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"You're hideous."

The words are a stain over Erik's heart, proof no one, not even his soulmate, could love a creature as vile, unnatural, and hideous as he.

His own mother didn't love him, forsaking him at the first chance and leaving him for the Freak Show to find. His captors enjoy taunting Erik, jeering that even his perfect match, destiny's intended, will despise him at first sight. Part of the reason they refuse him a shirt is to expose his words to the crowds that come to gawk at the Devil Child. Those who see it laugh and agree he really is hideous.

Erik has heard many variations of his words, exclamations of disgust and protests at his continued existence, but never the ones set into his skin.

Only Antoinette shows him pity, helping him escape from the Freak Show. For a second he believes she is his soulmate come to save him - maybe it won't matter if she thinks him hideous - but her first words are not his soulmark. His disappointment is eased by their friendship and a new home in the caverns beneath the Opéra Populaire. (No one can hurt him so far underground).

As it transpires, Antoinette meets her soulmate not long after, a carpenter's apprentice come to work on the sets. In a short time they are married and Antoinette's career placed on hold while she is with child, eventually giving birth to a baby girl.

Erik sees Antoinette less and less, their friendship turning to acquaintanceship while he dedicates himself to building a home under the opera house, educating himself, and embracing the gift of music.

He becomes the Opera Ghost, taking to wearing a mask to hide his deformity and wandering the shadows. He builds a labyrinth around the opera, able to travel anywhere through a system of secret passages. With the newly widowed Antoinette, now ballet mistress, as his envoy, he persuades the managers to see things his way, shaping the Opéra Populaire to his wishes and earning a good salary for his troubles.

He ignores the words on his chest. He has no use for a soulmate when the music fills him so. He hates his soulmate, prays they never meet, destiny be damned. He doesn't need a voice and face to match the loathsome words, distorted by thin scars from his attempts to claw them off. Despite this his soulmark remains legible, having stopped himself before he could go too far. He hates the words, hates his soulmate for branding him with them, but they serve as a reminder:

Although he is monstrous to look upon and many have reviled him as the Devil's spawn, he does indeed have a soul, the existence of a soulmark proves it, and that is more than some people have. He could always tell which of his revilers were the unfortunate few without soulmarks; envy coloured their scorn, their attacks more vicious. Erik might despise his soulmate and see no use for them but he has one nonetheless. He decides what's written on his skin doesn't matter, his destiny is his to shape. His heart will only ever belong to music.

That is until Christine Daaé enters his life.

She is pure and beautiful and talented. Here is someone who appreciates music as much as he, who hears it as it should be heard, who sings it as it should be sung, who will see him not for his face but for the music in his soul. She fills the broken parts of Erik and when their voices harmonise he is whole. His match in all ways but one.

Christine is not his soulmate.

Her first words to him, when he speaks to her safely hidden from view, differ to his mark:

"Are you my Angel of Music?"

Erik loves her, perhaps more for it.

Christine is his destiny, they are meant to be together, voices forever united in song. He will defy the stars and anyone else who stands in their way. Christine will be his, whatever the cost.

Of course, destiny has other plans.

-oOo-

"Careful, Little Giry, you should know better than to chase after ghosts."

Meg is quite pleased with her soulmark. It is far better than a standard "Excuse me" or "Good morning". Her words are the sort you read about in books. Her mother finds them alarming, ominous as they are; she pales whenever she glimpses them but Meg loves her words. She feels a thrill when she reads them, scrawled across her left breast, and imagines what twist of fate could lead to those first words. What sort of person might her soulmate be?

Christine laughs at Meg's speculations, not unkindly. (There is nothing unkind about Christine).

"Trust you to meet your soulmate chasing trouble."

"Not trouble," Meg corrects her friend, smugly, "ghosts."

Meg is not afraid of ghosts. Quite the contrary, she adores them. Meg was very young when the older ballerinas tried to scare her and the other girls with bloody tales of flesh-eating ghouls. The others cried and shook but Meg was delighted. She devours every scrap of gothic literature she can get her hands on, from Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho, to Byron's The Vampyre, most of Edgar Allen Poe's short stories, and her favourite, Shelley's Frankenstein. She is virtually a real life Catherine Morland, the heroine of Austen's Northanger Abbey, which Meg has also read. However, unlike Catherine Morland, Meg has the privilege of living in a real haunted house. A haunted opera house, to be exact.

The Opéra Populaire is Meg's home and has been all her life. Her mother is ballet mistress. Her father is dead. Meg grew up surrounded by music, theatre, and dance, and it is these she loves above all else. The arts intertwine her very essence, they are her lifeblood. If she were ever parted from them she fears all colour would drain from her world and she would become a shadow of herself. Whatever makes a soul, hers must be a symphony, one she dances to every day of her life, although she has yet to learn the lyrics. Her soulmate must share her passion for Meg doesn't believe there is room for anyone else if they do not love music as much as she.

Meg is a being of movement; even in the womb she was a kicker. Her mother claims she was dancing before she could walk. Nothing has changed there. Meg spends her days dancing, in rehearsal and on stage - she dances for her mother, for the managers, and for the world, but most of all she dances for herself - and when with aching feet she hauls herself into bed she dances in her dreams.

But in those stolen moments in-between, when she's not laughing with Christine and the other girls, she scurries to somewhere secret and loses herself in a book, eagerly anticipating the unfolding of her own ghost story:

The Phantom of the Opera

The trickster that lurks in the shadows, pulling pranks on the more obnoxious cast members and making demands of the management. Sometimes weeks, months, will pass without a peep from him, but the longer he's gone, the grander his return. Outsiders believe him a publicity stunt by the opera house; those who reside within know better. The faint-of-heart do not last long at the Opéra Populaire.

The Opera Ghost has been a permanent source of intrigue for her since childhood. Meg eats up every rumour and spreads many of her own. Whenever a mishap occurs Meg can't help jumping up and exclaiming "He's here! The Phantom of the Opera!", much to the cast's distress. (She does, however, comfort the other ballerinas when it's clear their terror outweighs their amusement - unlike Joseph Buquet, Meg knows when to shut her mouth).

There are reports of eerie music being heard, sometimes an invisible voice accompanies it though there is no one to be found. Meg has heard it herself on a few precious occasions when she has snuck away to explore. She chases the song, desperate to find the origin of the beautiful music, but she never does. She knows it is the Phantom. She longs to catch a glimpse of him; is he as grotesque as the rumours claim, as wicked as the creatures in her stories? She hopes so. The thought of being confronted by that monstrous face both terrifies and thrills her and she skitters through shadowed corridors, ears pricked and her skin atingle.

Her mother warns her not to seek trouble but Meg suspects her mother knows more about the Opera Ghost than most, although she claims ignorance. As her daughter, Meg is not fooled. She is hiding something and it infuriates Meg that she won't share the secret. Then again, it wouldn't be so fascinating if it weren't forbidden.

Meg is determined to unravel the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera, as any self-respecting heroine would.

Then Christine tells Meg of her Angel of Music and disappears that same night. From there things become complicated, plots unfold, catastrophe strikes and Meg realises several things:

One, she is not the heroine of this tale, that role belongs to Christine.

Two, this is no gothic novel, it is real with dire consequences (she will not forget how Joseph Buquet twitched as his corpse dropped from the ceiling).

Three, the Phantom is Christine's Angel of Music.

Four, the Phantom is not a ghost but a mortal man; one who is in love with Christine and willing to do anything to have her, even kill.

Five, her mother has known this all along.

Six, Christine and Raoul are soulmates though they try to keep it and their engagement secret. (Meg is upset Christine didn't tell her but pleased her friend has found happiness).

Seven, Meg will do whatever it takes to protect Christine even if she must battle the Opera Ghost himself.

When the Phantom steals Christine from the stage, Meg doesn't allow herself to be caught up in the panic. Her mother prevents her from aiding the Viscount de Chagny so Meg finds another way, joining the mob who hunt the Opera Ghost now they know he is a mere man.

Meg doesn't want to see the Phantom harmed, murderer though he be. He is an important part of her life and though they have never met she considers him a friend. However, he has kidnapped Christine and Meg will do whatever is necessary to defend her.

She runs interference with the mob, slowing down their descent into the underground, and gets a head start hoping she isn't too late.

The Phantom wouldn't hurt Christine. He loves her. But Christine doesn't love him and men can do monstrous things when scorned.

Meg has to cross a lake to reach the Phantom's lair but she wades into the water without hesitation. If she has to swim to reach Christine, she will. If she has to walk through fire, she will.

She reaches the shore without too much difficulty and tries not to get distracted by the wonderment that is the Phantom's lair, made-up of mirrors, old theatre props, and other marvels. It's a magnificent piece of architecture, an underground sanctum Meg would gleefully explore but she has to prioritise. The place is deserted, no sign of Christine, Raoul, or the Opera Ghost.

No sign except a discarded half mask laid next to a monkey ornament. She examines it, surely it belongs to the Phantom, although the few times she's seen him he's worn a full mask. Meg pockets it and looks around for somewhere the Opera Ghost could have taken Christine, another room or a secret passage…

If this were a novel where would she put a secret tunnel…

Meg finds the trick door on her sixth attempt, a dark corridor leading into the unknown.

There's a chance it's a trap. There's also a chance Christine and the Phantom didn't even go this way. Her mother would call her reckless but for her friend Meg is willing to take that risk.

She scavenges a lantern from the Opera Ghost's collection of treasures (he certainly has no shortage of candles) and enters the passage. She makes sure the entrance is concealed so the mob won't follow. The tunnel is pitch black; her lantern, the only source of light. Meg takes a steadying breath and strides forward, chasing after a ghost.

-oOo-

Light wabbles round the bend, the sound of footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Erik's sobs gutter.

Christine?

No, she is gone. Her ring a weight in his pocket. More likely a member of the guard or the pursuing mob. Whoever they are his security system will soon take care of them. Only Erik knows how to safely navigate these tunnels.

He waits, listening.

The footsteps grow nearer, tendrils of light stretching down the passage. Erik presses himself into the wall. He cannot quite make-out the features of the intruder, but they appear to be alone. They still have some distance to cross before they reach him. If his traps fail Erik can take them by surprise. He is unarmed but he can kill a man with his bare hands. Though his confrontation with Christine leaves him reluctant for further bloodshed.

Closer and closer the figure approaches, footsteps slowing as if they can sense something amiss but are blind to the monster that awaits them. He can better discern them now; their figure slight, curved… feminine. Candlelight flickers across her face revealing familiar features and flaming blonde curls. One of the ballet rats, but no, she is more than that… he knows this woman… who is she…

Stone grinds against stone and the trapdoor slides open beneath the dancer's foot. She must notice the sudden motion because in the split-second it takes for the stone to pull back she propels herself forward, attempting to jump the pit, but her balance is thrown and as she lands her foot slips and she's falling backwards into the trap with a scream and-

Erik has heard that scream before, it's usually followed by "He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!"

-he lunges forward, catching her around the waist and hauling her to safety. To her credit she doesn't struggle, gripping him like a lifeline. The lamp swings wildly in her hand and light washes over him, then shadow, then light again, until it steadies, revealing the horrific face.

"Careful, Little Giry, you should know better than to chase after ghosts."

He waits for the scream.

Nothing.

There's a sharp intake of breath then she exclaims, "You're hideous."

Erik frowns. He barely registers the words, accustomed to the insult, but the intonation surprises him. Erik knows fear, has heard it many times before; that didn't sound like fear… that sounded like…

Awe.

But that's not possible.

The Giry girl smiles at him, not cruel or fearful but with wonder. "It's you, the Phantom of the Opera."

Erik stiffens. There's not a tremor of fear in her voice.

Her smile slips and a crease appears in her brow, blue eyes narrowing. "Did you just say…"

Her face clears, lips parting in a silent 'o'. At this, his brain catches up to her first words and Erik springs away from her.

No no no. It cannot be. Not now. Not her.

His soulmark burns. Erik waits for the horror, the revulsion. She steps forward in a trance, her hand brushes her left breast where her words (Erik's words… No!) would be printed. In the dim light it is difficult to read her reaction, shadows obscuring her features, but she remains steady and when she speaks there is no disgust.

"It's you… you said my words… you're my… we're… "

She reaches for him and he shrinks back. His heart, that blistered lump of coal in his chest, shudders against his ribcage.

It cannot be. It cannot be.

"I wondered…" she takes another step forward "...those words… your words… you had to be involved somehow… Opera Ghost… the Phantom of the Opera, it's you!"

She says the moniker with such reverence.

Erik is lost. In all his imaginings the few times he pictured meeting his soulmate it was always themwho recoiled from him but now…

He's retreating into the shadows, unable to handle the brightness of those blue eyes. The thought doesn't sit well with him; the Phantom shouldn't cower from a petite ballerina. He pushes himself from the wall, drawing to his full height.

"Little Giry- "

"Meg." Erik's train of thought stutters. She's smiling. "If we are soulmates, then you can use my first name."

She says it so simply: soulmates. How is she so calm? His pulse is a quivering mess.

"I don't- "

"And you?" Again, he stumbles and looks at her queerly. "You do have a name?"

He doesn't answer. His instincts are telling him to run, run, but his feet are rooted to the floor.

At his silence she hesitates, considering him. "We are soulmates, aren't we? You said my words, I must have said yours…? What was it…? I said… I said- "

"Erik." He cuts in before she can repeat those words, those loathsome, star-crossed words etched over his heart.

Words spoken, not with disgust like he imagined, but with awe. This is not the rejection he anticipated.

"Erik… Erik…" she says his name and it sounds right on her tongue. She laughs but it's not scornful. "Your name is Erik. You're the Opera Ghost. This is extraordinary! I can't believe you're here, the actual Phantom! You're better than I imagined! You're perfect!"

Erik reels. Perfect? What fresh mockery is this!

"Perfect," he spits the word. "Do your senses desert you? Are you as dim-witted as you are dim-sighted? Look closer and tell me what perfections you see."

With one stride he crosses the distance between them, seizing the hand which holds the lantern and yanking it upwards to illuminate his macabre features.

"You are a fool to mock me and a liar to flatter. Your first assessment was better fitting, though the words are a bitter brand at least they are honest. Why bother with a name, call me hideous, mademoiselle, for that is what I am."

She stares at him, mouth opening and closing like a guillotine. He waits for the blow to fall. Then she smiles.

"You are dramatic, aren't you."

Erik is thrown. How has she disarmed him so completely? Whilst Christine had gotten under his guard a few times, most of their interactions followed his script. He was in control, right until the end. But now, in the depths of his kingdom, he is on shaky ground, unable to predict the Little Giry's next move. He hates feeling out of control and needs to regain the upper-hand quickly but how?

She is still talking, oblivious to his struggle.

"Don't worry, I enjoy drama - theatre is my life after all - and I'm a fan, a big fan. Making Carlotta croak like that, brilliant! Buquet… not so much." Her smile flickers out and Erik feels the loss. "The descent from playful prankster to murderous rebuffed lover was… disappointing."

She says it so casually like she's not worried to be alone with a known murderer. Erik tries to process all she's revealed. He feels a twinge of satisfaction learning she enjoyed his tricks but a pang at hearing he's disappointed her. Neither sensation he understands.

"What do you want?"

Her gaze sharpens, her expression firm. "Where is Christine?"

She has found him here, banished from his home, stripped of his armour, his chest carved open and now she reaches inside him to squeeze his bleeding heart, blue eyes so innocent, unaware of the torment she inflicts.

"Christine… Christine is gone…" He chokes on the words, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I let her go and sh-she's gone… gone… fled with her Viscount… her lover… her soulmate…"

"You let her go?" The kindness he sees in her expression is worse than if it were scorn.

He whimpers and nods; the salt of the tears stings his scars. He is mortified to show such weakness but she doesn't sneer, doesn't laugh. Instead she places her lantern on the ground and takes him in her arms. Erik weeps into her shoulder, ashamed and unable to stop. She hushes him with gentle soothing sounds, carefully running her hands across his head. She must feel the full extent of his deformity but she is not repulsed, does not draw back or scream.

"Ssh, ssh, I'm here, hush, I'm here."

She doesn't bulk from him, doesn't run.

"God give me courage to show you you are not alone."

She is not Christine. It doesn't pain her to touch him, but then he hasn't hurt her like he hurt Christine… oh Christine…

He looks at the woman before him and the tears begin to ebb. She holds his gaze, fearless. This woman, this courageous woman, has wandered upon a miserable creature huddled in the dark, licking its wounds, and instead of fleeing its fangs she presses it to her bosom and shows him more compassion than he's known from anyone. Even Antoinette did not attempt to comfort him like this... Christine merely wished to appease him. But she is unafraid and generous in her kindness.

And Erik is to believe she is the other half of his withered soul? No.

"What are you?" He gasps, his throat constricts, there is not enough air in his lungs.

He shoves at her hands, pushing her away (not in the direction of the trapdoor), and scrambles back, anticipating the dagger in the dark.

"You are a demon come to torment! A siren seeking to ensnare with your pretty song. You will drag me under and leave me wrecked upon the rocks."

She inclines her head, eyebrows raised. "I'm more of a dancer, actually. Christine was the soprano."

"Don't speak her name again!" The pain is too great.

"What? Christine?" She takes a step forward. "The woman you terrorised."

Erik hisses but she doesn't cease her advance.

"I won't pretend what you've done isn't monstrous. You tormented my friend, you murdered Piangi! You have done terrible things, Erik."

At the use of his name, Erik withers. "So there is venom in your bite."

Of course, destiny is never kind. His soulmate reviles him the same as everyone else. He always knew they would.

"Erik…" Meg murmurs, a mournful tone, and her features soften.

He turns away. He cannot bear to witness her disdain or worse, her pity. Christine's was bad enough.

"Please," he croaks. "Leave me be."

"This is no end."

"I deserve to rot."

He should have ended himself long ago. Why did he hold back, let himself hope for a better life. Nobody appreciates his genius, no one listens to his music. There is no love for him, no light. Better the Opera Ghost pass on for real, this gloomy passageway his tomb, far from the world he was not welcome within. The rats can nibble on his corpse; some use for him at last. What an end.

"Do you think having gone to such troubles to find you I would abandon you now?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't understand what she wants from him.

She sighs and slumps against the wall beside him. "Why did you let Christine go?"

He groans and twists away from her. Why does she torture him so?

"Please Erik, tell me." Her voice is gentle, her words twist like a knife.

"What do you want from me, Little Giry? You've said it yourself, I am a monster. You should run from me or better yet cut me down so everyone can sleep better at night."

"I chase ghosts, I don't run from them." She is persistent. "And I didn't say you were a monster, just that you have been monstrous… something all men are capable of being."

She's quiet and Erik listens to her soft inhales and exhales.

"You remind me of a book… one of my favourites."

This change in topic startles Erik and he chuckles bitterly. "From one of your grizzly ghost tales?"

He is not prepared for her to react with such enthusiasm. "You did notice me!"

Erik scoffs and ducks his head. "You used to get everywhere when you were small, always exploring. Someone had to make sure you didn't tumble from the rafters."

"I was looking for you."

Erik knows this but his pulse quickens to hear her confess it.

"You would have been terrified had I ever shown myself. You'd have run screaming to your mother."

Meg laughs like such a notion is absurd. "No, I would not. I hoped you'd be hideous, the more terrifying the better. Then I could set you on Cecile and she'd stop laughing at my footwork."

Erik stares at the woman, disbelievingly. "You would have had me as a pet."

"Not a pet, a partner in crime. Think of the tricks we could've pulled."

Erik huffs and tries to tell himself he's not endeared. "Your mother would've had a heart-attack."

He knows Antoinette must have betrayed him to the Viscount. He is enraged at her betrayal but also grieved. She had been his confidante, his friend.

"My mother shouldn't have kept you a secret. Not from me."

"It was for your own protection. She was trying to keep you safe." From me, he doesn't add.

What must his old friend be feeling now? The boy she saved exposed as a murderer and a mob out for his blood. And somewhere amongst it all her daughter - her reckless, spirited daughter - missing.

Erik pushes himself from the wall and approaches the discarded lantern. The candle is burning low.

Meg watches him, absurdly relaxed despite her proximity to a killer. "We've been talking for some time now and you haven't hurt me. You could have snapped my neck and left my body here in the dark where no one would ever find me but you haven't."

"I could still," Erik threatens despite how the idea chills his blood.

"You won't." She says it so matter-of-factly.

Erik wants to argue but he suspects she will see through his threats as easily as she seems to see through him.

"You know what I think?"

Erik sighs, getting the impression she will share her thoughts whether he wants them or not. He lifts the lantern, turning on her. She doesn't flinch from the light, a thoughtful look on her face that has him nervous.

"I think you could use a friend."

Erik looks away, hands clenching. "Come on, we've wasted enough time."

He strides down the passage. There's a beat of hesitation then footsteps skitter after him.

He senses the questions coming and cuts her off before she can speak. "Keep up and only step where I step."

"We're leaving?"

"Unless you want to stay here."

She moves to walk beside him but he thrusts out his arm, keeping her behind him. "You need to follow and step exactly where I step lest you trigger any traps."

He can feel her pouting but she does as instructed. Erik is glad he doesn't have to look at her but she follows so closely behind that he can still feel her warmth.

He focuses on navigating the underground passage and pushes all thoughts of singers and soulmates out of his head. Or he tries to.

Meg Giry doesn't go quietly.

"Tell me your story, Erik."

He cringes and doesn't answer.

"Oh please, I'm dying to know. I've wondered about you since I was a child, you have to tell me. Don't pretend you don't want to. You're a performer, you're desperate to tell your tale. Come on now, how does a man become the Phantom of the Opera?"

"It's not a pleasant tale."

She is quiet for a few blissful seconds and when she speaks again her words are measured. "If it causes you pain I will not press but… I am not afraid to know you, Erik. Speak and I will listen."

Erik halts and her footsteps stop behind him.

"If I tell you, will you be quiet and spare me your questions until the end?"

It's too much to hope she won't push for more details but at least he might avoid interruption.

"I promise."

Her voice is gentle and Erik tilts his head slightly, examining her from the corner of his eye. As bitter as his sordid history tastes on his tongue she's not wrong about him desiring an audience. He relishes the chance to share his side with someone willing to listen, to talk of the tragedies and injustices life has afforded him. If only to prove those memories are real and not a product of his own fraying mind.

"Very well." He continues down the passage, Meg keeping pace, and let's his voice carry, bouncing off the stones. "Here is the true tale of the Phantom of the Opera…"

-oOo-

Erik's tale is one of tragedy and suffering. He makes no attempt to hide the extent of his villainy yet even as the worst of his deeds are revealed she can't help but sympathise. She won't absolve him of his sins - she remembers Christine's terror towards the Phantom, Carlotta's broken wail over Piangi's corpse - but Meg acknowledges the external factors that pushed him to such lengths. Life has been cruel to him.

Here is a man who has been much abused and known so little kindness it is only natural he latch on to the first glimmer of affection shown to him and then refuse to let it go. At least until the very end.

The fact that he spared Christine and Raoul is proof - at least in Meg's eyes - that Erik is not beyond redemption. Though maybe she is just seeing what she wants to see. She has admired the Phantom all her life and discovering he is her soulmate has biased her.

What a bizarre twist of fate. Some part of her must have been aware, drawn to him as she was. Having it confirmed wasn't a shock; instead it felt like acknowledging a truth she has always known deep down.

Her soulmate is the Opera Ghost.

The Opera Ghost is named Erik.

One of those is more surprising than the other.

The passage is long and twisting, they turn here and there, and now and then she feels the path descend before it starts to rise again. Erik leads her through the dark, pausing in his narrative to advise her of spots to avoid where some malicious mechanism must lie. She feels as if she has wandered into the pages of an adventure story. It is exhilarating.

At last, Erik's tale comes to a close and Meg tries to summon some words of comfort.

"Erik…" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Almost there."

Meg frowns but feels the whisper of a breeze on her face and sighs. As exciting as this has been, she will be glad to get out of these gloomy tunnels and return to the light.

"You really built all this," Meg marvels, glancing behind in the direction they had come. She never would have found her way without him.

"Not all of it, some of the tunnels were already here, I simply refurbished them for my purposes."

Meg whistles. "Impressive."

Erik glances back at her but doesn't say anything until they reach the cavern's end.

"Come now, Eurydice, the surface awaits."

They exit the tunnel and emerge from a tomb into a graveyard (the natural conclusion of all creepy underground tunnels). She's not sure how they have managed that but she's accustomed to the Phantom pulling off the impossible. They must have been walking for miles; her feet certainly feel like it.

It's dark, the stars are out. How much time has passed since the fiasco at the opera house? Her mother must be in a frenzy. Meg is not looking forward to the scolding she's bound to receive.

The night is cold and Meg shivers. She turns to Erik, rubbing her arms. "Where to now?"

"You should return to your mother at the opera house. "

"You can't go back to the opera house, they'll be looking for you."

"I won't be coming with you. This is where we part."

He offers out her lantern. Meg pointedly does not accept it.

"You're not leaving me like this."

Erik makes a sound of displeasure. "You can't come with me."

"I can and I will." Meg sticks out her chin and places her hands on her hips.

She thinks he rolls his eyes. "I am a wanted man, a murderer."

"You haven't murdered me yet."

"Give it time."

"I'd rather take my chances with you than the streets of Paris at night." She fixes him with the wide-eyed stare she used to get extra treats from the baker and his son. "You wouldn't abandon a poor vulnerable unarmed woman in the middle of a darkened graveyard to make her way through the city all alone, would you?"

"Ah." Erik falters. "Damn."

Meg claps her hands, bouncing on her tiptoes. "So it's agreed, we stick together. I assume you have a temporary lodging someplace where we can hide out?"

"Why would you assume that? And I haven't agreed to anything."

Meg ignores that last remark. "You built an underground labyrinth fitted with booby traps and a secret escape route and have performed a number of elaborate and supernatural feats that have bamboozled the establishment for years. I expect a mastermind like yourself planned for most contingencies and have some secret safehouse hidden somewhere."

The Phantom is quiet.

"Well? Am I wrong?"

Meg is not wrong.

Erik's hideout is not far from the cemetery; a derelict building which is surprisingly decent on the inside though too small to be liveable long-term. It is the perfect bolthole and Meg grins at Erik who pretends to ignore her.

"There is a cot where you can sleep. Tomorrow you shall return to your mother."

"I'm not tired," Meg protests and is immediately betrayed by a yawn.

She has spent the day rehearsing, the evening performing, and the night trekking through the underground, it's not surprising she's so tired but she hates to fall asleep when the Phantom of the Opera is right there within reach. If she closes her eyes for even a moment he might evaporate like all dreams do.

She slumps onto the cot, maintaining eye-contact with Erik even as she removes her shoes.

"You're not allowed to leave."

Erik raises his eyebrows. "You mean to take me prisoner in my own lodge?"

Meg pouts, both of them knowing she cannot force him to stay.

"You have to promise you won't leave. I've just found you and it would be bothersome for us both if I had to hunt you down again."

"You wouldn't catch me."

Meg shoots him a look. "Want to bet?"

The corner of his lip twitches and Meg counts it as a win. She hisses as she extracts her feet from her boots, sensation returning to them. Her soles are accustomed to a lot of dancing but with so much walking on top of that they are aching.

Erik kneels before her, taking her feet in hand and rubbing them soothingly. She gawps at him and when he looks up she's not sure which of them seems more surprised, but he doesn't stop.

"Please," it slips out before she realises what she's doing, "stay."

Erik goes still, his whole body rigid with tension.

He looks down at the floor, her foot still cradled in his hands. "You don't know what you're asking… whatever bond you think there is between us… put those romantic notions aside. These marks do not define us. I do not owe you anything and you do not owe me. We are nothing to each other."

Meg slides from the cot, onto the floor before Erik and meets his startled gaze.

"It's not about whether or not we're soulmates. I wanted to know you long before we met." She wraps her arms around him. "You have never been nothing to me, Erik."

He stiffens. "What are you doing?"

"Embracing you." Meg replies, burying her head in his shoulder.

"This isn't…" Erik stutters, "...you can't be…"

She squeezes him tight. "Erik."

Erik springs to his feet, pushing her back. "This is a trick."

"No- !"

"It's not… you couldn't… no one has ever… no one could… oh Christine! Christine!" He sinks to the floor, head in his hands.

Meg watches him, helpless and unsure. It hurts to see him like this; the great Phantom brought so low by love. She wants to reassure him but she doesn't know how, doesn't know what it is she even wants from him, just that she can't let him go. She's not certain if the draw she feels towards him is because he is the Opera Ghost or because he is - might be - is her soulmate, but the thought of losing him before she even has him pushes her to despair.

"Erik."

She reaches out to him. At first he recoils but eventually he submits to her touch. She holds him close, caressing the few strands of hair that cover his head, careful not to aggravate his scars.

"I'm not leaving, not until we figure this out. Can you promise you'll do the same? Can you promise you'll stay? Please."

He lifts his head just a fraction so his eyes meet hers, dark and gleaming.

"You will not like what you see in the morning light."

"I see you now and I am not afraid."

Erik scoffs. "Am I not hideous?"

He spits the word and Meg remembers with shame her own unfortunate choice of first words. What must he have made of such a soulmark? How can she explain hideous is not bad in her eyes; that she could interchange hideous with mesmerising and magnificent and it would mean the same when she speaks of him.

"You are hideous," she agrees and his eyes are scalding, she's not explaining this right. "I mean… not in a bad way… you're different, unique…"

Erik is unmoved and she can feel him slipping from her even as she cups his face in her hands. He is an artist, a poet, and she scrambles for words he might understand.

"Angels are too terrible to look upon. Erik, you are divine!"

He looks down. "I am no angel."

Meg snorts, unable to help herself after the string of events that led them here.

"Erik, please understand, the most disappointing thing to me is not your looks but that you do not possess any supernatural abilities."

Erik tilts his head. "...well, actually… if I pitch my voice right I can hypnotise people with my song… "

Meg gasps and clamps down on his shoulders, pushing her face into his so their eyes were on level and their foreheads brushed.

"That. Is. Amazing! Tell me more!"

Erik is unsurprisingly startled by her nearness and eases her back, gently. "We can argue more in the morning. It's been a long night for both of us."

Meg's not sure whether he believes her praises but she's too sleepy to push it. She rocks onto her feet and drags him with her to the cot.

"Lie down with me."

Erik freezes.

"There's only one bed and you need rest as well," Meg insists, settling on the mattress and trying to pull him down with her.

As usual, he is uncooperative.

"Mme. Giry."

"Meg." She groans. "Stop being difficult."

Erik splutters. "I'm being… how are you this nonchalant?"

Meg shrugs her shoulders. "It's been an odd day."

Erik knits his brow. "Do you always invite strange men so easily into your bed?"

Now she's the one rolling her eyes. "I bunk with a dozen other girls, Erik. For goodness sake, you're my soulmate and, according to some, a myth. If I can't be improper with you, who can I be."

Erik doesn't have an answer to that which suits Meg fine.

"Make sure to remove your shoes before you get into bed."

Erik obeys, dumbly. Meg smiles and lounges across the mattress, lumpy as it is. Something digs into her hip and she frowns. Rummaging around she realises it's not the mattress but something in her pocket. Drawing it out she discovers it's Erik's half-mask. In all the excitement she forgot she had it.

Erik jolts when he sees what she's holding and makes an aborted grab for it. His hand hovers in mid-air, eyes fixed on the mask, wary.

Meg offers it to him. "It's yours."

Hesitantly, he accepts the mask but doesn't put it on, simply staring at it, complicated emotion puzzling his expression. Meg watches, curling up to make room for him.

"I'm sure whatever crisis of identity you are experiencing can wait until morning." Erik frowns but Meg keeps going. "Come on, we are both too exhausted to persist in useless arguments especially when we both know I'm going to win."

Erik places the mask to the side and kneels on the bed, a dark figure looming over her.

"Aren't you afraid of the despicable things I could do to you in the dark?" He uses his Opera Ghost voice, smooth and sinister.

It's not fear Meg feels.

She leans forward, challengingly. "I think I scare you far more than you scare me."

Erik scoffs. "You do not sca- "

Meg snags his collar and presses her lips to his brow, the tiniest brush. Erik whirls back, almost tumbling from the bed.

"You- you little devil!"

"Devil?" Meg laughs. "I like that." Erik glares at her from the end of the bed and she tries to smother her giggles. "I'm sorry but I think I've proven my point."

Erik shakes his head and stands. "I'm going to sleep on the floor."

"Don't cut off your nose to spite your face." Erik glowers but she ploughs on. "I told you, I am too tired to argue, just accept I'm right and let's sleep. You can be stubborn in the morning. I promise not to tease anymore."

"You will regret this." It doesn't sound like a threat but resignation.

Nevertheless, Erik climbs back onto the bed and settles down next to her.

"You are a strange creature, Meg Giry."

"You're one to talk, Erik Opera Ghost."

Erik releases a breath which sounds almost amused but turns his back to her, signalling the end of all conversation. Meg feels oddly slighted, despite her eagerness for rest. She shuts her eyes with a huff and attempts to sleep.

It does not come easily. Knowing Erik - the Phantom of the Opera, her soulmate - is right there in arms reach keeps her awake, her body abuzz with anticipation. She wants to reach out and touch him, prove to herself he's really there, that he hasn't disappeared as he's famed for doing. She's spent her whole life searching for him, waiting for him to materialise, and here he is…

Losing him now would be devastating.

She opens her eyes to check he's still there and meets his own scrutinising gaze. He must have turned over, movements so soft she didn't even notice. He stiffens, realising he's been caught, and they both stare at each other.

"You didn't promise, you have to promise," Meg murmurs, startled by her own voice. "Promise you'll stay. I want you to stay."

Erik's eyes are like looking into the night sky, an infinite void of darkness full of unknown wonderments and twinkling stars. She wants to sink into them and fall.

"Erik… please stay…"

Is she weeping? Her eyes feel hot and wet. She's mortified but it has been a trying day.

"Hush, Meg." His voice is gentle and commanding. "I will be here when you wake, I promise."

Something inside her soothes at his dulcet tone and she breathes her relief. "Thank you."

Erik hums and as he does she thinks she hears words, pulled directly from her heart, and her eyes drift shut.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams… purge your thoughts of the life you knew before…

Meg falls asleep, swift and untroubled, the haunting song following her into her dreams and she dances within the arms of a phantom voice.

"Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar… and you'll live as you've never lived before…"

-oOo-

Erik should not have promised to stay, but no one ever asked him to before and Meg looked at him so sweetly, blue eyes beseeching under soft eyelashes.

He is a fool, a hopeless fool, to fall for her games yet here he remains, watching as she slumbers peacefully beside him. He hadn't even used his hypnotism as he had done with Christine.

Christine.

She is a thought best locked away. He glances at the mask on the cabinet next to the bed. His fingers twitch to put it on but he's not sure he can be that man again… if he even wants to be the Phantom of the Opera. Not that he has an opera to return to; that has quite literally gone up in flames and now he is a wanted man all because of Christine and her beloved viscount.

No, that isn't fair. It was his own actions, his own madness that led him here. He needs to leave Paris - possibly France - needs to leave this life behind.

He glances at the woman asleep beside him. Meg Giry, what a strange creature she is...

She follows a murdering madman through a dark underground labyrinth, out into a graveyard and to his secret hideaway then invites him into bed and falls asleep by his side. He's beginning to wonder which of them is the lunatic. He has a feeling she will be hard to shake.

But that's Antoinette's problem. He can't imagine the stern ballet mistress will be pleased to discover the identity of her daughter's soulmate. All the more reason to get out of France.

Meg Giry is his soulmate. The whole concept is laughable. Destiny must certainly have been laughing when it paired them together. But Meg doesn't seem frightened or disgusted by him. She called him divine and kissed him (on his brow).

He's not prepared for this. He should leave now before she wakes. He is a monster, what are promises to him?

Except he doesn't want to leave.

Meg doesn't balk at the sight of him. She laughs and teases; she doesn't scream, she doesn't cower. Meg is different to anyone he has ever known and he should disappear before it all shatters with the morning light but he is greedy and selfish. He will savour what he has before that too is taken from him. Erik resolves to stay up, watching Meg dream.

However, sleep proves inescapable and Erik wakes from an unusually pleasant slumber to the memories of the previous day's disaster and his subsequent flight. He is struck with the nauseating sensation of grief along with a building anxiety that there is more to come.

Erik releases an involuntarily whine and is answered with a gentle hush. Awareness dawns on him and he realises his head is resting somewhere inexplicably soft and warm, a hand brushing through his hair. Erik lurches upwards.

"Good morning," Meg chirps, smiling.

Sunlight streams in from behind the tattered curtains, illuminating the room and the full horror of his face. He clamps a hand over his disfigurement but Meg shows no visible reaction. No shrieking, no attempts to run, not even a disgusted curl of the lip. Her smile is kind and unwavering.

Erik doesn't know what to make of this bizarre acceptance. The word hideous is a brand across his skin but Meg doesn't act as if she is bothered by his appearance. Erik is unsettled to realise his soulmark may not be the rejection he believed it was.

"I've been thinking," Meg begins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Erik is so distracted by the motion that he physically jolts at her next words.

"We need to leave Paris."

"What-?"

"In fact, I think it best if we leave France all-together, at least for the time being. I don't know what your thoughts are but England and America are potential options - my English is quite good - or Italy, I've always wanted to go and- "

"What do you mean we?" Erik interrupts. "There is no we."

Meg looks at him like he's the one acting strange. "Of course there is, we're soulmates remember?"

She tugs the front of her shirt down, shamelessly exposing the words over her heart - Erik's words. He tries to divert his gaze but his eyes are drawn to them nonetheless.

Careful, Little Giry, you should know better than to chase after ghosts.

What a fitting choice of words. Destiny is certainly laughing at them.

With unexpected effort, Erik manages to divert his gaze from Meg's soulmark. "Destiny shall not bind me nor you. This bond is not a chain with which I mean to shackle you. You are free to go and do as you please as I will do what pleases me."

Meg jabs a finger into his arm. "What would please me is to travel with you."

Erik whirls, opening his mouth to protest but she holds up a hand, bidding him to remain silent.

"You have said more than enough for me now I will speak." She drops her hands, leaning on them, and stares at him imploringly. "Let me come with you, Erik. I want to go with you. This isn't destiny deciding for me, I'm not choosing you because you're my soulmate. I'm choosing you because I've wanted this since I was a child… to travel the world, to have adventures. I want to experience the strange and the wonderful, to follow the music where it leads, and I want to do it by your side."

She clasps her hands, beseeching. "Please, let us be friends, Erik. I want to know you. Won't you let me?" Her eyes twinkle with mischief. "If you refuse I'll only hunt you down."

Erik is dazed by this soulful appeal but he manages to gather enough of his wits to respond. "What about ballet, Meg? Dancing is your life."

"I can dance wherever we go, I'll dance all over the world, but there is nothing left for me here. The opera house is ruined and Christine is gone."

"Your mother- "

"Can come with us."

Erik freezes at the thought of travelling with not one but two bossy ballerinas.

"I doubt she will be amenable to the idea."

Antoinette is going to murder him for involving her daughter. She'll hang him by the ankles and slit his throat.

Meg waves her hand dismissively. "I can convince her."

Erik is not sure what powers could sway the severe and overprotective mother but Meg must be in possession of something for he finds his conviction wavering and doubles down on his efforts to dissuade her.

"It is no life for you. You are a bright, talented, young woman, you should stay and have a career, fall in love, start a family. If you follow me it will be a restless existence, misery shall pursue us, we will be outcasts from society unable to settle in one place for long. It is no life at all."

Silence settles with that sombre note and Erik stares at his hands, realising with despair what a lonely existence awaits him. But he won't drag Meg down with him; it's why he let Christine go. No one deserves to live in this Purgatory, shut away from the sun, never knowing the warmth of another's touch…

Fingers brush his clenched knuckles and he jolts as a hand settles over his own. His gaze darts to Meg and she stares back, blue eyes soft and forgiving.

"We shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another."

Erik shudders and those rosy lips curve.

"Frankenstein, Mary Shelley."

"I've read it," Erik says, throat uncomfortably dry. There is drink stashed here somewhere, he's going to need it.

"It's my favourite."

Meg squeezes his hand and leans forward. Too close, she is too close.

And yet, Erik desperately wants to pull her closer.

"I suppose you see me as that loathsome creature," Erik spits, "to be scorned and pitied."

"I think that creature is a part of us all," Meg replies, thoughtfully. "It is not our appearances which make us monsters but our failure to treat others with compassion."

Erik looks down, shame squirming in the pit of his stomach, and pulls his hand from her hold.

"You were right when you called me hideous… I have blamed the world's cruelty for my own wicked deeds. I am indeed the villain of this tale."

He remembers Christine's vicious words: "It's in your soul that the true distortion lies."

But if his soul is distorted, what does that mean for Meg? She is innocent of his crimes, she is good, and he must protect her from himself.

"I think you might yet be redeemed if you want to be" Meg assures, with undeserved kindness. "No one who produces music as beautiful as yours could be as wretched as you believe. There is a better side to you, Erik, I'm sure of it and would love to know that man."

Erik drags his gaze to her, guilty heavy upon him. "If there was any goodness in my soul it must have been used to craft yours for I do not understand why destiny saw fit to tie us when I cast everything into darkness and you, Meg, deserve to dance among the stars."

"Then build yourself a ladder and dance with me."

Erik chuckles and sucks in breath when he realises what he's doing. He hunches his shoulders, despair pressing into him.

"There's nothing I can say to convince you to leave me alone?"

Meg gives him a considering look. "Say you don't want me. Say you choose to be alone."

Erik's mouth dries and he finds there is a clog in his throat.

"I can't." He wheezes out and shifts uncomfortably under Meg's gaze. For the first time he feels seen.

"Then you won't get rid of me, not that easily," Meg declares and his heart shudders in his chest.

"You could do much better than to chase a ghost."

"Maybe," Meg tilts her head, her smile becoming lopsided, "but I don't want better."

Erik sighs. "The naivety of youth… very well, you can come - if your mother approves."

Surely Antoinette will put her foot down. But Erik's not sure even that will stop this hurricane blonde.

Meg squeals, beaming so bright Erik feels the sun on his skin. His breathing comes easier.

"This is going to make such a good story."

Erik frowns. "You won't be able to tell anyone."

"I won't need to, it'll be our story, just between us."

Meg looks at him like… like… Erik doesn't know what to compare it to, no one has ever looked at him like that, he just knows he feels warm all the way through.

Meg is on her feet, refusing to release his hand so there's an awkward strain but neither seem concerned. She hums a tune, which tugs at something inside of him, and tries to twirl.

Erik huffs, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch, and realises he's smiling. He has to remind himself that this is fleeting, he can't get attached. Meg will eventually realise what a burden he is and leave, and when she does, he will let her go.

But for now… he savours this bizarre friendship.

"You are strange, Meg Giry, I do not understand you."

Meg flashes him a grin. "Stick around long enough and you might."

Erik holds his breath, for once the words on his skin do not ache. He feels something fluttering inside his ribcage, something like hope.

-oOo-

16 Years Later…

Meg sits at the grand piano, coaxing a familiar song from its keys. Dance is still her greatest passion but over the years she has added a few strings to her bow - as is bound to happen when you travel with the world's greatest musician and biggest perfectionist.

Hands wrap around her waist, a chin rests itself on her shoulder, nose pressing into her blonde curls. Meg doesn't falter, accustomed to such distractions and continues with her piece.

"You play beautifully, my love."

There was a time when such praise would send her giddy, flush with delight. It still does but she's much better at schooling her reactions into something aloof.

"I had a good instructor."

There's a chuckle, the motion sending vibrations through her shoulder.

"This is my favourite piece."

"You wrote it."

Fingers fiddle with her curls. "We wrote it. This is our song; a symphony of heartstrings."

"Oh Erik," Meg exaggerates a croon. "You are such a romantic."

"I think people in love often are," he replies, trailing kisses down her neck.

Meg hums, body tingling, but she doesn't miss a note. "You'll have to do better than that if you wish to distract me."

"But I can do better, my dear."

The weight disappears completely followed by a scuffling sound and Meg braces herself for his next attack.

She is startled when a book appears before her, then she reads the cover and freezes, the music cuts off with a harsh slamming of keys.

"Is this…"

"Happy anniversary, darling."

Meg snatches up the book, caressing the cover with trembling hands.

Dracula by Bram Stoker

Meg has heard good things about this new gothic adventure novel and has been eager to add it to her collection.

She beams at Erik, hugging the book to her chest. "Thank you, Erik… but it's not our anniversary?"

Meg glances at the ring on her finger, certain she remembers the dates correctly.

Erik takes her hand, his own ring rubbing with hers, and kisses her fingers. "Not that one dear but the night we first met."

"Oh, the anniversary of the great fire at the Opéra Populaire." Meg grins. "We should send flowers."

"I think the new opera I sent them has earned them more than enough profits to atone for my past... indiscretions."

"An opera written by Erik Ouvard-Giry, the greatest composer of his time? Yes, I think that will do nicely."

She looks forward to hearing from Christine how the new opera is received. The viscomtesse will undoubtedly be cast as the lead and Meg is only sorry she can't be there to see her oldest and dearest friend perform.

"The only thing that could top it is a visit from the brilliant and much beloved dancer, Marguerite Ouvard-Giry."

Meg laughs and Erik tugs on her hand, pulling her towards him. Meg rests her book on the piano and allows herself to be reeled in. Erik's arms encircle her and they begin to sway.

"Would you like to return to Paris?" Meg asks.

"We will likely return at some point. I know you are eager to visit Christine and the family." The pain and bitterness has long since faded from his voice when he speaks of his old prodigy. "But I am content. There is nothing for me there and everything I hold dear is here."

He leans his forehead against her own and Meg melts a little at the love reflected in his gaze.

"Shame, there are some fantasies I would have enjoyed acting out."

"Why does that not surprise me," Erik chuckles. "It's an entirely new theatre and even if we snuck inside the old derelict building, my lair was likely destroyed by the mob."

His voice takes on a serious note and Meg can see shadows creeping across his face. She runs her fingers over his scars, smoothing out the creases in his expression and coaxing him back from the darkness of the past.

"My wicked angel, do not go where I cannot follow."

A spark lights in Erik's eyes as his focus returns to her. "My sweet demon, I don't believe there is anywhere I can go where you would not pursue me, stubborn as you are."

"It worked out well for you." Meg shoots him a devilish smile, fingers slipping under his shirt collar.

"It did indeed."

Erik exhales a sharp breath as Meg pulls back the fabric of his shirt and presses her lips to his soulmark.

"Meg, my love, my muse, do not start things you cannot finish."

Even as he speaks, his hand moves to palm the words upon her own breast.

Meg runs her hands down and up the length of his body. "Mother is watching the children."

Erik stills, tilting his head, then the corner of his mouth slides into a crooked grin and he sweeps her into his arms. Meg giggles as he carries her over to the grand piano, setting her down atop the instrument.

Erik's mouth meets hers, hot and greedy; a familiar rhythm pulses between them, hands clutching at one another.

"Erik…" Meg whines, dragging herself back from the edge.

Erik's mouth goes to chase hers but she stops him with a finger to his lips.

"What is it?" He pants, brow furrowed.

Her smile widens, cheeks flush with the exertion, and she traces his warped features.

"You know how much I adore your face…" Meg trails off, biting her lip.

It had taken a long time for Erik to accept Meg truly thought him beautiful; disfigured and grotesque and perfect in every way. With her unwavering support, Erik eventually grew comfortable in himself; enough to brave public without the mask. Though some still look at him with disgust, most recognise him for his genius and talent. None of them suspect the famed composer had once been the elusive Phantom of the Opera.

Erik fixes her with a bland look, reading her as if they shared one mind as well as soul.

"You want me to wear the mask."

"I'm happy for you not to wear the mask." Meg feels the need to stress. It's not an issue of appearance.

Erik's smile is warm with understanding. "I know, but you want the Phantom of the Opera."

"I could wear the mask," Meg offers. It wouldn't be the first time.

"No, not now. You will have to allow me to fetch it."

Meg smiles mischievously and untangles her legs from his waist. Erik lingers, brushing her hair back from her face.

"I would endure it all again, the pain and the persecution, knowing it would lead to you."

Meg inhales sharply, games momentarily placed on hold as he fixes her with those depthless eyes and a touch so tender she could weep.

"If I could spare you all that pain and suffering, I would."

"I know." His smile is kind and content. "But we are here now and that's all that matters. Destiny has done right by us."

Meg shakes her head and catches his hand, holding it to her lips. "It wasn't destiny, Erik. It was choice. I chose to follow you as I chose to love you and always will."

"Thank goodness you are so stubborn," he chuckles with gentle affection.

"I shall remind you of that later."

He takes her into his arms and kisses her, sweet like a symphony, their souls in harmony and their bodies soon to follow.

"Meg, my love, half my soul and all my heart, never stop reminding me for the rest of our lives."