Phantom of the Opera 1. Grace

It hurts sometimes more than we can bear.  
If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace.  
But we would be hollow.  
Empty rooms, shuttered and dank...  
Without passion, we'd be truly dead.  
– Angelus, BtVS: Passion

He had planned to stay away. Well, there hadn't been much of a plan; really, he'd simply intended to find some unused corner of Paris and wither away in despair. Never again would he compose, or play, or sing. _Never_ would he listen to music. It could only serve to remind him of her.

But then, even in the miserable, condemned building he now haunted, rumors began to reach his ears. 'Did you hear, Monsieur? The Opera Populaire is to reopen.' 'Oui, Madame, they say it is to be even _grander_ than it was before.'

The gossip continued for some months, each new crumb of information battering away at Erik's resolve. He was weak. He knew it. Returning would mean that everything he touched, heard, looked upon…all would remind him of her, of what he'd lost. Of what, in rare moments of brutal honesty, he would admit (if only to himself) was never his to begin with.

The evening that a young voice called out the news that La Carlotta had outright refused ever again to so much as set foot in Paris; that the new manager was searching for a new prima donna, the last of Erik's resolve shattered. He would return to his old home, and he would do so without fear.

After all, the rebuilding of the opera house was hardly the only fodder among the local gossips. Among the various tales of scandal and impropriety, there was considerable talk of the 'mysterious creature' that had dwelt below the opera house. All believed he was dead – apparently both Christine and the Viscomte de Chagny had reported it was the case, and he wondered if Christine expected him to be grateful that, although she'd torn down all his defenses and left him a broken shell, she was _thoughtful_ enough to throw the gendarmes off his scent.

But the exaggerated reports of his death aside, people were telling quite fantastic stories regarding the extent of his deformities. To hear the tale, he was little more than an animated corpse, with rotting, discolored flesh, no nose to speak of, and unearthly golden eyes which glowed like a cat's. Were he still capable, it would have made him laugh.

But without music, he felt hollowed-out, wholly empty. And as his body seemed too stubborn to allow him to simply die, he'd realized, and accepted, that back at the opera house he would at least feel _something_, even if that something was sorrow and loneliness. He would force himself simply to watch passively from the shadows; he hoped that he could draw some measure of contentment from the music. He would avoid becoming tangled up in anyone else's life; he could exist without being the cause or recipient of any more pain.

Also, he would hope that La Carlotta's replacement would be less taxing on his ears. He could not hope for someone to rival his…to rival Miss Daae, but he _did_ hope that she could, at the very least, act.

* * *

Maeve drifted through her new, beautifully appointed room, running her fingers along everything – the elegant chaise in the corner, the brass vanity and mirror, the polished mahogany bureau and four poster bed, its duvet soft as a cloud, and as smooth as satin. "Saints preserve us," she whispered, it _was_ satin. She sat, hard. She was stunned, completely stunned. Not that she'd doubted she'd find work, after all the opera house was hiring several sopranos, and she never for a moment had doubted that she was talented. It was just that she'd rarely performed outside of Britain – a handful of times in Spain and twice in Italy. She'd never imagined she'd be chosen as the prima donna. That honor would surely go to someone of reputation! "Maeve Shannon O'Donnell, what on earth have you gotten yourself into?" she asked herself aloud, her lilting brogue at odds with her sophisticated surroundings. 

She eased herself up off the bed, gratefully noting only a few minor twinges in her legs. Though she was dreading the winter, the weather, thus far, was much easier on her bones than Ireland's ever was. But, as she'd traveled through the alien French landscape, she could not help but feel as though she'd left her soul behind her, across the sea. Back home, despite the misery brought on by the famine that her people had yet to truly recover from, it was as though the very air made your soul sing. If the Lord ever loved a place, truly left His mark upon it, it was Ireland. From County Dublin to Kerry, Clare to Derry, wherever you went, you felt the Lord's presence surround you. And France, well, France reminded her of England, with its emphasis on social niceties, all those ridiculous prim and proper rules. But France did, at least have one thing in its favor thus far – it wasn't peopled by the _English_.

Her talent had indeed kept her family alive and together while they struggled to rebuild their lives after the Great Famine, but she'd have given almost anything to have been spared the horror of the social dealings with the English. She hadn't dared stray too far away, for family news would have taken far too long to reach her, and she'd be far less certain that the money she sent would reach its intended destination. But her Da could once again support the family himself, which left her free to live her life as she chose. Maeve felt that she had endured more than a lifetime's worth of being looked down upon by the English, but she didn't feel as though she could go back home, if for no other reason than there were perhaps _five_ opera aficionados in all of Ireland and she wasn't good for much else.

A knock on her door interrupted her brooding. "Mademoiselle, supper is ready."

"Merci. I'll be down in a moment."

Glancing briefly into the mirror and seeing nothing particularly wrong with her appearance, Maeve grabbed a shawl and headed down to supper.

* * *

He'd expected it to be in far worse shape. Some of his belongings had obviously been rifled through, as someone undoubtedly had gone searching for his money, and his music box was missing. Other than that, his home was much as he'd left it. He caught his reflection in one of the few unbroken mirrors and winced. He had no intention of being seen, but in the unlikely event that he was, it would not do for him to be seen in his current state – unmasked, unshaven, and bedraggled. Before he began his exploration of the renovated opera house, he would have to make himself more presentable.

* * *

Supper was an interesting affair, well, for everyone else at any rate. Maeve, for her part, felt quite excluded. Thus far, she was informed, hers was the first new face in the opera house in quite some time. She'd asked about the owners, but they apparently had no interest in making appearances. Maeve could learn nothing about these mysterious owners except that the man who'd bought the place had done so because his new bride could not bear the thought of it as a burnt-out husk – the fire that had shut down the opera house had apparently been quite extensive and repairs had been very costly. And that had her wondering how much money one had to have to be comfortable throwing it around in such a ridiculous manner. 

At any rate, the new owners must have had some connection with the place, but no one seemed keen to talk about the past. Maeve had a feeling that something truly dreadful had happened, something worse than the fire, and those that had survived were keen to forget about it. Certainly, that was a sentiment she could understand. There were things in her own past she'd be more than happy to forget had happened.

After her few questions had been quite expertly evaded, the conversation turned toward local gossip – she had nothing to contribute to such conversation, so she simply finished her supper and excused herself.

She was halfway back to her room when she remembered the beautiful chapel that Meg had brought her to see that morning while showing her around. She could always pray in her own room, but for whatever reason, she felt nearer to the Lord in a chapel or a cathedral.

It truly was a lovely little room, she thought as she lit a candle for her mother, the woman who'd the strength to bring her darling brother, Quinn, into the world in the midst of the Famine, but, in so doing, had sacrificed her own life. Maeve had been a child of only six years, but had taken up her responsibility as the woman of the house. At times, she wondered if her mother looked down upon her from heaven with pride, or if she was disappointed that her daughter was nearly twenty-seven years of age and still unmarried. Pushing away the melancholy that always surrounded her when she thought of her mother, Maeve lowered herself to the floor, as there was no chair, and began to pray, ignorant to the fact that God was not the only one that listened.

* * *

Erik crept through his secret passages, truly shocked that none so far had been blocked or destroyed. It was as if someone knew he would return, and did not dread that it would be the case. As he neared the chapel, he heard footsteps on the stair. Curious, he moved closer, that he might discern if it were someone with whom he was familiar. 

But it was an unfamiliar voice that spoke, and not in French.

"Dear Lord, I thank You for the great blessings You have given me; I pray that Your love would shine through me in all that I do, and that I might be equal to the task that Madame Giry has seen fit to place upon my shoulders. I pray that You keep Da, Micheal and Darby, Brady and Cairenn, Eoin and Kiley, dear Quinn, and all my nieces and nephews safe and healthy."

The language was English, but the speaker was not. In his time, Erik had heard English spoken only by the useless, well-to-do layabouts who had come to Paris to see the opera, so when he'd studied the language he'd copied that accent to the best of his considerable ability. Had he heard the language spoken in this woman's lilting, musical voice, perhaps he'd not have thought it so harsh and cold a tongue. He had written Don Juan in English, in part, because he felt the harshness suited the piece. Mostly, though, he'd chosen English because Christine did not speak it fluently and therefore would not know to object to the fact that it was virtually drowning in double-entendre.

Erik did his best to quiet his mind, that he might learn more about this stranger with the musical voice.

"Forgive me my sins, heavenly Father, and give me the strength to forgive those who have sinned against me. Oh Lord, keep and guide me. Illuminate the path you have lain before me that I might walk it with certainty and conviction. And lend me courage, that I might do Your will without fear or doubt. This I ask in Your son Jesus' name, Amen."

He could see her bowed head from where he stood; her long, wavy hair was a pale reddish-blonde color. Indeed he was close enough to see her eyes, should she ever look up. After a few moments spent in silence, the woman crossed herself and raised her head. In her face was a maturity and world-weariness that Erik had not expected to find. Aside from that, she was pretty, but her face was too angular for the world to call her beautiful, though perhaps it would be less so if she weren't half-starved, as she currently appeared to be.

Her eyes were clear and deep, the color of the sea just before sunset. And within their blue-green depths was a peace and serenity that was nearly startling.

"Miss O'Donnell? Are you down there?" called a familiar French voice.

"Yes I am, Meg," Miss O'Donnell replied in flawless French. "And I thought I asked you to call me Maeve."

Meg Giry appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a sheepish grin upon her face. "I just wanted to apologize for everyone's behavior at supper. La Carlotta, she was the last prima donna. She was…well, she was not a pleasant woman. I'm afraid many people will be a bit guarded around you for some time. But we're about to gather to tell stories and play music. I thought that, if you came, perhaps they would feel more relaxed in your presence," Meg asked more than stated.

But Maeve simply smiled. "It sounds grand. Would you be a dear, though, and lend me a hand up?"

Meg extended her hands, and Erik noted that Maeve winced in pain as she stood. She stifled a whimper, but bent to massage her calves.

"Are you alright, Maeve?" Meg asked, concerned.

"I am well enough. My legs were broken when I was young; they pain me at times. I think I would not mind bringing a chair along on my next visit."

"Oh, no, you mustn't trouble yourself. I'll have one brought down tomorrow morning," Meg implored, quite earnestly, as they walked toward the stair.

"Thank you, that is most kind of you. Oh, I'll need to stop by my room first," Maeve stated just before they got out of hearing range.

Erik leant against the wall, pondering over all he'd overheard. This woman, Maeve O'Donnell, was the new prima donna! He'd certainly not expected that – she was unlike any he'd ever seen. Admittedly, he knew little of her as of yet, but thus far, one thing was certainly missing – the monstrous ego.

But what had caught his attention most was her reference to Mme. Giry. He'd assumed that, if Mme. Giry had hired her, the woman was a new dancer. But she was not, she was the diva, so his old friend must have become considerably more important.

Assuming they would gather on stage, as had previously been their habit, Erik made his way toward Box five. His ears would undoubtedly be horribly assaulted in the hours to come, but he had to know if she sang as sweetly as she spoke.

_A/N This is my first Phantom fic, actually only my second fic period. Please review. Constructive criticism greatly appreciated.  
DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I own nothing but my idea...and an old, beat up car that you probably wouldn't want anyway..._


	2. Phobic

Erik was surprised by the multitude of familiar faces – he had not expected so many would willingly return to the opera. They had already begun to play a merry folk tune that had the ballet rats and most of the stagehands up and dancing.

Seemingly, only _he_ noticed when Meg and Maeve appeared on the stage, the latter carrying a large case. She smiled appreciatively at Meg, who'd immediately brought her a chair, and sat down. Opening the case, she withdrew a slightly battered, but well polished old guitar. Cocking her head to one side, she watched the musicians for a few moments, then joined them in song.

She was not bad, but neither was she great. Her playing was, in fact, quite average. Erik found himself growing impatient to hear her voice, the instrument she had been _hired_ to play.

A few more tunes were played before Meg called for something different, asking Maeve if she would favor them with a tune.

Maeve smiled and nodded. "To those of you who speak no English, I apologize, but the songs dearest to my heart are in my own tongue."

She closed her eyes and began to play a lovely, but haunted tune. She obviously knew it well, for her playing was far more sure and fine than it had been before. Then she opened her mouth and began to sing.

The water is wide, I cannot get o'er  
Neither have I wings to fly  
Give me a boat that can carry two  
And both shall row, my love and I

A ship there is and she sails the sea  
She's loaded deep as deep can be  
But not so deep as the love I'm in  
I know not if I sink or swim

I leaned my back against an oak  
Thinking it was a trusty tree  
But first it bent and then it broke  
So did my love prove false to me

His breath had caught in his throat. It was not opera, indeed it was nothing like opera, and yet it was the same – her voice was telling a story. And the voice…it was quite unlike Christine's. Her voice had been full of innocence, of beauty, and crisp and clear as a bell. Maeve's was many things, but innocent was not among them. It was at times airy, others rich and resonant; it was a passionate sound, full of raw emotion that seemed to reach within him to squeeze his heart. One did not need to understand the words to know that it was a sorrowful song. As he looked among the gathered performers, he was unsurprised to see that many were in tears.

I reached my finger into some soft bush  
Thinking the fairest flower to find  
I pricked my finger to the bone  
And left the fairest flower behind

Oh love be handsome and love be kind  
Gay as a jewel when first it is new  
But love grows old and waxes cold  
And fades away like the morning dew

Must I go bound while you go free  
Must I love a man who doesn't love me  
Must I be born with so little art  
As to love a man who'll break my heart

When cockle shells turn silver bells  
Then will my love come back to me  
When roses bloom in winter's gloom  
Then will my love return to me

All was silent for some moments, then Meg began to applaud, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her face. The others joined in, but a few voices begged for her to play something happy.

She grinned and shook her head. "It _is _an Irish song, dears. Happy songs rarely suit us." She paused for a moment, and continued. "There is one I could play for you, a song about home."

She began to play once more, and it was indeed a happier tune, her voice as she sang it at once joyous and wistful.

You may travel far, far from your own native land  
Far away o'er the mountains, far away o'er the foam  
But of all the fine places that I've ever been  
Sure there's none can compare with the cliffs of Doneen.

Take a view o'er the mountains, fine sights you'll see there  
You'll see the high rocky mountains o'er the west coast of Clare  
Oh the town of Kilkee and Kilrush can be seen  
From the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen.

It's a nice place to be on a fine summer's day  
Watching all the wild flowers that ne'er do decay  
Oh the hares and lofty pheasants are plain to be seen  
Making homes for their young round the cliffs of Doneen.

Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while  
And to all the kind people I'm leaving behind  
To the streams and the meadows where late I have been  
And the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen.

As the song ended, applause swelled and many called for another song, but Maeve waved them off.

"Oh, no, I'll not wear out my welcome so quickly. Next time, next time I'll play more, but I was promised there would be storytelling, and I am quite enamored of a good yarn."

Disappointed that she would not be singing more, he focused on the music and the sound of her voice, analyzing what he'd heard while it was still fresh in his mind. She'd sung of love lost and of a love and yearning for home. Had she been aware of his presence, his _existence _for that matter, he'd have been certain she was mocking him. And her voice…there had been few moments when her voice had been truly operatic, but that was appropriate, given the type of song she'd been singing. But those moments it had happened, when her voice had swelled with passion, filling the entire theatre with its power…it had simply been staggering, and he believed he understood what people meant when they said they had heard the voice of God. Rather against his will, he found himself wondering if her voice could make his music come alive again. Hating himself for even thinking it, he decided to take his leave, having no desire to hear any of their idiotic stories.

But then one of the stagehands said, "Why don't we tell her about the ghost?"

Groaning silently, he sat back down. He didn't particularly want to know what they were going to say about him, but at the same time he _desperately_ wanted to know what they were going to tell her about him.

It was both better and worse than he'd expected. In a strangely deliberate way, Christine barely featured. But they told her, in detail, about all the deaths he had caused, the fear he'd inspired, and the chaos left in his wake. They told her all the ridiculous stories about his appearance, and lastly they told her he was dead.

Silence filled the room, each second seemingly lasting a lifetime as Erik waited to hear her response.

"Well, that was indeed quite the tale," Maeve finally said, her voice solemn. A few moments later, she continued in a lighter, sarcastic tone. "I'm not certain now, though, if I should thank you for the fine stories or curse your names for the horrific nightmares that are sure to visit me tonight."

Following her words, a brief wave of relieved laughter swept through the performers and stagehands.

When it died down, Maeve continued on. "Honestly, though, thank you for the music you've played, the stories you've told. And I look forward to getting to know you all. But now, I'm quite dead on my feet, so I think I'll say good night."

She stood to leave, shooting Meg Giry a significant look and jerking her head in a clear indication that Meg should follow. Erik only hoped the girl was quick enough to catch it. Erik hurried to follow; he could only guess that Maeve had noticed the way Meg had stayed curiously silent during the storytelling. He had a sinking feeling that Maeve was about to learn the entire truth about him, for considering who her mother _and_ closest friend were, Meg undoubtedly had more than enough information to be dangerously honest about him.

He followed them as closely as he dared to, and when it was clear they were heading toward her dressing room, he made his way quickly through to the other side of the mirror. What he saw surprised him considerably. It was no longer a simple dressing room – it had been lengthened to include the next room as well, to serve as both dressing room and bedchamber. He had only moments to drink in the beautiful furnishings, for soon the door opened to admit the two women.

Maeve wasted no time on pleasantries. "Alright, I know I said I like a good yarn, but right now I want some bald truth and I think you can tell it to me."

Meg sighed. "I knew you'd find out about him soon…didn't think it would be tonight, though. I think it's because of what you sang – you know, not opera, but common people's music. I think it made them feel that you were one of them, so they treated you that way."

"Well, that _was _my intention. I'm just pleased it worked. Now I want to hear it, the honest to God truth about this man, this 'Opera Ghost'."

So Meg told…how her mother saw him as a child in the freak show and brought him to the opera house, and _everything_ after – the notes, the 'accidents', his 'obsession' with Christine Daae, and his fury that she chose another man. She admitted that she'd never gotten a good look at him, and neither her mother nor Christine would tell her anything about what lay under the mask. Christine would only ever tell her that his eyes were heartbreakingly beautiful, bottomless pools of blue, and that it was nearly impossible not to fall into them.

A tear ran, unnoticed, down his cheek. Why was it that her words of kindness hurt him so much more than the words she'd spoken to him in anger? Why was it her compassion that broke his heart?

But then Meg was talking about Don Juan Triumphant, from his presentation of the score at the masquerade to the choice he forced upon Christine, but that he'd let her go in the end and disappeared off into the night.

At long last, Meg wrapped up the tale. "So, Christine told everyone that he had died, and Raoul did not contradict her. She confessed to me that he was still alive, but she couldn't bear the thought of her teacher being executed, regardless of what he'd done."

In the silence that followed, Erik held his breath, preparing himself for the condemnation that was to come.

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," Maeve finally whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.

"I know," Meg replied. "Poor Christine."

"Christine? Poor Phan…I don't suppose you happen to know his name? Oh, of course you don't. Bet no one ever so much as bothered to ask!" Maeve's voice was loud, and angry, and her native accent was bleeding into her speech more with each word.

"For God's sake – you treat a man like an animal for his whole life and then have the nerve to be surprised when he _behaves _as one? Now, I'm hardly sayin' he's blameless – but that's between himself and God. I'll not pass judgment. I'll not pass judgment on all those that hurt him, neither. I just question _their_ nerve to rush to judge him."

Poor little Meg just looked confused. "This is…not really the reaction I expected."

Subconsciously, Erik nodded in agreement.

Maeve rubbed the space between her eyes "Well, this is what I know. Now, bear with me, this may be sort of a roundabout explanation.  
"Me Da's the only doctor in our town. If it hadn't been for him, a lot more people would have died in the famine. As it was, more than half the townsfolk were lost to starvation and disease. And after we lost my mother…well, he was a man possessed. He made it his mission to save _everyone_ he possibly could – didn't care nothin' if they couldn't pay – that he was able to do the work the Lord called him to do was payment enough, he said. He is truly the most caring, compassionate man I've ever known.  
"Not to say he's without a temper, mind ya. He _is_ an Irishman. When angry, he could shout for hours, till his face was splotchy and purple. And nothin' made him angry like needless human suffering – the English refusing to send aid while millions died, instead _stealing_ what little we had and calling it taxes, the well-to-do Irish families that called themselves Christians but refused to help for fear of losing what _they_ had, or people considered useless and expendable by society due to some mental or physical defect."

She paused, heaving a great sigh. "My father raised us, all of my brothers and me, to be the same. This tale you've told me – you probably think I don't understand because I won't condemn him for taking lives. What I want to know is, who or _what_ taught him not to do it? Who told him it was wrong; showed him any reason _at all_ that people did not deserve it?  
"Oh, but he never had a chance – he was thrown away like so much garbage _just_ because he wasn't pretty enough! I obviously don't know what he looks like, but however he looks, believe me when I say I've seen far, _far_ worse!" Her voice rose steadily as she spoke, until in the end she was near to shouting.

But then she buried her face in her hands and continued in little more than a whisper, voice breaking as she fought to hold back tears. "Nothing, and I mean _nothing_ compares to the sight of babies dying of starvation."

Erik could hardly breathe. Her words of compassion and understanding, her righteous fury and her kindness were almost more than he could stand. He felt a nearly overwhelming urge to storm into the room, tear off his mask, grab her arms, and shake her, demanding to know if she still meant it. People **WERE NOT** like that and how _dare_ she give him hope!

But he did not give in. Instead, he fled to his home below. A day! ONE DAY he had been back and already he stood poised to plunge head-first back into the world. He was furious with himself, but far angrier still with the woman who'd come dangerously close, in a matter of moments, to making him believe. In what, exactly, he wasn't certain, but there had been a bright spark of _something_. And he did _not like it_.

tbc…

A/N: To my gracious reviewers, thank you, thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the product of my deranged imagination. Also, it may be several days before I update again…I'm going to be ridiculously busy this weekend.  
Should anyone be curious about the chapter titles, I'm pulling them, and the story title as well, from what is more or less the theme song of the piece: Phobic, by Plumb. When it's appropriate, I'll be posting the song in its entirety at the beginning of a chapter.  
Also, the voice I hear in my head when Maeve sings is Loreena McKennitt, so if you've heard her (especially "The Highwayman"), you've more or less heard Maeve. If you _haven't _heard her, I highly recommend her music. It's beautiful.  
And adding to the list of things that are not mine, neither "The Water Is Wide" nor "The Cliffs of Doneen" belong to me. I'm not sure who actually wrote them, so I'll simply say that they belong to Ireland.


	3. I Won't Let You Sink

You can run from love  
And if it's really love it will find you  
Catch you by the heel  
But you can't be numb for love  
The only pain is to feel nothing at all  
How can I hurt when I'm holding you?  
- A Man and a Woman, U2

Maeve was pulled from peaceful slumber by rather insistent pounding upon her door. "Izzit mornin' already?" she mumbled to herself. Biting back a few choice words, she chose simply to indicate her displeasure with her tone of voice. She barked out, "Yes, who's there?"

For a few moments, an amused chuckle was the only response. "It is Madame Giry, dear."

Maeve sat up so quickly that her head swam for a few moments. She grabbed her dressing gown from the end of the bed and stood, shrugging into the robe. "I apologize, ma'am, for my tone. Please come in."

"Not at all," Mme. Giry replied graciously. "It _is_ quite early. But I have a few things to discuss with you, and I am afraid they will not wait."

"Of course, please have a seat."

"Thank you, but I would prefer to stand. I must confess to you that I overheard your conversation with my daughter last night. And _he _was eavesdropping, as well." Mme. Giry stared intently, as if daring Maeve to ask who _he _was or how she knew he'd been listening.

"Why?" was all Maeve could think to ask at first, but she remembered herself a moment later and added, "Not him, I believe I can understand why _he_ would eavesdrop, but I would certainly not have objected to your presence, Madame."

Madame Giry cocked her head to the side, and when she spoke, her voice was laced with sarcasm. "And no doubt you'd have been _every _bit as frank with your feelings and opinions were I present."

"And are you certain it would not have been the best had I been a bit more tight-lipped?"

"I cannot say for certain. He has a difficult time understanding compassion, my dear. And confusion does tend to make him angry." She sighed, and her voice took on a pleading edge, "But you were right, Maeve. He is _not_ an evil man. I only wish I had had the strength to be a true friend to him, but I must admit that a part of me feared him from the very beginning. I told myself that it was enough that I was protecting him, but…" She trailed off, guilt and regret etched in the lines of her face.

"I think I can understand, but at the same time, all the regret in the world can't change your past. The best you can do is learn from the past and try to keep from repeating your mistakes," Maeve commented. "Now, I assume there was more you needed to talk to me about?"

"Thank you child, and yes, there is more. I know you have not been told the identities of the new owners, and I…"

Maeve interrupted, "You mean Christine and her Viscomte? Sorry to disappoint you, but _that_ was quite obvious to me by the time I'd had the full story. What of them?"

"Well…" Mme. Giry said no more for a few moments, clearly a bit flustered. "Very well, they contacted me before they purchased the Opera Populaire. If I had not agreed to manage the opera, they would not have bought it. Christine still feels some measure of guilt, you see. While she knows she made the right choice, she wishes she hadn't had to hurt her 'Angel'. It seems that, as time passed, she began to think less of what he'd done to her, and more about how terribly and inexcusably he _himself_ had been hurt. Apparently, it took her _some time_ to convince her husband that the man that threatened them both deserved forgiveness, let alone that they should take it upon themselves to rebuild his 'home'." She heaved a deep sigh.

"At any rate, I made two demands when they offered me this position. One was that the opera that _closed_ the doors would also reopen them. Only a single copy survived the fire. And I wonder if he has noticed that it has gone missing from his home," she mused. With that, Mme. Giry placed the score into Maeve's hands.

"I'll start work on it immediately," Maeve whispered, almost reverently. She had heard a great deal about this opera, and was anxious to gain firsthand knowledge.

"The opera can wait. Breakfast will be served soon, and I expect to see you there, _and_ to see you eat heartily. Honestly, child, you look as though you might be toppled by a strong wind."

Maeve looked at herself closely in the mirror, more than a bit surprised by the woman that stared back. She hadn't noticed before, but she truly had become quite thin and drawn. "I suppose I've just got used to bein' hungry. Room and board was not included at the opera in London. And the less I spent on food, the more money I had to send home."

"And that was very dutiful of you, but as of this moment, your primary concern is your _own_ health and well-being," Mme. Giry ordered. "I expect to see you filled out by the time the doors open. That's three months exactly from yesterday, and I'd say you've about," Mme. Giry paused, surveying Maeve's figure with a critical eye, "twenty to twenty-five pounds to gain in that time."

Maeve shook her head, a bemused smile on her face. "Well, my father's certain to be grateful to you for that. But you said you made two demands. What was the other?"

"The other is contained in this letter." Mme. Giry held aloft a sealed envelope, then handed it to Maeve.

"Opera Ghost," Maeve read aloud. "Madame, surely _you_ know the man's name?"

"Of course I do, and no, I'll not tell it to you. I'm quite certain he'll come to you before long, and I suggest you ask him yourself, and if you would please give him that letter as well. Now, I've a few more things to see to before breakfast, so unless there is anything else…" she trailed off expectantly.

"No, ma'am. Nothing that cannot wait. I'll see you at breakfast."

* * *

Maeve felt slightly ill. At breakfast, Mme. Giry had sat beside her, watching like a hawk. And once she'd eaten what she considered _more_ than a respectable amount, Mme. Giry piled more food on her plate, insisting that she eat it all. Maeve had complied, but the nausea was making her wish she had refused. 

Trying to take her mind off the pain in her stomach, she sat at her vanity, and, with baited breath, turned the first page of Don Juan Triumphant.

Two hours later, she finished her first pass through, her breathing slightly heavy and her face flushed. Fanning herself with a handful of pages, she slumped back in her chair. Would she have understood even _half _of what she'd read, Maeve wondered, if it were not for the rather considerable body of knowledge imparted to her by her three sisters-in-law. Standing to restore circulation to her sore legs, Maeve flipped back to _The Point of No Return_. It would, without doubt, be the most difficult…not to sing, _that_ would require little effort, but she knew it would be some time before she could perform it without losing her composure. "God help me," Maeve whispered, crossing herself. "The man's actually _composed_ foreplay."

* * *

The man himself had had a miserable night. He'd spent several hours tossing and turning, unable to quiet his mind enough for sleep to come. Giving up on sleep, he'd then attempted to compose, but found himself unable to focus. Finally, he decided to clean and organize his home, take stock of his supplies, and make of list of items he needed to acquire. By four in the morning, he'd nearly finished, and had also exhausted himself. Stumbling to his bed, he passed out. 

It was midmorning when he awoke. An hour later, washed, dressed and fed, he set out to locate Madame Giry. He'd no idea how she would respond to his return, but putting off the inevitable confrontation would do neither of them a bit of good. As he neared his destination, a soft, but distinctive sound pricked at his ears.

There was no mistaking the song… **She had no business singing _that_ song…** Rage began to bubble up within his mind, and he sped along the corridors until he reached the mirror.

"What do you think you are doing?" His voice boomed, reverberating through her room.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Maeve replied harshly, staring directly into the mirror. "I'll have you know, sir, I've no inclination to carry on a conversation with a disembodied voice. If you wish to speak with me, get your arse in here. Otherwise, I plan to ignore you." She turned her attention back to the score, humming quietly.

He opened and closed his mouth several times, shocked beyond words at her flippant dismissal. Practically throwing the mirror aside, Erik stormed into the room, stopping only inches from her, enraged further that, for several moments, she continued to ignore him.

Finally acknowledging his presence, Maeve stood and faced him. "There now, that's better. How may I help you, sir?"

Of all the ridiculous…as though his entrance through her mirror was perfectly normal…did she think to put him off balance?

He began to shout at her – about all the pretty lies he'd heard her tell the night before, damning her for daring to sing his music, demanding to know how she managed to come by a copy, but not allowing her to answer. Really, he had very little idea what exactly he said to her, as his mouth seemed to operate independently of his brain…and he'd even less notion of whether or not she made any attempt to reply to him.

"For the last time, sir, I'd advise you to stop shoutin' at me, or I'll shut ya' up meself," Maeve stated, her voice deadly calm.

As with the handful of times she'd already tried to get his attention, Erik never even noticed that she'd spoken to him. He did not so much as pause in his ranting, and was therefore quite surprised when he was forced back several steps by the force of her blow to his jaw.

She took advantage of his stunned silence. Immediately closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms tightly around him and began to rub soothing circles on his back. "It's alright…it will be alright. Now, I'll have you know that I am _no_ liar. And Madame Giry presented that score to me this morning, along with a letter for you. I can only assume that she knew you'd storm up here if you heard me singing your music. I'm sorry I struck you, but I don't think I deserved the venom you were spewin' at me. For future reference, if you're going to shout at me, you'd better be damned sure _I'm_ the one you're angry with. But if you need to shout about the injustice of the _world_, I'll listen. If you have to weep, I'll not think less of you for it. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"

Erik was in shock. His jaw was sore – she'd actually _struck_ him, but then she began to run her hands along his back, across his shoulders, along his face, all the while calmly responding to his accusations and making soothing noises. When she began to stroke his hair, and to softly repeat 'I'm sorry' into his ear, something inside of him broke and he began to sob. He wrapped his arms round her slight frame and buried his head in the curve of her neck. He felt as though he was drowning; that if he let go of her he'd be lost forever.

He must have spoken some of his thoughts aloud, for she whispered, "No, don't be afraid, I won't let you sink. I'll not leave you. There now, just let it all out."

She held him, whispering words of comfort, until he'd cried himself out. As he quieted, she pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. "Now, may I ask you one question?"

Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nodded against her shoulder.

"What is your name?"

He gasped at the question – _no one_ had ever cared to ask him that. He took a deep breath and raised his head, meeting her eyes with his own, shocked to find no pity there. Instead, he saw concern and compassion, along with a fair amount of curiosity. Taking a chance, he ran a trembling hand along her cheek.

Maeve covered his hand with her own. "Tell me, please," she whispered.

"Erik," he whispered in reply.

In response, she closed her eyes briefly and smiled. "I am pleased to meet you, Erik."

tbc…


	4. Tell Me What You've Done

Maeve changed into her nightclothes behind the beautiful silk screen which, before this night, she'd barely noticed was there. Not that she really believed he would watch from behind the mirror as she undressed, but if she changed behind the screen, she wouldn't have to think about it…and she'd been shaken enough for one day.

She _had _expected him to come to her sooner or later, but hadn't expected it to be _quite_ so soon. His anger had not been particularly worrisome; men with tempers were nothing new to her, after all. And, strangely, while he was shouting and ranting at her, even though she knew he had killed before, she never felt threatened. She _had_ felt a great swell of compassion for the man who was pouring out his pain the only way he knew how.

But, compassion or no, she was _no_ doormat, so she'd made it clear to him that his treatment of her was _not_ acceptable. And whether by luck or divine providence, it had worked as she'd hoped – bein' chinned had shocked the man into shuttin' his gob, but being held had completely unnerved him, and he'd dropped his defenses. And as he clung to her, soaking her dress with tears of misery, Maeve knew what path the Lord had set her upon; it was her duty to help this man, to save him if she could. And she'd closed her eyes to offer up a silent prayer of thanks when he'd told her his name.

Afterwards, as the tension ebbed away, she'd finally really looked at him. Christine had not been merely melodramatic about his eyes; she could, in fact, have stated that _every_ visible part of the man was heartbreakingly beautiful and not have been exaggerating.

And when he'd recovered his equilibrium…well, graceful seemed too clumsy a word for the way he moved. It was deliberate, as though each movement was the step of an elaborate, not to mention disturbingly sensual, dance. And his voice seemed to caress rather than simply to _speak_ words; it very nearly made her eyes roll back into her head.

It was…distracting, to say the least, causing her to reflect back on a conversation she'd had with her sisters-in-law just after Eoin and Kiley had been married. Kiley, ever frank and outspoken, had admitted that it had been almost impossibly difficult to keep herself from tearing Eoin's clothes off and having her way with him before their wedding. The horror of hearing such things said about her younger brother aside, Maeve had felt some measure of pride in never having been tempted in such a way, and had felt quite confident that, so strong was her self-control, she never would be.

Today, it seemed, she paid the price for such arrogance. It was terrifying – she felt completely unable to control her thoughts, her physical reaction to this man. Worst of all, he had most certainly noticed, because he had paused, mid-sentence, and when he spoke again, his manner of speech and movement had ceased to be so overpoweringly sensual. In her entire life, never had she felt so ashamed.

She had been so very foolish; given her reaction to his opera, she should not have expected to be impervious to the man himself. Desperate to regain control of herself, she'd given him Mme. Giry's letter, and promising to return with their lunch, had fled to the kitchen.

As Maeve crawled into bed, she chose to feel grateful that, at least, the rest of the day had been far less upsetting.

* * *

Erik sat at his organ, reflecting back on one of the oddest days of his life, much of it spent in the company of a woman like none he'd ever known. 

She had put him quite off-balance, usurping his control, so he'd sought to return the favor. It had not turned out quite as planned.

She'd been frightened, but not of him. Well, not _exactly_, at any rate. Rather, she seemed terrified by the passion his voice awoke within her. But he was…weary of inspiring fear. For the second time in his life, he felt truly ashamed of himself. She'd shown him such kindness and compassion, and how had he repaid her?

He had misjudged her – in one manner, at least, she was certainly an innocent. If her fear had left him with any lingering doubts, the shame and humiliation that colored her face as she realized he'd been aware of her reaction to him had made it undeniably clear. Indeed, she'd all but shoved Madame Giry's letter in his face and run for the door, mumbling that she'd return with lunch.

The letter…that had come as quite a shock. Madame Giry wanted his help running the opera house, or perhaps it would be more accurate to state that she wanted to help _him_ run it. It was what he'd always wanted, so he couldn't help but wonder…what was the catch? Well, aside from the obvious, that she would not pay him his salary if he declined her offer, the letter gave him no clue.

When Maeve returned, carrying a tray laden with fruit, cheese, bread, and meat, he'd been staring blankly at the letter, too stunned to engage in conversation.

She'd taken it upon herself to fill the silence…over the course of the next _several _hours, she gave him the 'short version' of her life story. She'd lived through a famine that killed millions, among them her mother and most of her childhood friends. Though still a child, she'd all but raised her two younger brothers while her father took it upon himself to save the lives of his people. It was odd, she said, knowing that she was the only mother her younger brother Eoin remembered and the closest thing to a mother her youngest brother Quinn had ever even _had_.

At twelve, she'd been in an accident. She said very little about it, in fact said nothing at all about the cause or even what the accident was. She said only that both her legs had been broken, and she'd been bedridden for several months. When her grandmother heard the news, she'd come to stay with them and Maeve's entire world changed.

Her grandmother, Josette, was a mezzo at the Vienna opera. She'd considered retirement, but did not wish to become a burden to her children. When she received word of her only granddaughter's injury, however, she'd immediately booked passage on the next ship.

She described her 'Gran' as a whirlwind, putting the house in order, giving Maeve and her brothers French lessons, so that they could 'speak her native tongue without offending her ears', and generally disciplining them more than they really liked. But she also told them wild stories about far-off lands, sang to them, and comforted them when they were scared and lonely.

Maeve had paused, and then admitted shyly that it was usually _her_ that was scared and lonely. She'd been so busy trying to take care of her little brothers that she'd never had the time to grieve for her mother, for the loss of her childhood. But having her grandmother with them made her remember what it had been like to have a mother, and it had opened up the floodgates – pent up feelings of sorrow and loneliness, and a great deal of anger as well, had come pouring out.

Her favorite thing about her grandmother's presence, though, was the singing. She would sing to them at night, sometimes opera, sometimes French or Austrian folk music, and sometimes, to make them laugh, she'd sing Irish drinking songs as _if _they were opera. And one day, when her grandmother had been with them for a month or so, she'd heard Maeve quietly singing one of the arias from her bed. Maeve had smiled wistfully, as she recalled one of her life's most pivotal moments. 'Gran told me, quite excitedly, that I had potential. That with a lot of work, my voice could be amazing.'

Everything after that, she told him, was quite boring and ordinary, at least to someone who lived in an opera house. She'd studied and trained, and had gone to London to audition for the opera when her father decided she was old enough to go.

Visits home grew fewer and farther between the older she got, and when Maeve was nineteen, her grandmother took ill. Maeve's father barely left his mother's side over the following two years, as she slowly wasted away. Until his mother's death, he'd been a 'dutiful son', but had left the family nearly destitute. Maeve feared to think about what would've happened if she hadn't sent most of her wages home, as her older brothers Micheal and Brady both had wives and children to support by then and couldn't have supported Eoin and Quinn as well.

Erik thought her father sounded like a weak, short-sighted, self-involved bastard, but feeling certain that sharing such insights would be most inappropriate, he'd kept his opinions to himself.

Eventually Eoin had married, though he and his wife still lived with the elder Mr. O'Donnell, and Quinn had announced his intention to enter the priesthood, and had recently entered the seminary at St. Patrick's College. On her last visit home, her father had made her promise to live for herself for a change. He'd admitted that he had never been the father to her that he should have been, but that he did want her to be happy and make a life for herself.

What she had wanted was to see her grandmother's homeland, and she'd heard that the Paris Opera House was looking for singers, so she'd booked passage on a ship to France. As she reached the end of her tale, expressing her surprise that Madame Giry had chosen her as prima donna, given her relative inexperience with lead roles (the London opera hadn't cared to cast an Irishwoman in _important_ roles), he'd finally spoken up. He'd indicated the letter and suggested that 'Perhaps trust is to be her new trademark. She's asked me to help her run the opera.'

She'd eyed the letter and asked if Madame Giry had given him any other news, 'Oh, for example…what other singers are set to audition, or when repairs to the exterior of the opera house are to be completed, or…or the name of the man that now owns it?'

She'd dropped her eyes on the last phrase, and Erik had chuckled, certain that he was about to discover the catch. He had not been wrong…

So the _Vicomtesse_ de Chagny thought to make it up to him, did she? Her simple-minded, _misguided_ compassion had led her to believe that having her precious _husband_ Raoul in direct control of _his_ life, his home, his **_whole world_** would make him, what…happy?

He'd opened his mouth to tell her _just _what he thought of the news when she sighed audibly and asked, 'May I finish, or am I goin' to have to wallop you again?'

Erik couldn't quite decide whether to be insulted or impressed by her fearlessness, but motioned for her to continue. Maeve had grinned at him, and told him that she hadn't thought the news would make him happy, but felt that he needed to know the truth. She told him then that, since she'd had her say, he should feel free to rant about it to his heart's content, as long as he remembered not to direct it at her.

He _had _wanted to rant about it, and had done so for a time. But as he paced about the room, his gaze had strayed to the photographs upon her bureau. Suddenly face to face with Maeve's father, well, with his photograph at any rate, the proverbial wind went out of Erik's sails. The photograph seemed to mock him, asking, 'Who's a short-sighted, self-involved bastard?'

Disgusted with himself, he'd apologized for his behavior and thanked her for her indulgence, and said good evening.

She, in turn, had apologized to him for prattling on endlessly about her life, thanked him for listening, and asked if he would drop in again soon, as she was hoping for an opportunity to talk with him about his opera.

Promising to return to her the following evening, he'd turned to go, cape billowing behind him, and been on the other side of the mirror in a matter of moments. But hours had passed, and he'd sat motionless at his organ for most of them, unable to banish the anxiety he felt about discussing his opera with Maeve. English, after all, was her _native_ language. It would not go well…

tbc…

A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers! I'm sorry this has taken so long to get out. It has a been an overtime-heavy sort of week. Bleah!  
Now, this is a serious **must share** sort of thing, last weekend (squeals with geeker joy) I got to see Joss Whedon at a convention, he autographed my 'Once More With Feeling' script book, and I got to shake his hand… I'll be in Nerd Heaven for weeks…

On that note, please read and review…even if you just want to tell me you hate me for getting to meet **The Joss**.


	5. Love Means

You know it only breaks my heart  
To see you standing in the dark alone  
Waiting there for me to come back  
I'm too afraid to show

If it's coming over you  
Like it's coming over me  
I'm crashing like a tidal wave  
That drags me out to the sea  
And I wanna be with you  
Do you wanna be with me  
I'm crashing like a tidal wave  
And I don't wanna be  
Stranded  
– Stranded, Plumb

Not fifteen minutes into their discussion, Erik came to the conclusion that he'd worried about the wrong thing…

"I suppose I simply find it…interesting that this," she paused, slamming her hand down on the score, "is a role you wrote for a woman you claim to have loved. I will admit that this is not what struck me when I first read it. And I'm tellin' ya that now only because you look so surprised. Perhaps you expected me to be shocked and disturbed by the blatant sexuality of your piece."

Erik quirked his eyebrow at the unwitting double-entendre, glancing downward briefly before once more meeting her gaze.

Flustered, Maeve choked out, "I…of your _opera_." Pointing and wagging a finger at him, but smiling to soften her words, she scolded, "You're a bad man."

He grinned wickedly, "I believe that has been mentioned on occasion."

Turning her back on him to hide her flushed face, Maeve continued. "But Don Juan without sex would hardly be Don Juan. At any rate, this morning I asked Madame Giry if she knew where I might purchase a copy of Tirso de Molina's original work, but she'd assumed that I might want to look over the source material, and she had already procured a copy. Or perhaps, probably I _should_ say, she swiped it from you."

Turning to face him once more, she held aloft an old, but well-kept copy of El Burlador de Sevilla.

"Yes," Erik replied. "That book is from my personal library."

"Yes, well, I've finished with it, so it can be _returned_ to your personal library. Now, as I was sayin', your opera is focused on Don Juan's final triumph, the seduction of Aminta, another man's bride, and incidentally a young, silly country girl with almost no will and _less_ brain. Not that any of the women in the story are much better, mind you, but that's an entirely different conversation. At any rate, his seduction and subsequent desertion of Aminta is not so much a _triumph_ as it is the final nail in the coffin of a cruel, heartless, manipulative monster."

She took a few cautious steps forward, her eyes focused on her clasped hands. As she drew breath to continue, Maeve looked up into Erik's eyes. "So, while it does indeed make for passionate and dramatic storytelling, I find meself with questions. Most notably, is this how you really saw her – that she was a lovely but simple-minded girl, that she could never want you, that you could only have her through trickery? And are you daft enough to think that he, _Don Juan_, is what you are? Now, I'll not lie to you. You have most certainly done some _terrible_ things. But unlike Don Juan, you're not a cold-hearted, amoral bastard. You are _no_ monster. And what bothers me is that I'm certain you think it of yourself."

Erik shook his head, "Dear lady, you presume too much."

He was not prepared for this, for _any_ of this. He'd no idea how to handle an intelligent, intuitive woman. And for all that he'd hoped, desperately _wished_ for someone to tell him that he could be more than a monster, he'd never dared believe it would ever happen. It was a mistake; this was all a mistake, and soon the God that despised him would discover the error and snatch this away.

As Maeve advanced on him, he instinctively stepped back. He'd nearly closed the distance to the mirror when she lunged forward, grabbing him by his wrists.

"Oh no, Erik, don't you dare run away from me. Regardless of what you've been made to believe, you are _not_ a monster. If you were, well…" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "It is my understanding that you _had_ her, standing before you, offering herself up like a sacrificial lamb. And you knew it. Knew she loved another man so much that she'd do _anything_ to save him. And that broke you, didn't it? And what that tells me is that you don't _want_ a sacrifice, a conquest, someone to manipulate into sharing your life. You want to be loved. And, darlin', that makes you a _man_."

Letting go of his wrists, she lifted her hand, grazing her fingers along his cheek, then took a few steps back. "I _am_ sorry, I meant to do that more gently. I'm too forthright; brazen, my father always said."

She paused, folding her arms across her chest. When she continued, a bitter note had crept into her voice. "Told me more than once, he did, that unless I could learn to control my tongue, I'd never get myself a husband. And as my twenty-sixth year draws to a close, I find myself beginnin' to believe him. And yet, if I had to pretend to be some silly, brainless creature for a man to find me worthy of his attentions, I'd sooner be alone."

Whether by her design or no, the accusation behind her words struck him with far more force than her fist had the day before. He wanted to tell her it was preposterous, that no man could ever wish to extinguish her fire, but how could he tell her such a lie? Erik thought of _her_, of his sweet, sad, beautiful Christine, with the voice of an angel, and the mind of…well, a mind that was _moldable_, a fact he'd used to his advantage.

But why had he loved her? Maeve's observations about his opera had not been far off the mark. He had _begun_ to compose it before Christine had become a part of his life, but when he began to teach her, to mold her into what he wanted, that was when the opera began to take shape. And when life began to imitate his art, when it became clear to him that he could lose her to another, he'd finally been able to finish it. He'd poured out all his frustrated desire, hoping that, like Aminta, Christine would fall willingly into his arms. But, had it worked, what would their life have been?

When he'd pictured his life with Christine, the days had been filled with music and the nights…the nights with all manner of carnal bliss. He'd imagined her as a warm, sweet, comforting presence to chase away his loneliness. But he'd rarely, if ever, considered her feelings. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he'd often thought of her as no more than a desired possession – a soft, beautiful living doll to bend to his will.

If he had known a woman like Maeve, would it have been different? If he'd considered that a woman could stimulate him _intellectually_, would he still have wanted Christine?

As his silence stretched out into minutes, Maeve became self-conscious. "Again, I apologize. I'm not usually one for self-pity, but I fear that reading that play put me in a black mood."

"Oh, no dear lady. Forgive me for my prolonged silence. You give me much to think on. Would you…know these thoughts?"

She nodded, smiling warmly.

* * *

They had talked late into the night, leaving Maeve bleary-eyed the next morning; not a fine beginning for her first true day of work. A number of tenors had auditioned previously, and several had been asked to return. Both Madame Giry and Erik wanted to hear them sing with her before they made a choice, to see how their voices blended. 

Erik…the man with no surname. She'd been shocked to discover _that_ the previous evening. She had thought social ignorance was to blame for his neglect in informing her of his surname, but no, his evil wretch of a mother had never told it to him. He said, in fact, that he was not so sorry not to know the family name of the woman who despised him, and got rid of him at her first opportunity. He'd been quite amused by her response; she'd told him that she wanted to find his mother and beat her bloody.

Over the following week, auditions for ballerinas and miscellaneous vocalists went well, but as she attended auditions with the different tenors Maeve grew more and more discouraged. None of them were bad, exactly; in fact all had fine voices. Unfortunately, in addition to being talented, they were all pompous, egotistical _prats_, and she was horrified by the idea of working with any of them.

Erik came to see her most evenings, and it became clear to her that he was even more dissatisfied by the hopefuls than she had been. She truly enjoyed his visits, but each time she saw him hiding in the shadows, waiting for her to come to him, it hurt her soul just a little bit more, and her nightly prayers were filled will pleas for God to show her some way to bring Erik into the light.

At the end of the week, Erik instructed Madame Giry to audition more tenors, as every one had been entirely unacceptable. And afterward, he came to her with an invitation.

"I feel I have imposed upon your kindness long enough. This evening, will you allow me to play the host?"

"Are you askin' me…?" Maeve let the question hang, unfinished, in the air, at the same time not wanting to presume and, if her guess _was_ right, wanting him to have to ask her.

His smile was only slightly nervous as he asked, "Would you care to see my home?"

She smiled warmly, "There's nothing I'd like more."

Without another word, Erik led her toward the mirror, for the first time allowing her to see the mechanism that allowed it to open. Once on the other side, the tensionshe always saw in his shoulders disappeared, andErik seemed truly at ease. Maeve imagined that it had been difficult for him to spend so much time in her domain. During their evenings together, no one _had _barged in on them, but it had always been a possibility.

At a few points on the journey, the walkway grew quite steep, and Erik turned and took her hand to guide her, as the few lit torches on the walls did little to chase away the darkness. Each time he let go, Maeve's fingers tingled pleasantly for several minutes.

She knew it was about time to admit, to herself at any rate, that her interest in the man had quite grown past the desire to save his soul. It seemed the more time she spent in his company, the more she had to remind herself that her purpose _was_ to save his soul, not to be courted. But inside her head, a selfish voice asked why she couldn't do both.

The fourth time he took her hand, selfishness scored a triumph. In a moment of weakness, or courage, depending on one's point of view, she grasped his hand tightly, refusing to allow him to draw away.

Erik turned to face her, his confusion evident. "What is it?"

As the blush spread across her face, Maeve smiled shyly, then ducked her head, running her thumb across his wrist.

He lifted her hand, her eyes following its course. She barely breathed as he bent his head, never breaking eye contact, and brushed a kiss against her knuckles. Looking quite pleased by her breathless response, he turned his hand, interlacing his fingers with her own and gently pulled her to walk beside him.

tbc…

A/N: Well, I hope I'll be forgiven for ending it there…but I won't hold my breath. Unless something unforeseen occurs, the next chapter should be up more quickly than this one was. And big thank you to all my reviewers!  
Also, I hope my interpretation of his 'relationship' with Christine doesn't earn me flames, but this is pretty much how I see it. I also have to say, on Christine's behalf that, as much as I feel for Erik, being stalked just isn't sexy, and the girl made the right choice.


	6. Ive Stood in Your Shadow

Dreaming comes so easily  
'Cause it's all that I've known  
True love is a fairy tale  
I'm damaged, so how would I know

I'm scared and I'm alone  
I'm ashamed  
And I need for you to know

I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say  
And you can't take back what you've taken away  
– Damaged, Plumb

For nearly the first time he could remember, Erik had no idea what he was doing. He'd been slightly unsure of himself over the past week, but had retained a measure of control. He'd carefully censored himself; except for what he told her of his mother to explain his lack of surname, he'd truly volunteered very little personal information, though Maeve had not appeared to notice. In fact, after their first few conversations, so much of their time together was spent bemoaning the day's auditions, or should he say the daily _waste of time_, that more personal topics were barely breached.

But he enjoyed her company immensely. She did not stare at his mask, nor had she made any attempts to remove it. She had not, in fact, so much as acknowledged that he wore it. She treated him as though he were any other man. In her presence, the voices that always whispered, warning him that disaster was just round the bend, that no one could be trusted and he must not lower his defense, that all would come to ruin…the voices grew quiet, becoming little more than background noise, swept away by the way Maeve's face lit up each evening when she saw him, by her laughter when he mimicked the imbecile the day's auditions had thrown at them, by the way she said, 'Good night, Erik, sleep peacefully' every evening, and by a thousand other small things about the woman that constantly surprised him.

The misery of it, though, was that any time he was not watching her sing or in her company, the voices would return to plague him tenfold. Not only did they tell him to protect himself, the voices seemed constantly to remind him of the things he had done, the men he had killed; each time he left Maeve they told him that he should never return to her, that his presence in her life would bring _her_ pain as well, that she deserved better than to be destroyed by _The Phantom_.

He _was_, at least, capable of shoving them aside during his daily meetings with Madame Giry. Their first meeting, happily, had been less awkward than he'd expected. She'd sworn, quite plainly, to turn him over to the gendarmes should any more 'accidents' occur, but she'd been quite pleased that he'd accepted her offer to co-manage the opera. And after she'd had her say of the past, she promised never to bring it up again.

She showed him the ledgers, reports detailing the progress of the external repairs, and the list of people set to audition. Madame Giry also told him that she'd intended to await his return before hiring any singers, as his ear was far better than hers. But, as even her untrained ear could recognize brilliance, she'd no choice but to hire Maeve on the spot. With a knowing smile on her face, she asked if he approved of her choice. In reply, he'd sent her a withering glare, which, disappointingly, earned him only a quiet chuckle and a pat on the hand. It was _horribly_ patronizing, and yet for some reason, oddly comforting.

They easily came to an agreement regarding the work of running the opera. Monsieur Reyer, who had agreed to return, would be responsible for the musicians and would set the rehearsal schedule. Though she was grooming Meg to take over as the Ballet Mistress, Madame Giry would be responsible for all decisions regarding the ballet. The public aspects of her position troubled her; she doubted her ability to charm the wealthy opera patrons, and felt quite nauseated by the idea of having pander to a circus of fops and their beautiful, haughty ornaments.

That said, she had paused, worrying her lip for a moment. Reluctantly, she continued by saying that she hoped to finesse the _owners _into carrying that burden. Simply for curiosity's sake, Erik half-intended to just let her go on. He wanted to know how long it would take her to tell him what he already knew.

Choosing to take pity on her, he informed Madame Giry that Maeve had already told him the truth, and agreed that it would be ideal if the Viscomte and Viscomtesse could be convinced to undertake that particular responsibility.

That sorted, they easily divided up the rest of the duties; Erik would be responsible for the paperwork, would decide which operas should be performed, and would make all casting decisions. Madame Giry would, in turn, manage the employees, relaying his decisions and making certain that everyone did his or her job. She was, quite frankly, relieved; she had neither the expertise nor the desire to run the opera house, but knew that _he _did, admitting one afternoon that she had only accepted the job in the hopes that he would come back. If he had not, she'd have begged Christine and Raoul to find someone else.

And so his days were consumed by the business of the opera, his evenings spent in conversation, and his nights with horror and pain. All told, by the end of the week he was quite exhausted. He'd decided to ask Maeve to his home that evening. He was just too tired, his nerves too raw to listen for interlopers, but was not so tired that he would deprive himself of the only activity which brought him a moment's peace.

And yet, it had brought him to his current dilemma. When Maeve would not release his hand, he'd thought that perhaps the dank, dark passages had finally gotten to her, and had turned to reassure her. But then she'd smiled demurely and color, dark enough to be seen in the lantern-light, flooded her cheeks…and shock flooded his mind. Then she'd dropped her gaze to their still-joined hands, her eyes locked on her own thumb as it trailed over his wrist and palm.

This…this was not among the contingencies he'd planned for. From the obvious – Maeve would come to her senses, choosing no longer to associate with a murderous fiend, to the probable – his presence would be discovered, forcing him to flee, to the unlikely – Maeve would finally see his face, and turn out to be like everyone else…given what she'd told him of her life, he found he'd no choice but to believe that his hideous face _truly_ could be no worse than what she'd seen during the famine.

Should see his deformity, of course, he hardly expected her to say, '_oh, is that all?_', and go on as though nothing had happened. She would, of course, be repulsed. And yet, for the first time in his life, he believed he had met someone who would not mock him, be cruel to him, or even reject his friendship because of the deformed horror that was his face. Still, the shame he felt in regards to his appearance, not to mention the possibility that he was wrong, kept his mask firmly in place.

These things and many more he had considered over the past week. But not once had he _dared_ consider that she might seek his company as a _man_. When he'd thought of her, he'd never dared entertain any romantic notions, but apparently she _had_. And if the lady was willing…

He gently pulled her hand upwards, her eyes following its progress. Only moments later, their hands had reached his throat, and Erik held still. Maeve inhaled deeply, and more than a bit shakily, and looked up into his eyes. Her own were wide and dark in the dim light. She looked…not afraid, exactly…perhaps she was nervous? The slight tremor in her hand suggested that his guess was correct. Erik slowly bent his head, never breaking his stare. As he brushed his lips against her fingers, he noted that Maeve had been holding her breath, and as he pulled back, she let it out with a soft whimper.

Deeply pleased by her reaction, he'd flashed a roguish grin and pulled her to walk beside him…and that was where his mind had frozen. Their relationship was shifting toward something he'd longed for, for as long as he could remember, but the disaster with Christine was still fresh in his mind. And should be fresh in Maeve's as well – she'd heard the entire story, after all. How she could trust him was beyond him. Never mind trust…with all she knew, why would she want to _be _with him?

For him, though, it was a simple equation. Though she would never rival Christine, Maeve was a lovely woman, and Madame Giry, incidentally, seemed to be forcing her to eat – Maeve had complained that, given the way Madame Giry was feeding her, she feared that soon she'd explode. Already, her face seemed less pinched and drawn, and there was a bit more color in her cheeks. It left him impatient to see the beauty she would become when she had some meat on her bones. But her physical beauty, he suspected, would always pale in comparison to the woman inside.

She had a fire within her, a passion that could rival his, and yet she could be kind and gentle; he imagined that her brothers, motherless though they were, had always felt deeply loved and cared for. She was bright, insightful, compassionate, and more… And certain though he was that she had flaws, moreover he was certain that he knew what a few of them were, for the life of him, he could not presently think of a single one.

They walked in silence until they reached the edge of the lake. For a moment, Maeve's grip on his hand tightened, and she raised her other hand to her breast. "Oh Erik," she breathed, "It's lovely. Your home, it's on the other side?"

"Yes, it's not far now." Erik guided her into the boat, feeling a moment's desolation as he was forced to release her hand. She seemed to notice; settling herself at his feet, she wrapped an arm around his calf, humming quietly as they crossed the lake.

At the sight of steam rising from the surface of the water, Maeve gasped. Craning her head up, she asked excitedly, "A hot spring? I was wonderin' how you'd keep from freezing down here."

"Yes, it _is_ quite convenient." She was still looking up at him, a smile playing about her lips, when his abode came into view. "Maeve," he whispered, "Look."

She gasped, rising up onto her knees and turning about to take it all in. "Oh my, oh Erik, it's gorgeous." She looked up at him, smiling. "Much better than my room, I must say."

tbc…

A/N: Hope everyone enjoys the chapter, and thank you to my reviewers for your kind words and constructive comments. I knew when I was writing the last chapter that people would notice that Erik had gone into 'share mode' too quickly. I hope his musings at the beginning of this chapter clear it up, but let me know if he still seems off.  
Oh, and as for the bit about the hot spring, I doubt it's cannon, but it makes sense to me that if a mist is rising up off an underground lake, it probably means the water's warm.

And I've learned my lesson to _never_ jinx myself by saying 'should nothing unforeseen happen, blah, blah, blah…' as my computer; well, let's just say it caught a _bad_ cold. I had to completely wipe the stupid drive, but it's working again! Yay!  
Of course, after that my muse decided to desert me for a week…I think it missed the computer.


	7. I Hold Your Heart

Hanging by threads of palest silver  
I could have stayed that way forever  
Bad blood and ghosts wrapped tight around me  
Nothing could ever seem to touch me  
I lose what I love most  
Did you know I was lost until you found me?

A stroke of luck or a gift from God?  
The hand of fate or devil's claws?  
From below or saints above?  
You came to me  
– A Stroke of Luck, Garbage

The boat came to rest, and to Erik's delight, she was still looking round in awe. Once he helped her out of the boat, Maeve turned back toward the water. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and smiled.

Cautiously, Erik wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A sigh escaping her lips, Maeve leaned into him. "What is it?"

"The water, it just makes me feel so peaceful, content. My family's home is in County Clare, near the coast. All my happiest childhood memories involve the sound of water. In fact, this is the first place in all of France that's felt at all like home. All that's missing is the smell of salt, the sound of gulls, and, of course, the freezin' wind. Now _that_, I don't so much miss."

A few seconds passed before his stunned mind could process what he'd heard. She feels at _home_ here, he thought. As a small, glimmering spark of happiness began to form in his heart, Maeve spun around, laughter in her eyes. In that moment, she looked so happy and carefree, Erik imagined he could see the girl she once was.

"So are you just gonna stand there and gawk at me, or will you be showin' me around?" she asked playfully.

Offering her his arm, he led her through all of his chambers – the kitchen, pantry and dining area, the 'junk room', his library and study, and finally his bedchamber and bath. She'd been shocked and delighted to see the modern fixtures, proclaiming that his was the finest bath in the entire opera house.

As he led her back toward the main room, he briefly described the pains he'd gone though to install a plumbing system, and she listened raptly, mentioning that Brady, her second eldest brother, planned to build a house for his family once he could afford the land. She told him that Brady would undoubtedly be thrilled for an opportunity to learn from him should they ever meet.

As soon as they returned to the main chamber, Maeve wandered over to the organ, running her fingers over the keys. Settling on the left edge of the bench, she cocked her head over her shoulder, favoring him with a hopeful smile. "Sing for me?"

Once he'd sat down, Erik was relieved to find that he had enough room to play; he needn't fear elbowing her. He began to play Don Juan's first aria, _Possession_. The final aria was more complex and would give him a better opportunity to flaunt his talent, but he was not about to attempt it without a proper warm-up, whereas _Possession_ began simply enough that he was confident that he could sing it cold. And, all things considered, it was undoubtedly more appropriate to sing her a song of desire and longing than to sing the self-pitying, nihilistic rant of _Entropy_.

As he sang the opening notes, his world began to shrink. There was no room for distraction; in this place music was God, and he surrendered to it. He nourished it with his passion, and received from it a sense of contentment as his hands flew over the keys, his voice soaring flawlessly through the notes. As the aria drew to a close, his world began once more to expand, and he again became aware of Maeve's presence at his side.

The final note died, and she reached out, covering his hand with her own. "That was…I can't think of any words that would adequately to describe how gorgeous that was. Thank you."

Turning to look at her, he was quite pleased by the sight she presented. She was flushed, her breathing slightly irregular, and in her eyes was something like awe. _That_ was an expression he recognized. He'd seen it in Christine's eyes as well. The thought brought him crashing down to earth. Despite substantial evidence to the contrary, Erik feared that he would again be rejected. And the fact that he could not imagine why she would desire a relationship with him did nothing to ease his mind.

He pulled his hand away and, before he could stop himself, the words came pouring out. "When you look at me, what do you see? Why are you here with me?"

"Why? You're smart, witty, and you make me laugh. As for what I _see_, you're strong and _quite_ well built; don't think I hadn't noticed. You've an intensity that draws me in, and you're angry enough to hold my attention. You might think it odd, but I've a difficult time understandin' a man that isn't at least somewhat angry."

Maeve reached out, covering his hands with her own. "Now, I'll admit, there are things about you that worry me. It seems to me that you almost always think of yourself first, and at times you don't think _further_ than that. You've taken human lives and I'm not sure that you're sorry or if you'd do it again. And darlin', I'm sayin' this because I need you to understand that I'm not going into this blind. I _do_ know who you've been, but I also believe you want to be a better man. I see him there inside, strugglin' to get out, and I want to know that man. I'd like to help you find him, if you'll let me."

She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, and Erik leaned into the caress. "And quite frankly, now that I've heard you sing…" she paused as her eyes momentarily glazed over. When she continued, her voice was little more than a whisper. "I doubt wild horses could drag me away from you. But…I've _never_ felt like this before, and to be honest, it frightens me some."

Erik felt a surge of joy, for never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that anyone would say such things…and be talking about _him_. And yet he could not help but feel that she had held something back; something else frightened her, he was certain of it. "Is that all that frightens you?"

"No, there's one other…I…" she trailed off uncertainly.

The mask, he thought, she's afraid of what lies beneath. He waited for her to continue, and was startled to see tears gathering in her eyes.

She tried to turn away from him, but Erik wrapped his hands around her shoulders, so she turned her head, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. Cradling her chin in his hand, he gently turned her head to face him, and wiped away her tears.

"Tell me," he pleaded.

She closed her eyes tightly and whispered brokenly, "I…I'm afraid that you still love her; that I'm no more than a poor substitute for what you really want."

Of all the ridiculous nonsense, he thought, but then he realized she could hardly know that as he'd yet to tell her much of _anything_ that was real. It occurred to him that, in his crusade to protect himself, he could very well protect himself out of a real chance to be loved.

Frightening or not, it was time he was honest with her. "Maeve, open your eyes. Please look at me."

She opened them as asked, and Erik was shocked by the vulnerability and insecurity he saw there.

"Now listen to me. You needn't worry over that. My dear, if anything, knowing you has shown me that my feelings for Christine were a poor substitute for something real and true. You make me think, challenge my beliefs and assumptions. Every day, I can hardly wait to see you, and each time I see you, you amaze me. You've shown me compassion without making me feel pitied. You have a strength of character and capacity for forgiveness and understanding that I can scarce believe is real. And if you never offered me anything beyond friendship, I'd count myself a lucky man to have been graced with such an honor."

He reached out then, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes, and running his hand along her cheek. A moment later, Maeve launched herself at him, forcing the air out of his lungs. He managed to keep them from toppling off the bench, but only _just_. She'd buried her head in the crook of his neck, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Sighing in relief and contentment, he gently kissed the top of her head and held her close.

Each basking in the closeness of the other, they stayed, quietly wrapped in their embrace, for the rest of the evening.

* * *

So caught up was he in the new routine of his life, Erik was shocked to glance at the calendar while he waited for Madame Giry and discover that nearly a month had flown by. At last, the opera had a full company…with the exception of a lead tenor. One or two of the tenors in the company would do in a pinch, but none could truly hold their own with Maeve, and she and Erik were both becoming frustrated. 

And speaking of _frustration_, Erik felt near his wit's end. As neither he nor Maeve had any experience to speak of, she thought it best that they take things slowly. In practical terms, it meant he was permitted to hold her hand or wrap her in an innocent embrace. She promised that when she was ready for more, he'd be the first to know, but in the meantime he was going mad with the need to run his hands over her curves, to cover her body with kisses, and the desire to press her up against a wall and grind his body against hers, needing her to _feel _the effect she had on him.

That she seemed to grow more tempting by the day was not particularly helpful. Though she griped that she'd had to let out all of her clothing, she did admit that she both looked and felt better than she had in a long while. Her hair had become more lustrous, her cheeks rosy, and the faint circles beneath her eyes had vanished. And while still slender, she was rounding up in the most delightful, _touchable_ way, and he ached with need for her.

Madame Giry's arrival pulled him out of his lustful thoughts, and he turned his attention to business.

* * *

The meeting had run late, and assuming that Maeve would already have gone to supper, he did not stop in to see her. He was pleasantly surprised, on his return home, to find a simple meal set out on a blanket by the water's edge. He did not see Maeve, but he knew she must be nearby, as her small boat was tied in its usual place. He had been quite surprised when she'd asked if she could use the spare boat she discovered in his junk room. It had been in need of only minor repairs, and she insisted that it was quite important that she have the ability to come and go as she pleased. As he was finding that it was quite difficult to deny her when her heart and mind were set, he'd repaired it immediately. 

That moment, Maeve emerged from the pantry carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. Her presence in his home, the simple fact that she had prepared supper in anticipation of his arrival, was domestic in a way that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and head for his bedchamber. He managed to control the impulse, but feared that his thoughts had shown on his face.

Maeve heaved an exaggerated sigh as she set down the wine and arranged the glasses. "You, sir, are a very bad man."

So it _had_ shown, he thought. Attempting an innocent expression, he asked, "Whatever do you mean?"

Standing straight, she folded her arms across her chest and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh no, don't you give me that. I can tell when you're havin' perverted thoughts."

Mimicking her stance and expression, he shot back, "Indeed? It's a wonder, then, that you aren't annoyed with me more often."

Blushing, she grinned and sat down. "Alright, then, that's quite enough of that. I don't believe this is entirely suitable supper conversation. Now set your arse down and think of somethin' polite to say to me."

"My lady, how can I refuse such a courteous request?" he replied smoothly.

"Oh shut it, you," she said, but her snort of laughter belied her annoyance.

Settling down to eat, they fell into a comfortable silence.

After refilling their wine glasses, Maeve broke the silence. "Erik?"

"Yes, my dear?" he replied absently, as his mind had once more begun to wander in the direction of his bedchamber.

"If we don't find a tenor soon, we'll be forced to postpone the reopening of the opera, won't we?"

"I suppose we might," he nonchalantly replied. It would do no good, he thought, to admit his concern, and concerned he was. It was, in fact, the reason his meeting had run late. He and Madame Giry had discussed the situation at length. They had two weeks, perhaps three, to find a suitable tenor or there would be a problem. There were a few possibilities, none of which were appealing. One of the tenors, Monsieur Julien Marchand, was quite gifted, but far too young. Though he'd undoubtedly _rule_ the stage in ten years or so, at present he was simply a twenty-two year old _boy_. Aside from postponing the opening, their only other real option, Signor Raphael Di Costa, reminded him rather unpleasantly of La Carlotta. A chronic over-actor, he was far too impressed with himself, but sadly was the best they had.

"Aren't you even a _little _bit worried?" Maeve asked, sounding exasperated.

Privately, he thought she seemed worried enough for both of them. "Would you feel better if I crossed myself and cried 'Saints preserve us', whatever shall we do?" he replied, mimicking her own accent and somewhat overused exclamation.

She turned to him, shocked, then her eyes unfocused and her mouth fell slightly open. A few moments later, a look of excitement spread across her face and she closed the distance between them, kissing him hard on the mouth. Whispering in his ear, "You're a genius," she scampered off, leaving him quite confused, feeling not at all like a genius.

tbc…

A/N: Was planning on uploading this last night, but ff dot net was having issues. I've uploaded a little humble fan art on my profile page, if anyone cares to take a gander...

Okay, I've been meaning to do this for some time, but I want to thank all my reviewers and respond to some of the questions and comments:

terpsichore314 - I'm glad you're enjoying the story. As for Erik's surprise regarding Maeve's interest in him, there is a distinct difference between having a physical reaction to a sensual man and actually wanting to pursue a relationship with him.  
And it's quite possible to sit at a man's feet and wrap an arm around his leg (I know because I reenacted it with my husband), though I could probably have made it easier to visualize if I'd stated that she wasn't sitting straight in the boat, but was turned slightly to one side.

andersm - Yeah, he really _would _have been bored to tears with Christine... if _anyone_ needs a woman with a brain in her head, it's Erik. And I'm glad that you enjoy my sense of humor - I wasn't certain it would come across well, but no flames so far, so yay me!

RitaSV - I appreciate the compliment, but sadly I don't write for a living. I used to write quite a lot when I was younger, but have barely written anything since I graduated from high school (that was 15 years ago, btw). And I'll be happy to shoot you emails when I update.

AuroreD - I have to say, I'm still giddy that you found my story through a link...someone actually took the time to put up a link on the board and say it was good... (basks in the love) And I'm glad you like Maeve - please let me know if she ever starts to become at all Mary Sueish.

MorganLeFay99 - I know the boy may be getting hopeful a little quickly,and I've tried to clarify that he still has a substantial amount of fear. And you ask if they'll end up together? What's this? Trying to worm the plot out of me, are ya? ) And you know not The Joss? Oh, so terribly deprived not to know the almighty creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer! (What? Who said I was obsessed? Granted, they were right, but still...)

Jade130 - Hey, hope you liked what happened. I'm sooo glad you're enjoyin' my tale. I have to say, the fact that Maeve reminds you of yourself is so gratifying to me; it means I'm creating a non-cardboardy character. Yay!

Laura Kay - hehehe... I knew _someone _would hate me for getting to meet The Joss. The coolest part, incidentally, was that I was wearing a 'The Cheat' shirt (from HomestarRunner dot com), and Joss said 'just the claps, just the claps', mimicking Strong Bad's voice. I'm still floating in nerd heaven...

Many, many thanks also to:  
aleema-darkrose1  
caitpotter  
Countess Alana  
Countess Vladislaus Dragu  
ElvenStar5  
eppie  
Faerie Tart  
gerfan  
Goddess of the Neon Rose  
Han Futsu Anti Normal  
klgphan  
Kristiana Marie  
Lady Nessa  
Lady Razorsharp  
LostSchizophrenic  
Maggie  
Megaparsec  
melissa  
MickeyP  
Moon Avenger  
Mrs. Opera Ghost  
Ms. Niki  
OktoberDaina  
Pirate Goddess  
Pirates Life 4 me  
Raveene  
rio  
Scorpiochick103  
Undomiel2007  
WildPixieChild16


	8. You Can Be Free

Maeve had run straight to Madame Giry, eventually calming herself enough to explain her plan. The woman had been thrilled, offering to help gather supplies and to iron out details.

She'd then taken Maeve to a shop, which she thought likely to have the most crucial item on their list. Madame Giry knew the shopkeeper – he lived above his store and did not mind letting them in after hours.

While he and Madame Giry chatted, Maeve found it, exactly what she was looking for. She had feared she'd need to have one custom made, but there it was, the right size, the right color; the wrong style, but that she could fix herself.

Upon returning to the opera, they deliberated over the plan. It was quite late indeed when they finished and Madame Giry retired for the evening. Maeve did not sleep that night, instead busying herself with preparations.

* * *

Erik arrived at Box Five at his usual time to find the ballerinas and actors milling about. Today, Madame Giry was to present their casting decisions for Don Juan Triumphant. She'd visited him that morning, advising that they leave the title character uncast, holding out hope that someone more talented would come along, but name Signor di Costa as understudy. 

Though rehearsals would not begin for another two weeks, Erik wanted the actors to have time beforehand to prepare. It was _his_ work, and he could not bear the thought of it once more being butchered. Scanned his eyes over the players, he discovered, to his dismay, that Maeve was missing.

Ten minutes later, Madame Giry strode onstage, but Maeve had still not arrived.

"Attention, attention please," Madame Giry called, and the assembly slowly quieted. "I have an announcement to make. I assume you have all noted the absence of our prima donna. Miss O'Donnell left us this morning, but will return in a few weeks. She is attempting to woo a friend here to audition for us, as she believes him to be perfect for our needs. She would simply have written, but she fears it may take more than a bit of convincing. She has promised to send word as soon as possible, and will be working on her role as well. That in mind, I have posted the cast listing to the bulletin board just off-stage. Those who have received substantial roles are to report to my office at the time listed by your name, and I will provide you with further instructions. Are there any questions?"

Erik's head was buzzing…Maeve was gone? With no word at all? Deeply disturbed, Erik rushed to her room, but she was not there. Even more disturbing was the fact that some of her belongings were missing.

Not knowing what else to do, he stormed off to the office to await Madame Giry. The instant she arrived, he descended upon her, demanding to know what was going on, but she crossed her arms and looked down her nose at him, making him feel like nothing more than a petulant child. Refusing to answer any questions while he was in a rage, she told him to return home to cool off and find her again when he felt less inclined to shout.

By the time he reached his boat, the anger had dulled to a cold dread as Madame Giry's words echoed in his mind. '_She is attempting to woo a friend here to audition for us._' He'd been a fool, he thought miserably. Hadn't he known that, sooner or later, the other shoe would drop, that his happiness would be snatched away? And despite that, he'd grown so very complacent. He should have known that God would never allow the _Devil's Child_ to defile so virtuous and devout a woman as Maeve.

As he crossed the lake, a thought occurred to him. It was ridiculous, and almost _funny_. A woman had kissed him, then run off to some other man. How had he allowed _that_ to happen again? Had there been signs? Had he simply overlooked them?

When he could think of nothing, a tiny spark of hope glimmered in his mind. She hadn't left forever; she _was _coming back. And more than that, hadn't she said that not even 'wild horses could drag' her away from him? Somewhere, he'd missed a clue. He _had _to be overlooking something, he thought, absently pressing the mechanism to raise the gate.

Glancing around to make certain that, in his distraction, he would not strike the wall, Erik instead discovered that elusive clue. Earlier, Maeve's boat had been tied up on the other side of the lake, but now he was looking directly at it, and nearby sat two trunks. She _hadn't_ left without a goodbye, after all. But why, Erik wondered, would she have brought her luggage with her to do so?

Quickly securing the boat, he swept his eyes over the room, finally spying her, head buried in a book, sitting in the middle of the swan bed. He could not help but recall her second visit; he had asked how she liked it. He could not stop the grin that formed at the memory of her response. 'It's, what's the word…_tacky_. I do believe I'm a bit horrified by the thing.' Her eyes had grown almost comically wide as she realized what she'd said, and had added, 'It looks comfortable, though.' He approached the bed, intentionally making a bit of noise so that she would know he was close.

Closing her book, she looked up at him, a warm smile on her face. "Well, good mornin'. I was startin' to wonder where you were. Oh, and as it turns out, it _is _comfortable. Have a seat?"

Dragging out the inevitable with pleasant conversation seemed unbearable, so he chose to skip it. "Madame Giry made a disturbing announcement this morning. Is it true?"

In a calming gesture, Maeve held up a hand. "Madame Giry did not lie. But darlin', just let me explain."

"No, I knew that…I _should_ have known…" Erik trailed off, looking away even as he sat next to her.

"Known what, love?" she asked.

Something twisted inside him at that particular endearment; he longed with every fiber of his being for his fears to be unfounded. "This…this won't last. It's too good, _you're_ too good. _God_," he snarled, "won't allow it, he'd _never_ allow it. He hates me too much to mffft…" He attempted to continue, but the hand that Maeve had clapped over his mouth made it quite difficult.

Once, he stopped trying to speak through her hand, Maeve let it drop. "Erik, God does _not_ hate you, and I'll thank you not to blaspheme in my presence."

"You have no idea…"

"No," she cut him off. "You're right, I can't imagine what you've been through. But perhaps I might impress upon you what it means to be Irish, for I've a feeling you haven't truly grasped what _I've_ lived through either. And I'm not talkin' about the famine." She paused, as though daring him to refuse to hear her out.

Erik simply crossed his arms and nodded curtly.

Mirroring his posture, she began to speak. "I was barely six years old when I heard a soldier actually _praise God_ for the famine. Among other things, he said he should've known that God would take care of the 'Irish problem' for them. _Them_, of course, bein' the English. After I heard that, well I went runnin' straight to our parish priest, Father Collins. Told him what the soldier said, asked him what was so wrong with us that even God wanted us to suffer and die."

She shook her head, a wry grin on her lips. "Now the Father, he's a sweet man, but for a moment he looked like he wanted to murder himself a soldier. But it passed quickly, and he turned his attention back to the miserable, weepin' little girl that was clutchin' at his robes. Picked me up then, he did. And he sat down, me there on his knee, and we had a long talk about God and suffering. Told me that God loved us, every single one of us, that He loved even those that hated _Him_. Promised that God did not actually _want_ us to suffer, as he'd never intended for us to live in this fallen, broken world. But we do, and Father Collins explained that often that was the entire reason for our suffering. But sometimes, he said, there's a deeper meaning to it. Trials can be sent to test our faith, sometimes they're sent to tear down our arrogance, reminding us that we're only human and simply can't survive without God, and sometimes they mature us, so that we'll be prepared for what's to come."

"And I want you to understand somethin', love. That was not simply an isolated incident in my childhood; you learn rather quickly that part of what being Irish means is that the English despise you and wish you were dead. And so you pray, and if that doesn't help, you drink. And if _that _doesn't work, you pick a fight. Sometimes, if you're well educated, your fight is a cause, but usually you take to brawlin' and shoutin'. There's more to us, of course. We _are_ also known for our love of music. You might even say we need it to survive. So, when I tell you that I'm certain you've got Irish blood in ya somewhere, maybe you'll see where I'm comin' from."

Indeed, as he listened to her story, Erik could not fail to feel a kinship with the Irish. Assuming that Maeve was not deceiving him, Ireland was filled with people who were, like him, hated from _birth_ for reasons entirely beyond their control. And that they were also hot-tempered music lovers brought a wry grin to his face.

"And it also brings me to what I came here to talk to you about. Erik, do you think you could copy my accent? I mean, could you copy it well enough that others would believe it was your own?"

What an odd question. "Easily, but why?"

"I suppose you'd have to say I've had an epiphany, but I've not finished with me questions. Now, outside of Madame Giry, and the Viscomte and Viscomtesse de Chagny, no one has ever really gotten much more than a glimpse of you, right?"

"Correct," he replied, somewhat amused by her reference to Christine and her _boy_ by their titles.

"But _everyone_ knows that I was injured during my childhood. No one but Madame Giry knows the entire story, but that is soon to be remedied. And I'll have you know, by the way, I told _her_ only last night, and she got the highly expurgated version."

"Fascinating as this is, what does any of it have to do with my ability to sound like an Irishman?"

Maeve rolled her eyes. "Well I'll tell you, if you'll just stop interruptin'."

"_Deepest _apologies, my dear. After all, you _never_ interrupt me," he replied, tongue-in-cheek.

Maeve had the grace to look sheepish. "Yes, I know, and I _am_ sorry." Drawing her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them, and rested her head on her knees. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak again. "Okay, I'm sure you guessed that I was leaving something out when I told you about my accident. My legs _were_ broken, one of them so badly that me Da had to perform surgery so that I wouldn't lose it. And even then, it was touch and go. For weeks, he never left my side. Until Gran got there and made him attend himself, he slept in a chair at my bedside, wakin' every time I made the slightest noise. But it's _how_ they got broken and the rest of me injuries that I _really _skipped over."

The rest of her injuries? That was certainly cryptic, and he wanted to tell her to just spit it out, but Erik managed to hold his tongue.

"Da and me older brothers were gone when the lightning storm started. Little Quinn was hidin' under his bed, but Eoin and I went out to get the sheep into the barn, and check on the mule. We only had three sheep, so it wasn't much of a chore, but it was important to get them put away, as we really couldn't afford to lose one. Well, we got it done and ran back inside, and we all huddled together as the thunder and lightnin' got closer."

A pained expression crossed her face, and she shut her eyes. "I guess it was about twenty minutes later that we heard the most god-awful racket coming from the barn. It sounded like the mule was tryin' to bring the whole buildin' down. I ran out to the front room and looked out to the window to see that the barn had been struck by lightning. The smell of smoke hadn't yet reached the house, and the thunder was so loud that we hadn't heard it happen. So Eoin and I ran back out to try and save the animals. We couldn't stop the mule from boltin'; we nearly got trampled by it as well. The sheep, well, sheep are not bright animals. They were so scared by the fire that they didn't want to move, but we were getting' them out, one by one."

Suddenly restless, Maeve stood and began to pace. "It took so long, though. By the time we'd gotten the second one locked in the paddock, the whole roof of the barn was blazin'. Eoin," she paused, choking back a sob. "Eoin warned me not to go back in, shouted at me that it wasn't worth it, but we needed that wool, and that thought drove me back in. I didn't get far. I wasn't halfway across when the roof began to collapse, and I turned back. The rest is a bit muddled. I tripped over something, but I still don't know what it was. I went sprawlin', Eoin was screaming, then there was this excruciating pain in my legs, and I passed out."

Turning to face him, Maeve stopped pacing and stared Erik in the eye. "As I'm sure you've guessed, part of the roof fell in on me. Eoin ran in, pulled me out from under it, and dragged me out. And if Da, Micheal, and Brady hadn't come runnin' toward us then, we would _both _have died; Eoin told me later that he passed out from all the smoke just seconds after he put out the flames."

She reached down, took the hem of her dress in both hands, and lifted it to her knees. Except for a long, white scar testifying to her past surgery, any scars from theaccident had faded almost completely. But then she turned around, and Erik gasped in shock. The beam that struck her had left four inch wide, deep red scars on both of her calves. At the edges, her skin seemed to have been pulled taut – it brought to mind a passage from a medical text in his library. It had mentioned that damage to the musculature was common with severe burns. Both above and below those marks, the flesh of her legs was twisted and a mottled assortment of color. It resembled…honestly, it looked as though her skin had been melted…but it reminded him of something he'd seen before. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

Dropping her skirt, Maeve turned back to face him. "I don't mind them, really. They still hold me up, even if they hurt somethin' fierce in cold weather. But people get strange, treating me like I was made of glass, and staring when they don't think I'm looking, so I never talk about it. But last night I thought of a reason to tell _everyone _about it. It requires a lie, and that troubles me some, but less than I thought it might. I can see it now, Madame Giry telling everyone the story of the kind young man that saved me from the fire, but not before he was burned himself. About how he is a bit self-conscious, so he wears a mask to cover his scarred face."

She reached into the bag at her feet, pulling out a woolen coat and a reddish brown wig. "Do you not see how easily you could join the world, love? A masked man coming to the Opera Populaire might raise suspicions, but everyone that _needs_ to believes that you're dead. And an accent, new hair, a new wardrobe, a good story, and a new mask, of course, would sell the illusion regardless. You're a magician, Erik, or so I'm told. What do you think? Will it work?"

For several seconds, Erik could not seem to find his voice. "You were _never_ leaving?"

Maeve smiled sweetly, reaching for his hand. "Not plannin' on it, love. Technically, though, what Madame Giry announced this morning was all true, my _friend_. So, do you think you're up fer it?"

She wasn't leaving…she was going to be staying with _him_ for two or three weeks. Erik could barely wrap his head around it, but she had come up with the beginnings of a plan to bring him into the daylight, had reiterated her intention to stay with him…and she had to ask if he was _up_ for it? He could think of only one way to respond, and as luck would have it, there was a convenient stretch of empty wall not far from where she stood.

Long past caring about the consequences, he stood and then tugged on Maeve's hand, pulling her off-balance. Before she could get her bearings, he spun them around and pressed her into the wall, crushing his lips to hers. Maeve gasped in shock, but then melted against him and her hands raised to stroke his face and neck.

The kiss he'd shared with Christine had tasted of pity, and of fear and desperation; there'd been desire as well, but no tenderness, no _love_. This, Erik thought, as he tangled his hands in Maeve's hair, this tasted like love…_she _tasted like love.

tbc…

A/N: Sorry this took _soooooooooooo_ long, but I actually had to do some research when I was writing this chapter, and it took forever for me to finish editing and be happy with it

I also wanted to mention, before anyone questions my use of the word tacky or the phrase 'wild horses couldn't drag me away', I actually did check the etymology of both, and both date from at least the 1860s in their current meanings.

Jade 130 - Yeah, poor Erik, but that's what he gets for dating a devout Catholic girl. Personally, well let's just say that if _I _had been Christine, he would _never_ have made it through 'Music of the Night'. Right around 'let your fantasies unwind', I'd have said, 'way ahead of ya,' and jumped him. And good luck with not dating horn-dogs. Personally, I've found that men are horny from about age fourteen to five minutes before death (or right up until death, depending on the cause, if ya get me). Well, this response is a bit pervy, but the inner perv just isn't getting out enough in this story..._yet_ anyway.

MorganLeFay99 - He's a genius because his mimickry of her accent gave her that idea, of course...Of course,now that you've read it, you already knew that... hehehehe

Mrs. Opera Ghost - I know I already emailed you, but wanted to say again that I hope you got a chance to listen to the Loreena McKennitt song I suggested in response (The Dark Night of the Soul). And if you want to hear Geoff Tate sing, I'd suggest a little trip to Amazon dot com. I checked out the clips of a bunch of different songs, and I'd suggest going into the "Promised Land" CD and clicking on "I Am I". That one might give you an idea of why I say _my _Erik's singing voice is a blend of Gerard Butler and Geoff Tate.

And _somebody_ please check out the profile page and check out the fan art. I'm _soooo_ not afraid to beg. And go ahead and tell me if you consider me completely lacking in visual creativity. I'm actually working on new, more interesting art, but it will take some time.


	9. I Feel When You Need

I want somebody to share, share the rest of my life  
Share my innermost thoughts, know my intimate details  
Someone who'll stand by my side and give me support  
And in return, she'll get my support  
She will listen to me when I want to speak  
About the world we live in and life in general  
Though my views may be wrong, they may even be perverted  
She'll hear me out and won't easily be converted  
To my way of thinking, in fact she'll often disagree  
But at the end of it all she will understand me

I want somebody who cares for me passionately  
With every thought and with every breath  
Someone who'll help me see things in a different light  
All the things I detest I will almost like  
I don't want to be tied to anyone's strings  
I'm carefully trying to steer clear of those things  
But when I'm asleep I want somebody  
Who will put their arms around me and kiss me tenderly  
Though things like this make me sick  
In a case like this, I'll get away with it  
– Somebody, Depeche Mode

Just as when he lost himself to his music, Erik's world had whittled down until nothing existed beyond sensation. His mind pulsed with a wordless, sensual melody that radiated from his lips and hands, and his groin throbbed a steady, insistent beat. Desperate for more, his hands left Maeve's hair, blazing a path across her shoulders and along her back, and settling at last on the curve of her backside. Acting on instinct, he tightened his grip and pulled her closer, stars exploding behind his closed lids as he ground himself into her body.

Breaking their kiss, Maeve began to push against his chest. "No! Erik, stop," she cried, almost frantic.

He leapt away as though burned. Many a horrible thing he'd done in his day, but the very idea of molesting a woman sickened him. **_Fool_**, he screamed inwardly. _What part of 'take it slow' did you misunderstand_? He was terrified to look up at her, fearing that she would be both angry and repulsed by his carnal impulse.

Risking a glance, he saw that she was leaning forward slightly, head buried in trembling hands. Summoning up his courage, Erik stumbled through an apology. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to go so far. Hurting you is the last thing I want, please believe me. Damn! I should have known you would want me to stop!"

"Dear sweet Jesus," she muttered, crossing herself. Straightening up, she looked upon him with passion-glazed eyes. As she fought to catch her breath, her eyes raked hungrily over his form, pausing for several moments on the prominent bulge in his trousers. Biting the corner of her lip, she dragged her eyes up toward his face; the way she looked at him was, for a moment, downright predatory and a fresh wave of lust shot through his body.

But then she shut her eyes tight and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "God forgive me Erik, but I certainly did not _want _you to stop. But I _will_ remain untouched until me wedding night. Love, we've made no promises to each other." Her eyes dropped to the ground, "But there is something I've been meanin' to tell you. Erik, I…" She paused, nervously clearing her throat.

Could it be? Was she going to say the words he'd spent a lifetime longing to hear? His heart felt as though it would burst from his chest, it pounded so. In an attempt to calm himself, he took several deep breaths, searching Maeve's face for clues. All he actually noticed, though, was the imprint his mask had left upon her face.

"I love the way you look at me, like I'm somethin' beautiful and precious," she began. "I love the way you talk to me, the way you expect me to intelligent enough to understand you. I doubt you'll ever know quite what that's meant to me. I love it when you call me on my own hypocrisy, and that while you won't let me get away with criticizing you for things I'm guilty of as well, you listen to me anyway. I love the way you sing, the way you move. God help me, I love the way the left corner of your mouth curves up into the most enticin' smirk when your thoughts turn lustful. And when I look to the future, I can think of nothing I'd rather do than devote myself to makin' you happy. Erik, darlin', I'm in love with you." She smiled broadly, "And I might've practiced that a few times last _nmpptt_…"

His lips on hers cut her short, and her conveniently open mouth gave Erik the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He struggled to formulate the kind of response she deserved, and _not_ to focus on the new sensations as his tongue slid over hers, _not_ on the gasps and groans issuing from her throat. That way lay madness and a nearly uncontrollable urge to thrust.

Whimpering, Maeve pulled away. "Erik, please. I don't know if I'll have the strength to stop you again."

At her words, his mind was overrun with visions of himself pounding her into his bed as she screamed his name in ecstasy. But that dissolved into a vision of the certain aftermath; he could see the shame and regret in her eyes, feel the self-loathing at having betrayed her trust.

Cradling her in his arms, he kissed her forehead and attempted to pull himself together. He _wanted _to excuse himself for a few minutes; the state he was in, merely a few deft strokes would relieve his tension immeasurably. But he reminded himself that he could hardly run out on her before expressing his own feelings, and that stayed his hand, so to speak.

"I love you, Maeve, more than words can express. I could give you my reasons, list all the qualities that have made me love you, but it could never be enough. I can think of only one way to show you what you mean to me…and that is to trust you."

Stepping away, he turned his back on her. Bowing his head, he brought his hands up, removing his mask and wig and dropping them to the ground. Searching for the courage to turn and face her, Erik took several deep breaths. He almost jumped to feel Maeve's hand lightly rest upon his back.

Gently running her hand along his spine, she whispered, "I love you. It will be alright. I promise. But you don't have to do this if you aren't ready. I'd never push you, love. You know that, don't you?"

Erik nodded, "I do. It's one of the many things I love you for. But…it's time; I know it is."

Forcing himself to keep his eyes open and his arms at his sides, Erik offered up perhaps his first prayer. 'God, please let it be true. It feels impossible, but let it be alright, let her still love me.'

Erik turned, pausing when she first appeared in his peripheral vision. If he turned any further…she'd see. He studied her face as best he could, committing to memory the love and trust in her eyes in case that disappeared once she saw the rest of him.

Clenching his hands into fists, he turned and faced her. To her credit, Maeve did not so much as flinch. She did not frown or wince; she did not avert her eyes or cover her mouth in shock. More than anything, in fact, with her head cocked to one side and her brow furrowed, she appeared confused.

"My God, darlin'. Is that all?" she asked, raising her hand to gently stroke his deformed cheek.

Erik opened his mouth to reply, but somehow could not remember how to form words.

When he did not speak, Maeve tried again. "How did this happen?"

Now that was a question he knew how to answer, and it loosened his tongue. "I was born this way."

"**_What_**?" was her shrill reply. "You were told that…" She trailed off, then began once more, this time softly and gently. "Erik, my darlin', that's a burn, not a birthmark. Here, look."

Maeve pulled him to stand before a mirror. "Don't you see it? This scar on your cheek, that'd be where the burn started, where it was worst. And here, where the skin pulls away from your eye, I've got somethin' similar on my legs."

"Damage to the musculature is common with severe burns," Erik whispered to himself in shock.

Maeve continued, surveying his face with a clinical eye. "Frankly, I'm a bit surprised you're not blind in this eye. In fact, as far up as this scarring goes, I think it's a miracle you didn't lose it completely."

It made sense…it explained why his vision in his right eye had always been weak, why the scars on her legs had looked so familiar to him. So he told her, "I've read medical books, so many of them. I've read about burns…how could I not have realized that…"

"And it's your fault you believed what you were told as a child…how? _All_ children believe that their mothers only tell them the truth. So now, as an adult, you think you should have been smart enough to just see through the lies she told you? I don't think it _ever _works like that, no matter howintelligent you are."

But if it was a burn…if he wasn't born a disfigured, monstrous thing… "Why? Why did she do that to me?" Erik didn't even notice the tears coursing down his cheeks.

Maeve's voice broke as she replied, "It's a good question. I only wish I had an answer for you."

She reached out to brush away his tears, but then brought her hand back to cover her mouth as she yawned. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't get any sleep last night."

"Then why don't I let you rest. I have a few errands to keep me busy, and I'll try not to disturb you when I return."

Maeve nodded and allowed him to lead her back to the bed. She fell asleep almost the instant her head touched the pillow. He stood there for several minutes, just watching her sleep. She loved him; she'd seen his face and hadn't run screaming. She hadn't even been _bothered _by the sight…she'd actually said, '_Is that all_?' It was mind-boggling.

She wanted _devote _herself to making him happy. He sat at his desk, taking out ink and paper. He didn't deserve her, he doubted _anyone_ could, but he hoped her father would approve anyway. He thought he might be getting ahead of himself, but he loved her and she loved him, so what did he need but her father's permission and the perfect ring? And he had a picture of _that_ in his mind.

The current fashion was garish, like the ring he'd tried to give Christine. But Maeve had the most beautiful, delicate little fingers, and she had to have something appropriate. If he could simply find an artist up to the challenge, his Maeve would wear the most beautiful ring ever created. And he'd decided to tell her father the truth. Maeve loved her family deeply, so he would not ask her to lie to them; he could only hope her father would not refuse him outright because of who he was.

Once he was satisfied with the letter, he sealed it and set it aside. He then began to sketch the ring. By the time he finished, it as mid-afternoon and nearly time for his daily meeting. Gathering together his sketches and the letter, he took one last look at Maeve's peaceful face and then crept toward the boat.

tbc…

A/N: I know it's been a long time, but I've been very ill. And I mean passing out, emergency room visits, delirious with fever, ill. I had this chapter almost done when I got sick, so I've been able to get it finished, but I'm still nowhere near 100 percent. So I can't guarantee when I'll get another chapter written. Right now, my health has to be my first and only priority. I won't abandon the story, but don't be surprised if I don't post for a month. My brain still sorta feels like Swiss cheese.

FYI, I added an opening quote to the first chapter. When I first started writing this, I knew there was a quote I wanted to begin the story with, but I couldn't remember what it was. Well, I finally remembered. If you don't recognize the quote…ask me, I'll be more than happy to shoot you an email and enlighten you!

Oh, and I'll respond to reviewer questions next time I post.


	10. I Forgive You

I'm no angel, but please don't think that I won't try  
I'm no angel, but does that mean that I can't live my life  
– I'm No Angel, Dido

Erik strolled through the passageway, humming under his breath. Everything was going so well. He felt positively light; if his feet left the ground and he began to float about, he would not find it surprising.

As he neared the office, Erik was disappointed to hear a voice that brought him crashing back down to earth. Sighing in resignation, he settled down by his hidden door to listen for a bit before venturing into the fray.

"No, Madame Giry, I have understood everything quite well, and I am hardly denying that it is an ingenious plan. I simply find myself able to draw only a single conclusion, and that is that you have gone completely mad! I believe I was more than generous by allowing you to seek his assistance in running the Opera. From the look of things, though, you have actually given him_ control_, and now you mean to give him free reign here! He is a madman and a killer, Madame, and I fail to see why both you _and_ my wife seem so inclined to forget that detail," Raoul stated irritably.

"Monsieur, things are not so simple as you wish to believe," Mme. Giry replied brusquely. "And he is _not _mad. Angry, yes, often, frustrated by the world around him, certainly, but I have spent a great deal of time in his company of late and he is _not_ a lunatic. And I do not believe he will kill again."

"Perhaps, but what am I to think when you tell me that your new prima donna has become mixed up with him? Should I not wonder if she has been warned? Should I _not_ ask you how you could allow this to happen _again_? Do you enjoy courting disaster? I ask you, how could you allow another impressionable young woman to fall under this man's spell? Tell me truly, how am I to react?"

"The 'impressionable young woman' is older and considerably wiser than you, monsieur. Perhaps you should refrain from speaking, as it is clear that you've no clue what you are talking about," Erik hissed, entering the office at last. In his mind's eye, he could see himself wrapping his hands around Raoul's throat and squeezing, but he stamped the image down. Though he felt Mme. Giry's new faith in him was misplaced, it would not do to give her any cause to doubt what she believed.

Raoul spun around, his hand immediately closing on the hilt of his sword.

Erik raised his hands in mock-surrender. "Now, sir, I daresay drawing a sword on an unarmed man is unbefitting a gentleman. In fact, it is _nearly_ as unbefitting as insulting Madame Giry or dismissing a lady you have never met as incapable of making her own decisions. I don't mind if you speak ill of me, I've certainly _earned_ that. But I expected a gentleman like yourself behave more courteously toward women. If you have anything else to say, I suggest you say it to _me_." It was the first opportunity he'd had to use one of Maeve's tricks to throw an opponent off-balance. If he could just do this right…it might be far more enjoyable than simply strangling the little twerp.

Raoul was silent for a few moments, as upon his face confusion warred with anger. Anger won. "There certainly is. You, monsieur, are a murderer and you have gotten _away_ with it. If what Madame Giry tells me is true, it seems to me that you are, in fact, to be _rewarded_ for what you have done! It sickens me – you should be brought to justice."

"Perhaps you are correct, but you've no one to blame for my freedom but yourself and your dear _wife_. While I appreciate the favor, I do not recall asking either of you to tell the world that I was dead," Erik replied snidely.

"You could _still_ go to the authorities, but I assume you know you'd be risking your wife's reputation. People would certainly wonder why Christine lied to protect me. Undoubtedly, there would be gossip regarding the nature of our relationship…that is, if there hasn't been already."

The moment the words left his mouth, Erik knew that he'd said the wrong damn thing; the fist that came flying toward his face merely verified it. Obeying a flash of insight, he made no attempt to block Raoul's punch, merely turned his head to lessen the impact. And when he made no move to retaliate, confusion crept once more into Raoul's expression. Excellent, Erik thought, the fool seemed completely thrown. But then his face hardened with determination. Erik wondered, half-amazed, if the boy was truly fool enough to try to provoke him into a violent outburst.

"So you're a changed man then? So simply? I find that no easier to believe than this nonsense that a woman would come to you of her own free will. I don't know what you've done to her, but tell me this; what do you expect her to do when she sees your face?" Raoul asked, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

As Erik's thoughts turned to Maeve, the fight began to drain out of him. What was he doing? What did he stand to gain? Why did he feel such antagonism toward de Chagny? Was it not obvious that things had turned out for the best? He would have to consider his reaction at a later time; at the moment, there was a smug grin that desperately needed to be wiped off Raoul's face. He stood straight and tall, smiled and replied, "As a matter of fact, she asked me, 'Is that all?'"

Mme. Giry gasped, and Erik realized that he'd forgotten that she was still there. He turned to face her and was surprised to see her eyes filling with tears. And the smile on her usually stern face was nearly blinding. Clasping his shoulder, she whispered, "Erik, I'd so hoped. I am so very happy for you."

At her words, Erik felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. Like any other man, he had people who cared for him. There was nothing the viscomte could do to take that from him, nothing at all. Not that it made toying with him any less entertaining, it was just unnecessary.

Raoul, for his part, seemed completely flabbergasted. Choosing to ignore the wide-eyed, fish-mouthing viscomte, Erik forged ahead with the day's business. Mme. Giry informed him that the last of the repairs to the opera house had been completed, and that Signor Di Costa had thrown a Carlotta-sized fit upon learning that he was 'dismissed' as understudy to a role that remained uncast. And he'd been furious that, assuming he was not needed for the lead, he would be playing Aminta's father, a character that appeared in only two scenes.

The thought of the swollen-headed, overacting fool being brought down a few pegs brought a smile to Erik's face. "I cannot imagine why, the role is quite tailored to his personal style – farcical and irritating."

Mme. Giry simply glared. "And I suppose you would find it greatly amusing if I were to help him to grasp the logic behind our decision?"

Gasping theatrically, he brought a hand to his chest, "Why, Madame, you wound me. Do you truly believe me to be so very petty?"

Unimpressed by his repartee, she glared once more and then returned to business. "Regarding the upcoming production, Monsieur Garin has read the score through several times, and made several suggestions this morning to improve the staging and some of the choreography. You'd do to listen to his ideas, he is quite insightful."

David Garin, the lead baritone, had lived in one opera house or another for his entire life. Maeve told him that, should they ever meet, he and David would become great friends. Mr. Garin did not compose, but was reputed to have a gift for polishing everything from arrangements to set design to choreography, or so Maeve had said. Erik had been instantly jealous to hear her speak so about another man, but when he confronted her, Maeve had nearly fallen down laughing. Finally managing to tell him that David was currently _quite_ involved with young Monsieur Marchand, she'd explained that she had taken to David so well because he reminded her very much of her sister-in-law Kiley. It had shut Erik up quite effectively. "Yes, Maeve has told me the very same thing."

In the course of the following hour, they covered all the current business, and at Mme. Giry's request, sketched out a plan for the next few weeks. So that he'd have adequate time to prepare for his debut, as it were, she suggested they limit themselves to one meeting a week. She asked, though, that the spare boat be left for her use, should she require his assistance, and he agreed readily to the request.

But then she paused, her hands folding and unfolding several times. "Erik, I should like to put this delicately, but am quite at a loss for the right words. Forgive my candor, but I need your word that you will not compromise Maeve's virtue."

"She is quite safe with me, I assure you. As is her wish, Maeve will remain untouched until her wedding night," even if it kills me, Erik added silently.

"That reminds me, I wonder if I might ask a favor." Withdrawing the letter from his pocket, he placed in upon the desk. "I need this letter to reach Mr. O'Donnell in Kilrush as quickly as possible – within the week, if it can be done – and for his reply to reach Paris just as quickly. Spare no expense, of course. Also, I need the name of the finest jewelry craftsman in Paris."

Picking up the letter, Mme. Giry held it as though she expected it to bite her. "A letter? What is the meaning of this? I thought we agreed, no falling back on old habits."

Erik understood her concern, but would have preferred to have this particular discussion while they were alone. As she'd addressed him by name, it was certain that she'd forgotten that Raoul was still sitting, albeit quietly, in the corner. It couldn't be helped, though, and the man would have heard the news eventually. "We did, but is it not proper to ask a father's permission before proposing to his daughter? I might add, to allay at least one of your concerns, that I have been _painfully_ honest about my life in those pages."

Mme. Giry's brow creased in worry. "So soon, Erik? Would it not be prudent to wait, to allow Maeve to correspond with her father about your relationship? Certainly it would be wise to allow him to _ease_ into the idea."

"You think that has not crossed my mind?" Erik replied crossly. "This may not be wise, _Marie_, but I feel inclined to follow my heart."

She raised her hands in a placating manner. "And you also know that I am simply _concerned_. You do tend to get ahead of yourself."

He smiled wryly. "Yes, well, call it a character flaw." He paused, considered saying no more, but what was that expression Maeve used…'in for a penny, in for a pound'?

"But when I look into her face, I see my future. I think I am growing, at last, to understand love. Seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, and knowing that _I _inspired her joy is indescribable. Once, as you know, I believed that to love someone meant that you would kill for them, but I _do_ know that I was wrong. Nearly a year has passed since I first learned that lesson, but I feel I have only just made proper sense of it." As he spoke, he turned and looked directly into Raoul's eyes. "Willingness to sacrifice anything, even your life, to protect her, to save her, _that _is love."

Mme. Giry turned her head, following Erik's line of sight and gasped to see Raoul still sitting there.

A look of acceptance and perhaps understanding flitted across Raoul's face before he stood, a determined set to his jaw. "If you will permit me, I will see to it that your letter reaches her father in all haste. And the finest jeweler in the city is Monsieur D'Aubigne. He is an artist of unparalleled talent."

Leaning over the desk, Raoul snatched a sheet of paper and hurriedly scrawled a note. "Present this to him and you will find him to be most helpful."

Dumbly, Erik accepted the sheet of paper.

Raoul plucked Erik's letter from Mme. Giry's hand. "Madame, Monsieur, it has been a most informative afternoon. I bid you good day, and good luck. I shall leave the opera in your capable hands." Inclining his head in farewell, Raoul turned to depart, leaving Erik and Mme. Giry blinking in surprise.

* * *

Maeve awoke feeling cramped. Sitting up, she winced at the pain in her neck. The bed she'd slept in had clearly not been designed for a grown woman. Erik had, in fact, told her that he'd built it when Christine was a child, thinking that a little girl would need something suitably pretty. At the time, he'd believed Christine would grow out of her belief that he was an angel, but in her loneliness would still want to be his friend. 

She crawled out of the bed, stretching out her sore muscles. It was about time they had that talk she was dreading…about how an innocent desire to make a sad, lonely little girl happy had spun out of control into an all-encompassing, destructive force of obsession, manipulation, and murder. Put like that, she thought sarcastically, whatever was she worried about?

But as he'd yet to return, Maeve had at least a short reprieve. Scooping up a change of clothes, she went to investigate Erik's glorious bathroom.

tbc…

A/N: Yeesh… This took me way too long to finish; I am seriously lame. But I want to thank everyone for their warm wishes regarding my health. I am doing fine now, I mostly have learned that I have to watch my blood pressure when I'm sick – it's pretty low, and borders on dangerous when I'm ill.

Before the story goes any further, I want to remind everyone that this is based _solely_ on the film. Aside from his name, I am taking nothing from Leroux, as I have not read the book. Consider the Leroux novel, if you wish to consider it at all in the context of this story, as a book written by a man who heard all the rumors and a few scattered facts and then made up his own story. For the purposes of this fic, _this _is simply the truth.

With regards to the film, though, I will be changing a few things about Erik's opera, just so that it makes more sense and follows the storyline of the original work. Passarino, for example, should be named Catalinon, Don Juan would be more likely to pretend to be Aminta's fiancé, Batricio, than his ownservant, etc.

Also, I have no problem with criticism, it is the best help any writer can get, but I do not appreciate unconstructive criticism (aka flames) from those who leave no email address. I'd be happy to address concerns via email, but flamers should expect to have their reviews deleted.

And now that _that _unpleasantness is out of the way…on to reviewer responses!

Forensic Photographer711 – Does a happy dance I'm very happy to hear that you love Maeve's character. I know that 'original character' often turns people away from a story, and having attempted to read many of them myself, I know why it does all too well.

Jade130 – Well, without giving anything away, Erik wouldn't be Erik if he _completely_ behaved himself. I think he'll try his best though. Hehehe.

Mrs. Opera Ghost – Hehehe, you really crack me up, you know. I really love reading your reviews. And Erik is merely asking Maeve's father for _permission_ to ask her to marry him; Maeve would still have to say yes.

AuroreD – a Lupin girl, huh? I do love him too, but I've always had this thing for the dark, sensual, possibly evil type of guy… hence the obsession with Snape, Erik, Spike (from Buffy the Vampire Slayer), mmmm, Spike… Sorry about that, back now. I'm glad to hear I've turned you into a Loreena McKennitt fan. I just adore her.

andersm – I'm all giddy that you're still loving the story, and as I said before I'm really sorry it took so freakin' long to update.

MorganLeFay99 – The quote in Chapter One is from the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That, Star Trek DS9, and CSI are about my favorite dramas ever, strangely enough all for the same reason. All three shows have/had some of the best character development and emotional realism I've ever seen on TV.

Xeven – it's hard to believe he's not still in love with her in some respect Obsession and love are two very different things, and Erik's learning the difference between them. That's not to say he won't eventually remember why he loved Christine in the beginning, but right now all he can remember is that by the end it had nothing to do with love. Besides, at the beginning of a new relationship, most people forget why they ever loved _anyone _else. Hope this clears things up for you at least a little.

terpsichore314 – Did his mean mother burn him? Well, I suppose that if Erik ever finds out, you will too…) Hehehe, being a little evil is fun.

Lyntharie Kelisya – Ah, poor little Christine, she wasn't so… oh, I can't even finish that sentence. She really was a twit, huh? Anyway, as for my illness, I caught a bad cold…which then turned into a raging case of bronchitis. I had a high fever for about a week and, because I have really low blood pressure, kept passing out. It got better after the ER doctor pumped a liter of saline into me to raise my blood pressure (to almost normal), but I finally just stopped moving unless I really had to. It sucked.

Color Me Gray – I was very touched that you kept me in your prayers and am glad to hear you are enjoying this story and the moral responsibility of the characters. I have been pleasantly surprised by the hugely positive response to what is, at its heart, a very moral, Christian storyline.

Fur A Smile – I really have to rewrite that stupid summary. Summarizing is not something I've ever been any good at; if someone asks me to summarize a movie, I usually wind up talking for about 10 minutes before I finally say, 'oh just go watch it'. It's sad. I'm glad you're enjoying it, and that you like Maeve.


	11. With You

I know how different we are  
You're so dark and bizarre  
But no one could love me more  
You tell me I'm pretty and you always hold the door  
– Freaky Things, The Kimberly Trip

It was half-built, half-carved out of the rock face. One had to look closely to find where rock wall met masonry. Water from the hot spring constantly poured over the polished stone shelf that half-covered the tub, and a drainage system sent it back. The result was a tub that was always filled with clean, steaming water. The bathtub itself was inlaid with dark red and gold marbled tile.

Maeve stretched out in the enormous tub; it seemed Erik had designed it to be roomy for _himself_, and he had a good six inches on her. Even better, it was so wide it could probably fit two and still leave room to maneuver. Blushing at the thought, then scolding herself for thinking of such things, she stood under the cascading water. Maeve rinsed the last of the soap from her hair and body and stepped onto the tiled floor. Much like the pattern in the tub, the tile was marbled with gold but was cream-colored rather than deep red.

Drying off with a fluffy towel, she padded over to the countertop, where her brush sat atop her stack of clothing. Slipping into her dressing gown, she began the tedious process of brushing out her hair.

* * *

De Chagny's tolerance was what Erik had hoped for, mild hostility what he'd expected; the shock of what he'd received had left his head spinning. Mme. Giry had been every bit as shocked as he; they'd both, in fact, been struck speechless. They'd stood there, dumbstruck, for several minutes until he'd simply walked away. Even as he stepped out of his boat, Erik still could not fathom what had inspired such acts of kindness and generosity. 

His head finally beginning to clear, Erik noticed that the curtain between the great room and the guest room was raised. He'd not even noticed his feet leading him in that direction until he'd nearly tripped over Maeve's luggage.

Both trunks opened at his feet, he could not resist the urge to peer inside. One was filled with clothing, but the other contained a large assortment of items – fabric, thread, a rosary, a bible and prayer book, several novels and two volumes of poetry. A deliberate scuff of a shoe was all the warning he had before two slender arms wrapped themselves around his torso.

"Something catch your eye, love?" Maeve asked, settling her chin on his shoulder.

For a moment, Erik simply basked in the sheer normalcy of their relationship. He turned around, kissing her briefly. "I was just glancing through your titles."

"Yeah? Have you read Pride and Prejudice? It's one of my favorites; I read it about once a year…and dear _God_, what happened to your eye?"

As it had barely stung, he'd hoped it wouldn't bruise, but it appeared he had used up his allotment of luck. "The Viscomte de Chagny was speaking with Mme. Giry when I arrived. Suffice it to say we had a disagreement. We seem to have come to an understanding, though; our parting was amicable." As he spoke, he could not keep the note of bewilderment out of his voice.

"But you didn't think it would be, yeah? D'you want to talk about it?" Picking up a couple of her books, Maeve began to arrange them on the bedside shelf.

"Later, perhaps, but not now," Erik replied, moving to help her unpack. Together, they made short work of it.

"Thanks, love. Now, there _is _somethin' _I_ was hoping we could talk about. Not today, if you don't want to; I don't want to push." She paused, dropping her eyes to her folded hands. When she continued, her voice had picked up a distinctly self-deprecating tone. "Well, that's not true, I do actually _want_ to push, but I'm trying to reign in the impulse."

"What is it?" Erik asked cautiously.

Though she never looked up from her hands, Maeve forged ahead. "Look, I…I don't want to upset you, but I need to know what happened. I need you to talk to me about Christine, the how and the why of it all."

He hated that his initial impulse was to tell her it was none of her affair, for he knew she had a right to ask. And frankly, he was surprised it had taken her so long to do so. But he didn't feel inclined, at the moment, to tear open old wounds. Beyond that, he wasn't entirely certain himself of the 'how and the why'. He could remember bits of what he'd done, and was certain it had all made sense to him at the time, but now it seemed so muddled. That haze, he thought sourly, owed more to lunacy than it did to memory loss.

Maeve had become a bit fidgety in the silence, nervously rearranging her books. Unable to bear Erik's prolonged silence, she spoke up. "Look, it's just that I know how it began and how it ended, but if I'm ever to understand, I need to know what happened in between, how it all connects. And if I just keep wonderin', I know I'll drive myself mad imagining all the various possibilities."

Having no desire to further agitate her, Erik chose his words carefully. "I do understand why you need to know, but I can't talk about it right this moment. I don't suppose I ever considered why or how it happened; sorting it all out will take some time."

His words had the desired effect; Maeve's nervous activity slowed, and she at last looked him in the eye. "Of course, I understand. It's a lot I'm askin' of you, I _am _aware of that, love. I expected you would need time. Just, you will talk to me about it at some point? In the next few weeks, I mean."

"I think I can promise you that," he assured her, squeezing her hand, then brushing a kiss along her cheek.

"Thanks for that," she said with a smile. "In that case, we'd best get down to business."

They spent the rest of the afternoon developing a schedule for the coming weeks. As they always used English with each other, they decided not to set aside any time to work on his accent. He would instead simply incorporate the accent into his speech, and Maeve would correct him when necessary.

Mornings, they set aside to practice Don Juan. During the bulk of each day, from mid-morning to late afternoon, he would be learning about Irish history and culture – everything from ancient passage tombs to St. Patrick to, in Maeve's words, 'that bastard Cromwell.' She also planned to teach him a smattering of Irish blessings and toasts. And assuming they would not actually need to practice Don Juan every day, Maeve suggested he spend at least a few mornings learning some Irish folk music and drinking songs.

Most evenings, Maeve informed him, she would spend sewing. She insisted that he have a few plain muslin shirts, two pairs of trousers, one woolen and one twill, and a good woolen coat. And having spent many years as the only seamstress in a house full of men, she was confident she could sew the lot within a week. The rest of his wardrobe, she said, was his to round out as he liked.

At any rate, he would have his evenings free, once he crafted a new mask. When Maeve recommended he fashion it out of metal or leather, he'd simply smirked and retrieved a box which contained the wide array of masks he'd fashioned over the years, asking her if any of them would do.

The mask they settled on was made of bronze. But as its design was nearly identical to his usual mask, Maeve suggested an alteration.

"I think you should trim it back. Really, all you need to cover is your cheek, and perhaps a smidgeon of your nose, if it makes you feel more comfortable. A bit of your scarring needs to be visible, love. I mean, if people see that you were burned badly enough to be missin' an eyebrow, they'll be much more compassionate, more understanding about why you feel the need to wear a mask. And not only that, it'll also further distance you, in their minds, from the Opera Ghost. When you appeared before them, after all, you wore a _full_ mask. And though, even when it was ripped off, they never got a proper look at you, their imaginations filled the rest in. You've heard the stories just as I have, and 'a man who was badly burned on about a quarter of his face' is _not_ how you've been described."

He inhaled deeply, considering her point. Her reasoning was too sound to simply cast aside, but he was uncomfortable with the idea of being that exposed. He also feared that people might find a smaller mask more tempting to remove. But he chose to voice a different concern. "I fear that a smaller mask would be less sturdy, and perhaps uncomfortable as well. With this design, it always stays in place and I can easily run the band over a wig. I don't care to have an elastic band across my face; I would prefer a _slightly_ more sophisticated look."

Brow creased in thought, she nodded absently. Cocking her head to one side, she ran her fingers over the metal. "Well, perhaps you could wear it kind of like spectacles? You know, one side of it supported by the bridge of your nose, with the other side secured behind your ear. Do you think that could work?"

He tried to picture her description in his mind, but knew what he needed to do to really see it. "I suppose it might; I'll need to sketch a few designs before I can be certain."

Maeve nodded, but then her eyes widened in alarm. "Oh good Lord, what time is it? I promised Mme. Giry that I'd meet her in my room at six o'clock. She promised to bring me a sewing machine, along with a new pattern book and a few more bolts of fabric. As long as I'm sewing, I figured I might as well make myself some new dresses."

"Time you were going, apparently," Erik replied, glancing at his pocket watch. "It's nearly half-past five. Shall I come along in case you need a hand?"

"Oh, no," she replied, wagging a finger at him. "Thank you for the offer, but I'll have you know that I'm perfectly capable of runnin' me own errands. Besides, I can get Mme. Giry's help if it turns out that I need it. You just work on that mask."

* * *

Half an hour later, Erik had accomplished very little. He'd tried to sketch, but his mind refused to settle on his task, likely because of his singularly odd, and emotionally exhausting day. That his life was about to undergo a marked change was a vast understatement. One could argue, in fact, that it already had. First believing he'd lost the woman he loved, he discovered instead that she loved him back, had set in motion a plan to bring him out of hiding, and then, with three simple words, had set his world completely on its ear – _Is that all_? 

Compound that with the viscomte's surprising behavior, and his new status as Maeve's student of Irish culture, history, and, apparently, fashion, it all became far more than his mind could wrap itself around.

His world was changing, undoubtedly for the better, and yet a general malaise had been quietly building within his mind. No one feared him any longer, and he was uncertain how to feel about it. Madame Giry certainly no longer found him intimidating; Maeve never even _had_. Even Raoul de Chagny no longer feared him, as a rival or otherwise.

And for all that he was supposedly in a position of power, co-managing the opera house, poised to become one of its stars, it felt quite different from the power he once wielded. He still felt inclined simply to give orders and have them followed, no questions asked. The concept of compromise was quite new to him and, though not entirely pleasant, certainly worked better than his previous tactic of frightening people into giving him control.

Control…control was where it had truly begun, on the very day he'd realized that he had it. It happened on the day, so many years ago, that he discovered that little Christine Daae not only trusted him, but would do whatever he told her to do. It had been significant and life-changing, and not only for him. For the first time in his life, he had felt powerful…and had wanted to feel that way again.

Erik put pen to paper, and the words began to flow:

_I'd been here for eleven years. I believe I was twenty-three years of age, but I can't be certain of that. On many nights, I would eavesdrop as the Opera's inhabitants told stories. Often, they told stories of ghosts that wandered the halls, but in those days, there was no truth to their tales. Then one day, Madame Giry brought this beautiful child to live in the dormitories…_

* * *

Maeve returned several hours later with Meg Giry in tow. The girl had been waiting impatiently for Maeve's arrival, as her mother had filled her in on the plan. Meg had been equal parts excited and apprehensive when Maeve came through the mirror, but a long talk had eased her mind, and she'd agreed to help Maeve wheel her new sewing machine through the tunnels. 

It appeared that Erik had retired for the night; many of the candles had been extinguished and all was quiet. After quietly unloading the boat, Meg promised to visit when she could get away again and, yawning, bade Maeve goodnight.

Having slept away much of the day, Maeve was not at all tired. She headed toward her makeshift bookshelf, thinking she would crack open Drum-Taps 2, the new Walt Whitman volume Quinn had just sent, but was distracted by a sheaf of papers sitting atop the shelf.

_Dearest Maeve,  
I fear I was unable to work tonight on the mask as you asked, for I was distracted by thoughts of the past. I have written what I recall, and have guessed at what I cannot. While I am hopeful you will find many answers to your questions, caught as I am between regret and self-loathing, I still doubt my ability to talk with you about these events. Give me time, and I will give anything you ask.  
All my love, Erik_

With bated breath, Maeve turned the page and began to read.

tbc…

* * *

A/N: My deepest apologies for the excruciatingly long break between chapters. As I posted the other day on my Author page, I'm already about halfway finished with chapter 12 and hope to have it posted within a week or so. And I want to tell all my readers to **WEAR MOSQUITO REPELLANT! **Sorry about that, but having West Nile virus really sucked. It was, in a word, ghastly. Basically, imagine having the flu and stomach flu at the same time and there you go. 

I promise to respond to reviewers in the next chapter, but right now it's after 3AM, so I'm just going to post this and then pass out.


	12. You Can Be Healed

You think you know, what's to come, what you are. You haven't even begun.  
– Tara Maclay, BtVS: Restless

_The truth will set you free, but first it's going to piss you off_.

Time flew by as Erik rehearsed for the role of his life. His accent was coming along nicely. Given another few months, Maeve thought it might actually fool an Irishman. And with each history lesson, Erik grew more and more understanding of Maeve's abhorrence for the English. Ireland, as well as Scotland and any other country whose people had been subjugated by the British, had suffered all manner of cruelty and persecution at their hands. Historically speaking, they were perhaps no worse than many other conquering nations, but it made them no less culpable. At any rate, Erik was finding it quite simple to loathe them.

But all things considered, Erik was quite pleased with the way things were going. They'd barely worked on Don Juan, as it was clearly unnecessary. Maeve's vocal performance was nearly flawless and she had a good grasp of Aminta's character, though she was certain to play her with more backbone than was printed on the page. The wig Maeve had bought him fit perfectly, and the mask had proved easier to alter than he'd expected, requiring a single evening's work. Though it was indeed smaller than what he was used to, it effectively covered his disfigurement. Maeve _had_ been quite correct; it hinted at the damage without showing much. Between the redesigned mask and his new wardrobe and wig, he wondered if even _Christine _would recognize him.

Christine…the thought of her no longer brought the crushing emptiness it once had, but it also no longer caused him to wonder why he'd loved her. Thinking and writing of his past had served as a reminder, and the truth, once obscured, was at last laid before him. Her gentle kindness, her loveliness, that sweet voice, the way she trusted him, all those qualities had drawn him to her. Yes, he'd had reasons to care for her, but she'd also been gullible, fickle, something of a simpleton, and often scatterbrained.

Maeve had her faults as well; she had a true _gift_ for interruption, yet had little or no patience for being interrupted herself. And she was perhaps a bit too outspoken – she had opinions and was unafraid to state them, even if social convention demanded she remain silent. But at the same time, she could be vulnerable and self-conscious. She was complicated, a mystery. She was glorious…and she had been sleeping on the ground.

He'd been surprised, the morning after he'd inscribed the story of his time with Christine, to find that Maeve had pulled the mattress off her bed and laid it on the ground. Moving closer, he'd discovered the reason – her feet hung a good half foot off the end. Given that Maeve was several inches taller than Christine, he wondered why he'd not anticipated that she'd be uncomfortable in that blasted bed; it was, after all, not much over five feet long.

She'd left him a note, telling him not to feel guilty about the bed; that if she'd forgotten to mention it, it was obviously no tragedy. She'd also asked that he let her sleep until at least nine or ten, as she'd stayed up half the night reading and thinking, but also promised not to say a word about any of it until he did.

So all was not perfect. There _were_ clouds in the sky, and while some were fluffy and white, others were dark and threatening. He still needed to have that talk with Maeve. But though Erik did not relish the thought of that discussion, it did not overly worry him, as he felt better prepared for it. Since he'd left her with the initial outline of events, he'd felt compelled to continue. And the more he'd written, the more he'd remembered. Already, he'd filled two journals with memories. Yes, it would be alright. And two and a half weeks was enough stalling. After all, they had only four more days to themselves, and after that only one more month before the opera house reopened.

Therein lay his true dilemma; he was deeply concerned about how he would adjust to his new life. Becoming a part of society, having a normal life sounded fabulous…until he really considered it. If his first foray into the outside world was any indication, it would hardly be an easy transition.

The third day of her stay, Erik had summoned all his courage. Donning his newly completed mask, wig, and his heavy cloak, with his sketches and Raoul's letter in hand, he'd emerged into the busy Paris morning. Though his cloak provided him with some measure of anonymity, he'd been a bundle of raw nerves, each head that turned his way making him feel more and more self-conscious. Before long, his heart was racing, he'd broken a sweat, his stomach had knotted and his vision had begun to blur. Horribly nauseated and near panic, he'd nearly sobbed in relief at the sight of his destination, _D'Aubigne, Fabricant des Bijoux Fins_ (Maker of Fine Jewelry).

The shop had been mercifully empty, and Erik had braced himself against the wall, shutting his eyes as he gasped for breath. Finally regaining his equilibrium, he'd removed his cloak to reveal his best suit and ventured inside. Between the image he presented in his finery and the letter, which stated that he was Raoul's old and dear friend and was to be 'accorded all due consideration', Erik had been treated royally.

M. D'Aubigne had been gracious without seeming obsequious, promising not only to table all other projects so that the rings would have his full attention, but also to design a ring that, while matching Maeve's set, would carry a distinctly masculine flair. He'd also promised that, while the entire set would take him a month, he would have the engagement ring completed within two weeks. And at Erik's request, the rings would be delivered to him in care of Mme. Giry at the Opera Populaire.

Uncertain if he'd be willing to brave the streets of Paris again, he'd also visited a nearby tailor, ordering several new suits and a handful of shirts, also to be delivered to the Opera. As before, he'd been anxious on the street, but considerably more at ease when faced only with the tailor and his assistant.

Erik hoped, as he prepared for the weekly meeting, that one or both of his packages had been delivered during the past week. He was also hoping for a letter from Mr. O'Donnell, as he was hoping to propose to Maeve on their last evening alone. The lady in question had her head buried in her new Walt Whitman volume, and he occasionally overheard mutterings about the poet's genius and the fact that he was 'long-winded enough to be an Irishman'.

As he left, he dropped a kiss on her head, smiling at her muttered, "Have a good meetin', love."

* * *

Entering the office, Erik was unsurprised to find Mme. Giry's auburn head bent over paperwork. Though she'd insisted that she could handle it while he was otherwise occupied, it was clear that she would be relieved when he could reabsorb some of the responsibilities. 

As he slipped into the chair opposite her, Mme. Giry finally noted his arrival. "Oh Erik, there you are. That delivery from Monsieur D'Aubigne you've been waiting for arrived this morning. And also, there's a man, a priest actually, waiting for you in Maeve's chamber. His name is Collins; he asked me to tell you that he's brought you a letter from Maeve's father."

"What! When did he arrive?" Erik asked even as he took the box, which undoubtedly contained the ring.

"He arrived only two hours ago, and asked me not to rush you. He was tired from his journey and was happy for the opportunity to nap. Go on now, this will wait," Mme. Giry ordered affectionately.

Erik stood again, a thousand thoughts racing through his head.

"Oh, and Erik?" Madame Giry called.

He turned back, puzzlement coloring his features. "Yes?"

"I think you'd best use the door," she advised.

"Yes, thank you, Madame, you are quite correct." To himself, Erik added, _I had thought, as I am an idiot, that walking in through the mirror would provide the perfect first impression_.

Keeping to the shadows, Erik quickly made his way to Maeve's room. Why, he wondered, would Maeve's parish priest have traveled all the way to Paris simply to bring her father's response? The answer, quite simply, was that he would not have done so for such a reason.

Truly, there were too many possible reasons to consider. And the best way to discover the truth was simply to ask. Determined, Erik rapped decisively on the door. Receiving no immediate reply, he knocked several more times.

"Yes, yes, come in already. I'm old, not deaf," a heavily accented, facetious voice called out.

Bracing himself, Erik opened the door and stepped into the room, coming face to face with a man who'd influenced Maeve greatly. Erik could only hope that Father Collins would be similarly kind and forgiving.

For some time, the two men simply stared at each other. Fr. Collins was a heavyset, white-haired man, his watery blue eyes crinkled with laugh lines. Though Erik noted that the Father was several inches shorter than he, the man had a larger than life presence about him. He'd a strong jaw and dimpled chin, and a slightly freckled nose. And though Erik had never met the man, something about him seemed terribly familiar.

Their staring contest continued for an interminable length of time, until Fr. Collins finally broke the long silence. "I'm sorry, my boy, I did not come here to gawk at you, but I've had more than half a lifetime's prayer answered all at once. It's, well, the _best_ sort of overwhelming, but overwhelming nonetheless."

How oddly abstract, Erik mused. "I don't know that I understand you."

"Oh, of course you don't, course you don't," Fr. Collins muttered, waving a hand in Erik's direction. He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I wonder, my lad, if I might explain by way of a story. Mind, I'm warnin' you first, it concerns an Irishwoman, so don't be too surprised if it ends tragically."

Erik grinned wryly, seating himself on the chaise. "Indeed, sir, I'm beginning to believe that Irish stories end in no other way. Please, go on."

Mirroring Erik's expression, Fr. Collins began his tale. "Aisling was a beautiful young woman, all innocence and idealism. Her hair fell down her back in auburn ringlets, her eyes were bright and full of life. On occasion, one would hear the men of the village arguing loudly as to their color – some swore up and down that they were blue, others insisted they were green."

It was obviously a story the Father knew well, perhaps concerning his own past; Erik wondered if he spoke of a woman he'd loved in his youth, before he'd taken his vows.

Fr. Collins' countenance was wistful as he continued. "Every young man in the village had a mind to win her hand, but she was a romantic, often speaking of her longing for a man to come and sweep her off her feet, to carry her away from her mundane existence. At sixteen, her wish was granted in the person of Jean-Karl de Laurent, a handsome, charming young Frenchman who was passing through on business. When she ran off to marry him, without so much as her parents' blessing, everyone but her elder brother, who'd long been her confidant, was stunned. Many, in fact, prophesied that no good would come of her brash action."

His face darkened, and Erik had a strong feeling that the story was about to take a turn for the worse.

"Soon after reaching Jean-Karl's home in Marseille, she learned from the local gossips that she was not the first woman he'd romanced. Though hurt by the stories of his exploits, she was satisfied when he swore that he truly loved her, and would never betray her trust. But alas, actions have consequences. For only a year earlier, he'd seduced and abandoned a young gypsy girl, and though he did not know it, her people had vowed revenge. An interesting aside, by the by, is that the gypsies have themselves been persecuted _horribly_. And it is, of course, only natural to lash out when one is wronged, especially when one has been wronged most every single day of his or her life. Oh, but I digress, I digress. This is a story, not a sermon," Fr. Collins scolded himself, momentarily lightening the mood.

Serious again, he continued. "Aisling and Jean-Karl had been married only six months when the gypsies descended upon them, taking them by force in the dead of night. They tortured him, forcing Aisling to watch, all the while recounting his sins, telling her how the girl had died in despair, leaving behind an infant son. It was, frankly, a miracle that Aisling did not lose her own child, for she was five months pregnant at the time. Jean-Karl held out in their 'care' for nearly two months, and with his last breath, begged his wife's forgiveness and pleaded that their captors show his wife mercy, as she was an innocent."

Erik listened raptly, though he had a horrible, sick feeling, brought on by his own experiences, that the gypsies never so much as _considered_ showing mercy.

"As is often the case with such things, Jean-Karl's death had not quenched their thirst for vengeance, so they endeavored to destroy her life as well, forcing her to act as nursemaid to her dead husband's bastard son, and treating her no better than a slave. And yet, for fear of what they would do to her own infant son, she never complained. But in the year after she gave birth, despite her best efforts to hide herself, the men were taken with her beauty. In their lust, they demanded that she become their whore. Horrified, Aisling at last found the courage to escape."

"She failed." Fr. Collins closed his eyes for a few moments, as though searching for the courage to continue. "As punishment, they brutalized her child. When they returned him to her, bloody and wailing in agony, they threatened that he would join his father should she displease them again. Broken in mind and spirit, she never disobeyed again. But each time she looked at her son, her feelings of guilt and shame would intensify. Her only comfort was that, aside from his coloring, he looked nothing like his father, for such a reminder would surely have killed her. As it was, whenever she looked at him,she never truly saw her son. What she _did_ see was her own eyes staring accusingly at her from her brother's ravaged face. Eventually, as guilt overwhelmed her and madness took root, she began to draw away from her child, eventually growing so afraid to face him that she covered up his head."

Grasping for a reason that the story would suddenly remind him of his own early life, he surmised that the Father had read the letter he'd sent Maeve's father. Perhaps Fr. Collins had invented the story after all, Erik thought.

But if that were the case, Fr. Collins' obvious emotional involvement in his tale was evidence of a true gift for storytelling, for his face was pinched, his eyes sad. "Several years later, when syphilis began to steal what remained of her sanity, they cast her out into the streets, and in a final act of cruelty, stole away her son without allowing even a goodbye."

"Now, what you must know is that Aisling's elder brother, Sean, had been searching for her for much of this time. He'd promised God that, should he find his sister, he would enter the seminary and devote his life to the Lord's work."

Fr. Collins paused, and a lone tear fell from his eye. "I found her, my precious baby sister, near death from malnutrition, her once bright eyes vacant, her hair falling out in clumps, nearly a month after they'd thrown her away. As she looked me in the eye, the fog lifted, and she knew me. It was a miracle, a true miracle. But she knew that the lucidity would not last. Refusing to allow me to treat her wounds, to replace her ragged clothing, or even to feed her, she instead recited this tale."

Staring Erik in the eye, Father Sean Collins hurried through the remainder of the tale. "She told me all that happened, told me that she loved me and that, though she'd been a weak and wretched woman, she loved her son, Erik – named for our grandfather – more than all the world. Just before she died in my arms, she made me promise, if ever I found you, that I'd tell you that."

Erik could scarcely breathe, and though he was certain that priests were not meant to be liars, he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard.

As though he'd anticipated Erik's disbelief, Fr. Collins handed him a small, framed portrait; it was undeniably his mother. She was young and beautiful; she actually reminded him rather uncomfortably of Christine. They did not look much alike, but had the same curly hair, that same wistful smile; the artist had even managed to capture the faraway look in her eyes.

Then he thought of the woman he remembered, of the cold, dead eyes that looked not so much _at_ but _through_ him, of her wan face and dull hair. She bore little resemblance to the innocent, hopeful young woman caught in the portrait he held. _That_, he thought, a wave of self-loathing crashing through his soul, _is what I would have done to Christine_.

In self-loathing's wake came the anger – toward the gypsies for the vast array of horrors they'd visited upon his family, his father for his foolish, destructive youthful indiscretions, his mother for her weakness, and finally toward the man who sat opposite him for never coming to save him.

"I couldn't find you," Fr. Collins spoke up, as though reading Erik's thoughts. "I searched for a year, but could not find so much as a single clue. And all that time, my promise burned inside of me. So I returned home to join the seminary, bending my will at last to God's. And that led me to Maeve, who was like a balm to my soul. She is arguably the strongest woman I have ever known; I wouldn't be surprised if she could look into the Enemy's very eyes and ask, 'Is that the best you've got?'. You see, something in me was broken when your mother, my little sister, died, but the way that tiny girl could accept adversity and tragedy and then just get on with her life helped to heal my broken spirit."

Fr. Collins stood, crossing to Erik's side. "And now, what should happen? Maeve, in turn, has led me to you. God's timetable is not the same as ours, His plan difficult if not impossible to understand, but there _is_ a plan. Hmph, perhaps I was givin' a sermon after all. Oh, and before I forget…"

Reaching into his nearby satchel, Fr. Collins pulled out a letter and placed it into Erik's waiting hand.

tbc…

* * *

A/N: I really hate the way real life keeps insisting on interrupting… Suffice it to say I've been a bit burnt out, but I think I'm getting back into the swing of things. I know this chapter is totally Erik-centric, but this one really needed to be. This is the chapter that's been in my head since the moment I started writing, so forgive me if it took me a while to get it edited to the point where it really made me happy. I just hope there isn't so much going on here that I've overwhelmed anyone. 

FYI, there's only a few more chapters to go. There will be either 15 or 16 chapters altogether. I'm currently trying to decide whether to write a full sequel or a series of short vignettes.

Mrs. Opera Ghost – I really considered summarizing what happened in previous chapters at the beginning of new chapters, but I just couldn't do it. I find it disrupts the narrative flow. And you know, what you said about how most stories have the characters knockin' boots almost immediately, I really hate that too. And though I may personally fantasize about what I'd have done if I were Christine, I'm willing to admit it's a fantasy, in other words, totally _not_ what I would ever _actually_ do.

Jade 130 – regarding what you had to say about Ch. 10, yeah Raoul can be a bit stuffy, even immature, but he is also still young. My early twenties did not, in fact, contain my proudest moments. The important thing to remember, though, is that he _is_ a good man. Too many people forget that.

andersm – Yeah, a hearty amen to your comment about nasty mosquitoes. The most irritating thing, actually, is that they sprayed for mosquitoes about two weeks after I got sick. Dang it, why they couldn't have sprayed a couple of weeks earlier is beyond me. But no, they waited until someone actually died from West Nile before doing anything.

Phantomsecretlove – Thanks for the well wishes, hope you enjoyed the chapter! Bear with me, overtime notwithstanding I should be updating more frequently.

Shelvins – You mentioned that you appreciated that my characters are moral; not to sound old fogey-like, but in this day and age, I think it's important to have stories with moral characters. My favorite stories have always involved characters that struggle to do the right thing. And part of what struck me of the recent PotO film was what J. Schumaker and G. Butler both said about the Phantom being a man, after all. So I'm going with their vision, of the character as human rather than overly-theatrical.

PhantomPhluter – It is, BTW, _not_ lame that you reviewed 3 times in one day. It makes me very happy to open my email and find reviews! I'm glad you like my story and my artwork, and hope you take care of your blood pressure. Mine has, thankfully evened out to about 105 over 61.

Waytoointoerik – Glad you gave my Erik/OC story a chance. I say it's always important to broaden your horizons.

FurASmile – Yep, Raoul's not a jerk. It actually bothers me that so many fans seem to despise him. Lets face it, you're in love with a woman who's being stalked by a man of questionable sanity, what do _you_ do? Um…I do believe you save her from the psycho. I may have a soft spot for Erik, but it doesn't mean I'm unwilling to face reality, know what I mean?

hunt4max – Okay, I have to say that I am just humbled by what you wrote; I was speechless for about 5 minutes after I read it. I don't know how to respond, really, except to say thank you so much. I have always loved writing, and having battled social anxiety for many years, it has long been my preferred method of communication. I'd have to say that my muse, really, is my husband. Despite the fact that I had dated before I met him, he was the first person ever to really make me feel beautiful and wanted. Anything romantic I ever write will probably owe a great deal to our relationship. Also, bible study and my pastor's sermons inspire me a great deal.

Pertie – Oh, don't worry, I'll finish it. How _quickly_ I finish it is something else entirely, mostly being dependent upon the amount of overtime I have put in. Nothing saps my creativity like 50+ hour work weeks. Bleah…

FaerieCreator – Sorry to keep you waiting a little longer to find out what Erik wrote. Hope you were appeased by all you _did_ find out in the chapter.


	13. Never Be Afraid

I been alone  
Always down  
No one cared to stay around  
I never change  
I never will  
I'm so afraid the way I feel

Days when the rain and the sun are gone  
Black as night  
Agony's torn at my heart too long  
So afraid  
Slip and I fall and I die  
I'm So Afraid, Fleetwood Mac

Erik stared at the sealed envelope; though certain his _uncle_ would have told him if Maeve's father had outright refused his permission, he worried over the contents. Knowing there was nothing to do but read the thing, Erik tore the envelope and unfolded the letter.

Well, Mr.…would you prefer de Laurent or Collins? I suppose de Laurent would be proper, but I've never held 'proper' in particularly high regard.  
Be that as it may, were it not for your uncle, I'd have denied your impassioned plea out of hand, seeing as how I've not met you and your history is a bit more colorful than I'd like.  
I _would_ like to thank you for your honesty, young man, both in regards to your past and the nature of the opera you are to perform. You are correct that a longer courtship would be proper, but I agree that it would be better for my daughter's reputation if she were wed before she sang it.  
Your uncle will explain what I will require from you if I am to give you my blessing. Expect us one month hence.  
Yours sincerely,  
Dr. Micheal Grady O'Donnell, Sr.

All things considered, the letter was far better than he'd expected. It did, however, leave him with a question, "Required?"

"Oh, it's quite simple," Fr. Collins replied matter-of-factly. "If you wish to marry Miss O'Donnell, you will have to convert. Ol' Mike will forgive many shortcomings, but your not bein' a Catholic is not among them. He would never permit his daughter to be wed to a non-believer."

Erik exhaled, relieved. "I had rather assumed that, and am prepared for it."

But the Father looked doubtful. "When you say it like that, I tend to doubt your sincerity, lad. You sound as though you're expecting a terrible burden, but if you take it, really take the gift the Lord is offering you, my boy, what you'll experience is your first breath of true freedom…"

* * *

As the hours passed, Maeve grew concerned. Erik had been gone for three hours. His meetings with Madame Giry never lasted more than an hour; indeed, as she grew more confident in her ability to manage the opera, the meetings had grown steadily shorter. 

After another half hour of waiting, her imagination began to supply her with images of Erik, in chains, being dragged away by the police. For her sanity's sake, she decided to find out what was keeping him, even if all she got for her trouble was several hours of teasing.

Finding Mme. Giry in her office alone did nothing to ease her mind, but she did _try_ to reassure herself that Erik might have just left and taken a different path home.

"Madame," she gasped, out of breath as she'd run the last half of the way. "Erik never returned home, do you have any idea…"

"Stop! Breathe!" Mme. Giry ordered, a bemused smile on her face. "Erik received a visitor this morning. I suppose they simply lost track of time. Come, follow me."

Mme. Giry led her through the passages to the mirror in her room. Within, she saw Erik speaking animatedly, but of his companion she saw only the back of a white head.

Pressing on, Mme. Giry slid the mirror aside and stepped into the room, and the conversation stilled. "Gentlemen, I apologize for the interruption. Erik, I am afraid your prolonged absence has gone noticed."

Maeve walked forward, smiling sheepishly. "Well, you should let a girl know when you're plannin' to stay out late or she's liable to fret."

A voice she knew as well as her own suddenly cried, "Maeve, my little darlin'." Fr. Collins all but leapt to his feat, nearly pulling Maeve off of hers as he swept her into a bear hug.

"Not so little any more, Father. You know, you _will_ wrench your back if you keep doin' that," she replied, as she always did.

"I'm not yet ancient. I'll not be made decrepit before me time, missy. Oh, but let me look at you. Well now, Erik, should I be thanking you, or _you_ Madame, that our Miss O'Donnell finally has a smidgeon of meat on her scrawny little form?"

"Oy, who're you callin' scrawny, Father? I'm as tall as you are," Maeve laughed. "Ah, it's wonderful to see you, but whatever are you doin' in Paris?"

"Ah, ah, not so fast. I think I'll leave my boy Erik here to tell you." Fr. Collins whispered a few words in Erik's ear, then escorted Mme. Giry out of the room.

"Erik, what's goin' on?"

His voice was only slightly nervous when he asked, "Maeve, my love, will you have a seat?"

Possible explanations dancing through her mind, she tried not to focus on the awful ones – if someone in her family were ill, or dead, the Father would surely have told her himself. Mind racing, she didn't even notice that Erik had knelt before her until he took hold of her hand. And as she looked into his eyes, at his nervousness, a possibility she hadn't even considered seemed the most likely.

The anticipation and excitement in her eyes seemed to give Erik the courage to speak. "Maeve, these last months have been the happiest, well, truly the _only_ happy months, of my life. You've made me feel so lucky already, perhaps I should not press my luck so soon. Call me greedy, but now that I've had a taste of joy, of bliss, I am impatient to have it all. I've written to your father, and have secured his permission to speak. Maeve Shannon O'Donnell, will you be my wife?"

He'd scarcely got the words out before she _shrieked_ yes and threw herself into his arms, kissing him with a bruising intensity. Not breaking the kiss, Erik reached into his pocket, extracting the box with her ring; he had yet to even look at it himself. Pulling away from her at last, he opened the box and looked inside. Satisfied that it was perfect, he plucked it from its nest, slipping it onto Maeve's finger.

"Erik! Dear Lord, it's…it's amazing, I've never seen its like." She stifled the urge to insist that it was too good for her, but couldn't stop herself from thinking it. On a thin band of gold, accented with garnets and a single diamond, golden vines wrapped around a delicate rose in full bloom.

But as she stared at the ring, a thought occurred to her. "Erik, did Fr. Collins come all this way just to tell you that Da said yes? That doesn't make any sense."

Erik smiled mysteriously for some time before dropping a considerable bombshell. "No, he had a second purpose. Your Fr. Collins, as it happens, is my uncle."

Shocked and bewildered, Maeve could scarcely recall how to form words. "I…ng…erm…_what_? How?"

Over the following hour, Erik filled Maeve in on his talk with the Father, including his vehement insistence that Maeve immediately cease sharing Erik's home, and that they no longer see each other unchaperoned until after their wedding.

"Erik, have I missed something?" Maeve asked, a bit confused. "Aren't we unchaperoned right now?"

Fr. Collins' voice came from the other side of the mirror. "Like the Holy Spirit, child, just because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not here. Now where's the lever to open this contraption? Ah, never mind, I've found it."

"Now, missy," he continued as he entered the room and settled on the chaise, "You and I will are going to have a _long_ talk later about some of your _bright_ ideas, but right now, there is one in particular that needs discussin'. I think, and Erik has agreed, that it would be for the best if the Opera is told an expurgated version of the truth, rather than an elaborate lie. For example, there is no harm in anyone's knowin' that Erik was abused by the Gypsies as an infant, or that it took him many years to escape. And it would be no lie to say that after his escape, Erik lived for many years in an opera house, greedily absorbing all the knowledge that was available to him at last, or that that was where the two of you met."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully for a few moments before continuing. "Now, Maeve, you've performed all over Spain and Italy; surely it would be unnecessary to name the place. Instead, you can simply say that his parting with the Opera house was very ugly, and that there is no need to reopen an old wound. Stick to the truth and you'll never have to remember what you lied about, and you'll avoid breaking God's commands. It shouldn't be hard, and no one will care if you don't give exact dates and they'll certainly understand if you don't share much about dark periods of your lives."

It was an interesting, if surprising, plan. "Father, I never knew you had it in you to be so devious!"

"Devious she says!" Fr. Collins cried, indignant. "It's _shrewdness_, young missy, and you know quite well that we are called to be shrewd. Quite frankly, if a month ago the two of you had known what you do now of Erik's history, you might well have devised a similar plan yourselves. Now, Erik I believe it's time you were gathering your and Maeve's things. Off with you."

Clearly displeased by the brusque dismissal, Erik rose, but in defiance pulled Maeve to her feet, kissing her deeply. Promising to return quickly, he swept from the room, leaving Maeve breathless and grinning madly.

Dreading the lecture that was sure to come, Maeve had little trouble wiping the goofy smile off her face as she sat back down to face Fr. Collins.

Fr. Collins himself sat with his arms crossed over his chest and looked quite disappointed. "Now, what's this I hear? It was _your_ idea to move into his home, to spend near a month alone with him? What on earth were you thinkin'? Were ya thinkin' at all?"

Shaking her head in irritation, Maeve dove in. "Father, don't you think you're overreacting? It was necessary!"

"Oh, I see, I see. I'm _overreactin_'," he replied, drawing the last word out for emphasis. "I might've been willing to accept that were it not for that little display the two of you put on just now. Tell me, have your thoughts perhaps been somwhat impure over the past month?"

She wanted to shout that he was wrong, but had no particular wish to lie to a priest. "Father! I'm only human, what sort of answer do you expect me to give?"

"I expect you to see my point. You placed yourself _and_ Erik in danger; you put yourselves into a position where you could surrender all too easily to temptation. If you'd simply avoided such close physical proximity, you'd not find yourselves so tempted by lust…"

The argument continued almost until Erik returned, settled nothing, and left both Maeve and the Father highly frustrated with the other's inability to grasp their point of view. By Fr. Collins' mandate, both Maeve and Erik were to spend the final days before their prearranged arrival date in prayer and meditation at a small parish church some twenty miles outside of Paris. Though it was _highly_ irregular for a convert to be confirmed so quickly, Erik would be baptized and receive the Sacraments during their stay.

* * *

One day was all it took – one day denied time alone with Maeve and Erik was back in a killing mood. All the talk of sin and repentance and such from a succession of men whose own lives were a study in repression was more than he could take. If it were only his uncle, Erik thought he could have coped, but he'd had to interact with all three of the priests in residence. His _uncle_ thought it important that he get used to interacting with people, but what the man didn't seem to understand was that these priests were strangers to him, and he had no experience dealing with the clergy. Truly, he had almost no experience with people at all, but he was at least _familiar_ with most of the people at the Opera. He'd watched many of them grow up, after all, and he understood what sort of behavior they would find acceptable, so that while the prospect of interacting with them did not _excite_ him, it also did not worry him terribly. 

In the priests' company, however, he was overcome with fear. Though Collins had assured him that the misery he'd known all his life was already punishment enough, and that his confession was a private matter and the others needn't know, Erik feared they _would_ know, that they would figure out what he'd done and condemn him or insist that to be forgiven he must turn himself over to the authorities and accept punishment.

Though he had _no_ intention to confide in any of the priests, he needed desperately to talk with Maeve. _Their_ discussion was long overdue and now complicated by the restrictions that had been placed upon them. He wanted to talk to her, to finally _talk_ to her about Christine, about how and why it happened, about his regrets. He needed to know how _she_ felt about it so that they could move on, never looking back again. But it was not a conversation he wanted overheard, or interrupted, by any well-meaning pests.

Wise though his uncle seemed in many matters, the man foolishly thought to control their lust for each other by keeping them separated. The truth, as he'd done his damnedest to explain, was that her constant, gentle presence had quieted his raw need for her. Now that she was out of reach, it was all he could do to push the images out of his mind. If only he hadn't been such a voyeur in the past, hadn't watched so many trysts from the shadows, perhaps his mind wouldn't so readily furnish him with erotic imagery. But despite his best efforts, the past kept affecting his present; each time he closed his eyes, he found himself drifting into increasingly explicit fantasies.

He was also becoming intensely jealous of the priests, as they spoke with Maeve as they had with him. Clearly, he did not fear that any of the priests would steal Maeve away from him. But he envied the time they spent with her, the time _he_ was denied, so badly that by the end of the first day he wanted to start snapping necks.

By the _second_ day, he felt like a prisoner. The tiny, cell-like room they put him in reminded him so strongly of the cage the gypsies had forced him to live in that he hardly slept for fear of the nightmares. Trapped within its stone walls, he could think of nothing but escape. But his room, and Maeve's as well if his guess was correct, was guarded all night. The _worst_ of it was that the priests _clearly_ thought they were doing the right thing. And it was going to drive him mad.

On the third day, though exhausted physically and emotionally, he went through the motions they had set for him. His uncle baptized him, he received the Sacraments, and it was done, he was a Catholic. And though Fr. Collins remained as a chaperone, he and Maeve were finally allowed to spend the rest of the afternoon and the evening together. She seemed nearly as exhausted as he was, but did not complain about their situation, though she _did_ repeatedly state that she could hardly wait to return to the Opera Populaire. And when Fr. Collins shooed them both off to bed, Erik's dread of the tiny room was such that he nearly lost his supper. Whether or not he could convince Maeve to come with him, he could not spend another night in that horrible little space. He needed a plan…

* * *

He'd decided to wait for his guard to fall asleep, to sneak out and wait for Maeve's guard to fall asleep as well, and then to try and convince her to leave with him. He thought he heard snoring outside the door and was about to rise, but then the doorknob began to turn and he burrowed back under the blankets. 

"Erik," a blessedly familiar voice whispered in the dark. "Are you awake? Our guards are both asleep."

Leaping out of bed, Erik crossed the room in an instant, crushing Maeve to him in a bruising, desperate embrace. "Three days," he gasped several minutes later, finally pulling himself away from her mouth. When he saw that her eyes reflected the desperation he felt himself, he voiced his half-formed plan. "Three days they have kept you from me, and I can endure it no longer. One more and I fear I'll lose my mind. Come away with me. We'll find a church, another church, we'll marry tomorrow morning. No one will ever take you away from me again."

Tears in her eyes, she nodded. "My bag's outside the door already."

* * *

Not an hour later, Father Collins looked into Erik's room, satisfied to see it as deserted as Maeve's had been. Not a half hour into their initial talk, he'd known that there was no way Erik would survive a month in the world unless Maeve was already by his side, and he could only hope and pray that they would forgive him for the way he'd gone about making them see that truth. He'd hoped to marry them himself, but in light of what had to be done, he'd set his own desires aside. For Maeve would surely remember his casual mention of the little church that was only a few miles down the road, and there his letter of apology and of well-wishes was waiting for them. 

tbc...

A/N: I am _sooo_ sorry this took so long. I have had the _worst_ writer's block, but am finally getting back into the swing of things. Real life is also keeping me busy at the moment - the women's choir I sing in has an event coming up soon, but after March I should have considerably more free time. And this story really is nearly finished, just a couple more chapters to go.


	14. A Little More Freedom

The woman stared, unseeing, at the rosary in her hands. She spared no glance for her surroundings, awe-inspiring though they were. The church was small, but no less beautiful or lovingly tended than even the great Notre Dame. She missed dawn's first light glowing in the stained glass, the beauty of the intricately carved, highly polished mahogany of the high altar, communion rail, even the pew she sat upon, was quite ignored.

No, the majesty surrounding the solitary figure did nothing to lift her spirits. Though housed within an architectural devotion to God Himself, she could not cast off the cold dread she felt, could not shake the feeling that what was happening was terribly wrong. The heaviness in her heart and mind only increased as she glanced to her right, at the seemingly innocent scrap of parchment that sat there.

"Madame Giry?" asked a familiar voice.

Mme. Giry put her hand to her heart as she looked up into concerned blue eyes. "Oh, Monsieur, you startled me. Viscomte, whatever are you doing here?"

Raoul smiled crookedly. "I had thought to ask you the same, Madame. But surely you know that my estate is but a few miles away. I've simply come for confession."

Mme. Giry nodded absently, her eyes drifting back to the rosary in her hands.

Disturbed by her uncharacteristic despondency, Raoul sat beside her, and once more sought to break into her thoughts. "Forgive me, Madame, but you seem troubled. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You are very kind Monsieur, but I don't know how you could," Mme. Giry replied wearily. "You know, I suppose, that a priest returned to Paris with your ship and courier?"

Raoul nodded, "Quite aware; it was most irregular. But my courier assured me that both Miss O'Donnell's father and the priest, a Fr. Collins, insisted upon it. I take it you know his purpose. Is that the cause of your concern?"

Mme. Giry snorted in a thoroughly unladylike fashion. "Well, I suppose the short answer would be yes."

"And the long version?" Raoul prodded once more.

"Fr. Collins told me some of it when he arrived; most of it I got by eavesdropping. I am not entirely proud of my behavior, but all the same I am glad I did it. The Father _did_ come to see Erik, but not for the reasons you might think." And so she relayed the terrible truth of Erik's parents and of the boy's early childhood as well as his relation to Fr. Collins himself.

To her surprise, Raoul was already aware of a portion of the story. "Indeed, Madame, the story of Jean-Karl de Laurent is something of a cautionary tale among the aristocracy. All that anyone knew for certain was that Jean-Karl and his wife were kidnapped by gypsies. There were rumors, but no one knew for certain why they were taken or what happened to them, though it was assumed they were killed.

"A cautionary tale. Yes, it seems that has been Erik's life from the very start. But at any rate, what worries me is that… Well, as you are quite aware, Monsieur, Erik has always sought to manipulate those around him; it disturbs me that this urge to toy with other people's lives appears to be a family trait. Fr. Collins engineered it so that Erik and Maeve would be totally separated in the church he spirited them off to, supposedly because it was improper for their relationship to be so familiar before they were married. But in truth, he cut Erik off from anything and anyone familiar and surrounded him with strangers, specifically to get the two of them to run off and elope. He spent one, _one_ afternoon with Erik and decided he knew what was best for him. I've known the boy since he was twelve years old, but what to I know?" Mme. Giry concluded bitterly.

Raoul, for his part, looked appalled. "This is deeply troubling indeed, Madame. Her family, did you know they were already on their way? I was informed that they were traveling to Dublin to retrieve Miss O'Donnell's youngest brother. I've already hired a ship to bring them here. It was to be my and Christine's wedding gift. If my courier had an accurate impression of her family, they would be none too pleased by this development. Is there no way to stop this madness?"

Mme. Giry shook her head, frustration evident in her pinched face and the thin line of her lips. "Fr. Collins… That man made me swear that I would not interfere – he's every bit as persuasive as his nephew and twice as charming. They'll be here, I suspect, within the hour."

A smile lit up Raoul's boyish face. "Then the trouble is solved, Madame, for I have made _no_ such promise."

Mme. Giry examined the young man before her with a calculating eye. "I must admit, Monsieur, I cannot understand why you have been so gracious. After everything that happened and your earlier comments about his character and your questions in regards to his sanity, I expected… I am uncertain what I expected, but it was certainly not this."

Raoul nodded ruefully. "I will not deny that mere months ago I was very angry, that I hated him and would probably have rejoiced to hear he'd been lynched. But he _is_ a changed man. I cannot say for certain how deeply this change goes, but I believe he has a right to the opportunities he has been given of late. I've come to believe that the harsh, lonely life he lived for so long served as penance enough for his sins."

He paused, grinning at the surprise on Mme. Giry's face. "I _am_ young, Madame, and occasionally foolish, but I am _not _an idiot. I have spent a great deal of time in prayer over the matter, and Fr. Delacroix has given me good counsel; I am trying to act as the Lord would have me."

Growing serious, Raoul turned his head; for a moment he seemed simply to stare at his wedding band. "I cannot say I would be comfortable allowing Christine to renew her association with the man, but even that is not entirely because of him. I am afraid I've had some difficulty trusting my wife – she's given me no particular reason to doubt her, but…" he trailed off, sighing heavily. "At any rate, that was why I came to speak with Fr. Delacroix this morning. I'd hoped to return home before Christine rose for the day, but now that seems unlikely."

"Has she actually told you that she wishes to see him again?" Mme. Giry asked, surprised. She had never thought Christine would want that.

Raoul shrugged. "Only hinted, but as I said, the very idea makes me uncomfortable."

Mme. Giry thought for a moment on the insecurity Miss O'Donnell displayed from time to time. "Frankly, I do not imagine Maeve would feel any better about it. But Monsieur, given the circumstances, you truly should not burden yourself with this. It might even be better if you go; I cannot say how Erik will react to your presence."

"Perhaps you are correct. It might be wise to wash my hands of the entire affair, but as they have entered the sanctuary this very moment, I suspect it is too late." He'd seen the mask glint in the candlelight, and so had known the identity of the man as he'd entered. And so it was not until he drew closer that Raoul could marvel at the brilliance of the disguise.

Only a small part of his face was covered – it made Erik appear far more human, and as his wig was closer to his own hair color, it looked far more natural. But it was his clothing that truly sold the illusion. Before, his clothing had been crisp, finely tailored and perfectly fitted. The garments he wore at present were clearly homemade. They fit, in that they were clearly made for a man of his size, but not in a manner that suggested they were made solely for him.

And though he'd yet to meet her, it was a safe bet that the woman at his side was Miss O'Donnell. She was trying very hard to smile, but honestly looked as though she might vomit or pass out; Raoul couldn't decide which. But one thing was clear – the girl was nervous, perhaps even having second thoughts. And for his purpose, that boded well.

And fortunately, the two had yet to notice him or Mme. Giry watching them from the pew. "Madame," Raoul whispered. "Will you take Miss O'Donnell aside while I speak with Erik?"

She looked worried, but grateful nonetheless. "Of course, if I cannot sway you from this course."

In response, Raoul simply stood, Fr. Collins' letter in his hand, and walked toward the approaching couple. Mme. Giry heaved a sigh, but followed his lead.

"Madame, Monsieur, what?" Erik appeared dumbfounded. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Monsieur," Raoul replied smoothly. "Surely you know that, if you are to marry, you must have witnesses."

Both were dumbstruck by Raoul's remark, but Erik found his tongue before long. "I'm certain I've no idea of what you are speaking, Monsieur. Your presumption, however, is most intriguing. Whatever put such an odd notion into your head?"

"I suppose your _uncle_ did. Are you telling me this note he left for you is false? He did not, in fact, engineer this little escapade?" Raoul asked, holding the letter aloft.

While Maeve paled considerably, a slight narrowing of his eyes was Erik's only physical reaction. "Maeve, my love, would you mind waiting outside with Mme. Giry for a moment while I speak with the Viscomte?"

"Of course, love. If it's what you need me to do," she replied immediately.

Raoul did not miss the anger, presumably toward Fr. Collins, or the relief in her eyes as she and Mme. Giry made their way out of the sanctuary.

As they left, Erik snatched the letter out of Raoul's hand, immediately tearing it open. He read it quickly, and then reread it a second and a third time. "Underhanded. Impressive. But as it is clear he was correct, I am not certain what sort of response you were expecting of me."

"Surely you don't believe these several days have proven anything aside from your uncle's manipulative talent."

A stubborn set to his jaw, Erik folded his arms across his chest defensively. "I need her. It makes no difference how he made me see that; you won't convince me to give this up."

"Oh come now. All he's made you see is that priests can make unsettling company. Anyone who grew up Catholic could have warned you of _that_. Do you truly believe that, at the Opera, where you are familiar with the people and understand what will be expected of you, you would be every bit as uncomfortable? Or are you, perhaps, taking advantage of a convenient excuse? Might the truth be far simpler? I think perhaps you are finding it difficult to keep your promise that your intended will remain untouched until your wedding night." Raoul knew he was on dangerous ground; if he pushed much harder, Erik might explode.

As it was, Erik's hands were now clenched at his sides, his arms shaking. And his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, but very dangerous. "I warn you, Monsieur, I may not be the man I once was, but do not imagine that I will brook such insolence. And do not expect your opinion to be trusted or valued."

Too hard, clearly he'd pushed too hard. Raoul attempted to restate in a way that might undo a little of the damage he'd just done with his carelessness. "I am simply trying to warn you what people will think. Perhaps you do not care, perhaps you do. You have leapt at your first chance to shorten your engagement, an engagement that is already scandalously brief. People will assume she is pregnant; the rumors will not stop when she does not give birth. Instead, the rumor will be that she lost the child. But the gossip will follow you, both of you, for years to come. Is your lust worth what it will do to her reputation?"

"Tell me something, Monsieur," Erik sneered. "Did you keep yourself pure until you were married?"

Raoul was taken aback by the question, but answered all the same. "No, I am ashamed to say I did not."

"And how old, may I ask, were you at the time of your unfortunate indiscretions?"

Now this, Raoul thought, was _not _something he wished to disclose, nor was he prepared to discuss it. "Monsieur, I fail to see the relevance of s…"

"Please." Erik cut off Raoul's response softly, but forcefully. "It is not my business. It is _highly_ improper for me to ask, I know, but would you please be so kind as to indulge me?"

Well, he _was_ trying to get Erik to open up, to examine his own motives. Did they not say that one must sometimes give in order to receive? "I was seventeen. I'd convinced myself I was in love, but it was lust that drove me. It is, in part, due to my own experience that I urge you to examine your motives."

"Add nearly two decades to that age, Monsieur, and answer me truthfully." Erik nearly spit the words, "Do you think that, by your thirty-sixth year, you might have found it impossible _not_ to be driven, in some small measure, by lust?"

Raoul's mouth was open in shock, and he could not seem to shut it. His greatest worry, in those final days at the Opera Populaire with Christine, had been regarding his own youth and inexperience and Don Juan Triumphant had brought all that fear to the surface. A fool could see that Erik had a very powerful, seductive presence. Raoul had been terrified, indeed at times still feared, that Christine would change her mind, regret her choice. It had taken considerable time, but he'd finally found the courage to tell Fr. Delacroix of his fears and feelings of inadequacy. And yet, none of the Father's counsel had done a tenth of the good that Erik's desperate admission had just done for him. His perception of his world, in one moment, shifted on its axis.

And Erik's desperation was so easy to understand, now that he could put it in its proper context. But he also knew just what card he had to play to get through to the man. "Monsieur, I never imagined… I _do _see your point, but I must still ask if you believe the girl is ready. Will she be happy to marry without friends and family present, without even a proper dress? She loves you, that is abundantly clear, but I also know that _you_ love _her_ as well. Do you want to begin your marriage with her sacrifice? I am not telling you to resume the restrictions Fr. Collins has placed upon you, for I do not think of you as a man who easily capitulates to authority. Continue to see her as you like, convention be damned, but do not rush so. Allow her one day to shine, to be beautiful and fawned over, to walk toward you on her father's arm."

"What you say is true. It has been obvious that she does not want this, not this way. But I pushed it aside, told myself I would make it up to her." A single tear slipped down Erik's cheek; angrily, he brushed it away. "I am a terribly selfish man."

"No more than most, I assure you. And like any other man, from time to time you will need to seek counsel from your friends. We are not yet friends, Monsieur…" Raoul let the sentence hang, an expectant look upon his face.

It was not difficult to ascertain just what Raoul was asking, and Erik had made his choice. His uncle's meddling would not change his mind; if anything, it cemented his decision. "Collins," he finally said.

"Monsieur Collins," Raoul continued. "After all, we have only just been formally introduced, but perhaps one day we _shall _count each other as friends."

"Indeed, Monsieur le Viscomte, in point of fact before this day I do not believe we ever truly met." Shades of surprise in his voice, Erik held out his hand. "I am pleased to make you acquaintance, Monsieur."

"As am I. May I offer the use of my carriage for your return to the Opera this morning? If I may be so bold, it would further protect you from any comparisons to the 'opera ghost' if you were to arrive in my company."

"I thank you for your generous offer," Erik replied. "But before I make any more decisions, perhaps I should first ask my fiancée if this is what she wants."

"Sir, never stop thinking that way and you will surely make a good husband." Clapping Erik on the shoulder, Raoul moved toward the door, Erik a step or two behind.

tbc…

A/N: Whew, I thought I would never get this chapter finished. Real life has been very demanding of late, but it's finally settling down into something _far_ less stressful, so big happiness!

Anyway, blood, sweat and tears went into this chapter. I kept hating it and rewriting it, and would keep putting it aside so I wouldn't pull my hair out. I'm finally more or less satisfied with it; hope you haven't all given up on me, because I do honestly intend to finish the story. Hope you've enjoyed it!


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Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Romance