~ "L'ANGE D'MUSIQUE MINUIT" ~
A/N: Hi everyone.*crickets chirping* Yeah, this may be my first-ever phanfic, but please bear with me, I'm not really that great an author in my own terms, but I worked hard on this.who knows, maybe I'll continue if I get a good review or two ^_~. But if you can bear with me, then cheers, and enjoy! : )
Disclaimer: Le Fantome d'Opera/The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, and the musical belongs to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber and The Really Useful Group. The name 'Lon Chaney' should be property of Lon Chaney Sr., the first-ever Phantom actor. The song verse sung in this story part is from Vanessa Carlton's song "Ordinary Day." I'm sorry if you didn't need to read this, and if it interests you, read on.
* CHAPTER ONE: Mother Once Spoke of an Angel *
"Flight 107-US to Paris-departs in 29 minutes. All passengers are expected to board."
The loudspeaker's voice blared the update in a fuzzy, muffled voice at the airport, and a hurried young girl of no more than nineteen, holding pretty features of blue eyes, long blondish-brown hair and fair skin, immediately picked up her black backpack and suitcase and headed in the direction of the plane's entry.
Christine Cerise, or better known as Chris to most of her friends back home, was off to Paris to perform some kind of play, or musical or something, at the great Paris Opera House. She'd been hearing a lot about the memorable figure of the French Theatre Days, and if worry that she'd lose a suitcase, her precious savings which she was taking along, or even worse, the flight. She did have reason to worry, though-Chris was what people mistook for a beautiful, popular, snobbish city-girl, when in fact, she was the exact opposite: quiet, reserved, polite and helpful, a natural homebody who loved to read, write, sing and dance-and this trip was the first one ever where she would be going on her own.
She only had time to buy an 8-in-the-morning donut at one of the stands in the lobby before the speaker screeched more minutes of scurrying into the plane, and she had to pick up her stuff and run again. It was lucky that she was a fast eater, because if her honey-glazed donut hadn't been eaten yet, she would've had more of an embarrassment in front of older, more important people that she didn't even know.
PLUNK! How humiliating, and to think she had enough grace and poise to suit two experienced ballet dancers. She had just accidentally tripped over suitcase, and fallen-face first-to the cold floor. It did hurt, and she felt a little blood come from her nose (she got injuries easily, and was especially stuck with nosebleeds), but what was even worse, she felt her face go very red, like she was about to cry. It seemed she was going to be on that floor forever with annoying three-year-olds pointing their fat, chocolate-smeared fingers at her and laughing stupidly until.
"Hey, hey.miss, are you OK?"
Oh great. Finally. Someone she didn't have a clue about in the world was now extending his hand to help her. She accepted, though very reluctantly, but held with the thought that she didn't know this person and would lose him later when she got on the plane.
"I hope you're not hurt or anything."
"Oh, no, please, I'm all right," Chris managed to say in a few faint squeak. "I don't need any help, thank you."
She quickly fumbled her fingers around the suitcase handle, but clucked her tongue in frustration as she tried desperately to find her backpack in vain. She lifted her head to ask the stranger who had helped her up if he had seen it, but the moment she looked up, she was irritated to find that he was holding it up in front of her, and grinning widely.
"Excuse me, miss, but I think this is yours?"
The young man might have been around twenty-three, but a handsome, joking face betrayed his age to at least eighteen. He had sparkling, excited emerald-green eyes and long blond hair past his shoulders tied into a neat ponytail. The boyish smile didn't suggest making fun of her, but rather cheering her up.
"Yes, it is," Chris dismissed, gently but swiftly grabbing the pack.
"All right, all right," the young man apologized. "I'm sorry if I'm giving you such a hard time. I'll leave right now, if you want."
More embarrassment flooded through her, and suddenly Chris could hear the flushing sound of a toilet. How could she be so rude?
"Oh, no, please, I'm the one who should be sorry--" she stuttered, her pale cheeks turning crimson all over again. "I mean, thank you for- helping me in everything."
The man's grin kept undauntedly in place, as if he revived awkward, tripping nineteen-year-olds every day.
"No problem. You want me to help you with your luggage? I was able to get mine into the plane already. I was going to get a snack, but-" he checked the blue Mickey Mouse watch on his left wrist-"we haven't much time, and it looks like you could use it."
"Well-" Chris stammered, eyes to the floor. "Thanks."
"Like I said, hun, no problem. C'mon, we might miss the flight, eh?"
She nodded, and he picked up the suitcase as both of them rushed to the stairway to the plane outside.
Once in the plane, it was even more boring for Chris. Takeoff had been an hour ago, and her airsickness had passed a quarter of an hour ago. The bright, blond-haired young man she had met earlier was two seats away from her in the plane's middle compartment, seemingly asleep, headphones over his ears. The magazines in the seat pockets were full of nothing but ads and sponsorship details, and none of the music that she would be able to listen to if she used the headphones did not appeal to her, and she had forgotten to bring a book or something to read while flying.
She had an idea. Ever since she was a child, Chris loved to sing. As she grew older, she sported a rare knack for it, and a high-pitched but very properly tamed soprano voice to be proud of. She only used it once in a talent show, and it had received much applause, and a letter had come in the mail a month ago, asking her to use her gift once again and fly to Paris to use it for the revival of an old legend made book and musical. It was all pretty cool, though.
Figuring that no one would hear, and if they did, they would probably never mind anyway, she started to sing, in a very soft voice, one of her favorite tunes, something she always played on her small stereo set at home:
"He said, 'Take my hand,
Live while you can
Don't you see that your dreams
Are right in the palm of your hand?'"
"Hey. That was awesome, you know."
Chris quickly turned around to face the speaker. It was the young man, and he was now wide awake, bearing the same smile as before.
"You really have a talent for singing."
"Well.thanks," she mumbled softly.
"Where exactly did you learn to sing like that?"
"If I told you, you'd think I was stupid and delusional," she replied frankly. It was true; several friends whom she had told about this had that firsthand opinion.
"No, I wouldn't. But shoot anyway."
"Are you sure I can tell you?" she inquired uneasily to the stranger.
"Yeah," he replied confidently. "Not like I'll have time to tell anyone anyway. Look, most of the people are either old, sleeping or both."
At this, Chris couldn't help but giggle. "You're funny, you know that?"
The young man flashed his great, almost childish smile at her again. "Believe me, I've known. So what about your voice? How'd you learn to sing that way?"
Chris paused, afraid to reveal a secret that seemed so stupid to her and everyone else. But when she gave a glance at the man, he saw that his boyishly handsome face was very open and trusting, and even she doubted that it would let slip, even if he was a stranger.
"Okay," she said slowly.
"Don't be scared, tell me your story," he urged.
She nodded, closed her eyes, took a deep breath to get rid of her terrible case of shyness and uneasiness and started to speak again.
"My mother.she once spoke of an angel."
********************
"Angel?" The little girl's gentle sky-blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and a little skepticism. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Christine?" Her mother laughed. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never before heard the story of our family's Angel of Music?"
"No, Mom," little Christine replied, twirling a lock of her long, mildly curly dirty-blonde hair with interest.
"Well then, little one, why don't you sit down, there's plenty of time for me to tell you a story while your Daddy's out at work."
"OK." Always eager for a story, be it a fairytale she had heard a long time before, something that would be narrated out of an exciting epic of beautiful but overly entrancing princesses, handsome but stupid princes, and evil but remarkably cool dragons, or just something Mom had had the time to make up, Christine sat down cross-legged on the furry old rug in front of her mother's rocking chair, ready to listen raptly.
"All right," Mom began. "It all started in Paris somewhere around 1840-a very long time ago. The great opera singer Christine Daaé had a truly unbelievably wonderful voice, as said by those else that would admit it. But do you know, she had a secret tutor, an Angel of Music her father had told her about, who gave her voice lessons and shared some kind of passion with her? But Christine fell into a love affair with the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, and the Angel got jealous of a small engagement, and proceeded to kidnap her. The Vicomte and the Angel's old friend, a Persian, had to penetrate to his lair under the Paris Opera House to get her back, but were trapped inside a torture chamber. Christine had to choose between marrying the Angel and freeing her lover and his friend, or refuse and send the House crashing into the underground lake he lived near to, killing everyone."
"Mamma, what did she choose?" Little Christine inquired.
"The scorpion," her mother answered. "She chose to love him, and they saved Raoul and the Persian. But when the Angel found out that she had true love for him as he was and would obey his every wish like a real wife, he let her go free and marry the Vicomte, because he had never experienced human compassion before."
"Whatever happened to him?"
"Some say he died, down in the Opera House, out of sorrow, heartache or joy.I think it was because he could pass away in peace, knowing that someone loved him. What do you think, darling?"
"I think he didn't die," the young Christine responded. "He was an angel, an Angel of Music. And angels can never die."
"It's just a story," Mamma dismissed. "But would it interest you to know that you are a direct descendant of Raoul and Christine de Chagny?"
"Really?" the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Yes. That's why you have the gift of a remarkable singing voice."
The mother kissed Christine on the cheek, stood up from the rocking chair and prepared to go back upstairs.
"May you be blessed throughout your life and become as great as your great-great-grandmother once was."
With that, her mother left her on the rug in the warm kitchen, leaving her to ponder about angels and music and singing.
********************
"Cool story," the young stranger complimented, his light emerald eyes sparkling with childlike fascination. "Especially those parts about that Christine Daaé girl and the Angel of Music."
"Well.thank you very much," Chris repeated shyly, turning a light shade of red.
"And I'd like to know more about you, now that you seem to be so interesting-not to mention, charming and attractive." He shot her another joking grin. "Just kidding. May I know your name?"
"It's.Christine," Chris sputtered awkwardly, flushing from faded pink to hot cherry red. "Christine Cerise. But everyone just likes to call me Chris."
"Yeah?" The man lifted a dark-blond eyebrow without daunting his everlasting smile. "That reminds me a lot of the girl in your tale."
"Can I have yours?" she asked politely and nervously, reflecting on how such a friendly, flirtatious guy could be so nice to a dull wallflower like her.
"You didn't have to ask," he replied in a friendly voice, "But hey, my name's Alonzo Chaney, or Lon for short, fourth of my line. Nice to meet you-Christine."
Once again, Chris had to blush, but at least she felt more comfortable around him, or Lon, as he said his name was, now that they had gotten at least a little acquainted with each other.
"And oh, miss Christine-or may I say, Chris," he added. "If you want to sing some more around here, you're more than welcome to sing any more '02 pop songs you wish."
A/N: Hi everyone.*crickets chirping* Yeah, this may be my first-ever phanfic, but please bear with me, I'm not really that great an author in my own terms, but I worked hard on this.who knows, maybe I'll continue if I get a good review or two ^_~. But if you can bear with me, then cheers, and enjoy! : )
Disclaimer: Le Fantome d'Opera/The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, and the musical belongs to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber and The Really Useful Group. The name 'Lon Chaney' should be property of Lon Chaney Sr., the first-ever Phantom actor. The song verse sung in this story part is from Vanessa Carlton's song "Ordinary Day." I'm sorry if you didn't need to read this, and if it interests you, read on.
* CHAPTER ONE: Mother Once Spoke of an Angel *
"Flight 107-US to Paris-departs in 29 minutes. All passengers are expected to board."
The loudspeaker's voice blared the update in a fuzzy, muffled voice at the airport, and a hurried young girl of no more than nineteen, holding pretty features of blue eyes, long blondish-brown hair and fair skin, immediately picked up her black backpack and suitcase and headed in the direction of the plane's entry.
Christine Cerise, or better known as Chris to most of her friends back home, was off to Paris to perform some kind of play, or musical or something, at the great Paris Opera House. She'd been hearing a lot about the memorable figure of the French Theatre Days, and if worry that she'd lose a suitcase, her precious savings which she was taking along, or even worse, the flight. She did have reason to worry, though-Chris was what people mistook for a beautiful, popular, snobbish city-girl, when in fact, she was the exact opposite: quiet, reserved, polite and helpful, a natural homebody who loved to read, write, sing and dance-and this trip was the first one ever where she would be going on her own.
She only had time to buy an 8-in-the-morning donut at one of the stands in the lobby before the speaker screeched more minutes of scurrying into the plane, and she had to pick up her stuff and run again. It was lucky that she was a fast eater, because if her honey-glazed donut hadn't been eaten yet, she would've had more of an embarrassment in front of older, more important people that she didn't even know.
PLUNK! How humiliating, and to think she had enough grace and poise to suit two experienced ballet dancers. She had just accidentally tripped over suitcase, and fallen-face first-to the cold floor. It did hurt, and she felt a little blood come from her nose (she got injuries easily, and was especially stuck with nosebleeds), but what was even worse, she felt her face go very red, like she was about to cry. It seemed she was going to be on that floor forever with annoying three-year-olds pointing their fat, chocolate-smeared fingers at her and laughing stupidly until.
"Hey, hey.miss, are you OK?"
Oh great. Finally. Someone she didn't have a clue about in the world was now extending his hand to help her. She accepted, though very reluctantly, but held with the thought that she didn't know this person and would lose him later when she got on the plane.
"I hope you're not hurt or anything."
"Oh, no, please, I'm all right," Chris managed to say in a few faint squeak. "I don't need any help, thank you."
She quickly fumbled her fingers around the suitcase handle, but clucked her tongue in frustration as she tried desperately to find her backpack in vain. She lifted her head to ask the stranger who had helped her up if he had seen it, but the moment she looked up, she was irritated to find that he was holding it up in front of her, and grinning widely.
"Excuse me, miss, but I think this is yours?"
The young man might have been around twenty-three, but a handsome, joking face betrayed his age to at least eighteen. He had sparkling, excited emerald-green eyes and long blond hair past his shoulders tied into a neat ponytail. The boyish smile didn't suggest making fun of her, but rather cheering her up.
"Yes, it is," Chris dismissed, gently but swiftly grabbing the pack.
"All right, all right," the young man apologized. "I'm sorry if I'm giving you such a hard time. I'll leave right now, if you want."
More embarrassment flooded through her, and suddenly Chris could hear the flushing sound of a toilet. How could she be so rude?
"Oh, no, please, I'm the one who should be sorry--" she stuttered, her pale cheeks turning crimson all over again. "I mean, thank you for- helping me in everything."
The man's grin kept undauntedly in place, as if he revived awkward, tripping nineteen-year-olds every day.
"No problem. You want me to help you with your luggage? I was able to get mine into the plane already. I was going to get a snack, but-" he checked the blue Mickey Mouse watch on his left wrist-"we haven't much time, and it looks like you could use it."
"Well-" Chris stammered, eyes to the floor. "Thanks."
"Like I said, hun, no problem. C'mon, we might miss the flight, eh?"
She nodded, and he picked up the suitcase as both of them rushed to the stairway to the plane outside.
Once in the plane, it was even more boring for Chris. Takeoff had been an hour ago, and her airsickness had passed a quarter of an hour ago. The bright, blond-haired young man she had met earlier was two seats away from her in the plane's middle compartment, seemingly asleep, headphones over his ears. The magazines in the seat pockets were full of nothing but ads and sponsorship details, and none of the music that she would be able to listen to if she used the headphones did not appeal to her, and she had forgotten to bring a book or something to read while flying.
She had an idea. Ever since she was a child, Chris loved to sing. As she grew older, she sported a rare knack for it, and a high-pitched but very properly tamed soprano voice to be proud of. She only used it once in a talent show, and it had received much applause, and a letter had come in the mail a month ago, asking her to use her gift once again and fly to Paris to use it for the revival of an old legend made book and musical. It was all pretty cool, though.
Figuring that no one would hear, and if they did, they would probably never mind anyway, she started to sing, in a very soft voice, one of her favorite tunes, something she always played on her small stereo set at home:
"He said, 'Take my hand,
Live while you can
Don't you see that your dreams
Are right in the palm of your hand?'"
"Hey. That was awesome, you know."
Chris quickly turned around to face the speaker. It was the young man, and he was now wide awake, bearing the same smile as before.
"You really have a talent for singing."
"Well.thanks," she mumbled softly.
"Where exactly did you learn to sing like that?"
"If I told you, you'd think I was stupid and delusional," she replied frankly. It was true; several friends whom she had told about this had that firsthand opinion.
"No, I wouldn't. But shoot anyway."
"Are you sure I can tell you?" she inquired uneasily to the stranger.
"Yeah," he replied confidently. "Not like I'll have time to tell anyone anyway. Look, most of the people are either old, sleeping or both."
At this, Chris couldn't help but giggle. "You're funny, you know that?"
The young man flashed his great, almost childish smile at her again. "Believe me, I've known. So what about your voice? How'd you learn to sing that way?"
Chris paused, afraid to reveal a secret that seemed so stupid to her and everyone else. But when she gave a glance at the man, he saw that his boyishly handsome face was very open and trusting, and even she doubted that it would let slip, even if he was a stranger.
"Okay," she said slowly.
"Don't be scared, tell me your story," he urged.
She nodded, closed her eyes, took a deep breath to get rid of her terrible case of shyness and uneasiness and started to speak again.
"My mother.she once spoke of an angel."
********************
"Angel?" The little girl's gentle sky-blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and a little skepticism. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Christine?" Her mother laughed. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never before heard the story of our family's Angel of Music?"
"No, Mom," little Christine replied, twirling a lock of her long, mildly curly dirty-blonde hair with interest.
"Well then, little one, why don't you sit down, there's plenty of time for me to tell you a story while your Daddy's out at work."
"OK." Always eager for a story, be it a fairytale she had heard a long time before, something that would be narrated out of an exciting epic of beautiful but overly entrancing princesses, handsome but stupid princes, and evil but remarkably cool dragons, or just something Mom had had the time to make up, Christine sat down cross-legged on the furry old rug in front of her mother's rocking chair, ready to listen raptly.
"All right," Mom began. "It all started in Paris somewhere around 1840-a very long time ago. The great opera singer Christine Daaé had a truly unbelievably wonderful voice, as said by those else that would admit it. But do you know, she had a secret tutor, an Angel of Music her father had told her about, who gave her voice lessons and shared some kind of passion with her? But Christine fell into a love affair with the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, and the Angel got jealous of a small engagement, and proceeded to kidnap her. The Vicomte and the Angel's old friend, a Persian, had to penetrate to his lair under the Paris Opera House to get her back, but were trapped inside a torture chamber. Christine had to choose between marrying the Angel and freeing her lover and his friend, or refuse and send the House crashing into the underground lake he lived near to, killing everyone."
"Mamma, what did she choose?" Little Christine inquired.
"The scorpion," her mother answered. "She chose to love him, and they saved Raoul and the Persian. But when the Angel found out that she had true love for him as he was and would obey his every wish like a real wife, he let her go free and marry the Vicomte, because he had never experienced human compassion before."
"Whatever happened to him?"
"Some say he died, down in the Opera House, out of sorrow, heartache or joy.I think it was because he could pass away in peace, knowing that someone loved him. What do you think, darling?"
"I think he didn't die," the young Christine responded. "He was an angel, an Angel of Music. And angels can never die."
"It's just a story," Mamma dismissed. "But would it interest you to know that you are a direct descendant of Raoul and Christine de Chagny?"
"Really?" the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Yes. That's why you have the gift of a remarkable singing voice."
The mother kissed Christine on the cheek, stood up from the rocking chair and prepared to go back upstairs.
"May you be blessed throughout your life and become as great as your great-great-grandmother once was."
With that, her mother left her on the rug in the warm kitchen, leaving her to ponder about angels and music and singing.
********************
"Cool story," the young stranger complimented, his light emerald eyes sparkling with childlike fascination. "Especially those parts about that Christine Daaé girl and the Angel of Music."
"Well.thank you very much," Chris repeated shyly, turning a light shade of red.
"And I'd like to know more about you, now that you seem to be so interesting-not to mention, charming and attractive." He shot her another joking grin. "Just kidding. May I know your name?"
"It's.Christine," Chris sputtered awkwardly, flushing from faded pink to hot cherry red. "Christine Cerise. But everyone just likes to call me Chris."
"Yeah?" The man lifted a dark-blond eyebrow without daunting his everlasting smile. "That reminds me a lot of the girl in your tale."
"Can I have yours?" she asked politely and nervously, reflecting on how such a friendly, flirtatious guy could be so nice to a dull wallflower like her.
"You didn't have to ask," he replied in a friendly voice, "But hey, my name's Alonzo Chaney, or Lon for short, fourth of my line. Nice to meet you-Christine."
Once again, Chris had to blush, but at least she felt more comfortable around him, or Lon, as he said his name was, now that they had gotten at least a little acquainted with each other.
"And oh, miss Christine-or may I say, Chris," he added. "If you want to sing some more around here, you're more than welcome to sing any more '02 pop songs you wish."