Disclaimer: Everything that Lord of the Rings fans might recognize belongs to Tolkien. Everything that Les Misérables fans might recognize belongs to Victor Hugo. The lyrics that Les Misérables fans might recognize from the musical belong to Herbert Kretzmer (since it's in English, it belongs to him, not to Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg, who wrote the music and the original French lyrics).
Author's note: It is my hope that my original character is original (meaning non-Mary Sue). If anyone thinks that my character is Mary Sueish, please review and tell me. Also, please know that I DO NOT intend for this story to be a romance. I admit, I like many of the characters, including Legolas, but I think there are already enough romance stories, especially ones about Legolas, to last for many lifetimes. There might be a few scenes that barely have enough to scrape by and pass as minimally romantic, but please know that it is NOT my intent for this story to be a romance. Again, if you think it's being too romantic, please review and inform me of this.
One more thing: Non-Les Misérables fans, please bear with me. There will probably be things you don't understand at first, but they will explained in due time.
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Turning
Chapter 1—Rehearsal
"And rain...will make the flowers...grow."
"Lovely, lovely," Ms. Froyadone said in a tone that suggested she thought nothing of the sort. "Let's try it again."
I was currently in the music room at my school in a small suburban town that no one has probably ever heard of. My school was putting on its annual musical theater production. This year, it was Les Misérables. I had gotten the part of one of the female leads, and was practicing one of my many tedious parts: the duet "A Little Fall of Rain." Ms. Froyadone, the vocal director of the musical, had forcibly abducted me and whoever-it-was-that-this-duet-is-sung-with from our homes and brought us here against our will, where she threatened to flay us within an inch of our "miserable, worthless lives" if we did not do her exact bidding.
Okay, maybe she didn't. And maybe I would prefer singing to doing homework. It's just that I don't prefer to be singing my voice into hoarseness for five hours while my homework is no closer to getting done. And I'm not exaggerating on that five hour part.
It was two weeks before the production. Play practices were longer than ever. And sometime next week, we were going to have two days of dress rehearsals, each one lasting approximately from three o'clock until nine-or-so o'clock. Which means it can end any time from seven until almost midnight.
"Okay, that's enough," Ms. Froyadone said as the pianist struck the last chord on the duet. "You two both know when the next practice is," she said, referring to me and Matt, the guy I was singing the duet with.
Each play practice consisted of, actually, practicing some of the songs in the musical. It's just that so many principle characters are in so many songs. Also, the people making up the chorus (the "nameless people," or the parts in which the actors are just part of a crowd) get multiple roles, making it so that they are also in many songs. As a result, most of the cast has to come for every practice, since we go over many songs in each practice. They usually leave as soon as they finished rehearsing the last song the individual person happens to be in. Since "A Little Fall of Rain" was the last song we were practicing that day, Matt and I were the only people left.
"I hate being abandoned," I muttered to myself under my breath as I was getting my bookbag and getting ready to leave.
"You can hardly can this abandonment, Amara," Matt's voice cut through my sentence. "In many countries of Asia—"
"I know, I know" I cut Matt off. "Just because you get a perfect score on every single test in every class you're in—which all happen to be AP—"
"I don't get perfect scores all the time and you know that," Matt corrected me with a hint of a smile in his voice. "Besides, you're the perfect student in all the AP classes."
"Why, you flatter me," I said mockingly. "But seriously," I said, resuming my normal tone, "who got A-pluses on all his Latin tests? You did."
"So did you, Amara," a new voice joined in. "And I didn't abandon you. I just went into the other room to play my part on the piano in there."
"Hello, Brooke," I said. "Well, you said you were leaving."
"Leaving to go to the other room," Brooke replied. "If I was going home, I would have said so."
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"No, no, no!" Ms. Froyadone's voice cut into the song being practiced. "Amara, don't you understand this? Put more feeling into it!"
"But I did!" I blurted out before I could think.
Ms. Froyadone shook her head. "No. You just sang louder. That's not necessarily what I want. If that's the way you express your feelings, then do it that way. But you're not putting any feeling into this.
"I know this isn't part of your role, but I need more people for this song," Ms. Froyadone continued. "Maybe you'd like to reconsider and not be in this part."
"No," I said and shook my head. "I want to do this. I—I'll try harder."
The play didn't have enough members on the ensemble, so a select few of the principal characters had to double as random members. I was one of those people. My main role was a character named Eponine, but I doubled as a random woman in this song, 'Turning.' The women singing this song in the production were dubbed the 'Turning Women.'
"Let's try it again," Ms. Froyadone said. The girl who started the song sang her line.
"Did you see them going off to fight? Children of the Barricade who didn't last the night?"
That was my cue. I opened my mouth:
"Did you see them lying where they died?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ms. Froyadone with her head in her hands. No doubt I'd failed her again. Well, no matter. I would prove myself. While listening for the cue for my second line, I focused on how the character I was playing would feel while singing this song. The woman I was playing had just lost her brother, perhaps, a male friend, or a lover. He and many others had just been killed fighting for a hopeless cause. Yet they still fought. Why? I myself knew no one like that. Was that why I couldn't show the proper emotion?
"...fighting for a new world that would rise up like the sun..."
That was my cue! I silently berated myself for almost missing the cue as I took a deep breath and started singing.
"Where's that new world, now the fighting's done?"
I stopped and listened as another voice replaced mine. The character I was playing was mourning, along with several other women, for their deceased loved ones. I waited for the part where everyone started singing together. Here it is...
"Turning, turning, turning through the years..."
I thought about what the song was saying: how everything stays the same, all trapped inside a cycle—hence 'turning' through the years.
"...Nothing changes, nothing ever can..."
How can it be possible that nothing would change? Everything that exists, every little subtle detail, can't all be the same.
"...Round and round and back where you began!"
Ms. Froyadone came back into my field of vision. She seemed to be searching for words to say.
"Go home," she finally sighed. "All of you. Go home and get some rest. Maybe that will make a difference." Everyone nodded and cast subtle glances at me, knowing that I was the source of her unrest. I cringed under the combined weight of their probing eyes.
"Amara," Ms. Froyadone turned and spoke to me. "As you know, as everyone knows, it's only a week until the opening night. Please, think about the character you are portraying and try to understand her feelings. Think about the way she must be grieving and mourning. She must feel torn apart at this point." Ms. Froyadone sighed. "I know you can do this. You've already shown me your potential when you were rehearsing Eponine's parts. And, I admit, Eponine's parts require just as much emotion, but different ones. She's also mourning someone she has lost, but he's lost to her in a different way. If you can connect that to this song, I'm sure you will be amazing."
I could only nod before I turned to get my stuff and leave.
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A/N: So what do you think? Reviews are appreciated. Flames, however, will be used to destroy any evidence of bad grades. I know there's nothing about LotR yet, but please bear with me. There's a reason this story is in the LotR category. I just didn't want to jump right into Middle Earth too hastily.
