were at the edge of the lake, unable to go any further. Beyond the water, was his home, Erik's home. "Beyond the lake..." she murmured, comprehension flooding into her. "Mme. Giry, how shall we cross the lake without the gondola?" She deliberated for several moments, turned, and saw the other woman tugging on a rope attached to the overhang of the shore. The boat was there afterall!

The boat was here.

If it is here, then how…

"Mme. Giry, I don't think that he is there. He must be on this side somewhere, the boat…"

The ballet mistress did not seem to notice her protest as she stepped deftly into the boat, taking up the pole. Glancing at the girl's hesitancy, she impatiently waved her to follow. "Come along child, we shall go anyway, and see what we find." Doing as told, Christine followed into the gondola and firmly pushed off from the shore, sending the boat gliding into the glassy, still waters, sloshing slightly from the disturbance. Mme. Giry navigated the boat through the waters, twisting here and there. When she tired, Christine shuffled to the front, took the pole, and pushed it down and away, moving the boat forward. In her eagerness to reach the shore, she occasionally steered too hard, sending the boat careening to the left, then to the right as she tried to correct. At last the boat slid gracefully to a stop, and the women alighted, one patiently securing the gondola, the other bounding to the entrance.

"Hello?" called Christine, anticipation rippling through her veins, shredding her already raw nerves. No sound came. She called again; still nothing.

Timidly, she reached out a hand and worked the mechanism to open the house. The girl made her way into the dark room, holding her lantern up to light the way. From what she could see, everything was still in its place, little changed. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went about illuminating the rooms, the drawing room, green bathroom—one by one—coming at last to her own Louis-Philippe room.

Footsteps fell behind her as Mme. Giry finally entered into the home, much preferring the brightness of the rooms to the darkness of the lake. Only once had she ventured this far before, the day after the "strange affair", and subsequent mob rule of the Opera house. The lovely things had been ripped to shreds, a life's work annihilated by the blood-thirsty, destructive buffoons. All of the music…gone… she sighed.

But now, it was as if she was in an entirely new place; so great a care had been put into restoring, replacing and mending. Restocked library shelves, a sparkling piano, fresh stacks of compositions piled neatly on the lid of the instrument. Here and there, a tell-tale piece of mismatched wood fit into the side of an armoire, or a newly-upholstered chair out-shown its slightly faded twin. All in all though…amazing, this man. How many nights had he worked without sleep, food, to accomplish what would take others five, perhaps six years?

Her companion was also taking in some of the changes, however slight to her. After all, she had not seen the results of the chaos that had fallen upon the sanctuary of her Angel; instead, she had been spirited away into the night by the Vicomte, never to return to the opera again. The little diva would have wept bitterly at the utter ruin of the place.

A secret smile played on Christine's lips, reminiscing over some stirred memory. The Persian monkey, he is still here, waiting to greet me…playing that soft, enchanting melody, stirring me from slumber. She gingerly reached out, squeezing a small cymbal-clad paw.

Hello, little friend, I have missed you…she sighed in contentment, in that rare moment of peace that warmed her heart so.

Slowly, though, her smile faded from her face as she sensed some sort of question, some puzzle hanging in the air. She couldn't quite place it, and it drove her to look about more closely. A thin, undisturbed layer of dust had settled over everything. All the necessaries of life were still here…food aged by a week or two, a little water still sitting in a basin, what little had not evaporated away. Clothes neatly hung in the wardrobe, nothing missing. Even his fine dark cloak still hung next to the door. A book sitting open over the arm of the chair, as if the reader would saunter in and pick it up at any moment.

Yes, that was it!…everything frozen in time, this Pompeii home…a life so suddenly interrupted, that even his precious Don Juan Triumphant lay lightly against the music stand next to the piano, corners drooping sadly, open for any stray eyes to see -so uncharacteristic of his careful, cautious ways….

Something was wrong.

A wave of nausea flooded over her, and she bent slightly, tensing, choking back the stinging bile in her throat. Where was he? Why did he leave like this, so abruptly that he didn't even don his cloak and hat?

"Madame Giry, how long do you think he has been gone?" the girl croaked.

"Days, perhaps a week or two. The dust isn't very thick, yet-"

"I'm going to look for him!" she cried, gathering up the lantern, dashing for the door. "He couldn't have left the opera; he didn't take cloak and hat." She stopped to look over Mme. Giry's fear-stricken face. "You may come with me if you like, since I will have the lantern, or you could stay here and wait."

"Christine, you will be lost forever if you start flying through those unfamiliar passages, we both know that." Mme. Giry sighed, and calmed her tone. "I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do but wait to see if he returns. And unfortunately, you do not have the luxury of time on your side. Have you forgotten those that pursue you?"

The ballet mistress paced a bit, snapped her fingers. "The Sûreté! Christine, surely they will be able to help, perhaps post guards at the entrance to your estate. You can go to them-"

"Ha!" barked the woman dismally. "Incompetent, every last one of them. Their guards have been in my home, eating my food for the past two weeks, and still this – whoever—has slipped past them, leaving frightening little presents for me to find."

Mme. Giry started at the strange tones emitting from this normally docile creature, wondering at the change from weak girl to woman that the past few years had rendered. Of course, she mused, she is now a mother. And mothers will become savages, if need be, to protect their young.

"Furthermore," Christine continued "they are still convinced that I had something to do with Erik's elusion of their trap. They fail to acknowledge that he may have just been much smarter than they." Both women chuckled low at the memory of two dozen policemen, wildly darting around the balconies, aisles, when all the time, the man they sought was the very tenor captivating the minds of the audience, making love to the young Aminta with his lustrous voice.

Then, in all seriousness the older woman turned glazed, sad eyes to the young Comtesse, resignation written in all movements. "Christine, you have no other choice. You must leave Paris."

"Yes." Christine's eyes widened at what could be happening above ground, as they spoke. "Yes, I must return to Jean-Paul, I will not waste time waiting, doing nothing." She tilted her head in thought for a moment. "It will take three days to make the arrangements to leave. I shall speak with the de Chagny lawyer-he was a good friend to Raoul—and he can help with the preparations. But Madame, I refuse to abandon Erik, not again. I will find him before I leave Paris; I must! He is down here somewhere in the dark, I can feel it. I will return home tonight, pack a few things, leave my instructions for the servants. Tomorrow, I'll return to continue the search until I find him, or until my three days are over, and I have no choice but to go with my son."

Reading Mme. Giry's concern, she smiled at her former instructor for good measure, once again drawing into herself. "I can find some way to keep from getting lost in the labyrinth."

The two women extinguished the lamps and closed the home, the unspoken words hanging in the air—that they may never return to the house by the underground lake again.

Christine and Mme. Giry emerged through the mirror once more into the darkness of the old dressing room, startling a drowsy Meg to attention. Leaping from the settee, shawl fluttering to the floor, little Giry reached out, crying, "Oh, please tell me, what happened? Was he shocked to find you there? He didn't send you away, did he?" Mme. Giry held up a hand, effectively silencing the onslaught of curiosity from her beloved daughter.

"Dear Marguerite, we did not find him. That is that. Now please, say goodbye to your friend. She will be leaving us soon."

Disappointment flooded through the little dancer. 'You will not at least stay the night? It is rather late to be out on the streets." Even as she said this, she moved to help Christine adjust her hair under the hood of her cloak, knowing that her pleading was in vain. Sighing she clutched at her friend's hands, tears welling in the corner of her eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Oh, Christine!" she cried, pulling the Comtesse into an embrace. "Whatever is happening, please be careful. Paris cannot lose your lovely voice." She smiled, but her face was a sea of mixed emotions. She really did not want to let go of her friend.

Christine pulled away, and moved for the door. "I promise that I will come back to Paris as soon as I can." With a small raise of her hand to her Meg's cheek, she swept of the room, tears threatening, Mme. Giry close on her heels.

They made their way down the hall, but before she made to exit the opera, Christine turned to the ballet mistress. "Perhaps I should not leave the way I came in," she murmured, thoughts of what could be lurking outside the heavy door driving her back.

"Come, child," said the Madame, taking her by the hand, down more dimly-lit hallways, and into a wood-paneled room. Feeling along the wall, she pushed slightly on a raised wooden medallion that ornamented the runner. Four feet away, one of the panels slid open, revealing a hollow wall that served as a narrow hallway, running the length of the opera house, and presumably to a door that led outside, hidden somewhere in the exterior of the building. Christine's eyes widened at the genius of it.

"All of these years scampering about with the ballet corps, and I never knew this was here!"

"The opera has many secrets," the woman whispered conspiratorially. "You need only look to the architect to comprehend the vastness of this building. It was designed specifically to hold secrets." Mme. Giry touched the tip of the woman's nose as if to affirm what she had just stated. "When shall you return tomorrow, my dear?"

"Early morning, before dawn; perhaps six o'clock? I must get a few hours' rest tonight, if possible."

"Very well, I shall come here to wait for you." Mme. Giry caught Christine's arm as she turned to leave. "One thing more. Take a round-about way home tonight, child. Do you have something to protect yourself with?"

Christine reached behind her cloak and pulled a small dagger from a sheath attached to her dainty little belt.

"Good. Be alert, my dear," the ballet mistress whispered as she pulled the door open as quietly as possible, letting the Comtesse slip out. She stood shrouded in darkness for a few moments, warily watching for any out-of-place shadows that might be trailing the young woman. Then, breathing a sigh of relief, made her way back to her chambers.