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Quick Il Trovatore description: Leonora is a lady-in-waiting to the princess of Aragon and is in love with a gypsy trobadour, Manrico. However, Il conte de Luna is also in love with her and threatens to imprison and kill Manrico, if she doesn't choose him(as you do). Leonora refuses and the count goes through with his plan. In the finale, Leonora stands outside the prison and sings D'amor sull'ali rosee, hoping that her prayers will save her beloved's life. There is also another parallel plot about the relation of Manrico and the Count, but it has nothing to do with our plot, so I'll leave it to your interest to find out the rest(which I totally advise, it's just a beautiful opera).
"Five minutes, miss Daae," the stagemanager's voice was heard behind the door, as she fought to adhere her long brown wig over her bigger than life head of blond curls. The thousands of pins drilled into her skull and gave her a growing headache before the show had even begun.
Much to her dismay, the door creaked open, a small dark head popping its way through the crack. A child that couldn't have been more than fourteen shyly approached La Daae, who was glowing in her bright red princess gown.
"Mademoiselle?" the small creature called for her attention, its hands braided behind its back.
"Hello,"the diva answered with a soft voice, trying to save the warmup Erik had given her a couple of hours beforehand. "You must be little Meg."
The acknowlegdement tug at her pride and the girl straightened her strong ballerina core to its full height, extending a willing hand towards Christine. "Marguerite Giry, Mademoiselle,"she introduced herself properly. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, I only wanted to wish you a good performance. A lot of names are here," she explained, her small head peaking behind her towards the door, as if she could see the crowd gathering in the grand auditorium.
The reminder of the gala's importance sent a trail of pins down her spine, as she shook the girl's slender hand, her porcelain skin contrasting with the olive toned of the dancer's.
"Thank you very much, Meg," she finally returned, while the dancer was walking towards the door awkwardly. "Break a leg!" she exclaimed, the door clicking shut in front of her.
Without granting her but a moment of peace, another presence intruded her thoughts. It was an unfamiliar stagehand carrying a large bouquet of roses, packaged by a florist, and adding it to the growing mount of flora next to her boudoir mirror. The first bell chimed, echoing inside her head and traveling down to the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and rested her hands on her lap, breathing gently, mindful to open her tightening diaphragm.
At the second bell, she decided it was time to head to the wings, before the crowd backstage became too thick to sail through. Her corridor was-thankfully-silent, allowing her to gather her thoughts, as the sound of her low heels on the yellowed marble bounced around her.
"Christine," Esmée, the soprano who performed as Leonora's maid, turned to her. "Bisset conducts tonight."
Christine approached her, squinting her eyes as an opposite spotlight blinded her. "Good," she nodded. "How is it so far?"
Esmée swallowed her large sip of water and wiped her mouth. "Everything's in place. The seamstress has left your quick change on the other side. Carnot and his wife are here, along with three ministers."
Christine fastened the string of her belt and the third bell chimed. The auditorium darkened and her reply to Esmée died on her lips, as silence reigned, interrupted only by the applause at the maestro's entrance.
Order was restored and the maestro's baguette hang in midair, seemingly attached to every caught breath in the hall. Christine felt her blood pumping down her arms and legs, spreading from her core to her limbs, like a live fire.
The percussion rumbled, gentle yet confident, rising from the pits of the earth and reaching the aether, errupting into a triumphant overture. Last pieces of scenery in place. Il conte di Luna passed by the two women, joining the rest of the chorus behind the curtain. The duel scene cleverly plunged the spectators directly into action, as swords clashed in choreographed conflicts and voices roared.
The violence had stopped and now the scene gave its place to Leonora's balcony, where the lady in waiting and her maid looked out for the trobadour.
Esmée leaves her side in the wings and carefully steps on stage, as the strings pull repetively their bows. She turns to look at her, who's still hiding behind the curtain.
"Che piu t'arresti? L'ora e tarda: vieni." A clear soprano voice carried the phrase to the farthest of seats.
Esmée continued and Christine inhaled, ready for the recitative of her entrance aria. The first word is always the hardest, she thought and parted her lips, exiting into the spotlight, the still cool air of the stage awaking her.
"Un'altra notte ancora senza vederlo," Another night without seeing him.
She leaned against the fake column and ignored the building excitement inside her chest, a look of longing in her eyes. No, not in hers-in Leonora's eyes.
"Allah save me! Are you set on dying tonight?"
He ignored him and continued securing his thickest coat around his shoulders. The Persian stomped his foot comically on the carpet and he chuckled, despite his throat's protests.
He paid no attention to the nagging that followed, for he could hear the voice of his beloved soaring above his head in the distance, Christine calling to him as Leonora called Manrico.
"You are too late, daroga,"he breathed silently, adjusting his mask. "The gala's already started and you're not in box five."
His friend passed his palm over his forehead. "I sent flowers, as you asked. I have to babysit you instead of enjoying my evening."
Erik unlocked the front door of his house and, with trembling hands, let the boat loose from its ropes. With the agility of a monkey, he jumped inside, earning a desperate look from Nadir. His heel knocked against the wood rythmically, following the cadenza from above. He hummed along, almost too far gone into the music to notice the Persian's efforts to climb in next to him.
"I taught her well, daroga," he concluded with a sigh.
Still groaning from effort, Nadir straightened his jacket and hat. "Yes, but try to stay alive tonight, long enough to tell her."
He grabbed one paddle with each arm and started rowing across the still, manmade underground lake. "Sarcasm noted, not appreciated, daroga."
Trying to keep up with Erik as he roamed the building was like trying to follow a street cat in a junkyard. Yet Nadir wouldn't leave his side, even if he'd almost given up ten times until they'd reached their destination. Erik, despite the pain piercing his lower abdomen, kept on climbing higher to the rafters, coming to rest only once they were level with the chandelier.
"Don't look down, daroga."
As if instructing him to do the opposite, Nadir's eyes lowered to the abyss below and he swang forward along with the glimmering crystals of the chandelier.
"Which part of 'don't look down' do you not understand?" Erik hissed. "Now, sit down and enjoy the show."
Even though he'd never admit it to Nadir, Erik himself was not too fond of heights. Of course, in time he'd learned to brush his heart racing aside, almost always prefering to hide as far from humanity as possible. However, more often than not, his breath still needed adjusting, for his eyes kept replaying a certain terrified dark haired italian girl falling to her death before him. He shut his yellow eyes and forced himself to concentrate on the gypsy tribe singing below him, as his hand snaked around his torso in a desperate attempt to ease his burning pain.