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Little Giry could only smile -- this one had quite the mindset. She’d get along fine. “Oh, yes, very interesting. But it’s best to be careful, as well.” She was sure the other would learn the little rituals. “Treat the ghost with respect, and there should be little issue.”

Anne nodded solemnly, but couldn’t help but let a small giggle escape. “It’s sort of exciting. Scary, but perfectly exhilarating. The thought of some other-worldly being making things go bump in the night, and making life… Interesting. Isn’t it?” She asked Meg.

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“I’ll let you lead the way, then.” It wasn’t as though the blonde had any other choice.

Glinda looked at her, head tilted. “Why, the city, of course!”

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The sound of his voice terrified and thrilled her all at once. Here was a man with nothing left, an empty shell with little hope of salvation. He was a creature of the night who had murdered in cold blood, and perhaps he deserved whatever punishment came for him. A large part of little Giry cried out for his blood with the echoes of the mob in the distance. But she couldn’t leave him to be killed, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain to herself. Something in her cried out to keep him safe, if only for this moment. She didn’t know if it was curiosity, pity, or even just the sound of his voice that evoked such a desire. She didn’t think it was compassion -- that was saved for her dear friend, perhaps the only one who could get through to him. Meg had no qualms using that name as a weapon.

“Christine wouldn’t want you to die like this, though,” Meg said, before she could even think it through. “Imagine what it would do to her, knowing that her leaving was the direct cause of your death! I won’t allow her to be hurt anymore, not like that. Your blood will not stain her hands -- or mine. It would be too cruel to both of us.”

Strange, Meg had made her way down here fully intending to serve as judge and executioner. But she couldn’t find it in herself to do so, now that she had made her choice. She didn’t have a plan -- not for the long-term. But that didn’t matter now. Perhaps, once the situation passed, she’d decide better, but for the moment, this was the path she was intent on following.

Demented Grief: Meg/Erik

“Hide?” Erik laughed. It was a broken sound. “Perhaps I am sick of hiding, Little Giry. I have spent much of my life hiding… Hiding my face, hiding myself… Perhaps I deserve to be found, be stuck like a pig meant for slaughter… Oh, I know they think me a monster. I just know they – the mob – sees not a man to be pitied, but a murderer. And perhaps they are justified in avenging themselves upon me. What use is hiding, when it only delays the inevitable?”

He was almost babbling, not quite. A fresh wave of tears worked their way towards his eyes and he let out a choking sound as he gripped at his breast, tried to straighten himself out and regain a semblance of composure. He pulled himself tall.

“I have always known that I would be murdered, mademoiselle,” he said. “Ever since I was a small child. Do you know what such knowledge does to a person? Knowing that if not for my cursed face, then for my heinous actions, others will play judge, jury and executioner for you? It dampens all hope. Christine Daae was the only hope I had. The only- the only chance at salvation I shall ever know. And she kissed me and I let her go. Now I am a man without hope once more. I can flee, I can hide, but in the end, I shall be killed. I had hoped to flee, to perhaps start anew with my soul cleansed by my angel of music, to perhaps evade death a little longer, but it is not possible. Hide! I may as well stand here and wait for the mob to find me!”

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She felt a thrill of victory as the other covered her small hand with his large one. It felt a bit cruel, really -- manipulative. But her end goal was altruistic enough, even if her motives were somewhat sketchy, and so she didn’t waste her time on guilt as the other spoke.

Meg listened to his words carefully. They were comforting, somehow, even though she really had no reason to believe them. He seemed to know what he was talking about -- and there was something different about the way he spoke of the Opera Ghost. The whispers carried behind the curtains were that he was little more than a shadow, a force of nature that would inflict his whims upon anyone he pleased. But this man spoke of justice, of respect. Perfectly normal motivations, human desires ...

As if the ghost were not really a ghost at all.

“What do you know?” Forgetting manners and schemes for a moment, she spoke genuinely. “The way you speak of him ... It’s different than the people here. Please, monsieur ...” She was practically balanced on the tips of her toes, wanting only to reach him, but now she seemed to realize herself, and draw back.

“I can keep a secret, if that’s what you desire. But I need to know. If only to protect those I care about ... They call him a ghost, but he’s little more than a phantom to me. I can’t protect anything against an idea ... Especially one that may be false.” She looked into his eyes, imploringly. “I beg of you ... For all of our sakes.”

Wrath: Meg/Nadir

Nadir suppressed an irritated scoff. He understood, all right. Madame Giry pretended to have things so under control, when in reality, Erik was running rampant. The one thing Nadir clung to was the fact that Erik had  promised him there would be no more wanton murders. There would be no deaths in the Palais Garnier. That much Nadir was certain of. He almost turned to go – first home and then later to Erik’s to talk some sense into the masked man. But he noticed something: Little Giry was holding his hand. How long had it been since someone had reached for him? How long since he’d been touched, clung to as if he was actually a strong, protective force? The tiniest of tremors shook his well-muscled frame and he put his other hand over the top of Little Giry’s. He patted her as reassuringly as he could.

“The ghost shall not cause serious harm, young lady,” he said softly. “Of that you can be sure. He must answer to someone for his crimes, after all, and I assure you that he will answer for causing you to live your life in fear.”

He would talk to Erik about it tonight. Yes, he would ask just why Erik thought frightening poor young girls was an acceptable pastime, a worthy use of his genius…

You have created beauty before, my friend. Why stop now? Why stoop to creating only terror? You are capable of so much more… of so many better things…

“The Opera Ghost,” Nadir said, hating that he was forced to call his friend such things in the presence of others. “Merely wants respect, particularly from the management. He will have to learn how to get such respect properly… And mark my words, he is capable of learning.” 

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"Usually," Meg said with a dramatic little shiver. "Sometimes he gets upset ... When people are disrespectful." It made things rather exciting. Sometimes the ballet girls got together and whispered stories of him, giggling and shrieking at every shadow. Somehow, the possibility of their ballet shoes disappearing in the night or something similar made the stories that much more alluring to tell. But she wasn't going to tell the chorus girl that.

"You mustn't say anything against him, if you don't dare to face the consequences."

Anne listened to Meg, wide eyed. “So you pay someone- or thing- that you’ve never seen and bad things don’t happen?” She asked

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"Where do we start?" Meg didn't see anyone else around.

She sighed. "Well, perhaps we should start asking."

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"Oh, that's very kind!" Meg knew that counts were important -- any self-respecting ballerina did -- but all of the girls were tired of Madame Giry's relentless cane. Besides, there was something rather exciting about someone playing just for her. It certainly wouldn't hurt to try. Her mother would go on with the beating of her cane, regardless; this would only be something extra.

At the man's words, she gave a cheeky grin. "Well, in that case, I simply must insist that we stay and rehearse. You can tell your landlady that a fearsome ballerina kept you hostage until the number was just right."

Rebel Violinist//Closed

Shaking his head, the musician smiled and picked up his instrument. “Well that can be easily remedied. I can play for you and you can keep in time with my music. It’s easier and daresay less intimidating than following the fierce pounding of your mother cane. No disrespect to her at any means, just suggesting a different approach.” He reassured her, hoping he didn’t insult anyone.

"Really it would be no trouble at all, actually I would enjoy it. The rent is overdue at my flat, so I’m trying any means necessary to keep away from my landlady!" He laughed.

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                       Meg gave a small hum in response,                             leaning   close    to    the   mirror                             as she deftly fixed her eye-liner.                             After     years     of     performing,                             this part came naturally for her.                             She could do this in her  sleep.

                                                                      "Of course I am!                                                                        I'm always excited to perform."

                       Although many of the other ballerinas                             would have laughed at her words,                             Meg spoke  nothing  but the truth.                             The performance aspect of this job                             never   ceased   to    t h r i l l    her.

               Sarah was glad that Meg seemed               to be happy again. She was always               there to help when people needed                  her and this had been one of        those moments where she had been needed.

                                                             ”You´re welcome,”

              Sarah the smiled before she went                 back to fixing the costume she               had been working on before Meg              had burst in, she couldn´t help but                look over at the Blonde though.

                                                         ”Are you excited for tonight?”

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     Meg remained resilient, now. If her curiosity could not be overcome, then there was no use fretting over it. Surely, Christine must have been expecting this on some level. She knew that Meg had followed after her that night, had heard Madame Giry's scolding of her the next day about how reckless and dangerous it had been. But Meg didn't regret it one bit -- kind as that Vicomte was, she didn't believe for a minute that he was a match for the Opera Ghost.

     Still, she did her best to prepare Christine for what was coming. "Christine, I don't want you to be alarmed. Really, I don't." Causing her friend any distress was the last thing she wanted to do -- well, past simply remaining silent and forever wondering what transpired on that fateful night. As they entered Meg's room, the tiny blonde took a deep breath.

                            "I'm sure you remember how I went after you that night."

     Best to come right out with it, really. Now that she had the worst out there, and Christine had some idea of what they would be talking about, Meg found it relatively easy to walk over to her chest of drawers, speaking as she did so. She moved slowly, giving her friend a little time to get used to the idea. She couldn't quite bring herself to gauge the soprano's reaction yet.

                            "Well, when I went down there ... I found something.                              Only the men who were with me know about it ...                              We all agreed, it didn't seem right to tell anyone else about it.                              I don't know why, Christine, really. It just ... It didn't."

     She couldn't find the words to explain to her friend the hush that came over the crowd when they finally reached the lair. There was a huddled mass under a black cape, and no one seemed to have the courage to pull it away. It radiated an aura all its own, and when Meg had finally been the first to work up the nerve to approach it, the item she had revealed ... It cast a spell on all of them, somehow.

     Meg didn't know if she believed that the Opera ghost was an angel or a madman. But she did know that when she pulled the mask from her drawer, it was just as enigmatic and spellbinding as it had been that night. Somehow, it didn't lose any of its power, even when taken from the dim lighting of the sewers.

     She turned to Christine, finally looking at her old friend. She held the mask delicately, as if afraid of harming it.

                            "Christine ... Do you know anything about this?"

Her big innocent chocolate eyes followed her as her dear friend sat down on her bed, while keeping a small and polite smile on her lips. A smile that slowly started dying. Something was wrong. Christine could see it in Meg’s eyes, and the girl wondered if she should ask her what was the matter.

Meg had her full attention in the moment she opened his mouth and the young brunette girl was quite surprised by the words that came out. Was that it? What could she possibly have to show her that could be worrying her?

“Of course.” Christine said to her, sounding both certain and concerned. She crossed her arm over her chest and cutely brushed her hand over her nose feeling a sniffle before letting her arm gently fall down to her lap and standing up. “What do you wish to show me?”

The young soprano blinked her eyes a couple of times before turning her gaze towards her small and delicate hands and then back to Meg again, as thousands more questions appeared in her head. She bit down her lower lip, wondering if should or shouldn’t voice her confusions about what seemed to be concerning her dearest friend. 

The brunette walked towards the door of her room and opened it, before turning towards the other girl with a polite smile on her pink lips. “Shall we?” Christine questioned, making a subtle movement with her head indicating for them to go to the blonde’s room.

She just hoped whatever was concerning her friend wasn’t severe; she didn’t want anything to be troubling her friend… Did Meg believe she could help her? Christine would do, almost, anything she could to help her friend… The girl mocked herself inwardly, her friend hadn’t even showed her anything and she was already creating things in her head. 

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Meg shifted her weight from one for to the other, like a restless child. No one would blame her for bolting away to leave the monster -- the man -- to fend for himself against the waiting mobs. In fact, she could hear them coming; it wouldn't be long now before they caught up to him, found him. Buquet and Piangi would be avenged, and all the ballet girls could sleep soundly knowing that the Opera Ghost could no longer torment them. It would be too easy, and perhaps not even God himself would condemn her.

But something stopped her. She would have liked to say that it was something as kind as compassion, or forgiveness. That would have been a lie. She felt none of these things towards this man. Only the sort of pity one would have for a mangy dog, dying in an ally -- not the sort of pity that made one want to reach out and touch the victim. No, what caused her to stay was something a bit more selfish than that: curiosity. If this man was right, and Christine was escaping tonight, than the mysterious story of the Opera Ghost would die when he did.

And so she squared her shoulders, looking the masked man dead in the eye. "You should follow me," she said, "I know a quick way out of the cellars -- and places where you can hide." Granted, the Opera Ghost probably knew more secrets than little Meg Giry could ever hope to know, but she did her best to sound very knowledgeable and in control of the situation. Because if she knew where he was hiding, she could see him again.

And she'd know where to direct the members of the mob, if necessary.

Demented Grief: Meg/Erik

Erik snatched the mask back from little Meg Giry and put it on. He desperately tried to get his sparse hair to lay flat – Heaven only knew where his wig was now. But at least he had his mask… a scrap of his dignity… back. He pulled himself upright, no longer crouching like a cornered animal.

“You must permit me to go, mademoiselle,” he said. His voice was less shaky than before. It was as though, in giving him his mask back, Meg had restored Erik’s composure. “The mob will do unspeakable things to us both if they find us in conference.”

He didn’t know where he would go or what he would do. He supposed that in the end, he would let the mob catch him. Catch him and kill him. There was no more happiness for him in the world than what Christine Daae had offered him in her saving kiss. He was as near Heaven, as near redemption, as a wretch like him could be. If the mob didn’t catch him, then surely he would die of a broken heart. In the streets… in the gutter… Where it did not matter. All Erik knew was there was no future for him. None. Where things had once been dark and bleak, with only Christine Daae giving off any light, things were now blank. There was no life for a man like Erik, if he was no longer a phantom to be feared. 

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The overwhelming mixture of anxiety, fear, confusion, annoyance, and anger wound up translating itself into a very terse smile. Probably a performer thing. "Probably? I cannot say that is incredibly reassuring, Madame." She fidgeted nervously with a ribbon on her skirt.

She became a bit overwhelmed at the woman’s demands, fumbling a bit before answering. “W-we have maps, we just don't know enough about the land without magic to map it out...I'm sure SOMEONE here will have heard of Paris...probably, if that's any consolation."

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After giving the token defending of the opera house's leading soprano, Meg felt comfortable in basking in the compliments given. "That's very kind of you, monsieur," she said, "Really, our form needs work ... I know that I danced almost a beat behind for at least ten counts ..." But the smile never left her face. She'd worry about rehearsals later -- her mother certainly would. No doubt that there'd be another rehearsal to make sure no one would be too thrown off by Christine's sudden promotion.

Not that she begrudged her friend for even a moment. She looked after where Christine had gone wistfully, a small smile on her face.

Rebel Violinist//Closed

Frankly Jim had to admit he had only been here for a month. Still her singing was a bit on the shrilly side in any regard, but if people like her. Who is he to judge music? “I apologize then, I really do. Most music I listened too have been a new style from the United States called ‘crooning’. Where it’s more soft and smooth. I never actually listened to a lot of opera.” He laughed embarrassed.

"I’m sure she is talented, but I was more interested in the chorus. As much as I could try anything, the moves I’ve seen you all pull off defy laws of nature." He congratulated. "I’m always interested more in seeing people doing things I know I could never do."

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"So no one's told you!" She leaned forward, her voice quiet. "No one knows exactly who or what the Opera Ghost is, you see. I've only ever seen his shadow against the wall. Some people say they've heard his voice, always singing a haunting, mournful melody." Despite her low tone, there was something decidedly gleeful in her voice -- like a child reciting her favorite bedtime story.

"They say he's dangerous. He has a way of making it known when he's unhappy. Props will disappear, sets will break ... No one much wants to cross him, you see. We don't know how far he would go, but mother says it would be very far, indeed." She nodded. "So we give him his monthly salary, we keep Box 5 open for his use, and we pray that we don't lose his favor."

"Opera ghost?" Anne giggled a bit uneasily. "Surely there’s no way a ghost haunts a gorgeous place like this. But if there is…" She trailed off, and grinned. "Tell me more? Who is this mysterious Opera Ghost?"

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lostmxrbles

                    When the man had saucily danced his way inside,                          Christine had practically  screeched  her name                          with  cheeks  that  were  a  b i t  too  flushed  --                          Meg could not honestly tell if that was the wine                          or  the  man's  decided  lack  of  proper  clothing.                          "Oh,    Meg,    you    really     shouldn't     have!"                          As she gave another handful of wet paper towel                          to that man, now covered in a chorus girl vomit.                          she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

                    But, dammit, a girl only had one bachelorette party                          (or that was the assumption when planning one),                          and what bachelorette party would be complete                          without a stripper to embarrass the leading lady?                          She wondered if it was part of the job description                          to  be  thrown  up  on  by   intoxicated   women.                          The maid of honor, Meg felt that it was her duty                          to try and smooth things over as best she could.

                                                                                        "... I'll still pay you                                                                                          for the full performance."                                                                                          A sheepish attempt at humor.

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■

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

In canon verse,Meg lives in the Opera Populaire, with the rest of the ballet corps. She has a small room to herself with a bed, a mirror, a wardrobe, and a chest.

In Modern and New York AU, Meg lives in a cheap but chic apartment. When she shares it with Christine, it's filled with all sorts of things the girls find cool and is usually kept pretty clean. In the case of the New York AU, the place always looks like a bomb went off in it. Meg always keeps the door to her room locked. Her own room is small and not very clean, but Meg considers the train-wreck of her room to be an "organized chaos."

Regardless of verse, her favorite decoration is a beautiful painting one of the other ballerinas made for her for one of her birthdays, of a garden shrouded in a mist and a figure, almost undetectable, dancing among the flowers. Meg finds it delightfully mysterious and enjoys coming up with stories about who that mysterious figure is.

[mxggiry-blog]

Headcanon meme~

Put a symbol (or several) and a character/characters in my ask box, and I’ll give you a headcanon.  Yes.  Do it.

☾ - sleep headcanon

★ - sad headcanon

☆ - happy headcanon

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

✿ - Sex headcanon

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

♡ - romantic headcanon

♥ - family headcanon

☮ - friendship headcanon

♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon

☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon

▼ - childhood headcanon

∇ -. old age/aging headcanon

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

☼ - appearance headcanon

ൠ - random headcanon

◉ - Any other question of your choosing

[mxggiry-blog]

"If mother could do something, of course she would have!" Meg couldn't believe that her mother was withholding any information from her. She had spoken to her often about the ghost, as a child. Such conversations usually ended with an abrupt glare from the eldest Giry.

She could see him weakening in spite of his words. He wouldn't look her in the eye, for one thing. He felt badly, she was sure of it. It was enough to make her feel almost guilty about going after his emotions. But, to be blunt, nothing she said was really a lie. She was frightened, and she was worried. She was also horribly, incurably curious, but that was not the sort of thing one went around saying. If she were to come at it from that angle, he'd simply dismiss her as nosy and move on. No, she had to make it clear that she was only doing this for the good of the operahouse, and those poor, defenseless little ballet girls -- selfless Meg Giry. Protector of the weak, maternal figure for little girls in white tutus. Or something to that effect.

She reached out, taking Nadir by the hand. It was gentle, not meant to hold him in place or force him to stay. It was only a connection. "I'm sure that you do all that you can, monsieur." She did her best to sound grateful, even reverent. "But, please ... Isn't there anything more you can tell me? I'm tired of jumping at shadows, of hearing screams from the ballet girls every time they hear an odd noise ... It's enough to turn your hair white, monsieur, living on edge like this night and day. It's frightful."

She bit her lip, speaking lowly. Her volume, at least, was completely unscripted. It was instinct to speak quietly of the Opera Ghost -- one never knew where he was hiding. Only Buquet seemed to speak boldly, something that at once terrified and titillated the ballet girls. "He's becoming more forceful, you see. What started out as simple things -- missing props, notes -- it's gotten worse. He's actively terrorizing the actors, the ballerinas. If things keep up like this, someone could get seriously hurt. Someone even might -- oh! I dare not speak it, monsieur, but I'm terribly worried. I'd never be able to forgive myself -- if something happened to one of the girls, and I could have done something -- anything -- to keep it from happening. You understand?"

Wrath: Meg/Nadir

“Bring your worries to your mother, then!” Nadir said. “She knows things, too, and is far more concerned with the corps de ballet than I.”

He averted his eyes. He had stared down men with pistols, men with knives. He had been beaten and tortured. But Nadir Khan would rather stare down his attackers and would-be attackers than stare down a pitiful, helpless girl. There was still too much good in his heart for him to do so as uncaringly as he pretended to be.

But he could not – would not – betray Erik’s secrets. Erik, as maddening as he was, was the only friend Nadir had in this world. Erik was his one earthly link to the past, to happier days, to Reza. Yes, there was Darius, but things never were quite the same between man and servant as they were between two friends, two equals. He imagined if he betrayed Erik now – if ever he betrayed him at all – Erik would take with him the piece of Nadir’s heart entrusted to him. And then there would be nothing left except Monsieur le Persian, a husk of a man, who was no man’s brother and no man’s confidant. He would be alone in the strange city of Paris without Erik. And Nadir had been alone before. He wasn’t ready to be alone again.

It was selfish. He knew it was selfish. Especially when Erik was terrorizing the girls of the ballet and chorus. But Nadir did what he could to mitigate the terror. He convinced Erik to leash his violence, to demand only what was strictly necessary.

“Mademoiselle,” Nadir said, still not looking at Meg Giry. “I do what I can to stop the Phantom’s terror and you must let that be enough.”