Dedication: To all Phantom of the Opera 'phans' around the world and those who have supported the musical theater and the very essence of life, music. I thank each and every one of you for keeping music in society for It brings joy to each individual in their own way. This is also most dearly written for my late friend, Melanie who loved music as much as anyone ever could.
A/N: Dear readers, the following is of my own imagination and the characters are not mine. I wish they were and yet here we are. This is my first attempt of writing a Phantom of the Opera fan fic so please bear with me. It is based in this day and age but the romance (E/C of course) is timeless. Reviews are of course accepted (and wanted, naturally) with constructive criticism. But if you should decide to flame me, I will not be responsible for my actions.
Thank you and have a nice day. And now, I would like to present my first Phantom of the Opera fan fiction:
Across the notes
Prologue: The Violin
If you had taken the right turn instead of the left on the road you were on not long ago, you would have stumbled upon an old building with a faded sign that reads only one word; 'Conservatoire'.
It has been wrongly named of course, for instead of being 'a place of higher education for those who seek a career in the arts', it was simply a building made out of many sections where people were taught how to dance, play musical instruments and to control the human instrument, the voice. And yet, the name had been there for many years and no one bothered to question its incorrect use.
Then again, the place is not brightly lit with neon signboards thus those who do not look for it may never notice it. Yet, this is the very spot where most of my story is being told. It starts on a cold, summer's night when the moon shone brightly above and the stars seem to dance to a haunting melody from the roof. A melody from a violin to be more precise. A lone figure stood and played his song, blissfully blocking the world from his mind as he threw himself into the sorrow of the piece. Alone though he may be, he was proud in doing what he did knowing that his song was reaching the across the darkness into the dreams of those who slept that misty night.
The song floated gently into the ears of drunkards stumbling in the alleys, drowning their very souls into the gin that they live for; it floated across the streets where the dim lights showed the badly maintained roads of the city to the 'less fortunate of society', as I call them for the lack of civil words; it floated into the open restaurants where the people felt awe at its beauty; it floated across the sky to the ears of those in slumber touching their minds, accompanying their dreams.
But most of all, it floated into the ears of a young dancer two floors beneath the roof of the school. A young dancer who was alone that night practicing her few unstable moves for the performance next week. The windows were opened ever so slightly, making it easier for her to listen to the melody that made her stop quite literally in her tracks. She listened in silence. Slowly, yes ever so slowly, she found herself closing her eyes.
If you, dear reader, were able to hear this piece, you would have cried openly for it spoke of the sorrow of one's heart in losing a loved one. It touches the very spot in your mind that makes all memories flood out in an instant, memories that you don't remember you had. Memories stored somewhere deep in one's mind, untouched and almost forgotten. Into these depths did the piece strike, into the canvas of the mind where the artist had painted all too long ago. Memories of pain and joy; of laughter and tears;
Of a lost father and the grief of a mourning child; The child which was the graceful dancer who now stood motionless in the studio.
The music seemed to carry on forever and when she finally opened her eyes, it had stopped. The young girl woke up from her reverie. Her gaze fell upon the clock on the wall which ticked slowly as its hands were almost united at the '12'. With a low cry she picked up her belongings cursing herself under breath. As the lights turned off in that room, she ran down the stairs her cinnamon hair flying behind her as she skipped a step or two. If she had not been pressed for time she would have noticed a light glinting from the roof.
The glint of a mask.