Disclaimer: I do not own anything accept Alethia. Enjoy! And please, I want reviews so I can better my writing!
Greece's Gift
It was on a beautiful winter day that Alethia Hieros rode through the glamorous streets of Paris. The gods had blessed the weather on this wonderful day; the temperature was just low enough to allow snow to fall quietly and majestically instead of sting uncovered skin. It truly was a rare occurrence which bewildered Alethia who was accustomed the warm climate of the Mediterranean. She stuck her hand out of the carriage to allow a few snowflakes fall upon her gloved hand, and then retracted it to study the flakes. Her father sat beside her, equally enthralled by the weather. She looked over to smile at him gratefully for bringing her to the renowned city.
As a small child, her father had told her stories of Paris, creating fabricated descriptions such as how the streets were paved with gold and the feeling of love drifted through the streets like the wind. Most of the tales where of the splendor of the Opera Populaire, of the grand foyer with the curved marble staircase and the magnificence of the theater. Her father had been permitted entry as a member of the orchestra, and every time he stepped into the luxurious building, a gasp never failed to leave his lips. Alethia remembered listening to his tales of the operas, of the ballerinas, the luxurious costumes, and the Prima Donna. When word traveled to her father that the Opera house had experienced a devastating fire, her father was devastated. But that was 5 years ago. He had vowed to earn enough money to buy the charred remains and restore it to the legend it had been before. Five long years he had spent working and saving money, with loyal Alethia vowing to do the same, despite the objections from him. Greece was an accepting community, one that offered no hostility if a woman, let alone a thirteen year old girl, wanted to earned money. Now her family, if just she and her father qualified as a family, was not poor but they were not rich either, for they were blessed with a small fortune bestowed upon them from a distant relative.
Alethia's mother had died during childbirth, leaving her with her father and no one else. She was a happy baby; she seldom cried. But she always found her way into everything as if she was constantly searching for the truth, as her name betrayed.
Her father taught her the joy of books and the rapture of music. As a bold and inquisitive child, Alethia delighted herself in many instruments until she found the two she favored most - the violin and the piano. Not only did she develop an insatiable love for music, but at the young age of ten she found that she had a voice that, with practice, could be transformed into an instrument of itself. But, alas, her father knew little of manipulating a voice.
Alethia's discovery led to the remembrance of the Opera Populaire, or the images conjured in her mind as a child. Her father told her more; detailed ones that she could actually fathom now that her mind had matured. The wonder grew and her imagination soared to a point where she was begging to step foot on the marbled foyer and run her hand over the soft velvet of the cushioned seats made for the Counts and Barons and their wives and children. During the five years of their labor, she had worked as hard as her father had to obtain their right to the grand Opera Populaire, even for just the privilege of stepping into its blackened depths so that her imagination could run wild with new fodder.
The horses in front of the carriage clicked through the quiet streets, passing buildings with glorious French shutters and scaffolding, some with ugly gargoyles perched on the corners. Once and a while her father would point to a historical or famous building and give her a short anecdote of its past. Alethia enjoyed all of the passing scenery, despite the anticipation boiling in her stomach for what was to come.
Finally, when her father gasped in remembrance at the building that had just come into view, she knew that they had arrived. The carriage pulled up in front of it where two well dressed men were waiting for them on its steps. The driver hopped down from his perch and opened the small door for Alethia, and extended his hand to her. He was surprised to see her step out of the carriage on her own, completely disregarding him.
She did not mean to be rude, but she was totally awestruck by what stood before her. Her imagination took over and what she saw before her was not the scorched and blackened corpse of an old building, but the Opera Populaire in its former glory. Before her stood towering golden columns and rich mahogany doors with regal glass windows built into them. Little golden sculptures were carved into the stone above the doors. She craned her neck to see big letters spelling "Opera Populaire" over her head. Suddenly her father jerked her out of her trance with a light touch on her elbow.
"Your mouth is wide open Thia," he whispered to her while emitting a chuckle. She realized that indeed her jaw had fallen onto the ground and closed it slowly showing a little grin. She took a last glance at the spectacle, and then joined her father and the two men atop the stone steps.
"Thank you for meeting Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre," her father said shaking both men's hands as she walked up to them. "Ah, this is my lovely daughter, Alethia."
She curtsied to them and one of them, the one named Andre she guessed, had the audacity to take her hand kiss it. She smiled politely then both her and her father shared a look. In Greece, her beauty was quite known and for that reason she classified her beauty as a bit of a curse. She couldn't go one place with out being ogled at by every man in her radius. What's more, when she tried to earn something out of merit, one of the village men always insisted on giving her special treatment as a way to earn respect and high standing with her father. It enraged her to no end. Her father knew about this problem and he was endlessly wary about the men that asked for her hand. One of the reasons she was still 18 and unmarried was for that same reason; Alethia wanted love that would last, unlike lust that lasts as long as a full moon.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mademoiselle," Andre breathed.
She withdrew her hand from his grip with a slightly annoyed look that she could not help to hide. Her father saved her some embarrassment with coming back on track with talk of the reason they had traveled to Paris.
"Despite the fire, this place still holds so much of the glowing beauty it contained before," he said.
"Ah yes, to a point," Firmin said directing Andre in the conversation. "The theatre suffered the most of the whole building," he said grimacing.
"Such a place like this could have been restoring with a bit of work, but nothing that outweighed the profits of it performances. May I ask why you never took such actions?
"Oh goodness," Andre responded, "We never even entertained the idea with all that had happened while we were the managers; of course it could have been just all bad luck." Firmin slightly squirmed on his feet at this statement.
Her father sensed something they weren't telling him. "I never really heard the true cause of the fire. Since both of you are better than anyone else to ask, could you tell me what really happened?"
Now Firmin was really squirming and Andre winced. "You mean you haven't heard of the Opera Ghost?" Andre asked as he raised an eyebrow.
Her father frowned at this, as did Alethia. "I was a member of the orchestra in the earlier days of the opera house, who is this Opera Ghost?"
The two men glanced over at Alethia, thinking that she was too fragile to hear such a story. "Ehh the girl?" Firmin questioned.
Her father, seeing Alethia's obvious disdain at the insult, sharply said "there is nothing that I keep from my daughter. What you tell me, you may tell her and vice versa."
Andre sighed and told them the whole story, as much as they knew, from start to finish. Alethia listened intently and became absorbed in the story, feeling the sadness for the Phantom, so they called him, and even through the scornful words of the previous managers, she felt that he had not deserved at that had happened. On some level, she even sympathized with him; if the rarity of love was just beyond her grasp, she would fight for it, as he had. He was not a troublesome specter with supernatural abilities, but just simply a man, a human being carrying an immense amount of pain on his shoulders.
They finished the story and still those thoughts lingered with her, in her compassionate and intelligent mind.
"Where do you suppose he has gone?" she asked them.
Seemingly caught off guard by her intervention, Firmin gathered his thoughts. "Right after the chandelier fell, killing god knows how many, an angry mob gathered backstage. Everyone had finally had enough and stormed down to the catacombs, intent on finding his home and ripping him to shreds. We left after that and never came back, hoping to escape this nightmare. Until now." He shivered.
Her father processed he had heard, weighing his love for the Opera Populaire and the infamy of the Phantom of the Opera, that may or may not still reside in its depths. Finally he spoke.
"May we take a look around? To see the true damage I mean."
"Why sure, if you don't mind us staying behind." Andre snickered.
"Very well," her father said opening a door (with some difficulty) that wasn't boarded up and allowing a very eager Alethia to step inside, then stepping over the threshold after her.
