Chapter Text
Spring went about the woods to-day,
The soft-foot winter-thief,
And found where idle sorrow lay
'Twixt flower and faded leaf.
She looked on him, and found him fair
For all she had been told;
She knelt adown beside him there,
And sang of days of old.
His open eyes beheld her nought,
Yet 'gan his lips to move;
But life and deeds were in her thought,
And he would sing of love.
So sang they till their eyes did meet,
And faded fear and shame;
More bold he grew, and she more sweet,
Until they sang the same.
Until, say they who know the thing,
Their very lips did kiss,
And Sorrow laid abed with Spring
Begat an earthly bliss.
-Spring's Bedfellow, William Morris
Christine had left him and he had no one else in this world.
No one who would look upon his face without fear.
No one who would love him.
Erik moved listlessly through the dark cavern he had made in the early days of the Opera Populaire with no purpose in mind. He had planned to leave for America in the coming days but Daroga had not yet come with his passport.
So he simply waited.
He had stored preserved foods in the cavern but he did not eat.
He had hidden away wines and casks of beer but he did not drink.
He had stored a mattress and blanket but he did not sleep.
He merely sat in the darkness in a room that stored a box of candles and waited.
That was when he heard the footsteps once more.
In the past days he had been hearing it. Light and gentle, measured but free. The visitor was a dancer, that much he knew. Young? Clearly. But he never left his cage, his prison and sanctuary.
Who would wish to see this wretch of a man?
This sub-human that all would run from at the merest glance?
He heard careful knocks on the wall as if the visitor was seeking him out. Light but sure and carefully timed.
As always, he did not respond.
His visitor had been doing this since his disappearance. Visiting for three days now, she would come with footsteps louder than a proper dancer would have done, knocking on walls and wandering his lair. How she could find a way through the lake, he never knew but he always stayed quiet.
But today, his visitor did not wish to play their silent game of hide and seek.
Instead, she finally spoke and the voice of Mlle. Giry greeted him in the depths of darkness.
‘Monsieur Fantôme?’
Erik looked at the hidden entry of his cavern and was surprised at how near she sounded. Had she figured out a way to enter? Had she figured out there may be a hidden room within? He cannot allow such a person to live if that were the case.
Rising, he took his lasso and decided, for all the kindness Hélène had given him, he is afraid he shall have to lose that kindness if he wished to leave for America. It will be a selfish choice, granted, but her daughter was nothing to him.
Opening the hidden door to his cavern, he was preparing to kill Marguerite Giry when he caught sight of her.
She was sopping wet, her hair which had been tied back in a braid had been drenched and frayed, but in her hands, wrapped so tightly that he did not think the contents would have been wet at all was a box of sorts.
The hand holding the punjab lasso fell and he looked at the younger Giry in confusion.
‘I wasn’t sure if you were eating or if you had extra clothes or if you were cold.’ She stammered out by way of explanation. ‘I have a metalsmith friend who helped me make this... thing so that I could store as much supplies as I can here when I visit and the water won’t get in when I lug it out of the boat.’
‘Hence the sopping state you are in.’ Erik replied at last, casting a critical eye over the ballerina who was still holding the - apparently - metal chest.
Paying no mind to his comment, Meg dropped the metal box with a loud clang and Erik cringed at the noise it had made. Erik stepped back and observed Meg as she unlatched the metal box and began taking out various things from a picnic basket with the scent of food wafting up to him to clothes that were clearly that of a man’s that was some sizes larger than him.
‘Those will not fit.’ Erik pointed out as Meg began carefully folding the clothes.
‘Tuck the shirt in, I just need to make some adjustments and to clean whatever clothes you have.’ Meg answered easily. ‘I had to search for Papa’s clothes. The ones Mama would not miss.’
Erik was silent as Meg finally finished unpacking what she had brought. It was a feast and she had even laid out a picnic blanket on the floor. A lantern was lit in the middle with the foods arranged neatly on it. The clothes she had folded was laid carefully on the side Erik assumed was his and though he had no desire to eat, the Opera Ghost still found himself sitting.
‘Mademoiselle Giry, why are you doing this?’ He asked warily as he took the bottle of wine from the ballerina.
He did not drink from it and only set it down beside him. Meg was cutting up some bread and placing cold meat on it, not minding his question until she had finished assembling the bread.
‘Why can I not do this?’ She asked in return holding out her hand for the bottle which Erik returned. ‘Christine was my best friend, Raoul was kind to me but at the end of the day they were happy when they left.’
Meg met his gaze and he flinched at the compassion in her dark eyes. They were not a captivating sky blue like Christine’s but dark like ink.
‘You’re alone, Monsieur Fantôme.’ She said simply. ‘No one deserves to be alone.’
Such a simple statement led Erik to grow silent at the dancer’s words. She did not seem to see what she had said had affected him and had only begun assembling food once more, this time for herself.
‘Why do you stay?’ He asked this time.
‘I was told once upon a time by a man with eyes who laugh and lips who sang that being lonely makes for good musicians and early deaths.’
‘And who was that that told you such a lie?’
‘My father.’
Erik met Meg’s gaze and he made to apologise only for him to see no trace of hurt. She was only looking at him carefully.
And then she smiled.
‘I remember seeing your face in Don Juan Triumphant.’ She mumbled as she lifted the bottle to her lips and drank from it. ‘You do not look so bad without the mask.’
Her words reminded Erik at last as to why exactly he was hiding. He brought a hand to cover the deformity of his face and scrambled to stand, accidentally stepping on M. Giry’s clothes in the process. He was stammering out apologies and trying to retreat into his cavern when he heard the clattering of a glass bottle followed by careless steps.
And then a hand grasping his bicep.
Erik halted, his face turned away so she would not have to see the monstrosity that was his face. Feeling slender fingers under his chin, he felt his head turned to face Meg Giry’s gaze.
‘Monsieur Fantôme,’ Meg started, ‘There is nothing to fear with me.’ She said with a small smile.
Erik looked at the darkness of her eyes and she was speaking the truth. But still, the Phantom did not bring down his hand and shrank away when Meg brought her hand to his cheek.
‘Why do you not scream, child?’ He asked, voice breaking.
Meg was silent for a moment.
And then she spoke, with the sweetest of tones that Erik had heard for one who had never sung.
‘Because I don’t see a reason to now that I’d met you myself.’
As if a dam broke within him, Erik sank to the floor and sobbed brokenly, his hands coming up to cling onto Meg Giry’s skirts and he felt Meg pry his hands off her. The loss was felt but he was unsurprised as he was not anything people would ever stay for.
But then he felt Meg pull him up and guide him towards his cavern. She laid him down on the mattress and sang a quiet lullaby to him as if to soothe a child. Erik only held her close and sobbed into rough skirts that was still damp from the lake until he ran out of tears to shed. When he was far more stable, Erik felt Meg about to rise and leave but he clung to her still.
‘Stay.’ He spoke, his voice muffled slightly. ‘Please.’
Meg did not respond but instead, she carefully pried his hands off. When Erik looked at her, he saw she had removed her skirt and was removing her shoes as well. Meeting his gaze, Meg blushed slightly before shrugging.
‘Being damp and cold is awful. I’d rather just be cold.’
‘You can be neither.’ Erik said at last.
Surprise flickered in her dark eyes before she accepted the hand he offered.
Erik would say he meant nothing malicious when he had said such a thing. Only that he wished to offer her warmth and prove to himself that he was capable of being even a quarter of a man in terms of manners so she would not freeze. But as she drew closer to him, Erik leaned up to kiss her on the cheek and Meg responded by baring her neck to him. He hesitated and then he heard Meg’s whispered “ I don’t mind. ” And though he hesitated still and halted his movements every step of the way, Meg did not say anything to spite him. She helped him undress with deft fingers and was patient throughout.
When it was finished, Erik was about to fall asleep when Meg was carefully putting her clothes on once more.
‘I apologise for that, Mademoiselle Giry.’ Erik said, his voice hushed.
Meg looked at him, her cheeks coloured a rosy shade.
‘I should be apologising. You were my first, Monsieur Fantôme, I’m afraid I was not very good at it.’ Meg said.
With that, the dancer left Erik.
A coldness settled within the Phantom and he felt ill at the thought. He had taken her maidenhead and it was not even done out of love but a pathetic grief in him that sought and begged for companionship.
He had to fix this.