A/N- Early update, woo-hoo! Future ones will probably be slower, because I had this mostly completed when I posted Ch. 1, but once I was finished with my tweeking, I couldn't resist updating!
Anyway, for almost all of my stories on the Doctor Who side of things, I write from one point of view within a scene- or if the POV absolutely must change, I include a page break. But for some reason, that just doesn't seem to work for POTO fic (maybe because POVs change within scenes so much in the film?). Therefore, if the POV changes unexpectedly, try not to be completely thrown by it, m'kay?
When Adéle was old enough to put her training to use and join the Opera Populaire's ballet troupe on-stage, she began gaining the attention of critics for her exceptional skill. It has been said on several occasions that Monsieur Benoit may have had a hand in the attention paid to her. More than one critic alluded to an unnamed personage who provided them with a sizable fee to give the young ballerina a positive mention in their review. This favoritism on the part of the critics of the day almost undoubtedly stemmed from the ballet master's affection for his protégé and his determination to advance her career. It is particularly considerable because in those days, the ballet was of considerably less import than it has gained today, and it was rare for a reviewer to comment on the dance, let alone take the time to single out a single ballerina, regardless of excellence.
It seemed she had been walking for hours, but really, Meg knew it had only been a few minutes since she had left the Phantom's grotto behind. The unchanging nature of the corridor made it seem like longer. The passage was freezing, and the walls were damp. She shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was from the lurching pit of nerves in her stomach, or the temperature. She brandished the little light she had brought ahead of her.
Suddenly, the little sphere of the candle's glow revealed an unexpected twist in the passage, and Meg proceeded around it with no little trepidation. There was nothing immediately visible, but now Meg could hear something that the sound of water had masked before- a soft whuffling sound, like a wounded animal
A few more steps, and her candle found the source of the noise, a figure lying curled against the damp wall and shaking visibly. The figure, obviously male, was far too large to be Raoul, which meant only one thing: Meg had found the Phantom. And he was, of all things, crying.
For a moment, Meg was locked in place, staring. She had never seen a grown man cry before, and to see this man cry… Gone was all trace of the powerful, menacing figure who had appeared on the stage only an hour before; he had been replaced by a shivering wreck, the perfect image of a destroyed man. He shook as sobs ripped through him, but nonetheless remained almost silent, in the manner of someone who had given up on noisy tears because no matter how loudly he wailed, no one had ever come. Meg's heart unexpectedly went out to him.
She took the few steps necessary to stand just beside him, then hesitated, out of her depth and unsure how to continue. In a tentative voice, she queried, for lack of a better idea, "Monsieur le Fantôme?"
He lurched to his feet and whirled on her. When he loomed over her, transformed suddenly from the broken, sad man into an entity of impossible height and unending rage towering over her, Meg wanted to shrink back. Some of that courage borrowed from a fairytale was still with her, it seemed, and she managed to straighten her spine and look him in the eyes even when he began shouting.
"What are you doing here? Come to take a look at the madman, you vicious little Jezebel?" he screamed at her. "Look, then! Look your fill! It hardly matters now, does it?"
And Meg did look. She saw the ruined right half of his face, which she hadn't been able to see from her place offstage earlier. She saw the mottled, discolored skin with its purplish ridges and lumps, the way his eye and the right side of his nose both sagged slightly, not matching the other half, the places on his scalp where the skin was warped and stretched and no hair grew, and how that entire half of his face looked as if it had been rubbed raw. It was worse than she had expected, but she had seen worse things, once upon a time. She bit her tongue, willing herself not to look away. This was just a scare tactic, she thought. The Phantom, whoever he really was, was obviously a very broken man and, like a wounded animal, he was reacting by lashing out. But she wasn't going to give in to that; if nothing else, she was too proud to conform to his expectations.
Besides, now she had a question she wanted to ask.
Now that Erik stopped to look at her, the unwelcome intruder upon his solitary grief was familiar. Antoinette's daughter, the little chorus girl whom he would never have even noticed if it weren't for his erstwhile connection with her mother. She carried a candle clutched in her hand, and by its light, he could see her face was pale. She was afraid, positively terrified, but she was still here, standing her ground. Why?
Before he could ponder it, she answered the unasked question herself. "Where is Christine?" she asked in a steady voice that would have been utterly convincing if her eyes hadn't been so wide.
"Gone." He turned away as he felt more tears pour down his face. "She and her Vicomte too, may he burn in hell." He didn't even care enough to be bothered when his voice cracked. "Go. Leave me!" he choked, before his burning throat prevented further speech. Oh god, she was gone, she had abandoned him… What little resolve to stay vertical he had scraped together upon the Giry girl's appearance dissolved, and he sank back down onto the floor. He curled in on the raw, empty place in his chest, knowing it wouldn't help but reacting instinctively to the agony nonetheless.
Meg let out an inaudible sigh. Christine was gone. She had escaped, or perhaps been set free. She almost did as she was ordered and left; what was the point of staying if Christine and her betrothed were already safe? But when the devastated Phantom before her sank to his knees and dissolved into tears once more, she knew she couldn't leave him.
She knelt down next to him and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. She could feel him quivering, and suddenly she understood. The Phantom's obsessive pursuit of Christine over the last few months, she realized, hadn't been just a fixation, or a desire to possess his protégé in all ways. He had genuinely loved her friend, and now she was gone and his heart was in ruins. Meg was unexpectedly overwhelmed by a rush of compassion for the sobbing man.
Before she allowed herself to think, she put a delicate arm around his broad shoulders and drew him into an awkward embrace, sitting there on the ground. He stiffened at her touch at first, but as she rubbed a gentle circle on his back and whispered calming nonsense, he seemed to relax against her. His crying did not cease, and in fact, Meg suspected that by now he couldn't stop, even if manly pride demanded it. She thought of how hard it was to lose someone you loved and how devastated he must be to be so visibly upset, and held on all the tighter for it. Completely out of her depth though she was, she suspected she must be doing something right, because he leaned into her touch, going so far as to rest his head against her shoulder.
She wasn't sure how long they sat like that. It might have been several hours. "It will be alright," she murmured softly, after a terribly long time. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but it will be."
He looked up at her then, and she noticed quite suddenly that his eyes were vividly blue. Beautiful eyes, even bloodshot from too many tears. For a few moments, he simply stared at her, before suddenly the reality of the situation seemed to come crashing down on him, breaking through the grief he had been embroiled in. He pulled out of her embrace. His hand crept up to wipe away the tracks left by tears, then to cover the damaged side of his face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly.
Meg shrugged. "I came to find Christine. I thought she might need help."
"You're very brave to have come down here," he told her, and he sounded sincere. "Braver to follow me this far alone."
She didn't feel particularly brave, but she couldn't help smiling a little at the compliment. She set the candle down on the floor and settled back, leaning back against the wall, mimicking the attitude he had adopted. Eventually, the cold stone of the floor grew uncomfortable, and she drew her legs up to rest her chin on her knees, and wrapped her arms around her folded legs. For a few minutes they sat in silence, he staring into the little flickering candle flame, and Meg watching him. His left side was turned to her, with the ruined right side concealed, and as she took the opportunity to study him, she realized that despite his deformity, he was actually quite handsome. Who on earth was this man? She had wondered it before- in fact, she had pondered on the mystery of O.G. for most of her childhood- but her mother had discouraged asking too many questions about him. Well, now was her opportunity.
"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.
At the girl's question, he was pulled abruptly out of another dark spiral of thoughts that all lead back to Christine. He gave the girl an incredulous stare. He could have sworn she had just asked his name. But that couldn't be right. No one he had had the misfortune to encounter in all his years had bothered to enquire after his name, save her mother. Sure he must have misheard her, he asked, "What?"
Her chin was propped up on her knees and she was peering at him with wide, friendly eyes that seemed so wholly free from guile he couldn't comprehend it. "I asked your name, Monsieur," she said, a tentative little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Le Fantôme may be fitting, but hardly appropriate in this situation."
"Erik," he said. "My name is Erik, Mademoiselle."
"And I am Meg Giry," she responded.
"I know," he informed her. "Antoinette's daughter."
Her eyes narrowed in amiable surprise. "You-?"
Cutting her off before she could finish the sentence, he said, with as much laissez faire as he could manage, "I knew your mother a very long time ago."
"Oh." Her brow drew together in apparent deep thought, before her expression resolved itself into one of epiphany. He wondered idly if she had any idea how easy she was to read. "Actually, that would make a lot of sense," she said reflectively.
Silence descended between them for several more minutes, and Erik was in the process of turning his thoughts back towards Christine's denial and the ring still clutched in his hand, when she intruded on his thoughts yet again.
"What will you do now?" she asked.
It was a troubling question, and one he did not want to dwell on, dammit! He wanted her to go away so that he could drown in his broken heart in peace. He wanted to curl up here and let the darkness have him. He didn't want to have to think about life after tonight, life with not even the faintest hope of Christine, because what was the point? His angel was gone, and there was nothing left for him...
"Well?" she prompted impatiently.
"I don't know," he confessed, looking away from her so she wouldn't see the tears that were gathering in his eyes again.
She seemed to guess anyway, though, because her tiny hand lighted on his shoulder.
"Maybe I can help."