La Traversé-étoile fantôme
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is more a 'light summary' of a story I plan to fully post. This is, obviously, the bare bones. It's greatly (mostly!) inspired bwayphantomrose (read her stuff IT'S FANTASTIC!) If you wonder how Christine and Erik are, then read her's- she's truer to anything I've ever seen.
I kinda want to focus on what would happen if Christine and Erik had a child. And since I always hear write what you know, I made her homosexual. It's an idea for now, but I will definitely be continuing it…
Jolie Daee was born during the storm. It raged and coupled with her mother's screams, twisted a beautiful song. Her father always told her this story, smiling and stroking her long, twisting black hair. The most beautiful music he'd ever head, to be pierced by her aria, her baby's cry. The curtains fell when her mother grasped her tightly to a heaving breast and for the first time tiny Jolie felt Death's hand upon her head, though she did not still, but smiled.
Jolie was like her father- thin, though her mother called her slender, thick hair that twisted, never curling daintily like her mother's, blacker than night, and eyes that rivaled the cat's. Jolie thought she was hideous, sharp cheekbones and dark lips- but to her parents she was perfect- not a single mar upon her pointed face. Jolie though she was gangly, lanky, awkward, but to her parents, her father, she was perfect.
Jolie grew up on the outskirts of Paris, a large mansion that has swathed in vines and roses, her mother's favorite, and a small grove of pear trees. Jolie was taught to sing, fence, and learn many extraordinary things for a girl. Her father taught her the magic of illusion and mechanics, while her mother patiently instructed her on taming her wildness. Jolie remained a feral thing though, running around in men's clothes and letting her hair fall tangled and free. To her parents she remained perfect though, the single most important joy in their life. Their most precious joy. Jolie rarely saw others and soon grew to loathe people- they fawned and harassed her dear mother and mocked her genius father. They did not realize what people whose presence they were in! She raged at how many whispered over her father's black-masked face, made leers at her Angelique mother… oh Jolie hated them. She soon appreciated her ability to hide that her father taught her and would pinch, nip, and bite those that had such sharp tongues. She hated them, worthless beings. She stored a dark hatred in her heart, only living to be with her glowing mother and brilliant father, far from the maddening crowds. It was her paradise.
Jolie's father died when she was 16. Her mother's voice broke and could not sing that day, that month, that year, and it seemed like all the roses died and the darkness became dull. Jolie wept, begging him to return to show her such wonders and to bring back her mother's smile. For weeks the two women mourned and tore at their hair- Jolie sung her mother to sleep like a child, for she feared Christine may have lost her mind with the death of such a man. Her mother stared in wide-eyed fascination and murmured, 'like him, like Erik.' And that brought comfort to them both. Jolie's voice and glowing eyes watched over her mother to give her the only solace she could offer. But still, the roses wilted and the rains did nothing. A man did come once but Jolie hid her mother in one of her father's secret chambers, deep in the bowls of the stone tomb that was now their home, while she greeted this 'Raoul.' Her father had whispered his name once to Jolie when she was small, saying he was a thief of beautiful things, THEIR most precious thing- her mother. So Jolie stared in silence at his offer and request, before angrily banishing him away. He may have knocked more, but Jolie sunk deep into the pit and lay to weep with her mother- a time of mourning was more important than some gilded man.
Jolie however had to seek some way to live. Her father was a genius and therefore had left his most precious things a way to live, but Jolie had been taught to work and hoard. She was proficient at most things beyond what many thought the scope of women, soon selling compositions at only 23, sometimes even her father's older ones, or grand designs under her father's name. However such an alias would soon cause problems no doubt and a man came to the mansion once more, though not the gilded man, no- another man with a silken hat and lavish cane. By then Jolie's mother had recovered but still wore black and always carried her father's cravat tied around her wrist, and she answered the door stunned to hear a request for her dead husband. Jolie and her mother knew of her deception but how could they explain her daughter was writing now? They would loose the funds and it would cast dark suspicion upon them both. So Jolie spoke as alluringly as she could, using every ounce of velvet and honey-coated words she knew so soon the man was enthralled. He only asked to invite her to the infamous Opera Populaire for a month as she had convinced him she was her father's liaison and he was a recluse. She would be an on-hands service to the Opera. Jolie was thrilled, never having been to where her parents were first entwined in such romantic madness. Her mother however, as all mother's are able, felt a thrill of fear for her child. Before she could catch some strands of that wild mane to pull her back, the eyes glowed and were gone. Christine could only mournfully sing to an empty house, praying the Opera Ghost would watch his daughter.
Jolie adored the Opera. Though 27 the rich clothes and soft lights, made it feel as if she had flitted into a fairytale, whispered to her as she lay snuggled in downy sheets. It was grating to deal with the cloistering crowds but quickly another way was devised to escape much of human contact. She found her father's old hidden ways and bricked passages, slithering around each ornate temple to the next, however never treading into the underground labyrinth too deep. That world was beyond hers and forever enshrined to her parents- a respectful grave. SO Jolie carved new niches for herself while fanatically scribbling notes and words, music that enchanted the masses. It was simple work, but she had been raised to preserve the finest for her beloveds. Anything worthy she wrote was carefully stored in an ebony chest given to her from the maestro whose hallowed halls she now roamed, slinky and leaving nothing but an inky trail behind. Soon though instead of 'relaying' simplistic, pity pieces to the managers, a great composition was requested. Jolie schemed to take her mother and herself across the ocean once she completed a great work and dove into it… but she lacked something. Something her father could never teach her nor her mother ever sing to her about. It was only something she could observe and had only been aware of through whispered kisses, gentle looks, and a tender touch to a masked cheek. For once unable to cleverly churn out a meaningless bit needed by her employers on behalf of her father's ghost, she was trapped in a mire of furious scribbles, worthless! And time began ticking….
She required a muse, something her father spoke in revered tones and made her mother blush and swell with pride. Jolie was a hermit, recluse however and had never met anyone to ignite a fire of passion to fuel her… even in the Opera the peeling falls looked faded, ill, numerous little things that had pleased her now boring…. The rollicking seas of people bore nothing but BORES.
It was a night of skulking in liquid shadow that led her to the dimly lit stage littered with the scattered few ballet rats sneaking off at the end of practise. Though twilight had entered the Opera, Jolie could see with glittering eyes a single, creamy-skinned leg rise and pirouette across the stage, landing in a graceful heap that soon unfurled, a blooming flower, lightly pinned curls of red-gold, barely sweeping pale shoulders fluffed out with movement. The lithe dancer's eyes were rimmed with thick lashes and soft emeralds- it was then that those lush looks turned and met Jolie's, an obsession that had only been known once began to thrum within her breast.
WIP – TO BE COUNTINED