Lachesis' Weavings
by AngelCeleste85
Disclaimer, Blame and Setting: Same as before. I'm not making any money off of this, Melpomene hasn't made her signature appearance yet (though she's thinking about it), all the blame so far is mine, this whole thing is right after the ALW version but don't be surprised to find Leroux details in here as well, I keep them straight well enough in my own mind but like to mix them. Ah. Victorian-era swearwords lightly pepper the story but I don't think there's many here.
Other notes: Don't worry about Christine, you'll hear directly from her soon enough, my promise. Right now I'm working on Meg and Erik. I'm not saying a word more.
{{ Meg's thoughts }} [[ Erik's thoughts ]]
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Lachesis' Weavings by AngelCeleste85
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Ch. 6 - The Invitation
When Meg re-entered the bedroom, she found that Erik had again fallen asleep and she had to smile a little. She'd walked in on her mother asleep often enough: she knew teaching the petite rats was tougher on old Madame Giry than even the ballet teacher herself would care to admit. {{ But nobody up there would believe the Opera Ghost sleeps just like anyone else. }}
Again, and carefully so as not to disturb the man, she spooned water to his lips that he drank unconsciously. {{ The poor man, he's so worn-out he won't wake even for water, and so thirsty he won't refuse it even asleep. }} Now that she was no longer worried sick for a man who might not last the night or terrified of the anger of the Phantom, she had an opportunity to study his face.
Above the brows and the high, noble forehead was a mass of chocolate-brown hair, receding slightly. Christine had always called it black and Megan could see why, but it wasn't really. It looked as though it had once been meticulously trimmed and cared for, but had been allowed to grow slightly shaggy. If it was washed, it might actually look nice, but matted with oil and dirt and dead hair as it was it was not at its best.
The left side of his face was flawless, absolutely smooth though too pale and wasted. {{ He needs food and needs it soon. }} She remembered seeing him before, once or twice during Christine's days at the Opera House, and the rosy glow of health had shone through his milky skin like a soft pink light shone through the fine white cotton fan that was one of Carlotta's props. The comparison made her blush, but with his golden-brown eyes he really wasn't unattractive. when only that good left side of his face was visible.
The other side was a different story altogether. Twisted, ravaged, the skin and even the muscles beneath folded onto itself in a tangled web of raised and nerveless skin and deep ravines, blue veins and angry maroon arteries only too visible above the muscles that should have hidden it. Pallid and drawn and withered as he was now, it was all the more horrifying. and yet Meg felt no horror, only pity. The ravages of grief and self-neglect were all too apparent on his face and on his too-thin body, though.
Meg was careful not to give him too much water, at this stage, too much could cause the man internal damage. It wasn't something she could have phrased, it was more a knowing, watching his breathing and the play of color in his face. Still much too pale and he would not get much color back until he ate, but that she could take care of as well, when she was able to return to the real world. {{ Strange to think of an opera house as the real world. I wonder what he would think of that? }}
{{ I've got to get back. I have no idea what time it is, or even what day. Oh my God, Maman is going to kill me if I'm late again. But I can't just leave him, I need to let him know I'll be back. is there paper around here? }}
A careful search of the rooms outside revealed a little bit of paper, not too badly damaged, in what had been Erik's room. It was the fine white parchment he used for writing music on, the neat compositions as opposed to the rough paper that Meg had seen the mob burning, containing the swift scratchings of a man desperate to get the music out of his head and onto paper as hastily as possible. Meg winced at spoiling such a pristine surface with the blackened end of a splinter in her unpracticed hand, but it had to be done. Erik needed to know someone cared about him enough to return.
Erik was still asleep when she re-entered the room yet again. Quickly she made a note of the time on the clock on Christine's mantelpiece and jotted that down as well. She made sure the blue bowl was by his side on the night-table and full, the tin cup as well and both within easy reach, and slipped the note into the one wan hand the lay atop the covers.
It had definitely been rather amusing, she thought back, to see that her imitation of her mother had the same effect on the feared Opera Ghost as the woman herself had on the ballet corps. {{ I will have to remember how I did that, I don't think he'll be a very good patient! }} Well, not quite the same reaction, the petite rats always fluttered when Madame Giry raised her voice and quickly did as told, whereas Erik had seemed about to laugh at her. She sighed. It had at least gotten the same results, and for that Meg was grateful.
It wasn't too difficult, though she had not left a trail to follow, for the little dancer to thread her way back through the labyrinth and back to Christine's dressing room. The flywalk , she moved over quickly enough now that she knew she actually could.
Still, the crunching of glass on boards beneath her feet as she approached the upper levels of the Paris Opera was very welcome. Since she wasn't especially hungry, she figured she couldn't have been gone for long. The dress she had borrowed from the closet in the locked room was badly soiled but her practice garb, laid out on the little cot in the dressing room, were clean and undisturbed. With a haste that could only come of long years performing with the Opera Garnier's ballet corps under Isabelle Giry's harsh tutelage, Meg stripped down, changed into her practice garb and straightened her tousled golden curls. The sooty smudges across her face she couldn't really do much about, but she spat on her hand and rubbed them off as best she could. Only when she deemed herself presentable did she dare to crack open the door into the hallway that she found with no small relief deserted.
From there it was only a few moments to slip through the halls between the singers' dressing rooms and the dressing and warm-up rooms of Meg's corps. The little dancer was both surprised and relieved to find the place deserted from the dressing-room levels on up. A glance at the calendar and the clock told the girl what she needed to know: it was nearly two-thirty in the morning, and she had a performance tonight. She would need some sleep sometime, but this was no time for a girl to walk around in Paris alone, and right now she wouldn't be able to buy any food anyway. And she wasn't really sleepy right now.
Passing by her locker, she noticed something white inside it though the vent that she knew she hadn't left there: a small triangle of white. Carefully she tried to take it out without needing to open the locker, but it fell and she clicked her tongue behind her teeth in mild vexation. It was just that opening the locker was a pain, was all.
Meg stared at the object in question. It was a paper, neatly folded and sealed in white wax flecked with gold. {{ Who would send me a letter and seal it with wax? Only the aristocrats do that. }} Carefully she studied the missive.
Her name was written across the front with gold ink and in a bold copperplate hand she did not recognize. The parchment itself was thick and heavy, expensive, more so even than the page on which she had written her note to Erik. Through the paper, in precise slits made in it, a narrow band of white lace was threaded. The seal was of a stylized dolphin jumping the centermost of three waves and looked like a few pen-strokes could draw it, yet somehow it conveyed a stark and simple beauty. The entire missive was simply lovely.
"Well," she breathed, reluctant to have to crack that lovely seal to bits or mar that beautiful paper, but she steeled herself and broke the seal. Unfolding it, she drew a gasp.
"Monsieur Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny and Mademoiselle Christine Daaè respectfully request the attendance of Madame Isabelle Giry and Mademoiselle Megan Giry at their wedding."
Below that, in the same ink and the same strong hand that adorned the front of the missive, were listed the details: The date, the location, which was to be at Greenfield, one of the family's estates in Brittany as she recalled. All transportation and lodgings needed would be arranged by the Vicomte if a response was made quickly. The signatures, which gave away Raoul as the author of the invitation. What was the date? He eyes scanned back up to it.
"One month." {{ My God, they're not wasting any time, are they? }} One month.
How could she break this to Erik, without breaking him in the process?
~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~
Your thoughts, s'îl vous plaît? Merci beaucoup!
AngelCeleste
Disclaimer, Blame and Setting: Same as before. I'm not making any money off of this, Melpomene hasn't made her signature appearance yet (though she's thinking about it), all the blame so far is mine, this whole thing is right after the ALW version but don't be surprised to find Leroux details in here as well, I keep them straight well enough in my own mind but like to mix them. Ah. Victorian-era swearwords lightly pepper the story but I don't think there's many here.
Other notes: Don't worry about Christine, you'll hear directly from her soon enough, my promise. Right now I'm working on Meg and Erik. I'm not saying a word more.
{{ Meg's thoughts }} [[ Erik's thoughts ]]
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lachesis' Weavings by AngelCeleste85
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ch. 6 - The Invitation
When Meg re-entered the bedroom, she found that Erik had again fallen asleep and she had to smile a little. She'd walked in on her mother asleep often enough: she knew teaching the petite rats was tougher on old Madame Giry than even the ballet teacher herself would care to admit. {{ But nobody up there would believe the Opera Ghost sleeps just like anyone else. }}
Again, and carefully so as not to disturb the man, she spooned water to his lips that he drank unconsciously. {{ The poor man, he's so worn-out he won't wake even for water, and so thirsty he won't refuse it even asleep. }} Now that she was no longer worried sick for a man who might not last the night or terrified of the anger of the Phantom, she had an opportunity to study his face.
Above the brows and the high, noble forehead was a mass of chocolate-brown hair, receding slightly. Christine had always called it black and Megan could see why, but it wasn't really. It looked as though it had once been meticulously trimmed and cared for, but had been allowed to grow slightly shaggy. If it was washed, it might actually look nice, but matted with oil and dirt and dead hair as it was it was not at its best.
The left side of his face was flawless, absolutely smooth though too pale and wasted. {{ He needs food and needs it soon. }} She remembered seeing him before, once or twice during Christine's days at the Opera House, and the rosy glow of health had shone through his milky skin like a soft pink light shone through the fine white cotton fan that was one of Carlotta's props. The comparison made her blush, but with his golden-brown eyes he really wasn't unattractive. when only that good left side of his face was visible.
The other side was a different story altogether. Twisted, ravaged, the skin and even the muscles beneath folded onto itself in a tangled web of raised and nerveless skin and deep ravines, blue veins and angry maroon arteries only too visible above the muscles that should have hidden it. Pallid and drawn and withered as he was now, it was all the more horrifying. and yet Meg felt no horror, only pity. The ravages of grief and self-neglect were all too apparent on his face and on his too-thin body, though.
Meg was careful not to give him too much water, at this stage, too much could cause the man internal damage. It wasn't something she could have phrased, it was more a knowing, watching his breathing and the play of color in his face. Still much too pale and he would not get much color back until he ate, but that she could take care of as well, when she was able to return to the real world. {{ Strange to think of an opera house as the real world. I wonder what he would think of that? }}
{{ I've got to get back. I have no idea what time it is, or even what day. Oh my God, Maman is going to kill me if I'm late again. But I can't just leave him, I need to let him know I'll be back. is there paper around here? }}
A careful search of the rooms outside revealed a little bit of paper, not too badly damaged, in what had been Erik's room. It was the fine white parchment he used for writing music on, the neat compositions as opposed to the rough paper that Meg had seen the mob burning, containing the swift scratchings of a man desperate to get the music out of his head and onto paper as hastily as possible. Meg winced at spoiling such a pristine surface with the blackened end of a splinter in her unpracticed hand, but it had to be done. Erik needed to know someone cared about him enough to return.
Erik was still asleep when she re-entered the room yet again. Quickly she made a note of the time on the clock on Christine's mantelpiece and jotted that down as well. She made sure the blue bowl was by his side on the night-table and full, the tin cup as well and both within easy reach, and slipped the note into the one wan hand the lay atop the covers.
It had definitely been rather amusing, she thought back, to see that her imitation of her mother had the same effect on the feared Opera Ghost as the woman herself had on the ballet corps. {{ I will have to remember how I did that, I don't think he'll be a very good patient! }} Well, not quite the same reaction, the petite rats always fluttered when Madame Giry raised her voice and quickly did as told, whereas Erik had seemed about to laugh at her. She sighed. It had at least gotten the same results, and for that Meg was grateful.
It wasn't too difficult, though she had not left a trail to follow, for the little dancer to thread her way back through the labyrinth and back to Christine's dressing room. The flywalk , she moved over quickly enough now that she knew she actually could.
Still, the crunching of glass on boards beneath her feet as she approached the upper levels of the Paris Opera was very welcome. Since she wasn't especially hungry, she figured she couldn't have been gone for long. The dress she had borrowed from the closet in the locked room was badly soiled but her practice garb, laid out on the little cot in the dressing room, were clean and undisturbed. With a haste that could only come of long years performing with the Opera Garnier's ballet corps under Isabelle Giry's harsh tutelage, Meg stripped down, changed into her practice garb and straightened her tousled golden curls. The sooty smudges across her face she couldn't really do much about, but she spat on her hand and rubbed them off as best she could. Only when she deemed herself presentable did she dare to crack open the door into the hallway that she found with no small relief deserted.
From there it was only a few moments to slip through the halls between the singers' dressing rooms and the dressing and warm-up rooms of Meg's corps. The little dancer was both surprised and relieved to find the place deserted from the dressing-room levels on up. A glance at the calendar and the clock told the girl what she needed to know: it was nearly two-thirty in the morning, and she had a performance tonight. She would need some sleep sometime, but this was no time for a girl to walk around in Paris alone, and right now she wouldn't be able to buy any food anyway. And she wasn't really sleepy right now.
Passing by her locker, she noticed something white inside it though the vent that she knew she hadn't left there: a small triangle of white. Carefully she tried to take it out without needing to open the locker, but it fell and she clicked her tongue behind her teeth in mild vexation. It was just that opening the locker was a pain, was all.
Meg stared at the object in question. It was a paper, neatly folded and sealed in white wax flecked with gold. {{ Who would send me a letter and seal it with wax? Only the aristocrats do that. }} Carefully she studied the missive.
Her name was written across the front with gold ink and in a bold copperplate hand she did not recognize. The parchment itself was thick and heavy, expensive, more so even than the page on which she had written her note to Erik. Through the paper, in precise slits made in it, a narrow band of white lace was threaded. The seal was of a stylized dolphin jumping the centermost of three waves and looked like a few pen-strokes could draw it, yet somehow it conveyed a stark and simple beauty. The entire missive was simply lovely.
"Well," she breathed, reluctant to have to crack that lovely seal to bits or mar that beautiful paper, but she steeled herself and broke the seal. Unfolding it, she drew a gasp.
"Monsieur Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny and Mademoiselle Christine Daaè respectfully request the attendance of Madame Isabelle Giry and Mademoiselle Megan Giry at their wedding."
Below that, in the same ink and the same strong hand that adorned the front of the missive, were listed the details: The date, the location, which was to be at Greenfield, one of the family's estates in Brittany as she recalled. All transportation and lodgings needed would be arranged by the Vicomte if a response was made quickly. The signatures, which gave away Raoul as the author of the invitation. What was the date? He eyes scanned back up to it.
"One month." {{ My God, they're not wasting any time, are they? }} One month.
How could she break this to Erik, without breaking him in the process?
~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~
Your thoughts, s'îl vous plaît? Merci beaucoup!
AngelCeleste