Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.
Chapter Twenty
Two months later
"I have found him."
Patrick and Meg turned to stare at the Persian, as he closed the door with an ominous thud.
Patrick removed his hand from within Meg's, gripping the arm of his chair apprehensively. The sound of Nadir's boots thudded quietly across the scuffed wooden floor boards, his demeanor dark and foreboding. He reached within his jacket pocket and retrieved an old faded photograph and a slip of parchment, and threw them upon the countertop.
Patrick stared at the photograph, his mouth tracing the words printed neatly upon the parchment, his eyes widened first with shock, which was quickly chased away by horror.
"What – there? No, you can't be serious."
His voice wavered as he continued to stare at the photograph, unaware of the Persian's jade eyes gazing shrewdly at him.
"We cannot possibly! What are we going to do?"
Nadir's eyes flicked briefly to Meg, cold bewilderment etched cleanly into every contour of her pale face.
"I think I may have a plan."
XxXxXxX
Two months previous
Adrenaline coursed through Christine's veins and her heart hammered wildly beneath the thin material of her chemise. Blood ran steadily from the gash across her arm, trickling in crimson rivulets that flowed down her arm and fell from the tips of her delicate fingers. Ragged breaths tore at her lungs, and yet she urged her body through the pain; one pure, clear thought giving purpose to every breath, every stride.
Hold on Erik… please… just hold on…
Fleeing across the lush de Chagny grounds, Christine had quickly plunged herself into the deep forest bordering the Eastern-side of the estate. Barely conscious of the presence of the dirt road that wound through the forest, she blindly dodged trees and fought through the thick bramble that threatened to slow her progress at every turn.
Except for the crunching sound of dead leaves beneath her feet, the forest was deathly silent. The darkness crept up around Christine, suffocating her presence as she battled her way through the dense forest, vines and thick bramble snagging the pale flesh of her arms, and tearing jagged lines across her milky skin. Fighting through the pain, she ignored the steady flow of blood that seeped from her wounds, staining her dress and leaving crimson droplets in her wake.
Christine could feel her muscles starting to wane, as her lack of energy and general sense of hopelessness shrouded her sheer determination. Suddenly the hairs along the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, and fear washed through every fibre of her being. Somebody was here… in the forest with her! Blindly she turned to flee the sound of a creaking branch, unable to see the shadowy figure leap from his mount atop a regal black stallion. She did not travel far, however, before a grimy hand shot out to entangle her. She screamed shrilly, but the sound was stifled as a set of thick fingers snaked their way about her mouth. Nearly cutting off all breath, Christine forced herself to calm down enough to survive. Her nostrils flared, taking in precious oxygen frantically. Her assailant was going to kill her!
Christine was dragged harshly across the darkness of the forest floor, dead leaves and twigs ensnaring haphazardly within her flaxen locks, and found herself shoved against the trunk of a tree. She grunted at the impact, as all the air was knocked brutally from her lungs. Suddenly she found herself free from the hands of her captor, and instinctively she turned to flee. Rough hands found her throat again, however, and shoved her once more into the tree trunk. She could feel her flesh bruising beneath this attack, and attempted to stifle her cries of pain. The man lifted her until her toes barely brushed the ground. Helplessly she clawed at the hands about her throat, darkness beginning to cloud her vision.
"Victor!" a man's harsh voice barked, "that is enough!!"
Just as she thought she would slip into unconsciousness, the hold released. Christine crumpled into a pile, only able to see the faint outline of the man's feet as she gasped for air – bloodied fingers stroking her own injured throat as if they could open up the air passages even more. Unprepared for the blow that would follow, Christine could not help but scream as the toe of those boots crushed her ribs with a brutal kick. She was tossed onto her back by the momentum, and found she could scarcely move against the pain that exploded within her mind. The resounding click of a revolver barely registered in her mind, and she faintly believed the bullet was intended for her.
"Victor, God damn it! I said let the girl go!"
Christine grimly saw the assailant's boot move away from her face, and the outline of man with a revolver to his face through her blurred and darkened vision.
"The Comte will have your head for what you have just done to his wife!"
"After all the trouble that worthless whore has caused us? I would be doing the Comte a favour-"
"-that is not your place to decide!" the second voice hissed angrily.
The assailant chuckled darkly. "Put that revolver away, Oscar, we both know you're far from being a big enough man to use it." He crouched down beside Christine's limp body and grasped her face roughly. Turning it toward himself, he began to laugh.
"What is it about you, Comtesse, that has my master's tongue wagging, hmm? What untold secret?" His hand roughly grazed the inside of her thigh.
"No, no." she whimpered, again attempting to free herself from his hold.
"Victor!" Oscar barked again, "I will kill you where you stand if you don't step away from the girl!"
Victor glanced briefly over his shoulder at the revolver pointed squarely at his forehead, before returning his gaze to Christine's limp face. "Pity," he whispered darkly, removing his large hand from her thigh, and standing to his full height.
Oscar glared as Victor strode over to his horse and hoisted himself up into the saddle. "If you think you can handle her, Oscar, be my guest! But watch out – she's a feisty one!" And with one last mirthless laugh, Victor rode off into the darkness; the underbrush of the forest crackling in his wake.
Oscar shook his head sadly and approached the young woman slowly, afraid of startling her. Seeing her in no fit state to fight back, he gently scooped her slight form into his strong arms and carried her over to his brown mare. Setting the girl as securely as he could within the saddle, he hoisted himself up behind her, tucking one hand about her waist while the other clasped the reins. Kicking the horse into a slow walk, he guided the young Comtesse out of the forest, her head lulling against her chest as she slipped into unconsciousness.
XxXxXxX
The warmth of summer sunlight replenished the colour in Christine's cheeks; she opened her eyes wearily to the bright sunlit warmth of her bedroom. The first thing she noticed was that she had been bathed and her clothing changed. She looked up to see Raoul standing across the room from her, gazing out the large paneled windows, his back turned pointedly towards her. Christine felt her fear return, its icy grip around her heart relentless as it constricted even more, sending slivers of pain shooting through her body. Terrified, she quickly sat up, curling in upon herself, and drew her coverlet protectively around her small frame. She felt a throb of pain in her neck and ribs. The memory of what had almost happened struck her and she shuddered, a silent tear slipping from beneath her lashes and trickling down her bruised cheek.
Raoul made no conscious reaction to her movement, but continued to stare ominously out the window; she had never seen him so withdrawn before.
It was a long time before either of them spoke, but when Raoul finally did, it was with a cold finality that numbed Christine to the core.
"It was foolish of you to try and escape me, Christine." He turned to face her, his cold gaze flaring briefly with some unnamed emotion. "Now your masked lover will pay for your disobedience."
"Erik?" Christine cried weakly, "no, Raoul…. Please, you cannot hurt him! Raoul – please!"
He turned viciously upon her, his face screwed up in anger, frustration and hatred. Each emotion simultaneously chased their way across his face, and his cold grey eyes narrowed into mere slits.
"Perhaps you should have considered the worth of his life, before you acted so foolishly!"
Raoul stooped to retrieve his coat from the settee at the foot of her bed. Twirling his silk cravat idly, he spoke absently – more to himself, than Christine.
"I cannot be held accountable for my actions…"
Christine was suddenly filled with the strength of panic and, immediately reanimated, she threw herself from the bed and fell in a tattered heap at her husband's feet.
"No! Raoul, no! You won't hurt him! You can't!"
He felt as cold as ice as he stared down at his philandering wife, openly pleading for the life of her monstrous lover. He did not let her shift an inch.
"Oh, but I can. So very easily, and with so much pleasure."
She stopped moving again and looked up at him with a new sense of abhorrence that made her feel she could coldly hate him for all eternity being so cruel.
"I truly despise you!"
With a sudden ferocity Raoul grasped Christine's wrists in a Death-like grip, pulling her harshly to her feet so that he could stare coldly, albeit heatedly into her eyes. His gaze stung and burned her flesh, and she felt them ravish her body with a savage mixture of love, hate, rejection and betrayal. His grip upon her freshly bandaged arms was so severe, that he tore open the healing wounds; crimson flowers blossoming over the clean white bandages.
"You do not know the meaning of the word!"
Not letting go of her wrists, he slid his other hand down from her face to her neck, and cold fingers gripped around her throat.
If it was possible, her eyes went even wider. She struggled against his furious grip then with all the energy she had left, as if for her life, and started to sob in pounding terror, gasping for breath amid choking tears.
Raoul ignored her crying and pressed the two hands he held to his chest over his heart, while leaning down more closely over her. "Love? Hatred? What would you know of these things? All you can conceive is treachery and betrayal!"
He released her then and she fell in a wretched heap once more at his feet. Her hands clawed feverishly at his coat, as desperation flooded every pore of her being. Oh God! Erik!
Unmoved by her pathetic display, the Comte yanked the fine material of his coat from within her iron grip and sneered down at her.
"Raoul – please!" she whimpered quietly.
Not caring to watch her disgusting display of betrayal and deception any longer, Raoul stormed towards the door, savagely yanking it open and slamming it behind him with such force the house seemed to shake to its foundations.
Christine stumbled over to the door, her pale hands flailing against the unrelenting wood. She fought against it, twisting and pulling madly to try and free herself from the confines of her prison. All coherent thoughts had left her mind as she panicked and cried frantically, "No, no!"
Raoul sighed heavily, his heart twisting in upon itself as hatred began to spawn where love had once flourished. His bare hands pressed softly against the mahogany of the bedroom door, as he heard Christine's heart-wrenching sobs echo throughout the hallway. He swiped his hand angrily across the cold surface.
He turned furiously to guard stationed slightly to his right. "You, Victor!"
Victor was a burly man of six foot. Dark, unkempt hair fell slightly into his black, soulless eyes, shrouding his gaze in shadow. He was one of Raoul's henchmen; needlessly vicious at times, but effective in ascertaining information from unwilling clients.
"If you ever lay a hand on my wife again… if you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will know. And then you will pay dearly… with more than just your life!"
Victor eyed the young Comte through his darkened gaze, a sadistic smirk tugging at the corner of his misshapen mouth.
"Yes sir."
XxXxXxX
Two months later
Meg sat before Nadir and Patrick, her heart fluttering wildly beneath the thin chemise of her ragged undergarments. She fingered the tattered material nervously, the beginning of a light perspiration trickling down her back. She stared apprehensively at the Persian, who held her steady gaze with his bold, green eyes.
"You are a very brave woman, mademoiselle Giry. Your mother would be very proud of you."
Meg nodded slowly, swallowing the lump that formed in the back of her throat. They had rehearsed their plan until every detail had been analysed, again and again. She knew the part she was to play, the words she had to say, the subtle movements of her body which would expose the physical weakness of her male counterparts. It was the one bargaining chip they had, and she could not afford to back down now.
Yet despite all their preparation, Meg felt as through she were walking into this situation blind, not knowing what her next step would be once she was inside.
The carriage rolled slowly to a stop, and Meg felt the bottom of her stomach give way, her heart hammering so loudly within her breast that she was sure the two men opposite her could hear her fear.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Meg?" Patrick asked her, his voice tinged with doubt and concern. Meg barely heard him, as her mind and eyes were desperately trying to process her surroundings.
"Meg?" he enquired again.
Meg shook herself mentally, before grasping Patrick's hand reassuringly.
"Yes… I will be fine. Don't worry about me." She responded with as much confidence as she could muster, although barely convincing through a small, trembling voice. Why had she agreed to do this?! Patrick and Nadir descended the carriage steps, and Patrick held out his hand to help Meg out of the carriage. She grasped his hand tighter than was necessary, and he felt the tension and apprehension in her fingers.
"Meg," he whispered, drawing the frightened girl closer to his body. She rested her forehead against his strong chest, desperately trying to quell her erratic breathing. Patrick looked quickly at Nadir, who, seeing the need for the young couple's privacy, turned and walked a few feet away.
"Meg," Patrick called again, placing two large fingers beneath her small chin and raising her soft blue eyes to meet his cool green ones. "Are you sure you're alright? You don't have to do this, you know… I'm sure there's another way…"
"No." Meg shook her head harshly, "there is no other way – you and Nadir said it yourself! No. I have to do this. I want to do this… for mamma and Christine…."
Patrick nodded slowly, then suddenly consumed by an overwhelming appreciation for the remarkable girl before him, swooped down to claim her lips in a soft, reverberating kiss. Meg gasped in surprise, slowly melting into the soft feeling of his lips moving against hers. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer in her need to feel him, and his reassuring presence.
Slowly they broke apart, and stared at each other, wonderment filling their eyes. The corners of Patrick's mouth twitched upwards in a small smile as he gazed at the remarkable young woman before him. Meg smiled.
"Be careful," he whispered as he mournfully untangled his arms from around Meg's waist.
She pressed a faint kiss against his unshaven cheek, "don't worry. I will."
He turned back to Nadir, "It's time."
Meg parted from the company of the two men, stepping out onto the dimly-lit street and following the turn of the cobblestone path as it wound around a decrepit building and snaked its way down an alleyway. As she turned a corner and the alleyway widened out, Meg suddenly found herself confronted by a sinister stone building, shrouded in darkness and shadow.
The structure had no windows, only small openings covered in heavy cast-iron bars. Meg's nose and eyes burned from the painful stench and sulfur fumes which rose from the ground. The sounds emitted from the large building were deafening as well as frightening – screams and moans; hysterical laughter; cries of pain. Never in her life in the Corps de Ballet had Meg ever witnessed such a daunting sight.
It was now completely dark except for the scattered lanterns set high above the cobblestone streets. A pale moon floated softly overhead, occasionally concealed by wispy clouds that offered no rain. There were homeless people huddled in the alleyway, their shallow breath rasping through the night air and adding to the ominous atmosphere. Prostitutes lined the streets here, in this poorest and most underhanded part of Paris, waiting desperately in shabby bustiers and cheap, gaudy jewelry for business with any customer who paid. Meg shuddered at the thought that she, too, was pretending, even though through disguise, to be one of them.
She fingered the ragged material of her skirt apprehensively. Nadir had produced the best substitute for a prostitute's attire he could manage. Meg now stepped nervously towards the asylum's gates, clad in nothing but a revealing burgundy corset, tattered lace undergarments, stockings, a frayed skirt, and paper-thin wrap. The wrap was not necessary, really, considering the humidity of the warm summer night, yet she clung to it desperately. The other prostitutes exchanged confused glances and whispers as they watched Meg walk past them and to the large cast-iron gate that encircled the asylum. Their sunken eyes traced her footsteps, confusion and bewilderment marking their features.
Before Meg had a chance to change her mind and flee before she was noticed, a young, smirking guard opened the large entrance doors only a dozen feet in front of her. She clutched the bars in frozen anticipation as he sauntered over to where she stood. All the lines she had rehearsed with Nadir seemed to remain trapped within her throat, although her mouth was open, desperately trying to speak. After noticing that the man approaching her was hungrily drinking in every inch of her nimble dancer's body with his filthy gaze, she casually made an effort to cover herself with the scant wrap. At the moment Meg finally began to say something, the tall guard had already reached the gate to unlock it, speaking to her first.
"I bid you welcome, mademoiselle." He emphasized with a mocking bow. His face displayed a pleased smirk, as if he had been expecting her. When he began to open the heavy gate, she pulled it shut towards her with both hands. It felt safer that way. Although the man was taken aback, he didn't remove his stare that bore into her.
"Wait - I have come…I have been paid to…" She stammered. "What I mean to say is that I have been paid to conduct…business here - with one of your inmates. The dues have already been p-paid by a very important and…wealthy patron of this establishment."
"Oh yes?" The guard replied with the same cynical smile. "And who might this wealthy patron be, hmm?"
Meg lifted her chin a little higher. "The Comte de Chagny."
The young guard's smirk faltered. He leaned closer to Meg, his eyes narrowed and his gaze bore into her.
"The Comte de Chagny, eh?" He stepped away, thoughtfully stroking his cleaved chin. "Very well – I wouldn't want to keep your… business waiting. This way."
With tense limbs, she walked past the guard with as much distance and speed as possible. Through the vestibule he silently followed her, and Meg could swear she could feel his eyes upon her, searing her bare skin with his lustful gaze. Surely enough, he brusquely placed a large hand strategically below the small of her back, then traveled down lower. Meg's entire body tensed at the uncouth touch, but she did not want to stop moving, her fear clamping an icy hand painfully around her heart. An overpowering, foul stench almost caused Meg to step backwards as she stepped into the entrance of the asylum.
XxXxXxX
Meg's slender throat rippled as she swallowed hard. She watched as the first guard walked over to another older, more disheveled looking one just exiting a cell who eyed her intriguingly as the man whispered into his ear. He nodded slowly as a dark smirk crept across his lips and then waved the younger man away.
"So… my friend tells me the Comte de Chagny has sent you into our midst… a wee little lamb for the slaughter." He approached her slowly, every step careful and measured. "Mmm, forgive the terrible cliché, mademoiselle…"
As he neared her soft, supple body, he felt a heat spread throughout his limbs, as his imagination soared over what was concealed within that scantily clad body. Being a guard in Paris' most dark and dangerous asylum did not lend itself well to the attentions of female relations. How long had it been since he…?
The guard now stood mere inches from Meg, the rosewater scent from her hair wafting enticingly towards him. He breathed deeply, sending the hair along the back of Meg's neck on end - prickling uncomfortably. She shuddered and stepped away from the man, disgusted by his close proximity and what appeared a general abundance of uncouth behaviour that seemed prevalent amongst the guards.
With as much bravery as she could possibly muster, she spoke directly into his repulsive face. "The Comte de Chagny sent me, monsieur, just today. He has paid me handsomely already, and in exchange I am to see the man he conceals here."
Their eyes seemed to remain locked on one another for hours; like two predators encircling each other, testing each other's weaknesses, waiting for an open opportunity to attack. The guard gazed at her shrewdly, while he secretly contemplated why his patron would do such a thing. Another torture device, perhaps? The Comte is certainly a disturbed man; inflicting all manners of rigorous torture upon the beast. And yet the thing will not yield. Perhaps the weakness of the flesh will betray his humanity… and his humility.
"Genius," he breathed darkly, his lips once more curving in a cruel smirk.
He removed a metal flask from within his coat pocket and took a swig of the amber liquid the swilled within. His eyes squinted as he took another haphazard draft from the flask, liquid dribbling down his chin and unkempt mustache. Licking his lips to remove the few remaining droplets, he dropped the flask within his pocket once more.
"I suppose the Comte has his reasons for everything." He took a few moments to think. "How else would you know of that deranged beast he hides here, had he not told you so?" He smiled darkly, his teeth a horrid shade of yellow; stained by cheap alcohol and cigarettes. "Come along, then. I will take you to him."
Meg cringed as the guard wrapped an arm callously over her shoulders to lead her to the stairway. She attempted to shrink away from his touch as the foul stench of his alcoholic breath blanched the air and slammed her senses, but he dragged her body closer to his. Upon approaching the beginning of the stairs, he quickly grabbed a lantern from the wall and held it in front to light the path. Meg's heart raced both from the unknown of what lay ahead and the tight grip that the man guiding her had on her arm. His cold fingers were clamped in a vice-like grip, numbing her arm from the lack of blood flow. It seemed the descent down the dark passageway of the asylum would be infinite. Meg's breathing became heavier and more erratic as the guard tugged her along, eager for her to keep to his pace. She clutched the slight wrap tighter about her shoulders, unwilling to betray their violent trembling. The guard looked back at her constantly with a sinister smile as he pulled her down deeper into the eerie darkness.
"How m-much further, monsieur?" Meg's trembling voice echoed off the cold stone walls.
The guard merely smirked at her. After what seemed like an eternity, the pair finally reached a long, narrow passageway. The dim light he held with his other hand illuminated only a few feet ahead of their steps. The cries and moans of violent and despairing inmates reverberated throughout her being, clawing miserably at her heart. What kind of Godforsaken place was this?
For a brief moment, Meg felt a heavy sense of relief as she finally saw a distant yet faint light ahead of her. The man's grip tensed on her arm with a greater intensity and urgency. Before the light became any clearer, Meg barely had a moment to gasp as a large, coarse hand clamped hard over her mouth. All cries for help were obstructed by his sweaty grip, as he swung her small body aggressively into the damp stone face of the wall. Her eyes widened with fear as the man pushed himself against her, resting his weight against her light frame in an effort to keep her immobile.
"Oh, come now, pet. I only want to play." He hissed. "You act as though you have never even been in the presence of a man… in need." Her eyes widened with panic and fear at the beastly face that confronted her own so closely. He smiled darkly as one finger roughly caressed a pale cheek. His breathing was ragged and his voice filled with lust. Her entire figure was now trembling uncontrollably as her eyes flew down and then back up into his fixed stare. He was going to rape her!
Once her body finally unfroze, she struggled against his weight, pummeling his broad chest with her small fists. They had no effect on his heavy body, but her resistance served no purpose other than arousing him to greater heights.
"Feisty one, aren't you?" He whispered, roughly nipping and bruising the tender flesh of her exposed neck. "Your master should have taught you to behave more properly in the presence of a gentleman."
Freeing her mouth momentarily, she spat with as much abhorrence and animosity as her small body could muster, "You are no gentleman… swine!"
Clamping his hand once more across her mouth, her cries of disgust and fear were momentarily muted. Never before had he felt more stimulated than when violence fueled his passion. Meg tried desperately to turn her face away from him, but his hand clasped the sides of her cheeks tightly and still so he could kiss her full and brazenly on the lips. She almost gagged at the foul embrace, as her hands struck out at anything they could reach. The man released her lips briefly, trailing his tongue down her neck and bare chest.
"Oh, why do you fight me so, my sweet? Is this not like the attentions you have received in the past…?" His hands wandered slowly over her body, stopping to rest momentarily on her breasts that rose and fell with each quickened breath. She whimpered against his foul touch. "I'm sure if you relax… you might even enjoy it."
"Besides, how can I be expected to waste all of this perfection on some ghastly, worthless animal?" He tore eagerly at her bustier, "Don't you agree my dear?"
He kissed her roughly again, sucking on her lower lip while furtively burying his hand into the top of her corselette in search of something to satisfy his growing desire. He halted as a sudden thought sprang to mind.
"Unless… yes, of course! That would explain it!"
Meg's mind raced at an even greater pace with his words. Had she been discovered? Searching his face for explanation, she shook her head numbly in confusion, desperate to escape the fear that now consumed her.
"Yes!" The guard slammed his palm against the wall behind her, an evil smile alighting his face as dark thoughts encircled his mind. "Yes, it all makes sense now! Our clever little Comte would only send the best for our mutual friend, would he not?"
Meg's stomach grew tighter and tighter. "No… I-I do not understand." She blinked her eyes quickly, releasing pent-up tears down her cheeks.
"Do not toy with me, coquette!" His voice hissed harshly through clenched teeth. Meg cowered under his fiery gaze, a festering anger leaping into his eyes. "That explains your unwelcoming demeanor! You've never had a master, have you?" He pushed her back harder against the wall, roughly pulling her golden mane back, reveling in her pleading cries mingled with sobs. "You are a virgin, are you not?"
Her eyes flew open in terror to look at his demon face consumed with lust and greed. Oh, God! Help me! Her body noticeably tensed even more.
"Ah, I see." The guard chuckled darkly. "That is all the answer I need. I'm sure the Comte wouldn't mind if I took a little something for myself. I have, after all, been a great deal of service to him in concealing the monster." Before he could lower himself upon her again, a strong voice rumbled throughout the dank passageway.
"That would not be wise, monsieur!"
Meg's heart skipped a beat and her breath faltered. Could it be…?
The Persian stepped forth from the shadows, his cold jade eyes blazing furiously in the darkness.
The guard's head snapped around, but he maintained his crushing weight upon Meg's slight frame.
"Who are you? I have not seen you here before!"
The Persian narrowed his eyes, his large hands silently balling into fists as he saw the bruises blemishing across Meg's exposed neck. The crack of his knuckles echoed off the stone walls. "I am in the personal employ of the Comte de Chagny, and my business here is none of your concern-"
"-How did you get in here?"
"Also none of your concern!" He leveled his green eyes on the filthy guard. "I suggest you take your hands off the girl monsieur. The Comte will not look kindly upon any interference with her, I assure you. She was brought solely for the monster… untouched."
The guard swallowed heavily, his breathing ragged and uneven. Quelling the passionate fire that consumed his lower regions, he stepped reluctantly away from Meg, who cowered against the wall, her entire being shaking with suppressed terror.
"If he did not pay so handsomely, I'd have no heed for the Comte's orders." He returned his festering and lustful eyes upon Meg, devouring her flesh with his gaze. The guard chuckled darkly, "consider yourself fortunate, girl. Or not. That young Comte… he has a very sick mind."
The guard retreated into the shadows to retrieve his lantern from where it had fallen. The Persian quickly shot Meg a look, concern etched into his tanned and weathered face. "Are you okay?" He mouthed silently. She dragged a hand across her cheek, wiping the tears away and nodded mutely. The Persian's gaze hardened as he stared at the guard beckoning the young girl forward. He made to follow.
"Ah-ah. You cannot pass through, monsieur… I will take the girl alone."
"I think not." The Persian stepped towards the guard, boldly staring down at the slighter man with a menacing gaze. "I will come with you, to ensure the Comte's prize arrives as she ought."
The guard stared up at him, vehement anger blazing in his eyes. The Persian inclined his head slightly, "unless you wish to speak with the Comte himself. I have heard he has a filthy temper when disturbed."
"Fine," the guard conceded, "this way."
Nadir beckoned for Meg to follow him, allowing her to walk slightly to his left so that he could keep a close eye on her.
As they came around a corner in the dank stone passageway, Meg had to stifle a horrified gasp. The sight that befell her was a gruesome one indeed. She saw the muscle in Nadir's jaw clench painfully, and his eyes narrow in disgust.
Soft moonlight was filtering in through the high barred window, illuminating the form that sagged, with arms outstretched, and head hanging limply against his chest. His wrists were bound in shackles and chained to opposite ends of the small, bare cell; his ankles bound also with chains that cut into the skin like dull knives. Through the soft illumination of the moon light Meg and Nadir could see that the man wore only a pair of black raged trousers, and a once pristine-white shirt that was now completely shredded from his numerous beatings. Meg felt her lower lip tremble as she took in the battered and beaten visage of a man who had once made life at the Opera Populaire a living nightmare. She stared at this man, the Phantom, Erik….his clothing and skin stained with blood, his open wounds still festering and weeping, threatening infection.
"Allah above…" The Persian whispered, staring at his friend in horror.
Erik's dark hair hung limp about his face, covering it completely. The stout guard leered down at his prey, dragging his head up with his fist in his hair, but Erik refused to bite back. Smirking, the guard let his head drop to his chest again, slapping a rough hand against the non-disfigured side of his face.
"Behave yourself," he said gruffly, beckoning for Nadir to follow him.
Tears now welled heavily within Meg's eyes, yet none escaped. She was in too much of a state of shock and disbelief to even blink. How could Christine's husband have been so cruel? How could anyone be so cruel to another human being?
She turned as she heard the guard slam the bar door closed behind her, watching and listening fearfully as the heavy thud of his booted feet faded into silence, taking her savior, Nadir, away with him. Assured that they were alone, Meg stepped hesitantly toward the grossly disfigured man.
Beneath the caked on grime; the dried blood and dirt, Meg could faintly make out the gross visage of the man who stood slumped before her. She had, of course, been exposed to his deformity before, but at a distance, and never as severe as he appeared now. Though shamed by her thoughts, Meg wondered internally what Christine ever saw in the man hung so piteously before her.
Erik stirred from his semi-unconscious state, aware of another's presence in the cell. His bloodied eyes cracked open, but refused to focus. The slender form of a female blurred before his vision. Just as Meg arrived only a few inches next to him, he shrank away from her. A low, guttural sound, that Meg mistook for a moan echoed throughout the cell. His shoulders shook slightly, as a cold mirthless laugh pierced the cool night air. Meg stared at him in shock, wondering whether the torture had robbed him of what little sanity he had possessed.
"You are wasting your time, mademoiselle." He paused for a moment to catch his breath, pain shooting through his body as his broken ribs tweaked painfully. "I do not know what the Comte paid you, but you do not want to be here. He is a very sick boy, you see, who takes pleasure in all things abhorrent. Tell him what you will, that I enjoyed the pleasure of your services… but do not stand and openly gawp at my monstrosity. I do not want some common whore."
"Monsieur, I am not a common prostitute. I am Meg Giry."
If it were at all possible, Erik seemed to sink further still within his chained confines. He watched with morbid fascination as a crimson stream of blood slowly snaked it way down him arms, disappearing in the folds of his ragged shirt.
"Meg…" the same seemed foreign on his tongue. As though savouring the word, he stood in silence; the tension in the air threatening to suffocate the occupants. Slowly he cracked open one swollen and blood-encrusted eye to stare at the petite blonde girl dressed in rags befitting none other than a common street prostitute. And then he began to laugh.
"Why, if it isn't little mademoiselle Giry! Well, I can see I am descending more into my insanity!" Erik quipped thoughtfully, a dark chuckling reverberating throughout his ribcage, "Of all the people I never thought you would appear in my delusions… but for what reason I cannot think."
Meg stared at the madman uncertainly.
"Monsieur le Fantome, I assure you it is I who stands before you… in flesh and blood."
He continued to stare blankly at her, as though staring through her… her presence barely registering within the web of madness that had begun enveloping his thoughts.
Summoning all the courage that resonated within her small body, Meg slowly lifted one hand to gently push away the dark hair the concealed both his deformed and beautiful features. The moment his blood-encrusted eyes met with hers, all the life seemed to drain from his body. His eyes blazed, suddenly alight, as conscious awareness came rushing back to him.
Mademoiselle Giry… Meg Giry… she is here! WHY is she HERE?!
"Mademoiselle Giry – what are you doing HERE?!" Erik's ragged voice hissed through clenched teeth. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?"
"Shh, Erik. I am here with the Persian-"
"Nadir!"
"-we have come to free you."
"How did you find me?"
Meg hesitated, "I do not know, monsieur. It was the Persian… investigated, spoke to people. I'm not sure how he came upon you."
"There are too many prisons – how did he know I was even in France?"
"Monsieur… Erik. This is no prison…" She glanced hesitantly upon at his grossly disheveled and disfigured form. "You're in an asylum."
Erik drank in her words, too shocked to fully register their meaning. The boy… the boy had him… COMMITTED?
Erik's head snapped up. "Christine! Is she-?"
"We do not know. She is being detained at the de Chagny estate as we speak!"
Erik's feral eyes widened in shock, and his eyebrow arched in sarcasm and cynicism.
"And how do you suppose you'll free me? I am at present chained to the walls… unless you intend on taking them with us?"
"Don't be stupid."
Meg reached up into the pile of golden curls atop her hand, her nimble fingers plucking a long metal pin from within her tresses. Bending the tips slightly, she pushed the pin within the lock on Erik's shackles, her deft finger manipulating the internal mechanisms of the latch.
I have to admit, the girl has guts. The corner of Erik's mouth twitched upwards. "Where on earth did you learn to do that?"
Meg's eyes briefly flicked to his before returning to the lock. "You don't grow up in an Opera House, monsieur, without learning a few underhanded tricks."
Several seconds later, the first shackle yielded, freeing Erik's bleeding wrists.
XxXxXxX
Two months later
From the shadows he watched, intent green eyes noting the unusual activity taking place within the normally tranquil de Chagny estate. The first oddity came when an older looking gentleman, portly is stature, came rushing to the location carrying a physician's bag. He cautiously side-stepped the guards stationed at their post by the main entrance to the manor. The door had flung open in a haphazard manner, where the man was quickly ushered inside the foyer. Patrick's brow creased with confusion. A physician?
Nearly an hour went by… and nothing. No visible activity occurred within the manor, but the security surrounding the perimeter of the estate had been doubled. Patrick shifted uneasily from his position within the dense underbrush of the forest. Stocky men stood guard at every entrance, one some several feet from his position; polished metal revolvers hung sleekly at their waist sides.
Patrick shoved his gloved hands back into his pockets. His head fell back against the rough bark of the tree trunk, where it rocked back and forth in frustration. This was an impossible mission – it was suicide! Something within him stirred, reminding him, forcing him to think clearly.
Finally, the door opened once again, the physician mumbled some parting words to whoever was concealed within the shadows of the doorway, before going on his way. The shadowy figure in the doorway lingered, his eyes quickly glancing at the guard to his right, nodding slightly, before pushing the door closed.
Patrick thumped his head uncomfortably against the trunk once more. He turned back towards the estate, his eyes scanning the horizon as he selected his victim and traced his every movement with his intent gaze. He looked to the moon, gauging the time to be somewhere around eleven o'clock. He could not afford to stand by and wait any longer. It was time for action.
Patrick needed answers and the reassurance that Christine was alright.
A/N: I'm dreadfully sorry about the long delay between updates, but now that I'm finished exams (and High School for that matter!) I have all summer to work on this phic. If there are people still reading this phic.. I'd love to hear from you. Thanks.