For my own angel of music. Though perhaps he is an angel of sewing, or fedoras.
Disclaimer: I wonder how one would go about obtaining the rights to the Phantom of the Opera.
(If you would like something close to an example of what I imagine Erik's composition to resemble, I'd suggest looking up "Insanae et Vanae Curae" by Haydn. But if you do, you have to listen to St. John College Choir's version! It is absolutely exquisite and by far the best rendition I've ever heard of the piece. It probably doesn't do our favorite Angel of Music justice, but if you're interested, it is most definitely worth it. Laura, you know what I'm talking about. *laughs*)
PS: "Samuelais Vincents" is pronounced "Sah-muel-iss Vahn-sohn", the last syllable rhyming with the stereotypical "HON HON HON" of the French accent.
Erik dipped his quill into a well of black ink and copied notes from his mind onto a sheet of pre-lined parchment.
It was coming together quite nicely; the composition that came to him in his agony had blossomed beautifully into existence, flowing from behind his eyes through his hand to his scoresheets. Ravishing!
Meg, who had been doodling cheerfully at the Opera Ghost's desk again, sauntered up behind him to peek over his shoulder.
"Ayyy, nice four-measure-phrases."
Erik jumped, splattering a bit of ink on his papers. "Do you dancers ever practice?" he demanded. "It seems as if you are down here all the time-"
"Shshsh," Meg interrupted. "Don't question it."
Erik's eyes narrowed. "What were you doing over there?" He motioned vaguely toward where Meg had come from.
"Drawin'," she answered gaily, smoothing her skirt. "No peeking," she added as Erik tried to peer at the paper laying face-up on his desk. Erik returned to his score with a grumble.
Christine nodded absently towards Joan, who was trying to correct Christine's dance technique. Dance, she found, was something she was more adept at than she actually enjoyed. Her passion lied with music, where it always had, ever since she was a little girl and her father had accompanied her singing on the violin. She drifted silently through the memories, standing on stage after stage with no thought of fear in her young mind, singing her favorite songs with her father at her side. Reading legends of the yonder with her childhood friends as her father played in the background. The cottage in Marseilles. Her father's tender eyes as he tucked her into bed.
"Christine, it's not that bad!" Joan insisted, startling Christine from her reverie. "You'll get better, I promise! You don't have to cry!"
With a small noise of shock, Christine found streaks of tears on her cheeks. She blushed, brushing them away with her fingertips. "Sorry. I was thinking about my father."
"Christine, you are always a thousand miles away."
"Sorry."
Erik shuffled his papers, tapping them on his music holder to align them neatly before gently laying the stack atop his piano. Done. It was done. His eyes drifted over to the rest of his Don Juan Triumphant, lying in a leather folder against the side of the piano. Oh, gosh. He bit down on his malformed lip. Was it still as good as it had sounded when he created it? Internally torn, he glanced between the folder and Meg sitting peacefully at his desk, sketching. He snatched the folder and spread its contents out across the music holder of his organ. Lovingly caressing the keys of his favorite instrument, Erik's fingers found a home in the key of D minor.
With all the power of the Persian Empire coiled behind his hands, the Angel of Death struck his opening chord, knocking the wind from his lungs and forcing his heart to surge forward with passion as the music flowed through his fingertips from his very soul, creating life itself in every note.
"GOD FUCKING DAMNIT, TURN THAT RACKET DOWN!" Meg screamed from Erik's desk, covering her ears. "WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, TELL THE ENTIRE FRENCH ARMY WE'RE DOWN HERE?!"
"HUSH, MEG, I'M ORGANING!" Erik shouted back over the sound of his Daedal composition.
"WELL, WHEN THE GENDARMES INVADE, I'LL BE UPSTAIRS!" Meg hollered, pointing furiously toward the stairs before charging up them.
Meg could not think of enough swear words in her mind as she charged up the stone steps leading to the ballet dormitories, and that was weird for her. Meg ALWAYS had enough to say. But it felt as if nothing could drown out that torturous glare of noise that Erik called "music". There she was, sitting harmlessly at his desk, sketching, when WHAM, this OFFENSIVE, CLASHING, HELLA-LOUD MONSTROSITY comes crashing down on her! Augh, it made her teeth rattle! She shuddered, unable to get it out of her mind. The organ still echoed (quite loudly) throughout the stone halls. She could barely hear herself think enough to count the number of steps and leap over number 23 (she'd set off that one before and she could be the first to tell you that Erik's booby-traps weren't fun). Suddenly, the music began to shift. It took on a different air, a sweeter, more... Oh, there was word for it... Romantic, almost, air. It pulled back on her fleeing steps and turned her head with curiosity, lifting her heart as though the music had somehow given it wings. The notes drifted higher, sweeter still, a pianissimo that turned all of Meg's focus to the piece in order to hear it better. Each phrase sparkled, even as they faded and finally settled into a repose that left its listener in perfect peace.
Then Erik started banging on the keys again as in the beginning. Meg cried out at the shock and started again at racing up the stairs.
Duront Reyer paced the floor. His skin was beginning to crawl; he hadn't had a drink since yesterday afternoon. With his secret store of alcohol confiscated and his best friend refusing to help, Duront felt forced into a void of solitude, where the only thing that could occupy his mind was counting the beats of his heart. Each thump was harder than the last, like a rock determined to beat its way out of his chest. A distraction was desperately needed. He threw open the door of his dormitory and stalked toward the hall entrance-
Just as a little blond girl burst through the door.
"Oh!" she gasped. "It's you!"
Duront laughed, recognizing her as the little Giry girl, and replied, "We've got to stop running into each other like this."
A light blush colored Meg's cheeks. "I believe it is I, Monsieur, who keeps running into you. And nearly running you over, too, I might add."
Duront silently thanked whatever had given him a distraction, be it fate, karma, or whatever it was up there looking down with merciful eyes. "Walk with me?" He extended his arm to Meg, causing her blush to deepen. She had nice skin. Pale, almost translucent. An easy blusher. Kind of cute, Duront thought.
Meg took Duront's arm.
Christine looked around the stage in a panic. Rehearsal was starting. Where was Meg? Oh, God. Oh, God. She always felt so lost without her. She started tugging at her costume. The other girls were starting to stretch. Christine hated being alone. It wasn't like she didn't have other friends, but Meg was her BEST friend, her favorite friend, the one she always had by her side. That had always kind of worried Christine. Meg was so much better than her at friend-making. Meg would be fine without Christine, but... A Meg-less Christine was a hopeless Christine. She felt panic swell in her throat. Oh, God.
"Ladies!" Madame Giry banged her cane on the floor. Only Christine remained unstill in the group of dancers. "Rehearsal is about to begin! Start stretching!" The effect was immediate; all of the girls leapt up and began their practices, but Mademoiselle Daaé approached her dance instructor, who regarded her with raised eyebrows.
"Madame Giry?"
"Yes?"
"Is Meg here today?"
Madame Giry did not need to scan the room for her daughter. "She should be. I'll give you leave, Christine. Go fetch her. Quickly now." She ushered the young girl away, and watched as her mess of brown curls disappeared behind the stage.
"Monsieur Reyer." Samuelais Vincents, the head male dance instructor, approached l'Opera Populaire's conductor with a quick pace and a sure step, shoulders back and head high.
Monsieur Reyer glanced up from his work to acknowledge the instructor. "Monsieur Vincents?"
The visitor wasted no time on traditional greetings. "Your son is not. At. Rehearsals." His tone suggested a harshness aimed at Duront's father, as if he were responsible for his son's absence.
Rising to his full height from his seat at the desk before him, Monsieur Reyer looked down at his subordinate with a commanding air that left no room for such disrespect. "Then I suppose we'll have to look for him, won't we?" Despite his calm demeanor, Reyer's stomach began to turn as his mind began to race. Hadn't he banned Duront from drinking? He most certainly had! This was it, then. This was the last straw. His heart lurched. He'd have to kick his son out of the household. Duront had chosen his pathetic addiction over his own family honor. Disgust boiled in his chest as he exited his office with the instructor trailing behind.
Nope, not in there. Christine backed out of the dormroom she shared with Meg.
Erik pounded out the last chord of his piece.
"Ahaha," he hissed to himself, shaking out his hands to stop their trembling. Woo! Music gave him chills. He found himself with renewed energy, and a desire to get up and do something. A quick glance at the grandfather clock he kept by the closet alerted him that rehearsal had been underway for about ten minutes now. He leapt up and swept his opera cloak over his shoulder, grabbing his favorite fedora on the way out.
Nope, not in there either. Christine shut the door to the music practice room.
"Not in here," Monsieur Vincent informed the maestro. The two strode out of the restrooms.
I wonder if...? Christine turned toward the break room.
Monsieur Reyer motioned toward the hall across from theirs. "Perhaps we could try the ballet break rooms."
"Pardon me, Monsieur Reyer, but I must return to my duties; the new assistant will not last long without me. If you find the boy, please send him down." And with a ceremonious bow, Vincents left the head director.
"Why, I never," Reyer muttered, stalking toward the break room.
The Opera Ghost leapt up onto the catwalks and peered down at rehearsal, trusting affection to guide his gaze toward his sweet Christine. But after a few moments of scanning the dance formations, he came up empty; Christine was nowhere to be found.
On her way to the ballet break room, Christine noticed a familiar figure advancing. "Oh! Bonjour, Monsieur Reyer," she greeted the head orchestra director. "Comment allez-vous?" The two continued approaching the French doors in the middle of the hall.
"Fine, fine," Reyer answered, too agitated to be bothered by decorum.
"Are you also heading to the break rooms?"
Monsieur Reyer stopped and turned to look at this girl, to really look at her. She couldn't have been much older than seventeen, yet she held herself with the grace and dignity of a well-bred woman. Reyer was reminded of a bird, the way she tilted her head and balanced herself slightly on the balls of her feet as if she were about to take flight. "Yes," he answered. He blinked as a sudden question startled him from his observations. "Shouldn't you be at rehearsals?" he asked, gesturing towards her colorful costume.
"Oh," she whispered. "Yes, Monsieur, but I'm looking for my friend, Mademoiselle Giry. Have you seen her?"
"No," he murmured, "but I am also looking for someone; my son, Duront. Do you know him?"
Christine's brow furrowed. "Not well, Monsieur, if at all. But perhaps we can search together. If... If that's alright, I mean." She stepped away with a blush.
"Of course, Mademoiselle. What is your name?"
"Daaé. Christine Daaé."
"Daaé!" he cried. "You wouldn't happen to be a relative of the famous Swedish violinist, would you?"
She gave a deep nod. "My father, Gustave."
"Oh my," Monsieur Reyer said heatedly, offering to shake her hand. "It is a pleasure indeed to meet you! Your father was always a sort of inspiration to me; my one regret is that I never got to meet him before he..." His voice trailed off as Christine tucked her chin to her chest and let her hair veil her face. "Oh, dear. My sincerest condolences, Mademoiselle Daaé." He cleared his throat when she made no sound, and she quickly swept her hand across her cheeks and raised her face back to the light.
"Shall we?" Monsieur Reyer gestured toward the double-doors. Assured by another nod from Mlle Daaé, he pushed open the doors.
Erik, muttering to himself, dissolved back into the shadows and took to searching the opera house from behind its walls. First thing's first: the dorms.
"Not in here." Monsieur Reyer closed the empty breakroom's doors.
"Nope, not in here." Erik closed the small vanity mirror in Christine's dormroom. Hmmm. He headed for the break room.
"Up to the dressing rooms?" Christine pointed above her where the close-packed, overheated dressing rooms lay. Reyer nodded assent, and the two of them headed for the stairs.
Erik's shoes slid against the slick concrete of the floor behind a wall no one would have guessed to contain any form of secret. The ominous, infamous Opera Ghost took a running start and stopped abruptly, so he'd slide a couple of yards in his shoes. Low, delighted cackling echoed throughout the hall that shouldn't exist.
He checked the breakroom through a peephole. Nope, he thought. Not in here.
The dressing rooms were a crowded, hot, messy blob of adjoining cavities that alway smelled like theatre makeup and sweaty shoes, regardless of whether anyone was actually in there. The dressing rooms were sacred, and not to be messed with. When a new actor or actress was recruited into the Opera Populaire's numbers, their first instructions were not to mess with the dressing rooms. It may look like chaos, they agreed amongst themselves, but it was organized chaos. The scarf hanging over one of the shelf supports had been there for six years. No one could remember a time when the ladies' dressing room walls hadn't been adorned with roses painted in lipstick. Burn marks marred one of the walls' floral wallpaper, but everyone agreed that it gave the room character and should not be replaced. The Opera Populaire's dressing rooms were one of those places that stayed in one's memory forever, one of those rare places that felt like home to anyone who chose to let it become a part of them. To many of the actors and dancers, it was the only place that could be considered a home. Cluttered and cramped and sometimes overwhelming though they were, the dressing rooms were perfect the way they were.
It was to these rooms that Christine and Monsieur Reyer arrived after a short walk up the stairs. Monsieur Reyer placed his hands on the double-door knobs, and pushed them open.
Erik pressed his hand into a stone in the wall, opening a secret passageway. With the flip of his cloak, he vanished.
Christine gasped and started into the dressing room, her eyes riveted on Meg, but Monsieur Reyer placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.
"Shh," he whispered.
Behind a costume rack in the middle of the room, Christine and Monsieur Reyer could see both Meg and Duront sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in an old beat-up sofa that the cast used as a holder for picture frames and lost shoes. Duront had his feet up on a stool in front of him, knees bent so as to properly balance a drawing pad on his lap, up facing him. His left hand, clutching a pencil, kept the pad of paper pinned to his thighs. Meg, beside him, touched her finger lightly to the paper, guiding where his pencil should go. Duront traced the path she made for him, crabbed lines and uneven curves barely taking shape. His ballerina friend giggled and took his pencil, quickly sketching out a rose with soft markings and gentle swoops of grey. With a groan of aggravation, Duront tore the page away and tossed it to the side, where it fluttered to the floor in a pile of other scratched works. Laughing delightedly, Meg handed him back the pencil.
"You've gotta think of it like... Like dancing," she said, looking up at Duront and motioning towards the page. "It's graceful. There's an image in your mind like there's a song in your heart, and you've got to find a way to bring it to life. It's twists and turns and hard and soft and sometimes it's frustrating but... Look..." Meg took Duront's left hand and guided it over the page, where his pencil blossomed into another rose, elegant and regal. She gradually released his hand, and let him sketch on his own. "Like that," she whispered. "Perfect."
Duront looked down at Meg with an expression full of awe and wonder. His pencil stopped moving, and he cupped Meg's chin in his right hand, black eyes sparkling like the moon on water.
Monsieur Reyer closed the doors.
"But... But Monsieur..."
"Mademoiselle Daaé," Monsieur Reyer interrupted, holding up a hand, "Some things are better left untouched."
"It's settled then," came a voice from behind the wall.
Erik stopped in his tracks to listen in.
"Indeed, Monsieur. Pleasure doing business with you." Scooting chairs accompanied the shuffle of cloth and papers. Erik quickly turned the corner to open another peephole in the wall, where he could watch the very end of whatever transaction had taken place.
A short, balding man stood beside his tall, unseemly partner before the manager's desk in the business office. Monsieur Lefevre, owner of the Opera Populaire, stood to shake hands with both men.
"Monsieur André, Monsieur Firmin," he said to each of them in turn, "I look forward to seeing the Opera Populaire flourish under your management. Until the end of the month, then!"
"Until the end of the month," confirmed the shorter man.
"Au revoir, Monsieur Lefevre," added the second.
"Au revoir," Lefevre repeated.
The pair turned to take their leave, but the shorter one stopped for a moment. His brow furrowed, and he glanced about the room warily until his beady eyes stopped on the portrait of a man hanging on the wall, with piercing amber eyes that seemed to stare straight into the stout man's soul. He shuddered, and continued out the door.
Erik closed the double-peephole, astonished.
"Sorry I'm late, Madame," Christine huffed, dashing into her place for rehearsals.
"Did you find Meg?"
"Y-yes, Ma'am, she was... She was in the upstairs bathroom. She's not feeling well." The soprano quickly assumed an expression of worry.
"I'll talk to her later. The ballet, ladies! Continue!" And with that, the conversation ended.
She's back! Erik's heart leapt as he peered over the catwalks. But how had he missed her arrival? He'd looked everywhere; nothing got past him... Ever... Gosh, Christine looked pretty... He followed her every movement with adoring eyes, deciding to think about everything else later.
Meg found Erik sitting on the floor, holding an object against his drawn-up knees with one hand and making delicate strokes with the paintbrush in his other. Jars of paint lay open beside him, browns, blacks and white.
"Watcha up to?" she asked, plopping down in Erik's wing-backed chair.
"Where was Christine for the beginning of rehearsals today?" he responded.
"How should I know?"
Erik looked up sharply. "You weren't at rehearsals either, Meg. Where were you?"
"Nowhere," she replied easily. "Watcha got there?" She nodded toward the object in his hands.
"Nothing," Erik muttered, returning to his project.
"Tell me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"I'll tell you if you tell me."
Erik glanced up with narrowed eyes.
"I skipped rehearsals to practice the routine, then ended up staying in the dressing rooms for the day."
The dressing rooms! He hadn't checked the dressing rooms! "Oh," he said quietly.
"Now tell me."
"I- Well, I-"
Meg leapt up from her chair and started toward him.
"Now, Meg, you must understand... Well, I'm starting a new project, and-"
"HOLY FUCK, IS THAT CHRISTINE?!"
"Hush! I- sort of-"
Meg stared open-mouthed at the left-size mannequin head whose face somehow perfectly resembled Mademoiselle Daaé's. "HOW?" she choked. "WHY?!"
"I... Um... I'm starting a new project."
"What the-"
"Things are going to change around the Opera Populaire," the Phantom interrupted her. "And I have a plan."
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