Author's Note: Here she is, the end of Gods and Their Creations. I would like to thank everyone who read it, and commented with encouragement. I had a real blast writing this, and I'm greatly considering a sequel, focusing on Erik. Special Thanks to Kit, my hetero lifemate, for beta-ing this for me. And here's http:img. a while back. Yay, Kit!

Rue Marie, I think you might appreciate the implications in this the most. : D


Epilogue : The Silence of the World

Meg danced.

Her leg rose in a graceful arc, and with no sound, save the gentle tide of air, she made her way across the dark of an empty stage. Skirts like frozen, dusted snow rustled a melancholy tune, and her pink ribbon below her bust rippled in the whirlpool she stirred around her. Candle light made her the center of the world she would be leaving behind, and it caught in her gold strands of hair that whipped gently about her neck, again and again.

"Marguerite," Madame Giry walked briskly past the stage, cane and carpet bag in both white-knuckled hands. "Come, my dear. Enough dancing, it is late."

With little attention to her mother, Meg swept to the floor, and back up again, like the rise and fall of the soundless February wind outside the Opera Populaire. Her thoughts returned to Christine. Meg hoped for Christine, and her handsome, loving fiancé. With every twirl she prayed for the happiness of her sister. Sweet, little Christine. She had changed so much since then, into a strong, beautiful young woman. Meg wondered if she were ever to be as strong as Christine Daae.

"Marguerite Giry!" The ballet instructor passed again, her long rope of a braid lightly slapping the slope of her lower back. "Off of that stage!"

Meg distantly heard her mother, but she knew they were not leaving yet. So many things remained unfinished, so many arrangements yet to be settled, and her heart was only ever in place when she danced. Her arms wound above her pale head, and she turned her face up to the rafters. In the dim light, as she spun round and round, Meg saw a flash of movement, and the sound of creaking wood cracked her silence. Her steps faltered, and she stammered to a still, straining to see up into the darkness. One of the stagehands, perhaps. She dismissed the thought entirely.

Meg twirled, once. She picked up her light body and twirled again, and again. She twirled over, and over, each faster and more satisfying than the last, each taking her farther and farther with every graceful circle of light and movement she created. Meg twirled hard, and fast, and pushed herself without stopping. She twirled, and twirled, twirled, twirled, twirled, and with no warning her hip crashed into an empty table. It clamored to the floor, and bumped the wall beside it. Meg's heart pounded, and her warm fingers grazed her chest as she fought for composure.

Past the curtain, her mother barked her name and a warning, but she was too startled to care. Meg quickly gathered the table back onto its legs, and dusted it off. She glanced around, to see if anyone else might have witnessed her falter, but there was no one. She breathed out quietly with relief, and decided to heed her mother's call. Meg turned, and a shallow gasp scoured her throat and stayed there. She took several shaking steps back, but did not scream at what she saw.

A face, shrouded in shadow, stared grimly at her. White, a mask she knew all too well, rested on its side. There was something different about this figure, and he leaned forward, only allowing the dimmest of silver light to touch him.

"You," she breathed, and though marred with healing bruises, the handsome face parted into a devious smile, set smugly on almost hawk-like features. The man was dressed in fine black, and as she drew in this fascinating sight she even caught a glimpse of a satin waist coat. Despite the human appearance, Meg felt about her an inhuman presence, and realized it was her own fear. The Phantom of the Opera was silent, and the longer he lingered the more frightening he seemed. Meg took another quiet step back, as his eyes passed over her, judgmental of a little ballet rat.

He nodded to the stage, where the lights shined brighter, with only a single inclination of the dark head. "Perhaps you should go," he murmured, in a voice Meg swore only she could hear, it was so invisible. "Your mother calls you."