AN: I guess I'm in a POTO mood…here's another installment of my weird little one-shots. The "lyrics" that the they sing are actually mine. I mean, you can sing them along to the Angel of Music melody, but I wrote them. Anyway, maybe I'll write some more. Sorry I can't come up with a clever title or summary!
"Christine Daae doesn't have any family," freckled Anne Marie said while sucking on a long peppermint stick. A group of young ballet students were sitting backstage on a cold Christmas Eve, their tiny feet wrapped in soft pink satin and their hair tied back into tight round knots. The discussion had been Christmas plans, as most of the girls would be seeing their parents for the holiday.
Quiet, dark-eyed Christine had dreamed aloud a wish she often kept to herself—that one day, someone would come and take her back to the cottage by the sea. Somehow, by some Christmas miracle, her father would be there waiting. He would play carols on his violin while she danced, showing him how much she had learned after five years of training, and all those lovely memories would come to life. At Anne Marie's interjection her fantasy was shattered.
"Christine has a family," Meg Giry argued sharply, her pretty little face screwed into a glare. "Her father was a famous violiner, and that is her family."
"Well, he is dead, so he doesn't count," Anne Marie amended before shoving the rest of her candy into her mouth. Her parents were poor but still managed to shower her with candy and entirely too much of it. She had been bragging about what she expected on Christmas morning until Christine, the charming orphan who merited more praise and critique from Madam Giry than her own daughter, had mentioned something about her childhood at a perfect little house in the country. Anne Marie's parents lived in a dirty apartment in the cheapest part of Paris. "He can't come visit her. That's why she has to stay here in the opera house on Christmas day."
"I do too!" Meg growled.
"Your mummy lives here. Christine has none." The rest of the girls had been silent during this humiliation; they knew better than to challenge Anne Marie's aged confidence. Only Meg had parental protection to save her. Christine, the frailest of the younger girls, was sitting across from Anne Marie with tears in her eyes. She stood and ran from the group, her soft footsteps fading down one of the twisted halls of the backstage. Meg shot Anne Marie daggers through her brilliant eyes. She stood and stormed past the bully.
"Christine!" Meg shouted, hurrying after her. "Christine, come back!" Once again, her best friend and surrogate sister had disappeared into the maze of the opera house. Meg knew all of her hiding places, but she didn't have Christine's bravery. She could hear voices in the halls, movements above her and in the walls, and she was afraid. Christine seemed to take shelter in the haunting of the old theater. Meg bit her lip and turned back to the stage, looking for her mother to tattle. Christine would have to find her own way back.
She didn't want to go back. Alone in the chapel, she threw herself in front of the chilled stained glass window showing a smiling angel with open arms. She was shivering but from her own weeping. Too many times she found herself in tears over the absence of her father. Instead of agony from needing him, Christine was angry. She was ten years old and too young to be alone. She wanted to know why her father had to leave her, and she wanted to have her life back. This old opera house was not her home. Madam Giry was not her father. The music of the violin from the orchestra in the pit was not played for her, but for the soprano, and there were no friendly smiles to read dark stories of the north to her at night. She had nothing left. When Christine floated across the stage in dance, she forgot about her desolation for a few moments of bliss. Once again, Anne Marie's jealousy had torn that refuge away.
"I hate her," she chattered through her furious tears. "Why does she have to remind me…about everything?" Christine wiped her flushed cheeks and pulled her knees to her chin. After a few moments of silence, her heart began to regret blaming her father for Anne Marie's teasing. She quickly walked over to light a candle for his soul. As soon as the firelight caught the few tears left in her eyes, the song began. Slow and steady, it filled the small chapel from somewhere unseen. It was his voice, her Angel, and he had seen her in distress. She closed her eyes and fell into his words.
"Sorrowful child, cry no longer…here you will find your comfort…"
"Angel of Music," she whispered an answer, "you have found me. Stay with me now and always."
"Forgotten and lost, you are lonely, turn to the window and see…when all of the world is against you, you are safe with me…"
A shadow passed in front of the colored glass, snuffing her humble votive flame out. She gasped as a form took shape in front of the window, taking the place of the seraph, but framed by the image's outstretched wings. It was the real angel. He took a step forward, and she looked away. The celestial presence had frightened her, but she was wrapped in the warmth of his velvet cloak before she fell to the stone floor.
Madam Giry grumbled under her breath as she stomped behind stage, searching for the gaggle of girls who had once again sent Christine Daae into tears. Meg struggled to keep up behind, chatting away at all that was said and all that had happened. They were told to keep out of the adults' way, but Madam could not find Anne Marie or Christine. Instead, they found the rest of the ballet students in hysterics. Madam Giry sighed and calmed them enough to hear what was wrong.
"Girls, girls—where is Anne Marie? Did you see where Christine ran off to? Must you always pester each other until you are inconsolable?"
"Anne Marie was in an accident!" black-haired Charlotte exclaimed. Madam Giry's eyes widened as her hand was taken toward a corner near the door. Anne Marie was holding her foot while moaning, eyes squinted shut. The instructor immediately dropped to her knees to help the child. Meg and the rest of the classmates stood back, aghast.
"What happened?" Madam Giry asked. Anne Marie couldn't answer. Her foot was bent and swelling.
"She was going to the door when this fell," Charlotte explained for her. She pointed to a heavy sand sack that was usually kept suspended above the stage, safely tied or resting on the catwalks. Madam Giry immediately grew pale at the sight of the sliced rope. It hadn't untied—it had been cut.
"She's only a child," she muttered to herself. "Have pity, Ghost…"
"Mama," Meg stammered. "Her foot looks broken!"
"Ask Madam Lafleur for some ice," her mother instructed. She began to carefully remove Anne Marie's slippers.
"It hurts," the girl whined pitifully. "My shoes…they hurt…"
"No dancing for you, miss," Madam Giry sadly condemned. Her eyes darted upward for a moment, just in case he was still there…he was gone. Christine was gone. "Charlotte, go and find Christine. Check the hallways downstairs and the dorms."
"But," Charlotte stuttered with a trembling lip, "all…all alone?"
"Do not waste my time with ghost stories," Madam Giry snapped. "Go!" The girls padded off to follow their orders. Anne Marie was left with a badly bruised foot. "We'll call the doctor," she sighed. "Anne Marie, what did you tell Christine?"
"Nothing," she lied through her tears. "I didn't tell her anything!" Anne Marie was handed to her parents with a fractured foot. Her dancer's arch was broken, and she would not dance for at least three weeks—enough to get round off of candy and fall behind.
Christine was found later that night asleep in her bed, her face white as a sheet and cool as ice. She was sick, probably from wandering around the clammy basement of the opera house, Madam Giry reasoned. Only she knew why Christine was allowed to explore the darkest parts of the labyrinth, and only she knew why Christine would always be returned, safe and asleep in her bed. She shook her head and closed the bedroom door; she would have warm cider waiting for the orphan when she awoke. Her sleep was solid but far from peaceful—she had strange dreams of a faceless protector who sang her lullabies and cradled her close. Only her father could hold her, but she somehow knew it wasn't him. Still, she was safe. She regained her strength and warmth, forgetting all of the harsh words that had sent her into tears.
When Christine sat up on Christmas morning, she found a perfect red rose resting next to her pillow with a black ribbon tied around its stem. A few festive holly berries were nestled with the leaves of the flower, and a piece of chocolate wrapped in gold waited next to it.
Christine didn't believe in Father Noel—she believed in the Angel of Music.