Chapter 1 : The Letter

Erik stared out across the frigid waters of his underground lake, caring not that the cold air was numbing his hands. Maybe, he reasoned apathetically, if I stand here long enough, it will numb my heart as well. He sighed audibly, his breath creating a transparent cloud of warmth in the freezing air. In less than a second the cloud was gone, eaten up by the relentless chill. Just like that wretched Vicomte had spirited away his beloved Christine. She wasn't with him physically, but the pain he currently suffered told him that she had branded his heart with her beauty and youth.

It would never heal.

Lord, he was tired. Tired of being a monster. Tired of hiding from daylight and man. Tired of life. He couldn't motivate himself to do anything; he couldn't compose, couldn't pester the management, he hadn't been to Box Five in weeks! He couldn't even summon the energy to slit his wrists or put a bullet through his head. Instead, he languished in his lair, not eating, not sleeping, reliving every second of time he'd spent with that angelic creature who'd left him for a young, wealthy, handsome man. What was worse, he couldn't blame Christine for choosing Raoul over himself. What kind of life could the Phantom of the Opera offer her? He could offer music and himself, but nothing else. Raoul didn't have his musicality, but at least Raoul didn't scare the poor child half-to-death.

There was nothing left to do but wait... wait for merciful death to come and claim him. Perhaps, if God existed, He would take pity on the Opera Ghost's solitary, unloved life and forgive him. But, Erik was doubtful and reasoned that God wouldn't want his loathsome presence in Heaven. In Hell, however, he'd fit in perfectly with Judas, Pharaoh, and Cain.

@>-----'-----,------------

Unaware of the tragic man underground, the Opera cast was busy with the dress rehearsals for a new opera. Much of the cast and crew had changed; new managers, new singers, new scene-shifters... almost all of the old employees had either retired early or simply quit after the Opera Ghost's fiascoes. Only a portion of the ballet rats remained, including Cecile Jammes and Meg Giry along with the stern Madame Giry.

No one had heard from the ghost in weeks and moods couldn't have been better. But, when other gossip was stale, the rats would return the their old favorite, speculating what had happened to Christine and the Vicomte de Changy. Often they would take the grisliest imaginings they could conjure up. However, Meg Giry, usually the star of the gossip circle, remained silent, scowling at the outrageousness of the tales.

"I bet the ghost murdered Christine and the Vicomte... in his torture chamber!" Jammes exclaimed, her eyes and voice producing the correct inflection to present horror.

"Oh, yes!" chimed in another girl. "He was always after Christine. I wonder what she did to make the ghost so angry."

"Oh, will you all stop it!" Meg finally burst out. "You don't have a clue as to what you're talking about."

Jammes continued, ignoring Meg. "I think the ghost raped her, too. Christine was pretty, you know. And the way she was acting with the Vicomte... well, she was just looking for it."

"Shut your mouth, you bloody liar! The Phantom loved Christine, yes. But she was his beloved... not his whore!" Meg shook Jammes by the shoulders in fury.

"Margaret Anne Giry!" came the familiarly stern voice of Madame Giry. "Such language! Keep this up and I'll wash all of your mouths out with soap!"

"I apologize, mother... but Jammes was making up the most scandalous stories about the Phantom." Meg explained.

"Well... Jammes, I suggest you concentrate on your pirouettes and grande jettes and leave the ghost to his own. That goes for the rest of you, as well. Now, it's almost time for your cue, so get ready." Madame Giry shooed the girls away, pulling her daughter aside.

"Meg, I don't approve of this 'mission' of yours. Can't we just leave the letter in Box Five and forget about it?" she asked.

"No, mother. He hasn't been to Box Five in weeks and he has the get this letter. It's only fair that he should know what is in Christine's heart. Perhaps it will give him hope." Meg reasoned with her mother. "You know, I always get my way in the end, maman."

"Yes, I know. I spoiled you and now I'm almost sorry for encouraging you to think so independently. But at least I know that you'll be fine in your own hands and not some man's." Madame Giry acknowledged with a rare smile. "There's your cue. Go, child!"

@>---,---'---------------------

After the performance, while everyone celebrated the "demise" of the ghost, Meg sat alone in her dressing room carefully re-reading Christine's letter to her, memorizing the instructions on how to safely get down to Erik's domain.

Meg, it is a matter of great personal importance. Erik has never loved anyone before me and may never want to love again because of me. I know I can depend on you to see that this letter reaches him and even dare to hope that you will befriend the poor man. Just remember, Meg, he is not an angel, a ghost, or a monster... he is a man who has always, always been denied any affection of any kind. I know that I can trust you with his heart. You've always defended him and were rewarded by being promoted to leader of the row; I dare to hope that you'll learn to befriend, maybe even love him. Love him, Meg, please... he deserves someone's love and I think you'd be perfect for the Phantom of the Opera. Just remember that his face does not, in any way, reflect his heart.

Your friend,

Christine Daae

Meg ran a finger across Christine's flowery handwriting, God only knew if she would ever hear from Christine again. Her finger came to rest over Erik's name. Erik, she thought, what a perfect name, strong and fearless like the Viking, very fitting for the Opera Ghost. She said his name aloud, pleased at the way it sounded.

Exasperated at her stalling, Meg cleansed her face of the harsh stage-makeup and quickly changed into her street clothes. She had dressed warmly for the adventure, taking Christine's word that the catacombs were chilly; an ankle-length skirt of dark green wool covered several petticoats and a long cloak of brown wool covered her shoulders since she wore only a thin white blouse. She had taken her hair out of it's customary bun and plaited it into two long, auburn braids. Black, button-up boots adorned her feet over thin, but warm white stockings.

Well, here goes nothing, she took a deep breath and activated the mechanism in the mirror to open it. The glass of the mirror slid up to reveal a long, winding tunnel leading down. Meg steeled herself to go into the Opera's labyrinth to find it's tormented Minotaur. Following all of Christine explicit instructions, Meg picked her way down, careful to avoid Erik's Punjab Lassos, pseudo-floors, and other traps. Fifteen minutes later, although it seemed like eons, Meg found herself on the banks of the lake. Christine had said that Meg would either have to swim across, holding her lantern high above her head, or cling to the narrow ledges around the lake. Meg hadn't the foggiest idea of how to swim, so she opted to go rock-climbing.

@>----,----'----------

Inside the house on the lake, Erik was still in his pitiful state of apathy. He was satisfied only that he was beginning to grow weak from his self-enforced starvation. It wouldn't be long now, a few more days perhaps and then he would finally know some peace. Heaven or Hell, it no longer mattered... either way, he wouldn't have to think of Christine and the Vicomte married, living together in a normal house, having children...

The jarring sound of one of his alarm bells startled him out of his gloomy thoughts. What now? he wondered dully, turning to see which alarm it was. The lake... someone was on the lake. Well, let them come! he decided. If they're merciful they'll put a bullet through me without a second's thought! Five... ten... fifteen minutes passed and still no sign of his intruder. With a weary sigh of resignation, Erik gathered up his cloak and mask and went to see what the problem was. If he was lucky, it would take his mind away from Christine for two seconds.

Once on the lake, a quick scanning revealed nothing... no one swimming in the dark water, no one skittering on the stone ledges. But, a closer inspection revealed his quarry. He detected a small shape of white under the water's surface.

Dear God, someone had fallen in the lake and drowned!

Poling the boat over, he carefully managed to pull the unfortunate into the boat without tipping them both over. It was a woman, which surprised him, what self-respecting woman would be caught wandering around the Opera Ghost's domain? She was very small and slim, almost like a child, and the soaked hood of her cloak covered her features. Curiosity moving him out of his long-held apathy, he gently parted the sodden cloth from her face. He recognized her instantly.

Meg Giry!

His little dancer and Christine's best friend! What on earth was she doing here? Why hadn't she gone out celebrating with everyone else? Why had her mother let her down here? And how had she managed to avoid his traps? Through this haze of questions, Erik realized that her small chest rose and fell with regular but shallow breaths. Thank Heaven, she wasn't dead, merely unconscious. She shivered violently in her wet clothes and Erik decided that his ten million questions could wait for him to get the poor child back to his house and warmed her up. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she died of pneumonia.

He poled back to the shore and carried her into his house, carefully setting her down on the couch. He couldn't very well change her out of her drenched clothes, so he covered her with several heavy blankets. When finished, he put some water on for tea and patiently waited for her to come to her senses. In his leisure, her found himself looking at her very closely, taking in every detail. Strange, he'd never noticed how beautiful she was. He always thought of her as the skinny eleven-year-old she'd been when she first came to the Opera almost seven years ago. Now barely eighteen, she had grown into a slim and shapely young woman.

Her carrot-colored hair had darkened to a fair shade of auburn and her sallow skin had taken on a pale cream complexion with peach-colored lips and cheeks. Her flat, skinny frame had blossomed into the pleasing curves of a grown woman, long, lithe, and elegant as ballerinas tended to be. Truly she was a comely little maiden... Erik couldn't imagine why she didn't have suitors knocking down her doors. In all truthfulness, he couldn't remember ever seeing her with a young man; she hadn't even been vaguely interested when the handsome Vicomte had returned.

A soft moan issued from her lips, alerting Erik that she was about to wake up. So as not to frighten her, he sat back in his chair trying to look relaxed. Perhaps now, his burning questions would be answered.

@>----'----,---------

Meg stared against the blackness of her closed eyelids. Her head hurt and she didn't want to wake up. What had happened anyway? Last thing she remembered was her foot slipping on a loose rock and letting out a startled scream before toppling into the freezing water. Water? What had she been doing clutching at rocks above water? Oh, yes... she had been delivering Christine's message to Erik and she had fallen in the lake. Dear Lord, was she dead? No, her head hurt too sharply for her to be dead. And she felt weighed down, like she was buried under every costume in the Opera. Blankets, she reasoned, I must be covered with blankets. Someone must have pulled me from the water before I drowned. Her mind snapped fully awake when she realized whom it must have been...

Erik!

Her eyes blinked open and shut, her headache raging as her eyes tried to adjust to the light of the gas-lamps. Finally, her gaze settled on the black-clad man sitting not eight feet from her. The Phantom of the Opera! She felt irrational panic rising up in her throat and made a mighty effort to calm down. Now stop it, just stop it! He's never hurt you before and he probably just saved your life! Besides, remember what Christine said. She became aware of him watching her expectantly. She'd never been so close to him before; Dear Lord, he had the most stunning eyes she'd ever seen! A sort of intense pale-blue ridged with dark-blue. Her own electric-green eyes paled in comparison.

"Ahem..." she cleared her throat. What on earth did one say to the Opera Ghost? "Maestro Erik, I presume?"

Brilliant, Socrates, just brilliant.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Giry?" he replied smoothly, as if people dropped in on him every day, nearly died, and then addressed him as such..

"I apologize for my rather impertinent arrival and I thank you for...er... rescuing me-"Meg babbled, unaware that she was trembling.

"Slow down, child. I'm not angry with you if that's what you're worried about. Just tell me what obviously urgent news brought you down here." Erik said softly, calming her fears instantly.

Meg took a deep breath, reveling in the extraordinary sound of his voice... so warm and soft, like velvet against bare skin. "Um... I have a letter for you from Christine. She asked me to give it to you. And you haven't been to Box Five in weeks, so I had to come down here to get it to you." she explained, keeping her voice steady. "I followed Christine's instructions on how to get down here safely, except I lost my footing on the ledge and fell into the lake. I dare say you know that rest."

Erik nodded thoughtfully, well that answered his questions. "I take it you have this letter with you?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. How silly of me... it's in my pocket." she withdrew the letter from the folds of her skirt. "I'm afraid it's had a washing, but it should still be readable."

Erik took the letter from her, taking great care not to touch her with the cold, bony fingers that had always caused Christine so much discomfort. Carefully, he opened the damp envelope and withdrew the letter. Though blurred from the water, the words were still legible and Erik read them as he would his own death sentence.

My dearest Erik,

I've hurt you terribly, I know. But I wish to explain to you exactly why I chose as I did. It was not, as you believe, because of you... it was because of me. I'm not worthy of your love. It was not your face, your age, or your past deeds that made me choose Raoul; it was my own cowardice. Don't bury yourself in your grief over my loss... you have far to much to offer the right woman. You need a woman who is strong, independent, equal to your great heart... I am not such a woman. Don't disappear forever and don't commit suicide, direct or otherwise,... live and search for your soul-mate. If she's smart, she'll see you as the passionate, loving, intelligent gentleman that you are.

Never doubt that I do love you, Erik. But my petty, childish fears won't let me express it to you properly. I am truly a child and when children come to a problem that's too hard to face, they run away and deny it ever happened. Forget me, Erik... I've brought you nothing but pain. Find another and shower her with your intense affections.

Sincerely,

Christine Daae

Erik sighed inaudibly. So, she did love him. What good was that knowledge now? "Find another" she had said. How could he find another when he was cursed to hide from daylight like a spider? It was hopeless. No woman, no matter how strong, could ever love the Phantom of the Opera. What did anything matter? Couldn't he just do everyone a favor and shoot himself?

"Maestro? Are you feeling well?" Meg's soft voice permeated his black thoughts, stubbornly forcing him to the present.

"Oui, mam'selle... I'm fine." he managed to clear his head enough to answer.

"You seem disturbed. What did Christine say?" Meg asked in concern.

"She wants me to forget her and find another." Erik said dully.

"Oh... you don't think you can?" she asked quietly, rising from the couch to gently touch his arm, a small gesture of comfort.

Erik stared at her small, white hand in bewilderment. No woman had ever touched him before without intending to inflict pain; even Christine had been forced to kiss him. This young ballerina knew him mainly as the infamous Opera Ghost and was still moved to touch him willingly and without fear because he was in pain. His pulse quickened involuntarily at her nearness and he took a deep breath for control.

Meg looked up at him, marveling at his height; he towered over her! And quite frankly, she'd never seen a more attractive man in her life. He was broad-shouldered and exceedingly well-dressed in expensive evening clothes that were obviously tailored especially for his tall, well-proportioned frame. And the way he moved! Even the head male dancer, Jean-Claude, didn't move as gracefully as Erik! Dear God, Erik made her all weak in the knees; he was good-looking, polite, and astonishingly wealthy. If it weren't for that mask, she thought, he'd be downright perfect!

Erik noted her candid gaze and took the opportunity to do the same. Now that she was awake, she exuded life and vibrancy. Her eyes were especially remarkable, an intense, glowing green; they seemed to bore right into his heart, healing the torn cracks and soothing his pain. She was so young and fresh, a peach-hued rose eager for the sunlight. Sunlight he couldn't give her, but music he could. He vaguely recalled her asking Christine about her "tutor" asking if he could help her learn to sing. Well, he'd never heard Meg sing, but her speaking voice was soft and lilting due to her very slight Irish accent. In addition, her dancing was alluring from the very start, capturing his eye and prompting him to promote her to leader-of-the-row.

Not knowing what possessed him, Erik heard himself ask. "Do you sing, mam'selle?"

Meg looked up at him, confused. "Why, yes... a little... not very well, I'm afraid."

"Let me be the judge of that, mam'selle. You want to sing, do you not?" Erik continued, seating himself at the pipe organ he'd been neglecting for weeks.

"Yes, maestro, but-" Meg began.

"Erik...please, call me Erik." he requested softly.

"Erik," she repeated obediently. "Do you really want to waste your time with a ballet rat? My voice is nothing next to Christine's."

"Humor me, mam'selle-" he began.

"Meg... if I have to call you Erik, you have to call me Meg." she ordered with all the finality of a queen-in-training.

Erik paused to fix her with a look of surprise and burst out laughing. "My word, you are a saucy one, Meg Giry. Do you always address opera ghosts as such?"

Meg joined him in laughing. "Naturally... especially when they insist on being omnipotent. I don't like being told what to do, even by ghosts."

"Really? I shall just have to humor you, then."

"You do that."

On to Chapter Two

Back to the Chapter Index