Author note: Forgive my long absence. There's been so much going on, some good, some not so good and this story became 2nd priority…or 3rd or 4th. But on the bright side of life, I've got a kickin' head start on the next couple chapters, so hopefully I'll be updating like crazy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Erik…between the hours of 6am-9pm.

"Devastation does not discriminate."-Katie Ford, Colosseum

I was nervous. My lungs were constricting…or else being fused together by the ridiculous corset Edel insisted I wear. She came through the front doors like every other guest outside the opera company. I decided to come via the back entrance. Edel looked at me funny but said nothing. Now, I hid in a secluded corridor outside one of the box seats—box five, now that I think about it—peering out over the balustrade at the people below. Edel came upstairs in search of me, catching my still-cloaked figure in the dim light.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like my heart's gonna drop out my arse."

She laughed. "Try to keep your wily tongue in check when you're being swept around the dance floor."

"Ha! Me, dance?"

"That is usually what happens at balls." I didn't respond and she sighed at my tortured expression. "You'll have to face them, eventually. The longer you wait, the harder it will be."

"Edel," I took a deep breath (as deep as I could manage), "I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of being recognized…falling out of this damn dress…making a fool of myself…the possibilities are endless."

She took my hands in hers. "None of which will happen. Come on, now, chickpea. Show me I didn't pour my sweat and blood over nothing."

Of course, how thoughtless of me. Edel's done so much for me, as have Meg and Christine, to prepare me for this night. I nodded in submission, taking my time to untie and remove the cloak. Edel took it from me and headed back down the stairs.

"You'll be dazzling, Maggie. You always are."

As I plucked up the courage to come out of hiding, I noticed all had suddenly gone so quiet—the music, the mindless chatter. I followed the gawking faces to the landing of the Grand Staircase where a towering figure, clad in scarlet, stood, glaring. He bore the face of Death. Some bold fellow attempted to reach out and touch him. The specter stepped back.

"Do not touch me! I am Red Death, Stalking abroad!"

I gasped when I immediately recognized the voice. I pin-pointed Christine's black costume in the crowd. Apparently, she recognized Erik as well. The bloke who dared to touch him laughed merrily and made a second attempt. This time, Erik was not so…polite. I didn't have a clear visual, but I heard the poor fool cry out in pain before Erik spotted something in the throng of onlookers. Christine-standing awfully close to her Vicomte. His hold on her was anything but brotherly as Christine had claimed before Erik. Erik didn't make his way over to them—at first—but he did make sure to keep Christine in his line of vision. Shaking my head at his objectionable but expected behavior, I prayed tonight wouldn't end in disaster.

The music started up again, shaking me out of my reverie. I waited until the atmosphere seemed relaxed and jovial again, then, took a last deep breath before taking the plunge into the eddy of amalgamative colors.

Although my entrance probably wasn't as dramatic as Erik's, it still received rapt attention. Edel covered every possible detail of the costume and her work did not go unappreciated. The layers upon layers of revolting lace had been stripped away—as well as most of the bottom half—leaving a thin but flowing black satin skirt with a black veil attached as a train—Edel's addition. The bodice was mostly corseted with a small fraction of material covering what would be considered a racy show of cleavage, and off the shoulder straps sporting feathers that faded from light gray to black with elbow-length mesh gloves, decorated with black velvet spirals and leaves. Edel and I had a slight disagreement over the corset. The bottom half that met the skirt was mesh, therefore leaving my abdomen fairly visible. The waistline trim of the skirt was again adorned with ebony feathers.

The mask was almost more remarkable than the gown. It extended from the eyes over the cheek bones as well as over the brow and rose up like strange black wings, outlining the exposed portion of the forehead in a unique pattern. The bridge of the nose connecting the mask hardly looked like it was even there! It was made of a clear fine material and speckled with more black to appear as if it was actually welded onto my face. In short, my face looked like it was morphing into a raven. Erik, eat your heart out.

So many eyes were on me as waltzing couples strained to place this new mystery girl. I didn't know whether to be unnerved by this or flattered. The only eyes I sought had not yet focused on me as they were leaning against a back wall, already zoned in on Christine. I watched from the landing as he finally followed the murmurs and stares. Once those flaming orbs fixed on me, they never strayed. My stomach somersaulted briefly before being overcome with a strange sense of relief, relief that I wouldn't have to face this high-and-mighty crowd alone.

'Okay,' my thoughts were racing, 'chin up, back straight…and for god sake smile. Look like you actually belong here.' As I descended, my main goal was to get to my escort. I didn't dare make eye contact with anyone else for fear my façade of confidence would crumble. Erik met me halfway, moving as if he were caught in a magnetic pull.

He bowed formally, "Mademoiselle."

I tried to curtsy like I'd seen other well-bred ladies do. "Monsieur." I grinned. "I can't believe it. Here, I thought I'd never be forced into the confines of a corset and Edel's got me wearing one!"

I didn't realize how loudly I'd spoken until I heard a gasp and glanced over to see a lady and her husband conversing nearby, eyes darting between Erik and me. My hand flew to my mouth in embarrassment.

"But I probably shouldn't have said that."

He gave a slight nod but was smiling. "You look…enchanting."

God…I'd never given it much thought before but I found that I rather liked his odd smile. It was almost devilish, the way the right corner raised up as if it were holding back some great secret. It wasn't something he did often and so I felt privileged to see it.

"Thank you. You look rather dashing yourself—wickedly so." I received more stares as my accent slipped. I closed my eyes to shut them out. "I'm sorry." I began to fidget with my gloves. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to say in polite society. I've spent most of my life avoiding it."

He stilled my restless hands and I tried to relax. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

I furtively glanced around and saw Christine with Meg. Meg was openly gawking at me while Christine refused to make eye contact. I think it was because Erik was standing by me.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Alright."

As soon as he left my side I felt utterly exposed and anxious again, though I tried not to show it. In Erik's absence I was approached by several men and their dates, curious about my identity. Some men asked me to dance, to which, I politely declined. Christine and Meg made their way over. I could tell Meg had wasted no time locating the punch bowl—she was rosy and in the midst of a giggle fit.

"Maggie, you look positively beguiling!"

"Meg!" Christine reprimanded, finding the term inappropriate.

"Well, she does!"

Christine ignored her. "You're absolutely radiant, Maggie."

"Thank you, but I don't hold a candle to you."

"Pish-posh! I bet you'll give Christine a run for her money, tonight. I even caught the Vicomte stealing a glimpse or two."

"Margaret Giry!" Christine warned.

"Oh, I'm unbelievably parched. I think I'll go for another round of punch." And Meg hurried off to escape her friend's wrath.

"You'd better keep an eye on her, this evening."

She smiled and then turned serious. "Where's Erik?"

I came crashing down from my jovial high. "Last I knew he was getting me a drink."

"Is—how is he?"

"He's fine. Are you worried?"

She nodded, ringlets bouncing. "A little. I feel awful, Maggie—for being here with Raoul instead of him. I think it really hurt him. I just don't know what to expect anymore, he's so hard to predict."

I placed a comforting hand on her arm. "He'll survive. He won't do anything, he promised. And if he forgets…I'll remind him."

"Don't be so sure, Maggie. You know his temper."

"Hellloo!" I gestured to my costume, "I'm a bloody goddess, literally. I can do whatever I want. Don't worry," I winked, "I'll keep him busy."

Before darting off to rejoin her Vicomte, she made me promise to explain the story behind my costume and of the goddess it represented.

"And how is mademoiselle Daae this evening?"

Startled, I spun around to find Erik a few paces away, a glass of champagne in hand. He was focused on Christine, however.

"I think you're making her nervous, lay off."

His attention returned to me, somewhat taken aback at my haughty tone. He handed me the drink, which I downed in two swallows. He smirked.

"It seems she's not the only one."

"I, sir, am an endangered species, torn from its original environment and placed in another. Wouldn't you be?"

"Point taken."

We both stood there, surveying the scene. Erik turned to me suddenly and held out a scarlet-clad hand. "Would you care to?"

Dumbfounded, I stared at the proffered hand as if it would bite and then at the colorful pinwheel of intoxicated dancers. I shook my head.

"Are you crazy? I can't do that kind of danci-," I cut off when Erik grasped my hand anyway and tugged me onto the dance floor. Placing my hands in their proper positions, and his around my waist, he held my petrified gaze with his warm encouraging one.

"Dance with me, Maggie."

I froze, completely paralyzed in shock and ecstasy the second my name passed his lips. How I wanted to hear him say it again. I couldn't recall if he'd ever called me by my Christian name before. It was always, "Buquet," "girl," "Jezebel," or "wench," and other such cold labels. As if I was just a 'thing' and nothing more; not worth the trouble. I didn't realize we'd already started dancing. I stared down at our feet.

"I don't know if I can—," again, I was stopped short when I felt a gloved finger lift my chin.

"Look up, not down at your feet, and follow me."

"Don't I always?" I smirked.

"You follow a man's lead?" he teased.

"Depends on the man."

We danced silently, oblivious to other bodies waltzing around us. Our eyes locked unwaveringly on each other. So swallowed up I was in those amber orbs that I failed to notice our bodies closing in until a racing heart—not belonging to me—alerted me to the situation. Before I could contemplate this any further, Erik broke the silence.

"I believe the old custom during a dance was to strike up polite conversation."

"Oh, wouldn't you just love to see me try."

He grinned. "Yes, in fact, it would amuse me immensely."

"Such a flatterer. Well, I don't know what all falls under "polite" conversation—other than the weather."

"Tell me about your costume. Judging by that pendant you're wearing, it has some Celtic references."

I nodded, fingering the coiled metal of the Celtic knot. "It was a birthday present, some years ago. Joseph bought for me at a county fair."

The moment I mentioned Joseph, I wished I hadn't. What kill-joy topic to bring into "polite conversation." Although, I attempted to appear unaffected, I couldn't fool Erik. There was awkward silence before he picked up from where we'd left off.

"I've never seen you wear it."

"You may have noticed I'm not crazy for jewelry. I only wear this on special occasions."

The discomfort from my earlier statement still hung around us, killing the mood. Erik took note of this and slowed to a stand-still.

"Perhaps you would like to get some air?"

"I would, indeed."

The blast of January air was a welcome companion after being cocooned in that stuffy overcrowded ballroom. The stars—oh, faithful stars—were out. Polished diamond rings, illuminating slush-filled streets…the only remnants of yesterday's snow.

"You still think about it." Confused, I waited for specification. "Joseph. You miss him a great deal, don't you?"

Angling my face to hide threatening tears, I bitterly replied, "Of course, I do. He's—was—my brother."

"I suppose…I suppose to apologize would be futile."

Stunned, I faced him. He wasn't looking at me but rather at the open doors into the foyer. "The ghost has a conscience after all."

What new game was this? A man who kills, then offers condolences to kin of the deceased? My heart and my head screamed two different things, snagging and tearing through brambles of opposing emotions. Oh, how I wished I could believe him…forgive him. But how does one forgive a murder, much less a murderer who claims one of your own? He didn't kill just my brother, but a friend; a guide; a savior. And in killing him, he also, in a sense, killed my mother, my father, and little Kessy…he killed a little bit of me.

I don't think Erik quite understood at the time that when he took Joseph's life, he took a piece of mine along with it. Before we met, that probably mattered little to him. Knowing me as he does now…I wondered if he really did feel differently. Who was this new man? I didn't know him.

"I suppose an apology wouldn't hurt, but it won't change anything. He had a family, Erik. He had a mother, a father; he had little sisters who looked up to him, and a—and people who loved him, believe it or not."

He hung his head. "What if…what if I told you…"

"What?" He didn't respond and I wondered if he heard me but the, he shook whatever the thought was out of his head.

"Never mind."

Again, we took to watching the dancers. I couldn't help but notice how I still didn't fit in with them, despite my efforts.

"I don't look like them."

"No—you look better."

I rolled my eyes. "You know what I mean. All my life, I've found myself standing miles and millennia away from the in-crowd. At first, it was simply due to lack of pedigree as well as lack of interest. Then, it was by choice. I suppose there was a time I wouldn't have minded eating with the upper-crust, but I sure as hell don't recall when. Now, I just kick dust at their feet. I'm tired of fighting to be different."

"Why do you try to fit in when you were obviously born to stand out?" Erik countered. His bewildering remark certainly shut me up.

It was at that point I began to recognize how crucial my appearance was becoming to me. Two years ago, even two weeks ago, I could've cared less. Erik helped remind me of that. Ugh. Since when did I turn into such a prissy sissy?

"How much do you know about the Morrigan?" I picked up the conversation.

"I can't say I've ever heard of it."

"In Irish lore, the Morrigan was believed to be the deity of war and battle, sovereignty, and keeper of death. She was referred to as the 'Phantom Queen.'"

Erik smirked. "My soul mate."

"She was also said to be a triple goddess and would often be seen in a battlefield as a raven or crow."

"Busy woman…with quite a morbid occupation."

I nodded. "She wasn't a huge fan of mercy, either."

Erik leaned against a pillar, then, eyes cast downward, pensive. I guess I didn't realize the similarities between the sinister goddess and Erik, and therefore, didn't take into account the affect the legend would have on him. Hesitantly, afraid he might lash out like he did with the fool who tried touching him; I placed my fingertips on his arm. His head abruptly turned but nothing more. He just watched my hand, judging whether or not this was a comfort or an invasion of space before repositioning himself so that he faced the crowd inside.

"It didn't make her a monster," I reasoned, "she was just dealt a shitty hand, was all."

"No one mourns the wicked."

"I don't think that's entirely true. She did."

"And what tragic fate awaited her?"

I gave a small smile. Erik knew well there were no happy endings for these kinds of stories. "What usually happens to heroes, villains, and ever other poor sucker on the face of the earth—she fell in love, with a warrior called Cuchulainn…"

But Erik wasn't paying attention to me, anymore. He was fixated on something in the foyer. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Christine's black gown as she hastened upstairs and disappeared around a corner with the Vicomte in tow. Erik straightened and walked back into the throng.

"Erik…" I warned.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle." He didn't even look at me.

I watched him follow after Christine as I stood there, completely alone in this alien atmosphere, insecure, and no longer needed. Feeling used, I brushed past clowns and fairies, wanting nothing more than to get away from this, get away from it all.

Out in a deserted hall, I tried to get a grip on this new collage of feelings I was experiencing. I was angry, confused, lonely, an outcast. I felt like a pair of old shoes—familiar, trusty old shoes that—despite their comfort—are tossed aside for a pair of shiny new ones. Hell, was I jealous? Ridiculous! But my heart confirmed that indeed that's what it was—jealousy. I was envious of Christine in many ways: for being ethereally beautiful, for being steadfast in kindness and patience, thoughtful and unbelievably talented—one of a kind. Why should this bother me? It never did before. It was then that I realized that I had always been jealous. The loathing I felt for anyone who had more than I ever had was pent up, black envy. Not green with envy, black with it—black and blue as it tore and beat me up inside.

I didn't have any valuable womanly attributes, no God-given talents. I didn't have any status or family fortune. Who would want a woman like that? No one. There was one thing Christine Daae held in her possession that I was most jealous of: Erik. I now recognized I was attracted to him a great deal. I understood him better than anyone else could. But he would never think of me in that way, never look at me the way he looks at Christine. Our roles were changing. Erik was on the pedestal and I was becoming the loyal dog, futilely trailing after its master.

"God, what is the deal?" I asked aloud, childishly kicking a wall. I felt like a lost little girl and absolutely hated it. I sat on the floor, skirts fanning out around me, and pouted.

"This is downright ballsch*."

A/N: There ya are. Next chapter is being typed up as we speak. Told you guys you wouldn't have to wait long.

*ballsch-rubbish; crap.