A/N: Charles Dance. My new Gerard Butler. XD That is all I have to say. His very name should be enough.
Disclaimer: I do not own any version of The Phantom of the Opera, and the gods bless Yeston and Kopit for creating such a perfectly heartbreaking miniseries!
Where Dreams Are Made
The light was fading. The colours in the sky were exquisite, and she regretted not bringing along her paint box. It would have given her something to do, and perhaps the inspiration for her drawing would come to her later on. For the present she would have to do what she could with a pencil and charcoals and the thick, rough paper on her lap.
"Sketching the river again?"
"No. I am just sitting here out of habit. I'm drawing... on a whim."
"What are you imagining if you are not drawing the Seine?"
"It is difficult. I only just started. I'm tired of drawing cottages and- and flowerpots."
"You could draw the Opera. I'll take you there right now if you want, though I'm a tiny bit sick of it. I finally have a break from singing!" Both of the women laughed gently, one of them patting her round stomach.
"A boy or a girl, Mother?"
"A little boy, I think. Oh, your father will spoil him."
The girl put down her pencil, resting her chin on her hands. The muscles in her legs were aching; if required some effort to stop oneself from slipping down the sloping banks of the Seine and retain one's modesty. "I'm growing sick of the opera house as well, though I didn't think you ever would, Mother. I wish there weren't so many buildings! The river would be much prettier."
"Darling, we're in Paris! If you are weary of the city your father can take you to the chateau for a day or two, as long as you need to finish that picture of yours."
"Oh no, Mother. I would miss you too much. Besides, there's nothing but hills surrounding the chateau. All very nice if you like hills, but it's so...boring."
The older woman let out a sigh. "Then what is it you desire to see?"
The pencil slipped off her knees and fell to the stone bank with a tinny clatter. It rolled down the slope at a cracking pace; to leap after it was to go tumbling headfirst into the river. The girl sat unmoving, mournfully watching her plumbago pencil send ripples across the water's surface.
After a moment she said longingly, looking up to the sky, "A great big jungle, I suppose. Something from a far-off continent. A simple forest would do. Growing wild. Not interfered with by men for decades." There was a thoughtful pause as she lowered her head to look at the paper again. Locks of fair hair fell across her face.
"But there are no such places," she said softly. "At least not in Paris. I don't think I'll ever see a patch of decent woodland. All I can do is imagine." The girl carefully picked up her box of charcoals from the ground beside her. "Well, should we go and meet up with Father now?"
Her mother didn't answer for a minute, staring at the green-blue waters of the Seine. Then, "I think you're wrong, dear. I think you'll see one someday. You'll become a great explorer, and there will be jungles and forests to spare. In fact, I'm certain of it."
"Mother! A girl who's lived in the city all her life, an explorer of exotic lands? That is a far-fetched dream indeed."
The girl turned to look at her mother, who had the faintest of smiles on her face. The darkening sky seemed to reflect that smile. Her mother rolled her head, bringing her gaze away from the river, a wistful look filling her eyes.
"Sometimes dreams can be real, my darling."
"A young lady your age, going down below? I'll get in trouble for certain!"
"But Jean-Claude," she pleaded, "if my parents were with me you would not have hesitated a second!"
The doorman's forehead was furrowed in scrupulous contemplation. "That is because your mother asked sweetly and your father is a very stubborn man!" His face relaxed for a moment. "If you don't mind me saying, mam'selle."
She allowed her mouth to perk up on one side. "He is stubborn indeed, and I may have inherited that trait. Please, monsieur? What is there to fear down there? They shot the Phantom years and years ago, my mother told me all about it."
"Even so, no one goes down there. There are still traps that they haven't disabled yet." He leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, "A squad of policemen tried going down, back when Choleti was the manager. When they returned their numbers were significantly lacking, you might say. They never said anything about it...but everyone in the Opera knows." There was a twinkle in his eyes when he said that.
The woman's eyes were wide open. "Yes, yes, I heard about that! But still, they got rid of all the traps excluding the ones down in the vaults. And I will not go that far, I promise. I only wish to find an archaic room, filled with dust and memories..."
"Artists," the doorman grumbled. "Your mind takes you to places it should not."
The woman clasped her hands together. "But one can not ignore the fancy once it sets in. It is only for my own pleasure; it's not as if I am selling my paintings. Surely a person is entitled to that." She shifted her grip on the bag, filled with charcoals and a wad of paper. "It's just a quick sketch, monsieur. I will do all the shading at home."
The man looked pained. "You can not find an old attic in any of the houses above ground?"
"All filled with boring old trunks and chests, monsieur. One may be interested in a moment of madness and boredom to sift through their contents, but not very exciting to draw, I'm afraid. The Opera has so many lovely props and costumes!"
Jean-Claude exhaled loudly, taking off his cap. "I'm an old man, mam'selle. Too old to argue with you all day."
There's a ghost in the forest, you know.
Laughter rang through the air.
"I wish Maman was alive to see this!"
The young woman danced between the trees, running her hands along the vines and gasping with delight as she bent to examine the blooms. There were flowers of every colour.
"I've never seen such strangely-shaped petals before..."
She let her hair loose, dropping the ribbon next to her bag and running off. A stream of lustrous gold flowed behind her. Every time she stopped to catch her breath she would lift her head to look up, where the trees towered above and leaves blotted out the sky.
One can get quite hopelessly lost in these woods if one does not know the path.
She forgot that there wasn't a sky.
"I never want to leave," she whispered to herself, leaning against a mottled tree trunk. "This place in enchanted. A magic fills the air! Why, this is the closest I have ever been to bliss. Now, where did I leave my charcoal...?"
There were several birds watching the clearing where she had placed her bag, a robin and a yellow finch. She nearly trod on a fox when she went to fetch it.
"Oh my," was all she said. She quickly stepped back.
The birds didn't make a sound. Neither did the fox.
Or have a guide who does.
'Maman said I would become an explorer one day,' she thought, holding a piece of charcoal in her fingers. 'She promised I'd visit a grand forest. Ever since the day I sat on the river wanting to draw something other than a cityscape.'
She looked up quickly, making a long stroke down the page. 'If I did, I said that I would sit there for hours, drawing by myself. I used to reply to her that I would get so distracted, I would be eaten by a tiger.'
"You were right, Mother," the girl murmured. "Dreams really can come true."
The young woman would return again and again, carrying a dozen drawings and paintings back home each time. She never came across any deadly traps, despite what Jean-Claude insisted. He caught sight of her artwork one day, and was horrified to find out that there was an immense wood in the vaults of the opera house. She had to beg and reason with him every day.
"But I haven't got a scratch on my skin! I never have." She would raise her eyes upwards, searching for the words to articulate what she felt. "It's like there is a magic protecting me. I always find my way back, even though I walk to new parts of the woods whenever I visit. The realm is vast, but I swear that God sent me a guide. I am so happy there, and music fills my heart."
She never told the doorman about the long forgotten rooms that came before the forest.
And on the day Jean-Claude passed away, she tearfully placed a painting on his grave.
No other staff member of the opera house would let her go very far down below ever again. She was only allowed as far as the ancient props room, and that was a privilege for a civilian, they said. They granted her such favours only because her mother used to work in the opera house. Nothing she could say would change their minds. The excuse was consistently the same.
"There's a ghost down there, you know."
There's an elated numbness that a phan feels each time they discover a version of Phantom of the Opera so powerful, so perfect and an Erik so worthy of sobs, it will swamp them with pleasure whenever they think of it. A portrayal like that inspires one to write a fanfiction filled with emotion and meticulous care. I pray you have enjoyed reading it.
I wrote this in a day; you know that in between the italicised lines in the forest scene are one hundred word drabbles, each with a different topic? THAT'S how obsessive I was. I'm incredibly sentimentally attached to this one-shot now. I'm sure you can guess the main character's identity, and why she never gets lost.
GO WATCH THE CHARLES DANCE VERSION OF PHANTOM OF THE OPERA ON YOUTUBE! NOW!! PLEASE! THANK YOU!
Any critique would be REALLY appreciated, and any comment you may be willing to offer is welcomed with open arms.