I was so pumped to finally start writing again until I had written like half of this and then it got deleted :)))). But hopefully this will suffice, please review! (Not entirely sure where this will be going, but I have a few big ideas to incorporate!)
Fingers traced the intricate carvings along the wall that lined one of the many twisted corridors in the Paris Opera House. Corridors that would intimidate any young, solitary girl as Christine Daaé was; had it not been that she had walked these familiar turns numerous times to understand the loneliness that had followed her four years ago.
Many a time had she taken this exact path, a girl that was just in training to be a dancer in the corps de ballet; no guarantee of a position in the corps, but a better chance than a girl with training elsewhere. The walks continued even when her name appeared that one fateful day on the list of new corps members, even when her angel turned into a man. Her loneliness had only partially been quenched by his presence, and she never had the heart to confess to him the true meaning of these walks.
It was where the question that she pondered most was hopefully and frequently answered; her father's approval for the many choices she was coming across in her path of life. What would he say of the time Meg had convinced her to sip (well, drink) the champagne gifted to her friend by a gentleman caller late into the night at Meg's house, laughter echoing into the later, unknown hours of the night? What would he say of her angel, the man so cleverly disguised to gain her trust that she had almost broken with the lie? What would he say of her current situation, utterly yet thankfully trapped comfortably in her position at the Opera House, not as a singer but as a dancer, a ballet rat?
Oh, Christine knew she loved to dance. Often she had danced to her father's violin, once, with a friend when her father taught her how to properly dance as if she was at a ball. But constantly she felt stuck in this position at the Opera House. She would never be a good enough (or, she hated to admit it, dedicated enough) dancer to take the place of Prima Ballerina during the rare occasion the opera put on a ballet. Besides, Meg had been eyeing that position for a while now and she wouldn't dare bring herself to take it from her.
Christine hummed a familiar Swedish folk song that she and her friend had danced to what seemed like a different world ago, their steps in time to the music. Place your hand on her back, there, that's it. Clasp her hand gently, now feel the music. And she had been unable to contain her giggles, stepping on her friend's feet several times, laughter growing with each mistake. The lesson had ended with a soft promise, soft enough that her father couldn't hear. I will take you dancing, my Little Lotte, I promise I will.
She sighed and continued on her walk, making note of yet another impossible promise that would eventually fade into her memory with the others. Really it was her own fault, believing these fairy tales full of complete and utter nonsense that were written for the soul purpose of mocking hopefuls young girls as her. She would remain thankful for what she had, most especially these walks that she could keep for herself, a time a peace amidst the blur of life she was caught in.
It was a tradition, she supposed, that she was determined to continue for as long as she remained here. And the way things looked for her, she would be here forever.
Soft murmurs followed her through the hall, the walls not quite thin enough to decipher any of the words. In a way it was comforting, the gentle hum of those who practically lived the same life as hers, a sense of companionship among them even with those she had never spoken with. As they usually did, corners and polished wood soon turned into frequent dead ends and dusty hallways, only the occasional footstep imprinted in the dust and debris that had collected on the floor.
Once Christine had gotten lost going this way. It had been the farthest she had traveled within the twists of the Opera House, but something in her had told her to keeping pushing forth. She supposed it had been a particularly difficult day of rehearsal; it was soon after her acceptance into the corps, and Erik, still her angel at the time, had stormed down on her the entire lesson. But when she had gotten lost, her chest heaving to try to catch breaths that came no where near her, her nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists, the world around her swimming in and out of view, he had been her savior, guiding her straight back to familiarity.
These thoughts tumbled about Christine's mind as she made her way to her favorite entrance to the Opera House. It was towards the back, but led her into a beautiful garden kept by one of the maids in her spare time. She had never met the creator of such beauty, but was always thankful for its existence. It was escape and it always had been; a gentle finale to her long, thoughtful walks that were such a regular occurrence for her.
Now, as she closed her eyes and took in the familiar smell of dirt and flowers entwined in the air, she wanted to never leave. But it would soon be supper time, and Christine had promised Mama Valerius that for once she would be able to make it on time to share a meal. When Carlotta had been cast as the lead again a few weeks ago, lessons had continued; yet even more brutal lengthy than ever. Christine had found herself dining more often with her tutor than her guardian, and she tried not to think of the impropriety of it all. Many a time over a small and silent meal had she suddenly lost her appetite, realizing her wrongdoing in the midst of her meal.
She practically skipped home at the thought of sitting down to a pleasant meal with someone other than the darkness that was her teacher. Despite all he had given her, she guiltily knew that he could never take the place of the comfort Mama held. Rain clouds rumbled gently in the distance, and a light trickle of rain appeared almost as soon as she reached her home.
"Who is the man?" Mama Valerius silently studied her adopted daughter during supper. She had watched and admired with motherly pride from afar Christine's growth in not only beauty and strength but in her talents of music and dance as well.
Something fluttered in Christine's stomach as she took in the question, her brows curving into a frown. "Mama?"
"Oh, my dear. This is the first time you've been here for a meal with me in days. It cannot be just rehearsal, it cannot be just outings with your friends. You return so late into the night, you barely live here anymore. I worry, Christine. Please just tell me." Mama's wrinkled yet soft hand reached out to touch Christine's youthful one, trying yet failing to meet her gaze as well.
Christine smiled when she realized what Mama was talking about, gently squeezing her hand and relieving it of its tension. "Oh, Mama. There is no man. Well, there is a man, but he is not what you think. It is my teacher I told you about, that is all. I promise, he only teaches me to sing."
If Mama didn't believe her, she didn't expose it. She trusted her Christine, and there was no reason for worry. "Alright, my dear. Invite me to your first performance as Prima Donna," she chuckled, wishing it were true. There were many times when Mama felt that Christine was working hard for nothing. Christine was beautiful and talented, but was no match for the publicity required to hold the title of Prima Donna. Prima Donnas came from wealthy families, families who had influence, and her Christine had neither.
Christine let out a laugh, a perfect sound that was melodious, beautiful, golden, and heartbreaking all at the same time. "I will, and I will buy you the most beautiful gown to attend! You will make even the Countess jealous, the Empress of Japan will bow at your feet!" She stood to clear the table, the soft clatter of porcelain following her to the counter. She knew the uncertainty in Mama's tone was valid, the teasing improbability that she will ever become Prima Donna. As much as her maestro may want it, the odds were simply not in her favor.
"But no, my Christine. I will get to see your face shine up at me from every newspaper in Paris! I will have to bar the doors to keep reporters and callers out of our house!" Mama followed her into the kitchen, towel in hand as Christine began washing their dishes. Christine smiled, biting her lip as a habit of hers since childhood. She could never be one of those girls, the ones followed by reporters whose first priorities were the wealthy and beautiful women of Paris.
The two clamored and giggled on as little girls would, building a fantasy world for the two of them that both knew would never happen, yet both hoped for. "Christine, please sing." Mama's words came abruptly, yet not unexpected. It had been a few times more that she had begged for her adopted daughter to grant her a song, a result of all those times Christine never came home for dinner, didn't arrive home until she was in bed for hours, tossing and turning for fear that Christine had run into one of the many dangers of the silent night. So many times Christine had shyly shaken her head with a small rejection of the idea, claiming she was not ready, she was too tired to accomplish such a feat, she had already been singing all day, Mama. Maybe one day she might hear her.
But this time seemed different. Even with one day away from her lessons, she missed the feel of the music flowing through her veins as blood would, giving her skin a bright happiness that only the music could achieve. The music knew it could achieve this too, and used this slyly to tug at her heart, play with her emotions, confusing her mind until it allowed her to soar again. "I... suppose. But just a little, our neighbors will complain," she cracked a smile, her heart fluttering at the thought of singing again.
She dried her hands on the towel, closing her eyes as she recalled that folk song, the one she had been humming earlier. And suddenly she was in that same room, the fire crackling just as it had been in Mama Valerius' flat, except her father's violin would warm her far more than any fire ever would. She was sitting next to her dance partner, both out of breath from their shared laughter. Her voice soared just as the violin did that night so long ago, carrying the music with her soul and losing track of Mama and the room she truly stood in.
The song was short, and the memory short lived as Christine soared back down to earth, Mama finally arriving back into view and the continuous patter of rain drumming on their roof. Mama was silent when she returned, her gaze attracted to something invisible on the floor. At that moment she yearned for nothing more than to be able to give her Christine all she could ever want, to give her the career her voice was destined for and to hear her soar as she just did in front of the world, to share what music truly was. To make people understand.
"That was beautiful, my dear," she simply said, other words at the tip of her tongue but daring not to leap into the air. But Christine didn't need to hear them; she felt the glowing pride emitting from Mama, her eyes shining with a delight she had never seen before. Now it was her turn to stare at the invisible something on the floor, her eyes locked with it for what seemed like forever.
"Thank you." She spoke softly, returning immediately to tidying up after their supper, scrubbing until it gleamed.
The rest of the night was silent save for the occasional word or two, would you like tea, do you have rehearsal tomorrow. And then as Mama Valerius sat and knitted, and Christine Daae sat and read her book in front of the crackling fire, a steady rain now pattering on their second floor roof, Christine knew that it was in her power to try with all her will and self to make that wish come true. Wishes came true every day, just as the fairy tales her papa used to read to her told of. Why should her life be any different? She would do it, and her father, she knew, would be proud.