I am neither Tamora Pierce nor anybody related to the writing or creation of Les Choristes and the music they used in the movie.
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Vois sur ton chemin
Gamins oubliés, égarés
Donne-leur la main
Pour les mener Vers d'autres lendemains
Two lonely figures stared out at the great building that loomed before them. Dwarfed by the grandiose structure, the two said nothing and gaped in silent awe. Never had the younger girl ever felt so small or insignificant. The elder woman was too busy with her fluttering heart, memories clouded over her eyes and she could feel the familiar coppery taste of bitter recollection on her tongue, remembering days spent gazing wistfully outside those tall windows and dreaming of freedom.
Yes, the woman remembered perfectly her own days at the convent and even now she could feel the tightening in her chest as she thought about the constrictions set upon her. She drew her shoulders back so much her muscles ached and raised her head as an open invitation to bugs for miles around. It was instinctive, automatic, etched into her brain from hours of practice and tedious lectures.
Now she looked at her daughter beside her, almost her exact replica with an exception of her father's brows and his height. She was bony and boyish and everything the teachers at the convent couldn't stand to suffer. She was going to send her daughter to go through the very place she herself had despised when she was young. The place that had forced her to grow up before she was ready.
A touch of fear gripped her gut... what would come back to her? Would it be a brain-washed court-lady with a memory only for the forms of her embroidery or a girl quiet with spite for the world, cynical and acrid and burdened by beatings and unspoken rebellion? Either way, neither would be the springy, joyful girl that was her daughter. How could she condemn her to attend the convent when she had vowed herself never to do so?
The sun started to dip below the horizon and the two realized that their precious last few moments together had come to a close. The woman hugged the girl tightly to her, whispering sweet reassurances to her small ears and silent prayers to the Gods that her daughter would not break. With a parting kiss on the cheek the woman let her go and watched as her daughter was led through the gates and out of sight. Her shoulders dropped and she dropped her head.
Lesson number one: a noble woman is always proud. She didn't feel proud. At that moment she felt such loathing within her that she thought she might bring up her small lunch.
It's for the best. It's for the best. It's for the best. The mantra had played over her head for the last year and a half. She was doing it to give her daughter a chance at a good marriage and a good future. It was for the best.
At home she sat alone for hours and sobbed. She mourned for the child she was giving up, soft and innocent like a lamb to the slaughter, and for her childhood that never was.
Bonheurs enfantins
Trop vite oubliés, effacés
Une lumière dorée brille sans fin
Tout au bout du chemin
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It's almost shameful (no, it really is shameful) how long a time it's been since I've updated anything or appeared on forums or answered any reviewers and friends wondering where in the world I've disappeared off to. I guess I owe you all an explanation but can't think of one that any of you might accept. I'm tired of running anyway. Truth is, I've needed time to put my life back together because I've been slowly falling apart. But I love fanfiction and I will be updating my stories as soon as I come back from vacation, and that's a promise I do intend to keep.
Keep Reading,
xxTunstall Chickxx
14/08/10
