A/N- A longer chapter, and earlier than I had expected! Woo-hoo!
Also, I watched Black Swan today. I suspect that having seen that is going to make writing a few of the later chapters of this MUCH easier. (Also, did Mila Kunis' character actually exist? Can anyone answer that for me? Seriously, was she imaginary, or was she real and just everything she DID was imaginary or what?)

Adéle was an extremely talented ballerina, it is true. The trouble with great talent, however, is that no matter how good you are, there is always someone at least equally proficient. When Adéle was twenty, another dancer joined the Opera Populaire's troupe, a German beauty named Clothilda. She was two years younger, but also a promising talent, and she had already earned herself a fine reputation in another ballet company. It was inevitable that the two would clash.

Erik looked up at her incredulously. "Help me?" he asked dubiously. Why should anyone want to do that? Especially now. He was suddenly brutally conscious of the air on the bare skin of his face. The contrast between the two of them was incredible, he thought. He the beast, the angel condemned eternally to hell, and she... Well, she was a different entity entirely, he decided, looking at her. She looked so tiny sitting there, kneeling on the floor next to him, looking at him with warm amber eyes and with her gold hair falling all around her. She was beautiful, actually. She didn't have the same haunting good looks as his Christine (oh god, not his after all... but no, he wouldn't think of that now; he couldn't go to pieces again) but her heart-shaped face had a kind of ephemeral sweetness about it that rendered her quite lovely indeed. Certainly not the kind of creature he would expect to show any kind of pity to him.

For some unfathomable reason, however, she seemed to believe differently. "Yes, help you," she said. "Regardless of what you've done, you obviously need someone to look after you, and I suspect you'd rather have my help than the kind of assistance you're likely to find from the others who came down to find you."

"Why, though?"

A tiny smile crossed her face. "Because you let them go," she told him, and apparently felt satisfied to let him make of that what he would, because she withdrew her hand from its resting place on his shoulder and got to her feet. "Alright, now, I'll go and see if they've stopped searching yet. You wait here." She held up a commanding finger as she said it. "I'll be back in ten minutes, no longer." She turned on her heel and walked away from him into the dark.

Erik realized with no small amount of surprise that she had left him the candle.

Meg reached the entrance to the passageway with minimal (but painful) difficulty, and an excess of silent walking which gave her plenty of time to think. She had no idea where the offer of help had come from. All she was certain of was that she felt an unexpected amount of sympathy and protectiveness for the damaged man she had left behind. He obviously needed someone, and she was powerless to say no. She had a suspicion that she had just taken on a rather larger task than she had quite intended.

Upon arriving at the entryway, she pushed the curtain back from the opening just the barest of inches and peered out. The cavern beyond was empty, and she ventured out, making sure to secure the concealing drape once again after her egress.

"Hello?" she called, and received only echoes in return. The makeshift home Erik had set up appeared to be empty.

Erik... She was mightily confused by him. For so many years, she had wondered who the Phantom was, and the reality was rather different than what she had imagined. She supposed, though, that she had encountered him in a rather unusual situation. Of all the things she had considered, the idea that the strange happenings around the Opera Populaire brought about by his hand over the last year could be motivated by love was certainly not one of them! If it hadn't all come to such a disastrous end, Meg supposed she might have thought it was somewhat romantic. Except, as she had said, he had let Christine go in the end, so maybe it was after all...

Oh, the whole mess was such a puzzle! And Meg was quite sure she didn't have all the pieces yet. Well, she would soon sort it out, she decided. If nothing else, she wanted to understand what had motivated him to take such extremes to win her friend. He had obviously lived down here for a terribly long time, she thought, surveying the little series of rooms he inhabited. As lovely as it looked, she suspected that one wouldn't want to live here indefinitely. It seemed so lonely. He seemed lonely. Was that the key to all this? A lonely soul reaching out to someone? It seemed incredible that all this trouble could stem from something so simple, but it was the only shape those puzzle pieces seemed to fit into. Meg supposed that his disfigurement must have made life terribly difficult for him, after all. She didn't think it was that terrible, all things considered, but she knew from experience that people were liable to descend on the slightest imperfection and pick it to shreds, and something as unfortunate and as impossible to conceal as that... Perhaps it wasn't surprising that he had hidden away down here.

Meg suddenly realized she had left the white mask behind with Erik. Well, more than likely he wanted that back anyway, so no harm done.

Having ascertained that the way back to the opera house was clear, she was ready to return. She slipped back behind the curtain, and took a deep breath, preparing unhappily for another trek through the dark, complete with all the stubbed toes that were virtually guaranteed to go along with that.

Realistically, Erik knew she had only been gone a little while, but it felt like forever while he sat waiting for Meg to return for him and all the while doubting that she actually would. There was no possible reason for her to come back. More than likely she would just go and laugh at her narrow escape. Except, why had she left the candle?

And then there was the puzzle of his mask. After she had left, he had noticed it sitting on the stone floor right where she had been sitting. So she had had it all the time, and had never suggested he put it back on! It was inexplicable. He put it on now, though, feeling the familiar cold weight settle against his skin, perfectly sculpted so as to remain on his face without any stays. On the off-chance she did return, there was no need to disgust her more than he already had. He was very conscious of the fact that he had lost the wig that concealed the places along his scalp where no hair grew on his inflamed skin, but the mask was better than nothing at all.

The little flame was starting to burn low when he at last heard her delicate footsteps approaching. When at last she became visible in the dim light of the taper, he thought she almost seemed to glow herself. Her pale skin and hair caught the light and reflected it back brightly, making her positively angelic. She was so innocent, not tainted at all by his dark world, and again he marveled that such a person would even bother with him.

She beckoned to him. "It's all empty," she told him. "Everyone else has gone back to the surface. We can go now."

He got to his feet and picked up the candle, crossing the distance between them. In silence, they walked back down the passage to the broken mirror. She pushed it aside and poked her head out, then nodded to him and stepped through. He followed, and found himself back in the habitation he had thought was left behind for good.

The little dancer turned to face him and her expression was, for once, difficult to interpret. "By the time I was on my way down here, the fire brigade had already been sent for, so hopefully they'll have managed to put out the fire by now," she said.

"Fire?" he asked thickly. His thoughts still felt like he was swimming through syrup, everything wrapped up in Christine's image, and he was having trouble following everything Meg said to him.

She gave him a disapproving frown. "Yes, fire," she said emphatically, her tone scathing. "I suppose you were a bit busy abducting my closest friend, but I would think someone as intelligent as you so obviously are would have been able to work out that crashing an electric chandelier onto the stage would inevitably result in a fire. We should consider ourselves lucky if you haven't burnt the Opera Populaire to the ground!"

Unexpectedly, shame filled him. His beloved opera house... ruined? He hadn't thought about that. Of course he hadn't! Had he thought of anything the way he ought to have? Nothing had come of his pitiful dreams, and he had destroyed his one sanctuary in the process. Right then and there, Erik decided that he had to find a way to fix this. He hadn't the faintest clue how, but maybe later inspiration would come. He would make better what he had destroyed, for the sake of his fellow artists if nothing else.

Meg observed him closely as she issued her barely-veiled chastisement. As the realization of what he had truly done seemed to sink in (perhaps for the first time?), she watched his eyes fill with anguish. For a long moment, he stared at the ground hard enough to sear holes in the stone beneath his feet. Then, quite suddenly, his head came up and his shoulders went back. She wondered what was going on inside his head.

"Alright then," she said, in a somewhat gentler tone, deciding that her point had been made. "Now, assuming that the fire is, in fact, put out, I think I know somewhere where we can hide you."

"Where?" he asked.

"My mother's quarters. No one will even think to bother us there. Maman has always deeply valued her privacy, and most people are afraid even to knock on the door. The only reason I even have a key, I think, is because she wanted me to have a place to avoid the detestable Josef Buquet, lecherous worm that he was." She quirked her lips and raised an eyebrow, daring him to comment on her casual mention of his victim. He apparently chose not to take the bait, instead skating past it to a rather apparent problem.

"But Antoinette's rooms are central to the ballet dormitories. How do you propose to get there undetected?" he inquired, and she got the sense that he was testing her. Meg found herself exceptionally peeved by it. What right did he have to be pressing her? She was the one who was risking her neck to help the cause of all this trouble! Regardless, she was more than up to any challenge he might set her!

"As I just said, the theatre was on fire not all that long ago. More than likely, the place will be empty," she pointed out, hoping he would respond in the way she suspected he would.

"And if it is not?"

Bingo! She gave him a self-satisfied smirk. "You are not the only one who knows this opera house like the back of their hand, oh mischievous Phantom. I have lived here almost my entire life, and while I may not have explored these catacombs you so enjoy, I know the building itself as well as anyone who ever lived."

His expression was incredulous. "I highly doubt that," he said.

"At the very least I know it as well as you. I found the passage behind the mirror in Christine's dressing room, and the loose panel in the wall along the staircase to the second balcony, and your little oh-so-cleverly concealed bolt-hole you use to get in and out of Box Five so cleverly. And that's just the start of it."

The eyebrow that wasn't concealed behind his mask raised in surprise and, she thought, approval.

"This opera house was my playground for most of my childhood," Meg said smugly. "Never underestimate the number of things a curious child may discover."

Erik's expression was suddenly quite difficult to read. "Indeed," he said musingly. "Alright then. Show me how well you know this place."

But Meg held up a hand. "Not so fast! The manhunt may have stopped for now, but within a day someone's sure to come back. You've had half of Paris in an uproar for months, and a chance to poke around your lair is something no one will want to pass up. At the very least, the police will come down here. Anything you want to remain unspoiled, you'd better take now."

Despite his head reeling as she talked so matter-of-factly about the whole affair and the aftereffects he hadn't even stopped to consider, Erik made his way to the little alcove he had dedicated to housing his smaller instruments. He looked over the array of cases, his little collection of friends, some pilfered from thoroughly confused orchestra members and some purchased legitimately.

On a few of these instruments, he lacked proficiency. He had never had any patience for the horn, and he was only a passable clarinetist. Still, he had felt it was important for him to understand the challenges and limitations of all the instruments in order to make his compositions better. He knew he couldn't take all of these with him, and was already mourning the loss of whomever he left behind. After a few minutes of deliberation (during which Meg's impatient foot-tapping grew increasingly obvious, much to his unexpected amusement), he reached inside and plucked three cases from the shelves.

A/N part deux- So, which instruments do you suppose Erik cannot possibly live without? Two of them are set in stone, but I'm perfectly willing to take suggestions for the last one! Speculate away!