Chapter 2 : Discoveries

A few weeks passed and slowly Erik's anguish began to disperse. He focused his attentions on Meg, giving her informal singing lessons and dancing lessons. She was a bright young girl; quick to learn, eager to please, and always ready with a smile or laugh. She could sing well enough, not well enough to be the prima donna, but her voice was sweet. Besides, being a prima donna was not on her priority list... being the prima ballerina was. She was a graceful and inspired dancer, not just obeying the choreography like a wind-up toy, but also improvising and making up her own choreography when allowed. She became more confident and bold under Erik's tutelage and, in return, helped him forget Christine.

Meg enjoyed her time with Erik thoroughly, silently reveling in the extraordinary resonance and beauty of his voice, not to mention his surprising skills at dancing. Her mother had made a fuss at first, but shortly afterwards Erik had shown up at their door wishing to talk with Madame Giry. He had assured the ballet mistress that her little Meg was in no danger under his Opera and in his house, that he would never hurt her for anything. He won the stern Madame Giry over easily with his gentility and sincerity.

Meg fancied Erik strongly and believed herself to be falling in love with the man beneath the phantom exterior. In their time alone, he had occasionally displayed a little of his life's suffering. He hinted at, but never quite delved into his times before the Opera House; times in Persia, Rome, and the Rouen of his birth. From what she gathered, Meg found that he'd never been happy a day in his life, he'd always had to watch his back and keep his eyes open for attackers and betrayers. She wanted to heal the horrible wounds in his heart and spirit, but wasn't sure how to go about doing it with any tact. She couldn't very well throw herself at the man! He was proud and dignified and would view her affections as pity; not exactly the premise she wanted to portray.

"That's better, Meg... and turn left... your other left." Erik guided Meg through the latest dance in their repertoire.

"My other left?" Meg laughed. "Goodness, who knew I had two?"

"I think that's enough for today, young lady." Erik chuckled, noting her panting for breath. He tried not to also notice her practice costume's scarcity. A white bodice with only thin straps and a full, flared, but decidedly short skirt of a gauzy, pink material; these constituted her practice wardrobe. He tossed her a white towel and she caught it deftly, wiping the sweat off of her brow.

"Whew! I'm thirsty... you want something to drink, Erik?" she asked, ambling off to his kitchen.

"Brandy, please... and help yourself to whatever else is in there." Erik called after her. She'd definitely made herself at home in his underground abode; she already knew her way around his kitchen better than he did.

"Erik, I have a proposition for you." she said upon returning with a glass of brandy for him and some juice for herself.

"Indeed? And what might that be?" Erik asked after taking a sip.

"My mother wants you to come over for dinner some evening next week.. I'll cook and everything and it'd just be nice to have you over. Do you think you would like to come?" she asked, betraying none of her excitement over the prospect.

Erik sat back on the couch, hiding his instinctive reaction to the invitation. He rarely ever went out, let alone to dinner at someone's house. But one look into Meg's brilliant green eyes told him that she would not take no for an answer.

"As you wish." he replied softly, his heart twisting painfully as she gave an ecstatic little squeal and clapped her hands together in delight. She was so young and fresh, a pert little sparrow ready to live life to its fullest.

"Wonderful! How is tomorrow night for you?" she smiled at him, unaware of his physical responses to her nearness and beauty.

"Sounds excellent."

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

The next night, Erik stalked the streets restlessly fidgeting away the hour before his appointed arrival at the modest Giry home. What on earth was he supposed to do at this gathering? What, sit there and comment upon charm of their abode and sip tea like anyone else? he wondered, I think not. He was genuinely fond of little Giry and wouldn't hurt her for the world... but it had never occurred to him that he would actually go out of his way and ignore the instincts that told him to stay underground just to satisfy her. Without even thinking of it, he stopped in the Tuilleries Gardens and handpicked a dozen or so roses of brilliant red, white and pink hues. Red roses; true love... white roses; I'm not worthy of you... pink roses; unrequited love... he mused at his almost unconscious selection. He refused to let himself believe for one moment that he was falling in love again. He would not knowingly put himself through that kind of torture again... never again... not if he had anything to say in the matter. He was too old and too ugly to ever hope of having a seriously romantic affair with a woman.. Even if he weren't old and ugly, there were still his crimes to think about, and the fact that he lived beneath the very streets of Paris, hiding from sunlight and eyes like a nightmare creature in a child's dreams. What kind of life could he offer Meg?

He stopped in his tracks.

Meg? Why in God's name would he think of Meg in that way? She was his pupil, his muse, nothing more... no, nothing more. She was too young, barely eighteen, a child for Heaven's sake! Besides, she only liked him because he was teaching her to sing and helping her improve her dancing skills. She could never love him.

Love? Why should he care if she could love him? He didn't love her... did he?

Of course you do, you bloody idiot! You're only trying to convince yourself that you're beyond pain. Well, guess what, Erik... you are not. You love that child, now stop telling yourself otherwise and do something about it!

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

Meg looked out the window for about the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. She prayed to God that Erik would show up; she knew how determined he was to stay out of the sight of other people.

"Meg, please, stop that." her mother scolded gently. "Looking out the window isn't going to make him get here any faster."

"I know... I'll go check on dinner." Meg sighed, rising gracefully from the chaise lounge. She walked into the kitchen and lifted the lid off of the pot simmering on the stove. She hoped he would like what she'd prepared; roast beef, stewed carrots, Irish potatoes, and for dessert, some simple applesauce with cinnamon. Not the most lavish dinner in the world, but it seemed like a gourmet feast to Meg. She and her mother often dined mainly on fried potatoes and onions, a recipe from their native Ireland; every so often they'd have a bit of sausage to go with it, meager as their respective wages from the Opera were.

The carrots and potatoes were almost done, but the roast still had a good fifteen to twenty minutes left, so Meg decided to set herself out to fix the drinks. As usual, her mother would want a stiff brandy and she would sip some wine from their only bottle. What would Erik have? she wondered. He has normally had a brandy in her short acquaintance with him, but being a native Frenchman, he was sure to like wine too. At length she decided to wait until he arrived and then give him the choice.

As if on cue, her mother called, "Meg, your guest is here."

Nervously, Meg smoothed back her loose hair as best she could, straightened her apron, and walked with practiced grace into the room where Erik and her mother awaited. Erik stood tall and straight, a bouquet of roses in his arms. He looked so handsome and mysterious standing in the dimmed light of her parlor that she was momentarily stunned.

"Good evening, Maestro." she greeted him formally, blushing hotly at his intense gaze.

"Good evening, mademoiselle... for you." he handed her the roses, drinking in the sight of her young beauty. She wore a plain, light green gown of cotton and a white apron tied around her slim waist. The periodot-colored material accentuated the peach color of her cheeks and lips, flushed probably from the heat of the kitchen, he decided. Her green eyes glowed with delight at his arrival and he smiled at her childish joy.

"Oh, you shouldn't have." she smiled shyly, taking the roses immediately to a glass vase and filling it with water.

"Nevertheless, I did." Erik replied smoothly. Dear Lord, it should be illegal to be as beautiful as she is! he thought to himself. "And again, I thank you for the invitation to your home."

"It's nothing, Erik. Just make yourself at home." Meg ushered him to a seat. "Brandy, mother?"

"Yes, dear." Madame Giry nodded noticing the way her daughter blushed at Erik and the way he looked at her, hungrily but with remarkable restraint. Without even asking, she knew that this deprived man wanted her young daughter fiercely, but would not take her if Meg did not wish it. Intuition told her that Meg wished it more than anything else. Strangely, this did not upset her in the least. If her daughter wanted the Phantom of the Opera, then she couldn't have chosen a better man herself.

"Erik, what would you like to drink?" Meg asked, trying desperately not to notice how soft and thick his hair looked and resisting the impulse to run her fingers through it. "Brandy or wine?"

"Wine, please." Erik said, following her every movement with his eyes, wishing with all of his might that he could stroke her soft auburn hair. He'd never seen it down before; it was long and thick and invitingly soft. Stop it right now, he ordered himself with finality.

"Can I take your cape, Erik?" Meg offered, her hands resting ever so lightly on his broad shoulders.

Oh, yes... thank you." Erik breathed, trying in vain to stop the tremors ignited by her gentle, innocent touch. He let her divest him of the black velvet cape and watched her walk daintily back into the kitchen, the feminine sway of her hips drawing his attention.

Meg ducked into the kitchen before her knees gave out beneath her. Sweet God, she had touched him and felt the shivers in his form. He wanted her, she was sure of it... he wanted her but was too proper and polite to ever ask her to love him. Christine had unwittingly convinced him that he must never, never ask for affection again if he did not wish to be hurt. Absently, she ran a hand over the soft folds of the cloak she held; the fabric was still warm from his body and carried his scent. She breathed in deeply; gentleman's cologne, incense candles, and the seductive scent of his own body. The mere smell of him sent her hormones into hyperactivity, a peculiar heat and pliancy spreading through her body, creating an unbearable ache in her breasts and belly.

Is this how it feels to want someone? she wondered. Dear Lord, it must be torture for him to feel this and not be able to express or relieve it! She was shaking just thinking of it. Thinking of what, young lady? Making love?

"Yes..." she whispered aloud. "I do want to make love with him."

"Meg! Is everything all right in there?" her mother's stern voice called.

"Yes!" Meg replied quickly. "Everything's fine! Be out with the drinks in a minute!"

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

Contrary to his original pre-conception, Erik found himself relaxing in the safe confines of the Giry home. He didn't have to worry about cut-throats around every corner or a policeman hired by an anxious management ready to shoot him. Surprisingly, he trusted the two Giry women implicitly and actually enjoyed himself at dinner, his eyes fixed on little Meg for a majority of the meal. He couldn't help but note her blushing every time she caught him looking at her, as though the proof of his interest pleased her.

No, surely not, he told himself. She just a little embarrassed... after all, it's the first time she's entertained a man in her home before. She wants everything to go well and you're probably distracting her with your frightening aspects. However, that didn't stop him from drinking in her beauty.

He was indeed distracting her, but not with fright. Poor Meg's hormones were doing the tango with Erik sitting so close. She swore she could feel the heat of his body on her. Not only that, but she was vaguely embarrassed by their humble meal; surely Erik was accustomed to food like caviar, lobster, and filet mignon. Well, she'd worked hard over this dinner and she was fairly proud with how it turned out, nothing was burnt or under-cooked and that in itself was a small miracle.

"I do apologize for the... um... rather mediocrity of the meal... but-" Meg started to say as they wandered into the parlor after dinner.

"Mediocrity?" Erik repeated, gently grasping her hand without realizing it. "My dear, that was a fine dinner. Why on earth would you think it was mediocre?"

"Well..." she twisted uncomfortably, her insides went all funny with her hand in his. "It was fairly poor compared to what I'm sure you're used to, Erik."

"I see... you think that because I have money, I eat like a king every night." Erik smiled knowingly. "Not so, my dear. I rarely go out in public, either to dine or to purchase food to cook. What I live on is mostly stolen from the restaurant in the Opera. And I'm afraid my cooking skills are sadly lacking."

Meg laughed; partially from relief and partially because she had trouble picturing Erik over a stove. "Well, maybe I should teach you to cook as payment for my lessons... or I could cook for you." she offered.

"Nonsense... just having you around is payment enough for your lessons." Erik shook his head.

"You enjoy my company?" Meg asked, gently squeezing his hand and drawing his attention to it for the first time.

"Yes..." he whispered, staring at his hand encircling hers. "As an artist, I like and need solitude... but as a man... " he paused considering his next words carefully. "As a man, I like and need companionship as well... although I spent the majority of my life without it."

"So... you. d be happy with anyone's company?" she said, a note of disappointment in her usually happy tone.

"No, Meg... far from it. Only a selected few get close to me; Christine, Nadir, and now you. I enjoy your company because of your innocence, your youth... and your ever-ready sense of humor." he smiled, keeping his urge to spout poetry in check.

Meg ducked her head and blushed. "Thank you, Erik, I... I rather like spending time with you as well. You're so mysterious, like a puzzle that I'm trying to piece together."

Erik laughed, "A puzzle, eh? You might find that a few pieces are missing."

Meg joined him in laughing, surprised at his gentle teasing of himself. "Now, you know what I mean, silly."

"I do. Now, it's getting late, ma belle. I had best return to the Opera and you had better get some well-deserved sleep. Bon nuit. ma chere." he took her hand gently and briefly brushed his lips over her skin. Just like that, he was gone.

Holy Virgin... Meg thought, she had nearly fainted when his lips had touched her hand. Meg slipped into her room hastily, before her mother could see her fading composure. Once alone, she collapsed on her bed, trembling all over. He'd kissed her! True, it was only on the hand, but still he made her shiver with pleasure just from that small contact. She had felt his lips, sensual and silken... soft and at the same time, so masculine. Dear Lord, if his kiss on her hand had this effect, what on earth would his true passion do?

Sleep was far from her mind that night; her small body pulsed with a life she'd never known before. She ached in places she had never known existed; her breasts longed to feel Erik's hard chest pressed against them, her lips throbbed for his kiss, and she knew that she wanted him fiercely. She slept little and when she did, she dreamed of Erik making sweet love to her, bringing her to the edge of rapture with expert cunning, loving her with all of the repressed passion he possessed.

"Erik..." she whimpered into the darkness, her body writhing with need. "Erik, my love..."

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

Meg... Erik roamed the streets restlessly, ignoring the fresh spring dew that soaked the hem of his cloak. He wanted her so much that he had momentarily forgotten how frightening he was and had kissed her! Sacre Dieu, he had felt her reflexive trembling! His kiss had been an unforgivable breech of etiquette and trust; one which he must never repeat. Meg must never know how much he wanted her.

He stopped over a bridge crossing the Seine and gazed at the waters flowing below. This was a famous spot for sweethearts to walk hand-in-hand in the sunlight of the day. At night, it was deserted, save the lonely and tormented man on it now. How he wished that he could pay court to Meg like any other man; he wanted her in his bed, yes, but he wanted other things too. He wanted to walk with her in the sunlight, he wanted to applaud her performances at the Opera without caring if he was seen he wanted to love her and he wanted her to love him back.

Without even looking up to see where he was going, Erik made his way across the Seine; heading, not for the Opera, but for the other famous structure of Paris where a fictional monster/man had lived... to the giant testimony to France's medieval days... to Notre Dame de Paris. All of the priests, monks, and nuns were gone and Erik silently made his way up to the fabled bell-towers with the finesse of a stalking cat. From the top of the tower, he looked out over Paris. Dawn was a good hour-and-a-half off, yet several lights twinkled in the city below... mothers and wives rising early to prepare breakfast for husbands and children. In the darkness, Erik couldn't stop himself from imagining Meg in a few years' time, wed to some man, doing precisely the same thing. He pictured her lighting a fire, a few stray hairs of alive auburn escaping the bun at the nape of her neck, her pale skin flushed a becoming peach. Undoubtedly, she would make some man a lovely and strong-willed wife; but not him.

Only one question rose through his mind, borne of a thousand little slights and disappointments, for every time anyone had ever shrunk away from him, for every time he'd been beaten or insulted. The same question that Quasimodo himself had asked. One question which tore itself from his throat, creating an eternally hopeless cry high above the city, like the howl of a wounded and dying animal, or in this case an animal that wanted nothing more than to die.

"Why?!?!"

On to Chapter Three

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