08

in which the opera ghost makes a binding promise.

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"Maman, it's okay! This isn't your fault," Meg reassures her, sitting next to the older woman. The blonde carefully grasps the cane from her and leans it against the edge of the couch. "What else could you have done?"

"Nothing, nothing, I know, dear," she replies, patting the younger girl's hand. "I fear that this situation is much larger than what we were expecting. I honestly thought we could escape, unseen and unknown." She takes both of her daughter's hands tightly in her hands, and squeezes them. "I fear much for you, Meg."

Meg chuckles, squeezing her hands back. "I'll be fine, Maman. No one has seen my face," she suggested lightly. She felt fear, yes, but much less after knowing that Erik wouldn't raise a hand against her.

Erik was a tangle of anxiety and energy across the room, silently pacing back and forth in the matter of a few feet. Tapered fingers were tightly clasped behind him, and his cape lay haphazardly on the back of a chair.

"Erik," Madame Giry whispers, her eyes glancing up at him. He ignores her, continuing breathing in his thoughts, until her voice raises. "Erik! Please . . . "

He stops then, his posture stiffening before his shoulders cave forward. "What would you have me say, Antoinette? I didn't choose to come on this journey. I would have preferred to have died in that fire."

His words tug on Meg's heart something awful, and open Meg to a realm of possibilities that his outlook on life may be, in fact, as bleak as that. She kept her eyes away from his, but the Madame was too quick to miss it. Again, that strange, sinking feeling filled her, but Meg had always been compassionate and empathetic, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Though her daughter was smart and could hold her own, she sometimes worried how her heart would fair in the uncaring world, if she passed and Meg didn't have any prospects. And even beyond that, would Meg be safe in a city she hardly knew? Even with her there? Her own heart clenched at the thought.

"Erik, if anything . . ." and for the first time in her life, Meg saw tears in the Madame's eyes. Not even did she remember seeing such emotion when her father left. "If anything happens to Meg . . ." She glances up, then, her gaze sharp and serious. "Promise me. Promise nothing will happen to her."

"Maman," Meg pleads, fingers squeezing the elder woman's. "I'll be fine. Once we're off the boat, we'll have new names. No one will find us . . . we have just have to be careful a little while longer."

Her gaze doesn't leave the masked man's however, and his own eyes lift to hers. He looked at the two women, then, and the unread emotion in both Giry's eyes sparked something in him. His gaze slid to Meg's, and she glanced up at his, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. Regardless of anything he believed happened all those nights ago, both of the women had sacrificed nearly everything for him. Why? Why had they done that? Why hadn't they left him to rot? He suddenly imagined Meg sprawled on the floor, much like that woman must have been found, eyes open and glassy and a pool of red beneath her. It pained him, the thought. It felt similar to whenever Carlotta had tormented Christine, and he wanted to rip the plump woman limb from limb.

He exhaled and stepped closer, never breaking eye contact with the blonde, and her eyes slid upwards, his form resting tall above her, but never once did she cower. He closes his eyes then, just for a few moments, ridding himself of Christine's ghost that always seemed to remain in his mind, and the images of blonde hair stained blood-red.

"I promise," he says, something fierce and determined but wary in his eyes. "Nothing will happen to your daughter, Antoinette, I assure you. So long as I am here and walking." Then to Meg, "But don't be stupid."

"Erik, out of the three of us, it's not me we should be worried about being stupid," she replies pointedly, and before he could react, her expression melts into a small smile. Erik's fingers twitch, and some unknown emotion welled in him - something soft and fierce - and then it was all over, Madame Giry standing, and Meg assisting her with her cane.

"Meg, I'm alright," she insists, but the ballerina shook her head and continued helping her mother to the bed.

"Go to sleep, Maman. We're all tired. You'll feel better in the morning," she promises, and helps her mother into the bed, pulling the blankets up and about her. She sets her cane against the wall, and sits with her mother, holding her hand tightly before it loosens with sleep. She stays there for many moments before gently removing her grip, and making her way toward the small bedroom. Once she crosses the threshold of the door frame, Erik catches her wrist, and Meg whips around in surprise, and Erik slowly closes the door behind him.

A candle was perched on the table next to the bed, and once again, his figure haunted Meg at its ghostly appearance in the dim light, and the moon's ray casting eerie beams across his mask.

"I'm tired. What is it, Erik?" She questions, making no move to release his grip on her wrist. He lowers it to her side, and takes a step closer to hers. His eyes peer into her own, and she shivers, suddenly feeling self-conscious and cold.

"Why are you kind to me, Meg?" He asks softly, and Meg looks at his startled, her eyes narrowing as she analyzes his features.

"We've gone over this before, Erik," she answers, her eyes softening and gazing up at him now, sincerity and vulnerability in his expression. "You don't have to tell me much more than what I've already seen. I'm sorry if someone made you feel unlovable or that it was hard to love you, and though you've certainly not acted like a Saint, you're human. You exist. You can allow yourself to feel pain and anger and love." She bites her lip, in embarrassment (she hoped her words came across correctly), as if knee-deep in another thought, and expresses, "Though you've done unforgivable things, you've shown remorse in some form." Her hands come up to cup his forearms, and smiles sadly at him. "I think everything you've done is tearing you apart."

She sees his eyes squeeze shut and his fists clench, and her fingers wrap around his, probing them to release his grip. "You don't need to be angry, Erik."

His eyes snap open, and his gaze becomes hard. "Me? I have no reason to be angry? The woman I love just left me! I've killed more men then you've met in your life, Meg Giry! My mother hated me, that fool for a priest hated me, and I give them no remorse." His words frightened her, and he wrenched his hands away, but she remained close, his hot breath and angry words on her cheeks. "And that man . . . that man at the circus deserved it. He deserved all of it. He was going to hurt me, and he hurt others, and it was the only way, Meg, the only way!"

"What do you mean 'hurt you', Erik?" She asks, and he turns away from her, his eyes clenching shut. She didn't understand any of what he was saying, but she remembered Raoul mentioning a circus, and that he was labeled as a freak there.

"He was going to hurt me! And that's not all. There's so much more you don't know about. And if you knew, oh! If only you know, you'd hate me just the same. Just as my mother did, just as everyone did, just as Christine does!"

She doesn't reply, and he grabs her wrists again, and pulls her up to him. "Why aren't you telling me what a horrible person I am? Aren't you frightened of me? The man who ripped you away from your home, destroyed your career, terrorized you and your friends, and will likely drag you into something much, much worse? Why are you kind to me!"

She didn't deny any of his words, but instead, she pulled her wrists out of his grip, and wrapped her arms around his waist. He was thin, which she knew, but she felt muscle beneath her grip, and his heartbeat quickened beneath her head. How quickly he came to anger, to destruction. She held him all the tighter for it, not knowing how to comfort him, not knowing what to tell him.

He didn't react at all, other than the stiffening of his posture and muscles, and the frantic breaths he took. His hands found her shoulders, and curled into the cloth of the nightgown. He savored her touch, gentle and tight, yet after some time, he pushed her away. It reminded him too much of Christine, and he desperately hoped it wasn't some ploy.

She glanced up at his face, his hands still on her shoulders, and he looked back. Sun melted down her shoulders, and moonlight wove through her gown, and her eyes were crystal and soft as they gazed at him, and he searched for pity and anger and found none. As if for the first time, he looked at her, and she was so beautiful, standing by the moon, the candlelight gently kissing her skin, it nearly pained him. He reached out then, and long fingers brushed against her cheek. His gaze followed, mapping with his touch and with his eyes the expanse of her right cheek, pink and white and soft.

"I don't hate you, Erik," she whispers, and his gaze snaps up to hers, and then he violently withdraws his hand back, as if burned. If only she knew, then she would, he convinced himself. If not even the Madame knew everything, how could she? He wished it were Christine in front of him, then, he realized, and his fingers fisted by his sides.

"Goodnight, Meg," he says roughly, quickly leaving the room. Meg stands exactly where she was, arms coming to wrap around herself. She wasn't sure if she had done something wrong, but a black thing sunk in her chest, and she felt empty and cold. Had she done something wrong? And why had he touched her like that?

And why did she wish he would have touched her longer?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He'd only slept a few minutes, propped on the couch, when he awoke to faint noise outside, and candlelight cracked through. He quickly reaches into his waistband but found no lasso, as it was back at the opera house. His hands were nearly as lethal as he snuck toward the door, though there was a letter slid underneath. He quickly opened the door but found no one in the darkness. His closes the door then and picks up the letter, unfolding it, and the sleep behind his eyes makes it difficult to read. He lights a candle, his eyes beginning to adjust, and his eyes blow wide as he reads the contents of the letter.

Dear Madame Giry and the other two other inhabitants of this cabin room,

This is your one and final warning. Otherwise, we find your pretty little blonde.
Either disclose what you know, or find out what happens next.
We know who you are, and where you are going.

-Rick

Madame Giry awoke from the sudden light that had entered the room, and her eyes landed on Erik, and a curling piece of parchment his hands. She comes out of bed and walks toward him, holding her hand out to him. He hands her the letter, and as she reads it, fear returns to her, and Erik thought she looked as if she were either going to kill, or to cry. With his experience with women so far, he figured both.

"Get Meg," she whispers, and he turns to her, confused. "Get Meg!" She repeats, her voice frightened and angry. "Go down to the lower levels and find an empty employee cabin room or anything to hide in. Do not leave until I come and find you," she says, and he still doesn't move.

"Antoinette, I really don't think this is necessary. I'll hunt him down and -"

"If you even think about killing another, I will take you to prison myself," she hisses, and Erik stiffens. "This is my daughter's life on the line right now. This is exactly what I was worried about." She presses a hand to her forehead, as if trying to calm herself down. "Take her now, Erik."

He moves toward her room as the Madame leaves, clutching her cane in one hand and the letter in another. She finds the cabin room of a couple she had befriended earlier, whom the husband was friends with the Captain. Listening to further, he went to Meg's room, leaned over her, and shook her awake.

She wakes slowly, though as her eyes meet his mask, she yelps and shoves him away, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders.

"I'll tell you later, since you'll constantly ask until I tell you everything," he says, and she looks at him in confusion as he grabs her coverling and throws it at her. "We have to go."

"Go where?" She asks, wide awake from her fright. She slips the heavy thing about her, and looks about her, looking for her slippers.

"Just come on, Meg!" And then he was pulling her out the door into the darkness, and Meg hears yelling down the other side of the hallway, and sees the figure of her mother.

"What -" She begins to question but he shushes her and pulls her into a run now, descending the flights of stairs as quickly as they can. She nearly trips several times, her legs much shorter than his, bare feet running against the cold floor. He whips her around the corner and they descend even further, the air cooler now, her feet nearly frozen from the cold.

It was nearly pitch black now, and the only warmth offered to her was the cotton wrapped around her, the tie in the front now loose, and his palm against hers. She wished to stop him, to force him to tell her what was going on, but she stayed silent, her mind flying around possibilities, each becoming worse and worse until she was shaking in fear. This was about her, wasn't it?

They came to a door of a supply room, Meg thought, as she observed what was around them. It was still dark, but she felt cool cement beneath her, and when she raised her hand to press her fingers against the wall, it was the same smooth, frozen texture. She jumped as the door unlocked, and Erik pulled her in, quickly locking the door behind them.

It was cramped and dark in the room, and immediately upon entering, Meg stepped on a shard of what felt like glass, and a cry left her mouth as pain exploded through her foot. He let go of her and she slid to the ground, her hand covering her mouth as she tried to breathe, tried to focus on anything but the pain and her foot and the danger.

"Erik," she cries, pulling her foot toward her, and wincing as she prods the wound.

"I need some light," he says, and after hearing a match rubbed against a sandy surface, porcelain and golden skin gaze down at her. There weren't any candles, from what Meg could see, so she watched, clutching her foot, as he found an empty glass jar, threw a crumpled piece of paper in it, and took a bottle of what looked like vodka off the wall. He glanced at the label, flicked the lid off and then poured it into the jar, holding the match to the paper before it was set aflame. He waves the match out, then turns to Meg, kneeling down next to her.

"I think I stepped on glass," she says, and glancing behind them, sure enough, was a pile of a crackled glass jar in the doorway. "Tell me what to do."

"Let me see," he instructs, and she pulls her foot closer to herself, and he looks at her, pointedly and reassuringly, and she slowly releases her grip and lowers her foot toward him.

His fingers find her foot, warm against her cold skin, fingers pushing into the arch of her foot.

"The glass shard is still embedded. It'll need to be removed," he tells her, placing her foot on his knee and reaching out toward the bottle of vodka.

"Is that for me?" She questions, and he shakes his head, bringing it to his lips.

"No," he says, taking a drink for himself. His words were rough as he said, "it's for me." He brings it down toward her foot, and reaches up with his other hand to grab a bleached cloth, hopefully clean. "This isn't going to feel pleasant, Meg, and you need to be quiet."

She nods, and she nearly feels like screaming as he pours the liquid over her wound. She closes her eyes tightly, and the sharp smell of alcohol floods the room. She covers her mouth with her hand, and instead tries to focus on the ground beneath her, his fingers, possibly anything else then -

She hisses as he attempts to pull out the glass and her foot jerks away, back toward her, and grabs her ankle, pulling it back. He holds it tighter now, and carefully pulls the glass out, and she whimpers as he pours more alcohol over the wound. He wraps the cloth around her foot, the faux white quickly turning to scarlet. He nearly asks if she's alright.

Meg blinks away the tears in her eyes as the pain slowly begins to subside, and she wonders just how good of an idea it was to pull it out with his bare hands.

"Is there someone after us?" She asks, and he doesn't answer at first, and she suddenly knows the real reason. Why her mother was nowhere in sight, why they'd been in such a rush to leave. "There's someone after me."

For the first time in a long time, Erik felt the sharp pang of guilt in his stomach. If not for him, she wouldn't be targeted. His heart hardened, however, at the thought of his own self rotting in prison, somewhere damp and musty and alone, except for the other criminals he'd be beside.

She huffs a sigh of anger, and winces as she tries to extend her leg, to lay the back of her heel on the ground. "The least you can do is answer me. We're probably going to be in here until morning anyway, and I'm not certain I could sleep after all that's happened."

His fist tightens, but he releases it, and casts a look toward the bottom of the door. "There was a note addressed to your mother slid under the door this morning. I couldn't see who it was, though I should have ran and killed them myself, to put an end to all of this."

"Don't speak of death and killing so . . . " she couldn't find the word. "So . . . normally."

He turns away from her, and she glances down, gulping. Before she could ask him to continue, he does so anyway.

"They referred to you as our 'pretty little blonde'. That means they were - "

"They were in the room the night Fleck's mother was killed," Meg says, her palms planting themselves on either side of her.

"Precisely," he says, and Meg looks to the side, enough of a space beside her for himself. Before he asks, however, he interrupts, "This is becoming rather routine, Meg, as if you enjoy my presence."

She shrugs. "It's not as abhorrent as before. Just sit, and quit being moody."

He comes and sits beside her, cautious of her foot, and slides down beside her. "I know we've only known each other a little over a week, but I'd like us to be friends," Meg admits, glancing up at him, her forehead nearly at his shoulder. It was more so directed at his arm because of that, but she sensed his head turning toward her, and his warm breath on the top of her head.

"What makes you think I need any friends?" His voice was gruff, and Meg thought she heard grief, covered up by layers of loathing.

"We don't have to be. I'd like to, because beneath all your dramatics, is a man I'd actually like to get to know," she admits, and his breath stops, and then a low chuckle.

"Did I not warn you before, Giry? You don't know half the -"

She cuts him off, shaking her head. "You'll tell me all of it someday, or maybe you never will, or maybe someday I'll leave and we'll never see each other again."

In a rare moment, he appreciated her acceptance that he may never tell her anything, and though doubt was an ocean in his mind, so was hope, slowly trickling in, like a river.

"And what if we make a fortune?" He says lightly, and Meg grins, appreciating his effort. She bumps her shoulder against his, and though he stiffens, she ignores it.

"Perhaps I'll stay for a little while, then. Should my entire future career revolve around you?" She giggles. "You'll have to pay me twenty-thousand of whatever currency is in America."

Conversation was light until there was a sudden noise outside, and Meg startled, kicking the jar over and knocking the light out.

"Now look what you've done," Erik scolds, his voice low and teasing.

"Shut up!" Meg hisses back, putting a finger over his lips.

"What was that?" A French voice says, and she hears them clamber closer to the door, and she reaches for Erik's hand, clutching it tightly as anxiety courses through her. She feels more than hears his huff of breath at the crown of her head as her fingers touch his, but makes no move to retreat.

"Should we check in there?" A woman's voice says, and the man laughs after a moment.

"No, it's probably just Short and Isabelle in there. Can't keep their hands off of each other for even a minute. We've probably given them a right fright, we have!" Meg tenses and flinches again as he bands on the door. "Hurry up in there! The boss wants to see in fifteen." Meg holds her breath as the two figures walk away.

After a few moments, Erik pulls his hand away from hers. "Why do you keep always taking my hand?"

She chuckles, though her heart is still racing. "It's a force of habit - I'll try to remember not to touch you all the time. I always used to hold hands with - " Christine, she thought, but she was glad she thought to hold her tongue, though Meg knows he is quick-witted enough to catch her hesitation - "with my friends, whenever I was excited or scared, or one of us was upset."

"Affection is rather disgusting," he grunts, folding his hands in his lap, and she spies his onyx ring, gleaming in the now near darkness.

"That's just because you haven't been shown enough," she says, nudging his shoulder with her own. That isn't too much, right? He doesn't flinch when she does so, which she notes.

He stares at her, rather agape, yet beyond humored by her boldness. "You seem to have a joyful time making fun of my trauma, Meg Giry."

She doesn't reply for a second, and her fingers tightly coil by her stomach. Cutting him off, she says, "I'm sorry if I offended you. I meant it as a joke. I would never make fun of anything that's happened to you, and I'm sorry for anything that's been done to you."

He stares at her back, admonished by her apology. Was she real? Was this truly how normal people spoke? How friends spoke? So aware of his feelings? "It was a joke," he says, and she laughs awkwardly at herself. "But . . . but thank you," he says softly, his eyes closing. No one had ever been as considerate of his feelings, except for Madame Giry. This felt . . . different. As if they were equal in some way. As if she could reach inside of him, and find the understanding she so furiously sought of him. Her words struck him powerfully, and wondered if she could read his thoughts. His thoughts strayed to Christine, wishing she could have done the same.

There were more noises beyond the door after that, and in the effort to stay quiet, conversation between them ceased. His close presence eventually warmed Meg and her eyes fluttered closed, napping lightly, and when her head fell against his shoulder, he nearly flinched, and desperately wanted to remove it. He didn't want to wake her, nor move her, as he didn't know how much her foot pained her (though he imagined a lot if her wound was hit against the floor). Instead he sat still, uncomfortable and stiff, but the pressure of her eventually melted against him, and his arm felt warm. He didn't sleep much, only dozing off one or two times.

For the time being, they were safe.