I Watched Your Face
By: S J Hartsfield
Rating: G
Summary: A little Meg soliliquy. (My first POTO fic, so be gentle...)
Disclaimer: Don't own POTO (but wouldn't it be *great*?)
---
What is it about you, Christine?
Night after night I stand backstage, waiting for my cue... no, not mine. *Our* cue. I have never had my own cue. I've never been important enough. I stand waiting for the cue of the chorus girls, and I watch you, and I listen. You sing like an angel. But...
You didn't when you first arrived.
When you made your "debut," as it were, to the Paris Opera House, you were just like me. A dancer with only a fair voice. Not meant to be heard, only seen.
Then came the night teachings. I heard you talking to someone in the next room and wondered who would be in your room at that time of night. Then your teacher began to sing and I knew you were being taught.
I never learned who that tutor of yours was, Christine, but once he began to visit you, you began to change. You were in your own world, as though hearing his voice constantly. When you sang, it was like you had stolen a voice from Heaven and hidden it away in your soul.
The other chorus girls began to envy you. They thought that now that you were becoming a prima donna, you would look down your nose at us. Rather than giving you a chance, they turned away from you before you could spurn them. But I stayed at your side, faithful always. They told me that I would never be anything but a chorus girl, and that I should be ready for you to abandon me, for you to move on to greater things and friends in higher places. But you didn't.
As the nights grew darker and your lessons with your tutor grew longer, I began to worry about you. You seemed lost, your mind never at ease. You told me not to fuss over you, but I couldn't help it. You were my only real friend, now that the other girls had decided I was just as bad as you. You finally accepted my mothering of you, but you never seemed to get better.
Then came the night of your real debut. The audience absolutely adored you when you sang the anticipated aria, and the flowers that rained down on you at your curtain call were enough to fill a king's garden. The other girls grumbled jealously, but I rejoiced at your triumph. But even as I marveled, I saw your face. You were not yourself.
I found you afterwards in the same strange trance you had been in for days. Dazed and speaking to an unseen spector, you told me of your father's story of an angel of music. I didn't believe you.
Then you disappeared. The young Victome de Chagny said it was as though you simply walked through the mirror. How absurd we all agreed the idea was.
Nevertheless, I followed you. I went to your dressing room and tried the mirror... and I could go through it. I found myself in an emmense and frightening labyrinth, lit by thousands of candles. I heard voices; one I identified as yours and the other...
Your angel. He was real, he was an angel, and he was your tutor. Your voices intertwined with a terrifying beauty that forced me to return to the safe silence of the opera house. I leaned against the wall of your dressing room, clutching my heart, shivering - from what I did not know.
I knew where you had gone, I knew who had taken you. But I knew I could tell no one.
Oh God... what would I do now?
~ Fin? ~
By: S J Hartsfield
Rating: G
Summary: A little Meg soliliquy. (My first POTO fic, so be gentle...)
Disclaimer: Don't own POTO (but wouldn't it be *great*?)
---
What is it about you, Christine?
Night after night I stand backstage, waiting for my cue... no, not mine. *Our* cue. I have never had my own cue. I've never been important enough. I stand waiting for the cue of the chorus girls, and I watch you, and I listen. You sing like an angel. But...
You didn't when you first arrived.
When you made your "debut," as it were, to the Paris Opera House, you were just like me. A dancer with only a fair voice. Not meant to be heard, only seen.
Then came the night teachings. I heard you talking to someone in the next room and wondered who would be in your room at that time of night. Then your teacher began to sing and I knew you were being taught.
I never learned who that tutor of yours was, Christine, but once he began to visit you, you began to change. You were in your own world, as though hearing his voice constantly. When you sang, it was like you had stolen a voice from Heaven and hidden it away in your soul.
The other chorus girls began to envy you. They thought that now that you were becoming a prima donna, you would look down your nose at us. Rather than giving you a chance, they turned away from you before you could spurn them. But I stayed at your side, faithful always. They told me that I would never be anything but a chorus girl, and that I should be ready for you to abandon me, for you to move on to greater things and friends in higher places. But you didn't.
As the nights grew darker and your lessons with your tutor grew longer, I began to worry about you. You seemed lost, your mind never at ease. You told me not to fuss over you, but I couldn't help it. You were my only real friend, now that the other girls had decided I was just as bad as you. You finally accepted my mothering of you, but you never seemed to get better.
Then came the night of your real debut. The audience absolutely adored you when you sang the anticipated aria, and the flowers that rained down on you at your curtain call were enough to fill a king's garden. The other girls grumbled jealously, but I rejoiced at your triumph. But even as I marveled, I saw your face. You were not yourself.
I found you afterwards in the same strange trance you had been in for days. Dazed and speaking to an unseen spector, you told me of your father's story of an angel of music. I didn't believe you.
Then you disappeared. The young Victome de Chagny said it was as though you simply walked through the mirror. How absurd we all agreed the idea was.
Nevertheless, I followed you. I went to your dressing room and tried the mirror... and I could go through it. I found myself in an emmense and frightening labyrinth, lit by thousands of candles. I heard voices; one I identified as yours and the other...
Your angel. He was real, he was an angel, and he was your tutor. Your voices intertwined with a terrifying beauty that forced me to return to the safe silence of the opera house. I leaned against the wall of your dressing room, clutching my heart, shivering - from what I did not know.
I knew where you had gone, I knew who had taken you. But I knew I could tell no one.
Oh God... what would I do now?
~ Fin? ~