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Phoenix	By : LadyMeda Category: M through R > Phantom of the Opera Views: 4485 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any variation thereof. I do not make any money from this fiction. Tags include things that will be in future chapters.

Chapter List
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Author's Note: Just a warning for any Phantom of the Opera version purists. This is a slight blend between several different versions of the story, largely the 2004 movie with Gerard Butler and a small amount from Susan Kay's version. The Phantom in this story has traveled to Persia, but did so AFTER the close of the Paris Opera instead of earlier in life.
Four long years had passed, and Meg was glad to be home. Home. The word echoed through her mind as she looked around the newly designed Opera House. She hadn't realized the extent to which this place was her home until it was gone.
It had been an enormous relief when she'd gotten word that her mother would be given full charge of the dancers. Nearly every girl from the old troop had begged to return; and for very good reason.
Trying to find new employment had been a nightmare. Due to the abrupt close of the Paris Opera House, the market was flooded with dancers looking for work. It became frighteningly common for managers to insist upon sexual favors to earn a spot in their dance troop. Soon, becoming the prima ballerina had little to do with your skill as a dancer, and far more to do with your skill in... other realms. She had found little work.
“I've brought some of your luggage, Miss Giry.” A young boy called, tugging one of her trunks into her room. He wore humble clothes that had seen its fair share of days. He had hair not unlike her own: long, golden curls tied back in a tattered ribbon. His eyes widened as he looked up at her; a blush blooming on his cheeks. She gave him a warm smile. He looked to be about the age where women take a sudden, unexpected interest.
“Just over there would be perfect. Thank you” She couldn't help a quiet chuckle. Her trunk was nearly as big as he was, and probably just as heavy.
“I'll have the rest up in no time, Miss!” He bubbled.
“Please, call me Meg.”
His blush deepened. With a hasty bow, he was out the door. She chuckled again and began unpacking her trunk. Despite a few changes, being back in this place was like putting on her favorite pair of slippers. Everything just felt right.
And yet her heart was not quite in it. There was only one thing in all her luggage she wanted to see right now. With a cursory glance around the empty room, she reached down to the very bottom of the trunk and pulled out an ornate mahogany box. Fumbling the key from the locket around her neck, she opened it. Inside, settled on a pillow of red satin, was the Phantom's bone-white mask.
It was in this very room that Christine had confided in Meg that her Angel of Music had spoken to her at last. She'd been positively glowing as she conveyed the perfection that was his voice. Ever since that day, Meg had been a bit envious of Christine. She wanted an angel to guide her, to cherish her, to show her the wondrous things that lived within her own soul.
Even when Christine spoke of the horror that lay behind the mask and the terror she'd felt, cowering beneath his rage-- Her fear was overshadowed by the recollection of how his words moved her with their ferocity; so filled with passion, she feared they might drive her to madness.
Hearing about his fervor made Meg want to experience it. But when she finally witnessed it played out on stage, she feared her heart was ruined forever. She'd nearly wept with longing to be the woman in those arms. How could any gentleman ever hold a candle to...

the raging fires that flood the soul
...to HIS soul.
But he was gone. Perished. His charred remains buried in an unmarked grave. She had silently cried herself to sleep the night her mother told her. A part of her still hated Christine for depriving the world of such genius and beauty.
Meg's heart nearly jumped out of her chest as the boy spoke behind her.
“Is t-that--” He stood frozen in the doorway, laden down with her bags. She snapped the box shut and shoved it onto her nightstand.
“My uh... Masquerade adornments.”
“Oh.” He started, setting down the last of her belongings. “It just looked like, well... like they say HIS mask looked.” She tried her hardest to give a lighthearted chuckle.
“I think you just have phantoms on your brain!” She goaded. He suddenly became very fascinated with the ties of his shirt. “Don't worry.” She sighed, almost to herself. “You aren't the only one.”
“Too true, Miss!” He boasted with renewed enthusiasm, mistaking her comment as encouragement. “Everyone's talking about what happened. Miss Meg, is it true you were here when it happened? The night of the accident? Did you really venture below?” He blurted, gazing on her with admiring eyes like she were Joan of Arc.
“Yes.” She laughed.
“Oh please Miss Meg, tell me what happened!” He burst out excitedly. “I mean what really happened. What was it like down there in his lair? I've heard so many rumors, but they are always a bit--” He must have noticed the change in her mood, stopping mid-sentence. When she glanced at him, his face had fallen.
“Beg pardon, Miss. I meant no offense.” The disheartened look in his eyes made her heart ache. He did his best to mask it with a cheerful smile. “Well if you need anything... anything at all, just ask for Eugène. That 's me.” With a bow, he turned to leave.
“Eugène!” She called after him. “There IS one more favor I would ask of you.” He looked back at her, the hopeful sparkle returning to his eyes as she asked him: “Walk with me?”

* * * * *

Deep below the opera house, a dark shadow stumbled through the inky blackness.
It did not go unnoticed. The Phantom silently cursed, watching as if by sheer stupid luck, the cloaked man bumbled through the labyrinth of ruins towards his new home. Unfortunately for his roving friend, not all luck was good. He'd hoped the terrible legend of the Opera Ghost would have bought him more time before anyone dared venture into the underground.
Anger welled up. He had given the Persian orders to stress the perilous state of the opera's depths to the staff. Obviously his new manager had been remiss. Despite having control of the management, people could not disappear left and right before the opera was even open. Rumors would run rampant. People would flee in terror. It would mean certain death for his beloved music house.
On cat's paws, he crept up behind to get a better look at this intruder. The meek illumination afforded by the man's single candle silhouetted a small frame. The candlestick was held aloft by a thick stage-hand's glove that was obviously too large. He couldn't believe his eyes. This was only a young boy! He was probably no more than 11.
He could not allow this lad to stumble upon his home and carry word back to the surface of what he found: and the boy was nearing dangerously close to the false rock face. He prayed that it would confound him and he would return to the opera house, curiosity sated. The Phantom was no stranger to murder; but to kill a child? The idea weighed heavily, even on HIS conscience.
No. He thought. Deep down, I am a monster. Christine showed me how true that is. And monsters don't have the luxury of a conscience.
But as the boy studied the wall intently in the flickering candlelight, he knew he would have to let the child seal his own demise; down here in the desolate blackness where no one deserves to meet their end.
Well, almost no one.
The ghost's stomach lurched as the boy's fingers found the ill-concealed button-- the last line of defense around his home.
Gears ground into life. Pulleys began to spin. The noose flew, tightening like an anaconda around its prey before ascending into the darkness above. There was a crash as the child's hands rose to fight against the rope. The candlestick rolled across the floor, sending macabre shadows dancing across the walls. It waned and wavered, threatening to extinguish.
Damn it all! He cursed. His neck didn't break! Now he would have to watch the poor thing suffocate in what threatened to be some of the longest minutes of his life.
“I am truly sorry, lad.” He whispered. The phantom was stunned at the heavy remorse in his own voice. He tried to wrest his heart from the gurgling sounds the boy made as he struggled for breath; his fingers unable to find purchase on the rope in those floppy gloves.
It was difficult to watch, and yet he could not look away. The hood of the boy's cloak fell back in his struggles, spilling long golden curls down his back. The Phantom froze. They were the radiant locks of his savior, Antoinette; before she became the tight-laced Madam Giry.
“Annie” he breathed, heart in his throat. In a blink he was off his perch and by her side, sword in hand. With a swish of his blade, she fell into his arms. She lay calm for only a moment, her hair in tangles over her face, before erupting into a fit of thrashing. He remembered these fits all too well from his childhood; when you become so desperate for self-preservation that anyone who approaches is a threat. He had nearly attacked Antoinette the night she had freed him. He thought back to what she had said and done to calm his mind.
Hugging her tightly to his breast, he shushed in her ear. Eventually she began to pacify.
“Ssssh, it's alright. You're alright.” He cooed, tenderly removing strands of hair from her face. “Your safe now.” As the last few curls fell away, the Phantom stiffened.
Meg.
She must have felt the change in him. Her eyes flitted open. He was painfully aware of the garish shadows the dying light must cast upon his masked face. Her eyes widened for a moment before rolling back in her head, and she went limp in his arms.
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Phoenix