Madame Giry

I was young. And naïve, as young girls are. That said, my maturity had always surpassed others of my age, due to my circumstances, my father's switch and my mother's no-nonsense eyes, the death of my parents and the care of my brother and what have you, but I was still only a girl. Compassion was all I needed for courage and it blinded me, if one can be blinded by such a holy notion. I thought I knew what to do. I had no idea it would come to this.

I watched the boy.

I had done the only thing I could think of. I didn't know what it was I'd done, only that I had to do it. Perhaps I had seen such terror in his eyes…or perhaps it was just the mere thought of such an evil against a child so small. Henri's death was still fresh in my mind. Perhaps I had seen this boy's humiliation and fear and the face I had imagined beneath the sack was Henri's.

Then I saw his deformity, and I understood…something. Something registered in my heart, and connected with my mind. Whatever it was had held me to my spot as the others left the tent.

"What is your name?"

His profile was to me, the untainted profile, and though his visible eye was not on me, I could see that it was green. "I don't have one." I listened to the sound of his voice, those being the first words he had spoken. I had left him in the chapel, and upon finding him again, he had done nothing but grasp my hand, as if he were afraid to let it go. I was not sure that he could even speak. After a great while, he did let go, and I thought I heard him cry beneath his sack.

We were sitting in the orchestra pit beneath the stage, and I had taken two loaves of bread and a block of cheese and three sticks of celery from the kitchens. He consumed them ravenously, not looking at me even once. Perhaps he was ashamed of his tears. More likely, he was ashamed of his face.

"You have to have a name," I assured. "Everyone has a name."

The boy's eye met mine. "Why do you suppose that is true?"

"Well," I reasoned, "there must be something that your mother can call you." Then I bit down on my tongue; his mother must have been dead.

He looked down. "She called me many things." His voice was broken, and so, so young. How was a child even capable of…

I fiddled with a music stand nervously. You are responsible for him, Madeleine. Talk to him. "Surely she gave you a name."

He shook his head. "She did not," he insisted.

Another awkward silence followed. My heart was heavy as I stared at him, willing my mind to grasp such a concept. What kind of life was given him? How could anyone be so cruel?

"Did you see it?"

I blinked. "Did I see what?"

He pointed to his face. "When he took it off. Did you see it?"

I nodded slowly. "Yes."

He set down his bread and fixed his visible eye upon me, and a look of utter loss. "Why did you help me then?"

If I thought my heart was heavy before, I was wrong. Now it sank to my stomach, and I thought perhaps I should move toward him to comfort him…but I couldn't. Not after what I had seen. It was not his face that scared me. "Because they would have lynched you," I whispered. "You could die for it."

His muscles hardened beneath his dirty skin, and a forgotten trombone gleamed beside his knees. "Then why would you bring me here?"

I twisted my face in a confused scowl. What did that mean? "How old are you?" I asked him.

He shrugged lifelessly. "Ten, perhaps."

My brother lived to see ten. "I am eighteen."

He looked as if he didn't care, but something told me that he was hanging tightly to every word I said.

The last of the bread was finished. Slowly, he slipped the bag over his head once more, and turned to me—his cloth monkey in his hand. "Do you want me to leave now?" The child's voice shattered over every word.

"No!" I lowered my tone. I never did know how to handle the emotions of others. "They are still looking for you. You will stay here until the Gypsy camp leaves."

If I could have seen his face, I would have been sure his lips trembled. "But now I have become a murderer." He sniffed. "Mother always said I would."

I felt my face would forever wrench itself into that horrible position. "I can help you, though, I promise I can."

The look in his eye, as they seemed to fill with tears again, made me want to cry. He stood as well, without complaint, and followed me out of the orchestra pit. The theatre was dark, abandoned. I wasn't sure where he could hide. Certainly not in the dormitories. His face allowed him no discretion. As far as I knew, he could never be seen in Paris again. But I couldn't think about that now.

Right now, I had to hide him, until it was safe to think.

"I hate him."

I turned, his voice sending chills up my spine. His green eyes met mine through the burlap sack.

"I still hate him, even though he is dead."

My stomach twisted in knots. I would not let myself blame him—perhaps I would have done the same thing, had I lived his life. But once was enough. He could never do it again. "It did not solve your problems the way you thought it would."

The boy said nothing, and I led him through the dimly lit corridors. The cellars were old and smelt of rot. But he had lived in a circus, which smelt even worse...and I was suddenly aiding a murderer, regardless that he was a little boy as well. We could not be picky.

I pulled at the dusty handles of the root cellar doors. They opened and released a cloud of dust into the glow of the moonlight. "In here," I said, motioning him to the steps. He eyed them cautiously for a moment, and then entered before me. "Stay down here…I will come back with blankets and candles, and more food."

I turned to leave, but he caught my hand. "You are leaving me?"

It couldn't have been his own fear that frightened me. Why, then, did I tremble? "Only for a moment, little boy."

His grip tightened abruptly. "Please don't leave. If you really want to help me, don't ever leave me."

What was I supposed to do? I was silent for a few seconds, and then I said, "I only wish to make you more comfortable."

"But you will come back?"

I nodded.

He paused. "If you don't come back, then I don't want you to ever have to think about me again. But if you do come back…" he stopped for a moment. "If you do come back, you must promise to never leave me." Again, his voice broke, and I knew by the sound of it I must do everything I could to help him.

"I will come back. And I promise you."

The boy stood there, completely inanimate but for his eyes, which swam with new tears. "It did solve my problems, while he was dying." Our gaze was tense. "I could do anything while he was dying." My bones shook as I stared at his hand—the hand of a killer, the hand that had only a half an hour before taken a man's life, the fingers which had clenched beyond clenching at each blow of a baton, the fist he perhaps sucked as he tried to sleep at night. "My mother never gave me a name," he repeated, drawing my eyes from his grip and into his gaze. Except for the remarkable strength that powered his young hand, all of the energy, the mindless adrenaline he'd been bursting with as we ran from the circus was gone, and in its place was a sombre, confused resignation. "But you can if you want to."

I drew in a deep breath, and stepped away from him. Still, he clung to my hand. "Please let me go," I whispered. For an instant, he closed his eyes. The painful pressure on my hand released, and I felt blood rush through my fingers. I hadn't any idea he'd gripped me so firmly. I exhaled lowly, and reassured, "I will be back in a moment."

I ran alone through the corridors, finding my way in the dark to the dormitories. Would he even be there when I returned? I prayed that he would. Amidst my sorrow and the fear that still gripped my heart, I was thrilled that he had been saved, and that I had been the one to save him. And I found myself in a rather dark euphoria that there were Gendarmes out looking for both of us.

"Madeleine!"

I heard the voice before I saw its source, and plowed straight into Madame Yvette. She grasped my shoulders tight, and then held me to herself firmly. "Madeleine, never scare me like that again! We could not find you anywhere after that beast murdered his handler!"

I felt myself stiffen in her grasp. Beast? I wanted to defend him. More than anything, I wanted to defend him in her presence, but to do so would be to put both of us at risk—that alone I was sure of. "I am sorry, Madame. I was…frightened, and I ran back this way, where I knew it was safe." It was the truth. God could never hold it against me, not even on Judgement Day.

I wasn't one to lie, after all.

Madame Yvette once again transformed into the rigid, severe figure that harnessed discreetly the compassion I knew was there, and I hoped one day to be just like her. "You will learn to stay with the group next time during the whole visit."

I blinked, smoothing my dress, and shook my head. "There will not be a next time, Madame. I don't ever want to see another Gypsy again."

Madame cracked a smile. "Child, I don't blame you in the slightest. Now scurry off—you must get your rest. This has been a rather draining night. The other girls are already in the dorms."

I nodded fervently and curtsied a bit, and rushed away, proud of myself for swallowing the biggest secret I'd ever had to keep.

Little did I know that I would have to swallow that secret until my mouth was dry with deceit, even to today. Before that night, I had always prided myself concerning my honesty. A virtue that I had made ridiculous and impossible, as I soon discovered, with the charge I had adopted. And even with what I knew today, I still had no hint as to what I should do differently, if I were given a second chance.

Seconds chances, as much as they were overrated, were hopeless, anyway.

…

Erik

It is merciful that I have something resembling humanity sharing my soul with the reckless Phantom. It was an idea upon impulse to take Christine as my child and create her into something Madame would recognise as my brilliance. And it is fortunate for them both that I allowed myself time to think through such a spontaneous plan before carrying it to execution.

I can now see just how foolhardy such a thing would be.

As a rule, I hate human beings. I owe them nothing, and I care nothing for their petty lives. It is a dangerous thought that I should connect myself in such a way with a child, of all people, and unleash my influence into her life. I am a ghost, and I haunt. Madame is my sole anchor in this human life, and she is just enough of a weight to keep me attached to my own humanity. I am comfortable with the balance between human and ghost, and I cannot burden myself with another responsibility, such as Christine Daae, that will remind me of my mortal existence.

It would surely destroy my essence. I do not want that to happen.

To appease myself, and to thoroughly purge myself of such careless fantasies, I stand before my mirror and tighten my cravat, reassessing my appearance. The image does not disappoint me. Years before, I learned that I needn't use my face to intimidate. Intimidation is a delicate marriage of frightening and awe-inspiring. I can intimidate those around me with a carefully constructed aura of lazy movements and infernal gazes and half-restrained smiles. I can be a very disconcerting image—nearly feline, in my predatorily imposing air. I was inspired by a rather fantastic actor who played charisma and menace rather well atop the stage, and I took his basic designs and polished them into the perfect bearing suited for a phantom.

It was years ago. I found that amongst my many other talents, my ability to slip into any character I choose is one of them. I do not classify myself as an actor at all; rather, I have many, many different personalities, some of them unplanned and others under my control, and I often hone them and use them to my advantage in whatever situation I find myself in.

Situations like the one I am about to orchestrate. I take childish pleasure in haunting the residents of the theatre. I once behaved in such a way toward Madame, when we were on much more personal (dare I say intimate?) terms. No, not intimate—I would only have liked to think so. I tried to both endear her and frighten her, until I learned that she did, truly, wholly fear me. My intentions were only to intimidate her then, so that I could have power over her mind. I have it now, but it does not satisfy me. Now, I do not have many dealings with her. My days are fulfilled by haunting.

It is time that I introduce Christine to the Opera Ghost, and fully establish myself, in my mind as well, as the Phantom, and only that. Forgive me, Gustave, for lying to you. She will not be my child, my creation. She will be just like the rest of them.

…

Christine

I watched my fingers as they shook. "Angel of Music," I whispered, "guide and guardian…grant to me your glory." Smiling a little, and wondering why it hurt my temples to smile, I added, "Or I shall forget Father forever."