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timebird84 · 2 years

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🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2021 🎄

By @a-partofthenarrative

"In Winter"

To say that the Phantom of the Opera was an enthusiast of surprises would be a vast understatement.

He was not even remotely fond of them; his sentiments were usually more on the borderline of loathsome.

It was for this reason that if anyone who knew him (granted, the possibilities were limited to the Daroga and Madame Giry, but still…) were to see him in his present state, they might think him a complete and utter fool. For at this very moment, his keen eyes were concealed in a darkness that even he could not find his vision in and his large hands were enfolded in much smaller ones as he allowed himself to blindly led to an unknown destination.

Some would question his sanity. What would posses him, the man who placed his trust in no one other than himself, to permit himself to be blindfolded with a mere scrap of cloth and unwittingly led only God knows where?

For her. Only her. Everything for her.

A slight veer to his left resulted in a sharp pain in his side and he bit back a curse. "Tell me, Christine. Have we far to go or am I to be subject to many more injuries by your leading."

Her soft laughter sounded in front of him. "Patience, Erik. We are nearly there."

A particularly impatient huff was his only answer and somehow he knew that her lips were curling into an impish grin. Despite his aggravated façade, his heart was bursting within his chest. If anyone had told him only mere months ago that he would be here today, he would have laughed in their face.

Nearly a year had passed since the infamous disaster and much had happened within that time. After the fall of the Phantom, Erik had fled to Nice where he had vowed to begin anew. A life that did not include music or Christine. Imagine his surprise, then, when he opened the door of his home fully expecting to find the dour ballet mistress and her daughter, only to see the very object of his (well-concealed) affections.

Needless to say, their reunion had been far less than the romantic rendezvous either one had imagined. That encounter had, however, opened the door to the many unanswered questions that continued to haunt them both. By the end of that night, they had managed to form a fragile peace and in the following months, had reconnected faster than either one had anticipated or hoped. Granted, matters between them were still far from perfect, but both Erik and Christine had vowed to do whatever it took to make their relationship work, a promise that only a fortnight before they had publicly vowed before God and man.

Even as Erik felt Christine absently caress the solid gold band on his finger, it all seemed so surreal; a dream from which he had yet to awaken .

Pressure on his hands and the sudden release of Christine from his grasp caused him to falter. "Please warn me when you are about to stop so abruptly, my dear. I fear one misstep would be my last."

He was certain his wife was rolling her eyes at his childish whining "Really Erik, stop being so dramatic. You are only irritated with me for insisting you wear the blindfold."

"Christine, you know how I feel about these things."

A rustle of skirts told him that she was now facing him. "Are you speaking of my surprise? Come now, Erik. How often have I indulged you in your attempts to please me with carefully planned outings and thoughtful gifts."

"You never complained." was his indignant reply

She chuckled and he felt her softly run her fingertips down his exposed cheek. "And you know you could never deny me." Claiming his hand once more, she pulled him forward. "Now quit your grumbling and follow me."

Erik already knew they were at the Opera Populaire. Immediately following their wedding, the couple had journeyed to Paris upon hearing the news of the completion of the reconstruction. The fire had indeed wreaked havoc on the building, but it had not been beyond repair. In fact, they were both mildly surprised when the letter from Madame Giry had arrived informing them of the opening night, only ten months after the incident. Christine had been anxious to return to her childhood home and as his lovely wife had pointed out only moments earlier, he had been unable to deny her.

The sound of an ancient door creaking in protest as Christine turned its handle gave a clue to their destination and as the cold air rushed against his face, he knew without a doubt where they were. A moment later, he felt his wife's hands reach around to the back of his head and untie the piece of fabric that blinded him.

Having become used to the darkness from the blindfold, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the soft light of the moon. He blinked a few times and then brought his gaze down to the eager face of his beloved.

She watched him with an anxious smile. "Well, here we are." She took his hand and began to lead him forward. "What do you think?"

He failed to see her point. "We're on the roof"

She cast him a reproachful gaze before saying. "I thought that to be quite obvious, my love. I mean, what do you think of the surroundings?"

Her husband was quiet for a moment. "I find it quite ironic that you choose to bring me here of all places. After all, this is where you pledged yourself to another and left my heart in shambles. Forgive me, Christine, but somehow I fail to see the joy."

Choosing to ignore his verbal barbs, she released his hands and pulled on a pair of gloves she had tucked into her boots. Handing him his own gloves that she had somehow pilfered from his armoire, Christine turned away and hugged her arms around her. "Must you always bring up the past? I thought we were beyond that."

Having sheathed his hands in the worn leather, Erik quickly rubbed them together for warmth and then addressed her. "As did I. However, your little reminder seems to have brought it roaring back to life."

She turned on him then. "Only by your own accord, Erik. Don't you see." She brought her hands to cup his face. "I brought you here not as a painful reminder of our tremulous beginning, but as a celebration of our wonderful future, our new life together. Do you know how many times I wished it was you that I was with that night? Darling, you are the only man that I wish to share my life with. You stir me in ways Raoul never did. Yes, he was..is dear to me. But you…" She sighed deeply. "My God, Erik, you…you inspire my heart, my very soul to sing. Do I not incite the same in you?"

Guilt colored his features. "My life is worth nothing without you, mon ange. You know that."

"Then how can you even question me?" Her hands moved from his face to grasp the lapels of his heavy coat. "Don't you ever accuse me of anything other than loving you, for if that is my only crime." She raised herself up to feather a kiss across his jaw. "Then I will gladly pay the penitence a thousand times over."

Pulling her to him, Erik closed his eyes and rested his cheek atop her mass of chocolate curls. "Forgive me, Christine." he rasped into her hair. "Forgive me for ever doubting you."

Her laughter vibrated against his shoulder. "I already have, my love. Besides." She pulled back to look at him, an impish gleam in her eyes. "there is something just utterly adorable about you when you're irritated." Before he had the chance to formulate a reply, she had flounced out of his grasp. "Oh Erik, look!" She turned to face him, delicate mouth turned up into a brilliant smile that never failed to render him speechless. "It's snowing!"

He lifted his gaze to the heavens to see the small white flecks descending upon them. "So it is."

"Oh don't be such a killjoy." His wife scoffed at him as she twirled in the midst of the falling flakes, suddenly looking much younger than her twenty years. "Isn't it wondrous? This is my favorite type of snow, you know."

He arched a perfectly groomed brow. "Is it now? And how would this snow be different than any other."

The look she slanted in his direction said that the answer should be perfectly obvious. "Look at the ground, Erik. What do you see?"

Still not quite understanding, he obliged, only to see the pure gray of the concrete structure beneath his feet. He stomped it one or twice for good measure. "Only the rooftop, my dear."

"My point exactly!" She twirled again, the pure innocence of her not-so-long-ago childhood radiating from her. "This particular snow does not fall. It merely floats in the air, almost waiting to be caught." Christine turned to him then and grasped his hands tightly. "Isn't it magical, Erik?"

He chuckled at her antics and leaned forward to press an affectionate kiss to her forehead. "If it makes you happy, mon ange, then it is wondrous indeed."

She slanted her gaze. "There is no need to patronize me."

Her husband shook his head. "I'm not patronizing you, my dear. Merely indulging your every whim." An ironic smile played on his lips. "Not that I have ever refused you in the past."

"Hmmm." She pulled him forward to taste the sweetness of her kiss. "See that you never do." She whispered against his mouth. His sudden shiver caused her smile to fade. "Are you cold, my love?"

He blew into his hands before answering. "Perhaps just a bit. You forget that I lived the better part of my life in the cellars. While they may have been dark, they were also unusually warm." he smirked. "I must be getting fragile in my old age."

Christine slanted an amused glance as the corners of her pink lips titled upward again. "I would hardly call you old, Erik." Then, blooming in a wicked smile, she mused, "However, if you do find yourself to be frozen, I think I may know of a way or two to warm you."

The brow was up in an instant. "Do you now?" He found himself immensely enjoying his wife's quiet seduction. "And what methods do you have up your pretty little proverbial sleeves?"

She only laughed softly and raised herself up to kiss him, drinking deeply of the passion that was beginning to burn behind his gemstone eyes. When they broke apart, he could see the same smoldering embers in the depths of her gaze as well. "That, my love, is an answer best left unspoken" She gazed up at him through hooded eyes. "But I can guarantee you will not be disappointed."

Erik said nothing, only offered his arm, which she took without hesitation. Bending down to steal a final kiss, he mused aloud. "I do believe, mon ange, that winter is quickly becoming my favorite time of year."

#PotO Advent Calendar #PotO #Phantom of the Opera #Door 22 #thanks to another very kind and reliable person yet another day was saved

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thephantomessoftheopera · 3 years

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Notes on Gaston Leroux�� “The Phantom of the Opera” - Chapter 6: “The Enchanted Violin”

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Artwork by @coatntails on deviantart

“The Enchanted Violin” introduces us to the childhood friendship of Raoul and Christine - but first, we learn that Christine did not continue to triumph at the Opera, but only sang once more in society at the invitation of the Duchess of Zurich and, after that, cancelled everything including a charity concert. She was apparently terrified by her triumph during the gala night, and didn’t “recognize herself” anymore when she sings. Before, she was emotionally distant and indifferent because she had shut everything out so she could cope with the grief of her father’s death. The amount of passion and feeling that Erik’s lessons had to rekindle in her must have felt terrifying and perhaps even painful to her. Plus, baring your heart and soul on stage like she did is, by itself, something that can indeed feel terrifying! In this chapter, we learn that Raoul has indeed been watching her performances at the Opera for some time, but also felt that she seemed indifferent to everything and everyone - until her soul finally came alive again with her gala night performance.

Philippe de Chagny has even tried to further her career with the managers to please his little brother, but Christine does not wish for him to do so. Raoul tries to seek her out, but without success. One morning though, Raoul receives a letter from Christine, assuring him that she has not forgotten the “little boy who fetched her scarf from the sea”, and informing him that she will be going to Perros-Guirec to visit her father’s grave on the anniversary of his death. Perros-Guirec is a seaside village in Brittany, quite far from Paris.

Raoul doesn’t lose time and rushes to the Montparnasse station to follow her, but fails to catch the morning train and has to wait all day for the night train (Raoul tends to have a bit of bad luck following him around).

This chapter also gives us a short biography of Christine Daaé. In the novel - contrary to the musical - she is described as blonde and blue-eyed, slender and somewhat short-sighted, which would presumably give her a bit of a dreamy, unfocused expression if nobody hands her a pair of glasses (I guess Erik wouldn’t mind her short-sightedness either!). She was born in the village of Skotelof near Uppsala in Sweden. Her father (who does not have a name in the novel) sang in the church choir and taught Christine to read music before she could read books. He also had a well-known reputation as the best violinist in Scandinavia, and was often requested to play at social gatherings. Christine’s mother died when she was 6 years old, and her father became a travelling musician and took Christine around the country. They were discovered by Professor Valerius and taken to Götheburg, where Christine received her training. His wife, Mama Valerius, treated Christine like a daughter. When the Valerius family moved to France, Christine and her father accompanied them. Papa Daaé did not adjust well to life in Paris though, and often found solace in his music only, locking himself in his room for hours at a time. The only time of the year he enjoyed was their yearly trip to the seaside town of Perros-Guirec, because the ocean reminded him of his native Sweden. Missing his nomadic lifestyle, he decided to once again to spend some time every year as a travelling musician with Christine - which is how Christine came to meet Raoul, who was then staying with his aunt - the one that kindled his love for the sea. Raoul heard Christine sing and was so utterly captivated by her angel’s voice that he started following her around with his governess. One day, at the bay of Trestraou, the wind was so strong that it blew Christine’s scarf into the sea, and Raoul ran after it fully clothed and rescued it. They became friends that summer and played together often, and Christine’s father also gave him some violin lessons.

Bay of Trestraou, where Raoul rescued Christine’s scarf from the sea (image from france-voyage.com)

Both Raoul and Christine loved listening to ancient tales and legends, especially the ones that Papa Daaé told them. Among those stories is the famous “Little Lotte”, who loved listening to the Angel of Music while she fell asleep. It’s a little funny that while they listen to the story, all Raoul does is look at Christine’s golden hair and blue eyes, imagining her as “Little Lotte”, and Christine’s thoughts are focused on how lucky Little Lotte was to hear the Angel of Music. So Raoul dreams about Christine while Christine dreams about the Angel of Music, which kind of foreshadows the setup of the love triangle in the novel.

To be honest, I can’t really blame Christine for thinking she was indeed hearing the Angel of Music in her dressing-room, since the description given fits Erik perfectly:

“No one ever saw him, but he made himself heard to those predestined to hear him. It often happened when they least expected it, when they were sad and disheartened. Then they suddenly heard heavenly harmonies and a divine voice, and they would remember it all their lives. People visited by the angel were left with a kind of flame burning inside them.”

I guess her father couldn’t really find the Angel of Music in heaven, so he sent her the next best thing that was available… Erik might not have been a heavenly angel, but the effect he had on her amounted to the same that is attributed to the Angel of Music in her father’s stories.

After their parting following the first summer that they spent together, Christine and Raoul saw each other again three years later, when they were “no longer children” - perhaps 13 to 14 years old, which would put their first meeting at about age 10 to 11. Professor Valerius has died in the meantime, and Christine’s father has started suffering from a cough. Raoul and Christine’s meeting is a little awkward this time - both seem to be developing tender feelings for each other, but are also very reserved. Their current relationship has now outgrown the sweet and carefree friendship of childhood. Raoul is quite infatuated with her, but he is also badly affected by his jealousy plus the unresolved issue of a peasant girl like Christine not being a suitable choice as a wife for a Viscount - and Christine being acutely aware of that. So yes - it’s complicated between those two. Afterwards, she tries to forget him and dedicate herself to her career instead. But when her father finally dies, her soul and her voice die with him, and even though her talent is still enough to gain entry into the Paris Conservatory, she cannot not bring any more enthusiasm to her studies, and just goes through the motions to please Mama Valerius.

Christine apparently travelled to Perros by herself, staying at the “Auberge du Soleil Couchant”. Raoul is looking forward to speaking to her alone without interference. Despite having sailed around the world, Leroux describes Raoul as “pure as a virgin” and overwhelmed by his love for Christine, who occupies his every thought - in fact, Raoul seems to obsess over things a lot in the novel, not just about Christine. When he finally meets her as she returns from mass, he jumps straight to the point and tells her that he loves her and cannot live without her - which is unfortunately not “what she wanted to hear”. Their conversation goes totally wrong and as his jealous temper gets the better of him, he behaves terribly and they get into a fight (over Erik, of course) to the point where she runs off and locks herself in her room.

Raoul, saddened by the way his meeting with Christine turned out, wanders off towards the graveyard to pray for Christine’s father, and finally sits down, looking out over the moor where he and Christine used to look for goblins when they were children. He never saw any, while Christine always saw lots despite her lack of proper eyesight - which shows that despite both of them being described as “dreamy”, Christine’s imagination is a lot more lively than Raoul’s. She finally comes out to make another try of confiding the secret of the Angel of Music who speaks to her to Raoul, but when she feels he doesn’t take her seriously and questions her virtue, she storms off again, truly angry this time and refusing to come down for dinner.

At night, about 11:30 pm, she finally sneaks out to visit her father’s grave at the Perros graveyard and meet the “Angel of Music” (aka Erik) there. This is obviously the scene which inspired “Wishing you were somehow here again”, though the original context is a little bit different. Raoul climbs out the window and follows her to the graveyard. Raoul’s account of the graveyard scene is given via a transcript of Raoul’s testimony to Commissary Mifroid a few weeks later, after Christine’s abduction. The use of this “source” is one of the things that have given rise to the theory that this is a “detective novel”, however Leroux uses it more like a historian would use a source - it’s just one of different documents that he uses (or claims to use) to prove that his story is indeed true.

Christine doesn’t notice Raoul following her. Her rendez-vous with the Angel of Music is supposedly taking place at exactly midnight at her father’s grave, so Christine is in a bit of a hurry to get there in time. It is still winter, so the graves are covered in snow and lit by the clear moonlight. Christine, who apparently has nerves of steel since she has no qualms about going to graveyards at midnight and then sitting down calmly next to a pile of actual skulls and bones, kneels down to pray when divinely beautiful violin music is suddenly heard, but no player is seen anywhere. The sounds of the piece, the “Resurrection of Lazarus” are so enthralling that Raoul himself is reminded of the legend of the Angel of Music.

When the music finally ceases, Raoul hears a sound from the pile of bones, and assumes that the invisible musician might be hiding there. Christine leaves, and suddenly the skulls start rolling towards Raoul, and he sees a shadow enter the church. He chases after him and manages to grab his cloak, and when the shadow turns around, he sees a terrifying death’s-head with burning eyes which shocks him so much that he faints. I assume that Erik was not wearing a mask here, and that his unmasked face was weapon enough to take Raoul out without any further need for fireballs or swordfights.

The next morning, Raoul is found half-frozen in the little church, and Christine and the landlady of the Inn both take care to revive him.

Historic images of Perros-Guirec from phantomstheater.weebly.com

Artwork by CoatNTails on deviantart

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#lerouxreadingguide #phantom of the opera #poto #leroux phantom #gaston leroux #erik the phantom #the phantom of the opera #erik x christine #christine daae #raoul de chagny #leroux

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thedragonsden · 4 years

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Broken Glass - Chapter 2

No matter how old Emilia seemed to be, the death of her parents remained, haunting her memory. She had been lucky enough that day to have Uncle Pietro there to send her stateside, but it hadn’t been easy. The address her uncle had given her all those years ago was to a nunnery, they knew her family well. After decades of dedication to the catholic church, they had offered to build her parents a safe house if ever they needed to flee somewhere without question. When Emilia had landed that day, seventeen years prior, she had to find the nunnery and prove who she was before they took her to the house. No one knew how to find it except her father, the Abbot, and now Emilia, being that was where she resided from then on. She’d lived a modest life, help of what money her father had cultivated before their intended escape. When she was old enough, she made sure to work hard as she was able, to ensure that she lived comfortably and didn’t run out of her father’s savings. Emilia was resting her head against the wall and had closed her eyes. She was trying to erase the pain she felt from her dream, hot baths always seemed to help. When she felt pruned and relaxed enough to get out, she checked the time. There was about forty-five minutes before she had to be at school. Emilia finished her hair and decided as she was grabbing her briefcase, that it would be better to pick something up when she got to school, no sense in making a breakfast she wasn’t feeling up to eating. It was a brisk autumn morning, as she descended the steps to her house, a few fallen leaves crinkled beneath her feet. She lived in a pleasant neighborhood, the houses around her already filled with Halloween décor. Turning down the street, she began to walk towards the subway station, her house seemed to be perfectly aligned with all major means of transportation, she never needed to travel far to get where she was going. When she had gotten off the subway, she was about a block from the university she attended. She looked down at her watch again, twenty minutes. She made this trek every day, always punctual Emilia was, at least until someone had bumped into her. While checking her watch Emilia had felt something run into her, they knocked her briefcase from her grasp, and both collapsed. “I’m so sorry!” a soft voice cried.

“No, it’s my fault, I was checking the time rather than looking ahead.” Emilia comforted. When she looked up, she noticed a face she recognized. “Oh Emilia, I’m glad it’s only you,” it was Maria, a girl that was in her debate club freshman year, they hadn’t seen one another since. “I’m very sorry, but I’m late for my next class. Sorry, again.” In a blink, Maria was gone. Emilia stood up, dusted off, then checked her watch, ten minutes. Panic overwhelmed her, today would not be the first day that she was late. She’d broken into a run and hurried across campus to the theatre building. Thankfully she reached the double doors in time. As the day went on, Emilia couldn’t help but think about her encounter with Maria that morning. They hadn’t seen each other since that first year in debate club, even then, the two weren’t exactly close. Their professor had assigned them as partners once, but they hadn’t become friends over it. Emilia would see Maria around campus, but she had her own friends and they weren’t the kind of people Emilia normally associated with. Emilia hadn’t found any interest in debate after that year, so she hadn’t gone back, and do to that fact, she and Maria had thereafter not interacted. It had caught her by surprise that she’d remembered her name. At the end of the day Emilia made her way to the black box theatre for rehearsal, they were about a week away from their first show, hell week as it was often referred to. There was a lot more to do this week than just running lines. Staging every scene, making sure there were back-ups of props present if there was a malfunction, the stage hands were just as busy as the rest of the cast, if not a bit more so, because they were the ones running sets on and off stage. The bustling life of a young thespian kept Emilia on her toes, it was one of the few things in her life that made her feel close to her parents. Her mother had been well known in the West End, her death had been played off to the public as an accident, ‘caught in the crossfire while on vacation with her family’. Emilia always found that to not bring justice to her legacy, she was murdered in cold blood. But she’d been forced to come to terms with that. They were performing Phantom of the Opera, it had been Evangeline’s first major role, and Emilia felt a wave of honour when she’d been cast as Christine. She’d asked their professor to leave two seats in the front row to honour them on opening night. But that was all anyone knew about her, that she was the daughter of a renowned thespian in West End, and her father was some unknown ‘business man’. Her peers respected her for her mother’s sake, and that she was rather talented herself, but Emilia was almost always alone. None of her cast mates knew her outside those double doors. The Friday before opening night, the other members of the cast had decided to go out for drinks, insisting Emilia join them. After a failed attempt to decline, they’d all found themselves at a bar close to the university. They’d found a table for the six of them near the billiard tables, as the guys went to grab a round, Emilia sat with some of the girls who seemed far better acquainted. “So, Emilia, I’m surprised that you finally came tonight! We’ve been trying to get you to join us for months.” The curly blonde said. “I was explaining to Jessica how you always seemed so swamped in work, that we could never convince you,” the brunette chimed in.

Emilia blushed, “You’re not wrong that I have a lot of work to do Jessica.”

Jessica had one of her curls between her fingers and smirked, “Work load or not, we really enjoy performing with you. We may not be a family, but I think we should be able to get to know our leading lady.” Emilia paused and looked between them, “You both feel the same?” The brunette smiled, “Hell yeah! You’ve really got your mother’s gift, I’d always looked up to her as a child. When you joined our program, all I thought about was getting to know you.” When the boys returned with a round of beers, the tallest of them spoke first, “What were you gals talking about while we were gone? Anything interesting?” Jessica shook her head, “Natalie and I were just telling Emilia how nice it was that she could finally join us.” Emilia cupped up one of the beers and took a sip without making any eye contact. “Is that so?” the guys smiled at her. “It is really nice to have you finally with us Emilia.” She smiled at him, Ryan being the only one she sort of knew, was playing opposite her as the Phantom, and with him were Eric playing Raoul, and Sebastien who was playing Piangi. “I’m glad to have the time to do so, I’m sorry I haven’t really gotten to know you all. Seeing as we’ve been acting together for near of five years.” Emilia took another sip of her beer. “Nonsense,” Natalie piped up, spilling her beer in Eric’s lap in her excitement. “oops.” “Dammit! Every time.” Eric swore and got up from his seat in a huff.

Natalie started to giggle.

What’s so funny?” Jessica raised her brow. “I just like the idea of him with wet pants, can’t hide the goods.” Natalie licked her lips as she watched him stomp to the bathroom.

“C’mon Nat! We’re in public.” Sebastien groaned.

Emilia giggled, because Natalie had stuck her tongue out at him in rebuttal.

“You’re laugh is pretty cute Millie,” Ryan winked. “Millie?” Both Emilia and Jessica questioned. Ryan blushed, “W-well seeing as we’re friends now, I just thought-” “No one has ever called me that before, most people…” She paused, “People usually call me Eve, Emilia Violet.” They shared glances between one another, then Ryan raised his glass, “Well, then cheers to Emilia Violet! You’re one of us now Eve!” Their glasses clinked and they all took a swig. Emilia was happy to be around her peers for once, normally she’d just be at home reading a book or running lines. She felt safe. Safe, something about that word became a poison, she felt her stomach turn. Eric had returned to the table, but time around her had stopped. She’d heard a sound nearby that was like a wail of discomfort in her ears. The others hadn’t seemed to notice because they continued to laugh among themselves. Natalie was groping the side of Eric’s pants when he settled beside her. Emilia scanned the room for the disturbance she’d heard, and that’s when she saw her. Maria was sitting at the bar, with a drunk trying to hang on her arm. Emilia’s nose scrunched up and her nostrils flared, her body temperature rising with anger. Excusing herself, Emilia sauntered up to the bar beside Maria. “Hey! There you are, we were wondering when you were going to join us.” Emilia had put a hand on Maria’s shoulder which caused her to jump. When she met Emilia’s gaze, tears and a sigh of relief were unmistakable. “Emilia,” Maria said breathlessly, “I couldn’t find your table, so I waited here. I’m glad you found me.” Emilia knew she wasn’t pretending, the drunkard still seemed to have a hand on her thigh. “Hey buddy,” Emilia hissed, “why don’t you let go of my friend here and piss off?” The man licked his lips, tightening his grip on Maria’s leg, making her wince. “Y’all are friends huh?” He slurred, “You’re both rather pretty, how about you both come with me? Have a good ending to this shit night.” Emilia gave Maria’s hand a comforting squeeze and switched sides to stand in front of him. “I don’t think so, my friend has already asked you to let go of her, I suggest you do so before we have a real problem here.” The look in Emilia’s eyes would’ve made anyone run. Her stance was bold, head held high, not a sign of fear. She bore into his eyes and reached for his arm, “I will say this, once. Let. Go.” The man smirked, “You have quite a grip baby, why don’t you put it somewhere that can bring some joy-” It happened so fast, he’d let go of Maria and reached for Emilia’s arm, in the moment he was off guard she swung her other arm around and punched him in the nose. Trying to stop the blood, the drunk went to grab his nose and that’s when Emilia shoved her boot into his groin. There was a loud smacking sound and he fell to his knees. Emilia had grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face into the side of the bar before he fell over, unconscious. The bar had fallen silent, Emilia had spit on him and swore in Italian. “Next time you try to put hands on a lady and she’s already told you no, I hope your cock falls off.” Turning around to face Maria, Emilia escorted her to the table with the others. “T-thank you.” Maria whispered. Emilia nodded. “Holy shit!” Ryan and Jessica declared in unison. “Eve! Are you alright, you’re hand is bleeding,” Sebastien frowned at the sight of her. “I’m fine. Everyone, this is Maria an old friend of mine.” She smiled at Maria who introduced herself. “Hello.” “Nice to meet you,” Jessica said, nudging Eric to bring over another chair. “Eve that was badass! The way you kicked the shit out of him, woah.” Emilia snatched up her beer and took a gulp, “I just don’t like men who don’t understand the meaning of no.” “Emilia, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t spotted me. The bar tender had run to the back and no one else seemed to notice.” Maria wiped tears from her eyes. Just then the bartender approached them, “Some of the patrons said there was a problem?” Ryan stood up and pointed to the drunk still on the floor, “That asshat was trying to grope our friend. Emilia here was only doing right by her and showing him that that isn’t how you treat a lady.” Emilia waved for Ryan to take a seat, “Sir, if trying to grope a woman at the bar repeatedly after she’s said no is a crime, then by all means call the police. Just know, that by doing so you’re granting him and others like him the freedom to repeat that behaviour.” Everyone watched in silence, they had never seen such aggression from Emilia before. Perhaps once in a more dramatic role on stage, but never had she said or done more than what was asked of her. It was like meeting an entirely different person. Jessica and Natalie’s eyes were twinkling in admiration, as were Maria’s. The bartender let out a sigh, “I was actually trying to cut that guy off about an hour ago. Now that he’s out cold and I have your statement, I can have him escorted out.” He nodded to Maria, “Are you alright miss?” Maria nodded, “Only because I have such great friends.” “So it would seem,” he paused before nodding his head towards the bar. “You guys can have a round on me for the trouble. Anything you’d like.” He smiled at Emilia, “Sorry again.” Shaking her head, Emilia smiled, “I’m just glad everyone is alright.” When the round of drinks was dropped off everyone raised their glasses. “You are just one powerful mystery, aren’t you?” Jessica chuckled. “Here’s to our elegant and powerful leading lady!” Eric said. “Eve! Eve! Eve!” they chanted. A tear rolled down her face, Emilia hadn’t felt this loved in a long time. “I’m staying by your side from now on.” Maria giggled.

#thepunisher #billyrusso #frankcastle #brokenglass #punisheroc

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theonceoverthinker · 5 years

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"Can You Deny Us the Triumph in Store?" (Rumbelle) (1/?)

Summary: The lifeblood of Belle’s very existence is the opera. Since her mother introduced it to her at five years old, she’s loved it with all her heart. Now, as a grown woman with dreams of writing the Paris Opera House’s next great success and a magnum opus nearing its completion, she’ll need to contend with obstacles almost more dramatic than the work of fiction she pens. Things take a turn when two men take an interest in her work, and suddenly, Belle finds herself on a journey of trust, forgiveness, and perhaps even love.

AO3 Fanfiction.net

A/N: Hi! This is my first ever Rumbelle fic -- happy to be here with all you lovely folks!

I started this idea from the jumping off point of “Could a Rumbelle ‘Phantom of the Opera’ AU work in a scenario where Rumple was Raoul?” As a longtime Phantom of the Opera fan (All versions), I feel like over the years, I’ve grown to not only like, but really respect and admire the Christine/Raoul pairing and that’s something I wanted to play around with here. And what I came up with ended up feeling pretty true to Rumple and Belle’s characters as well as a fun mix of OUAT, Beauty and the Beast, and of course, The Phantom of the Opera, all alongside a different, more shorthand-based writing style that I’m really excited to try out here. I hope you feel the same way about it too!

Tagging @mrs-stiltskin! If you want to be tagged in future installments as well, please let me know!

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CHAPTER ONE: MELODIE DE PARIS

The year 1890 exists within an age of discoveries, an epoch that sheds light on all manners of beauty. From walks of human life across the world’s surface, possibilities of exactly what people can create with their hands, minds, and hearts are explored in a way they’ve never been before. And of all the lands that this age touches, few places capture the modern ideals of this time better than the city of lights. Paris is experiencing a renaissance of art, music, vibrancy, and knowledge, and the epitome of the city’s progress and lust for life and love is the Paris Opera House. What lays inside the doors of this majestic theatre is a bustling community in itself with all manner of singers, dancers, designers of every kind, stagehands, business people, and others who rush across halls, stages, and balconies as they go about living their lives.

It is in this palace of music -- where the creative people of Paris come to make magic a reality -- a woman, underestimated in all that she does, but exceptional in what she brings life into spends her days.

Her name is Belle Ébréché.

Belle Ébréché, a woman of twenty-three years, is a dancer at the Paris Opera House. For hours upon hours every day, whether at the behest of an audience or not, she and ten other girls work their feet to the bone as they further strive to perfect their craft. However, her dream is not fulfilled -- not completely in any event. While talented on her feet, definitely enough to earn her keep in the ballet, her ambitions don’t lie with her toes to the floor of a stage. Instead, they reside with a quill that’s as much a part of her body as her lungs to a sheet of parchment...for you see, Belle wishes to write an opera.

Belle’s love of the opera began relatively early, though not through her eventual chosen avenue of expression itself at first. No, the seeds of her love of stories and storytelling were originally planted by her mother, Colette. Night after night starting from her first evening wails, Belle was sent off to the realm of dreams with passages from books that soothed and lulled her to sleep just as well as the very cradle that held her form. And as she grew, Belle’s love of books created an equal love for the imaginations of men and women and their many artistic achievements. Finally, when she was five, as if the heavens themselves arranged it to forever cement that love, Belle was introduced to something that would forever change her life -- The Opera.

While Belle had always loved stories, operas were stories taken to a new level. They were windows to lives she could never dream of that not only painted vivid visions in her mind of stories, characters, and lines, but allowed those visions to exist in a way even her imagination couldn’t accomplish. As Belle took in all the opera had to offer, she was entranced by the sets that took her to foreign lands, the sweeping tales of romance, history, and adventure, and the music that made her heart swell and unlock emotions never before known to her. By the time her first opera, “Béatrice et Bénédict” was through, Belle knew she wanted nothing more in life than to be a part of the experience that opened her world to new possibilities.

However, such happiness, as happiness tends to be, was too good to last. After two years of bi-annual trips to the opera, following the death of the very source of that happiness, they stopped. Collette’s passing left Belle crushed and while grief overtook most of her headspace, her determination to become part of the opera was still as present as ever. Now, it was her deepest wish -- no, more than that. Now, it was her destiny, one Belle knew her mother would want for her.

But Belle found herself quite alone in that mindset.

As her convictions and desires for a life in the opera grew ever stronger, her father, Maurice’s patience for her passions only weakened. In truth, complications between Maurice and Belle weren’t uncommon even when Colette was still alive, but with a mother and a wife taken from them, a crucial part of their bond went with her.

And part of that waning bond was a disregard for Belle’s passion for the arts, which he deemed as ‘flights of fantasy.’ Maurice was never won over by operas to begin with, but grief turned his indifference into a means to mock his daughter. For years, that misery is how they went about their days, and while Maurice had fully succumbed to feelings of bitterness, Belle fought them off in the name of achieving her life’s purpose.

But even the strongest of resolves could grow weary under the constant duress of those without faith in them. Eventually, after years of enduring such constant belittling, Belle understood that her only hope for peace and a true chance at following her dream was to leave home. So, with only some scant essentials and a few mementos of her mother, Belle took off for where she knew her calling would be: The Paris Opera House.

The night Belle arrived at the Opera House was cold and damp, the product of a miserable storm. With wet clothes and shoes that plopped against the charcoal-colored rain, she stepped towards the building. It was only than a feeling of unease set in Belle’s heart. Apart from a love of opera, she had no experience in performance -- just a few pages of ideas for operas.

What would The Paris Opera House of all places want with her?

Had she made a mistake running from home?

Struck by fear, Belle drifted towards a curb by the eastern side of the building, huddling her shoulders close to her for the first time since the rain fell, but for reasons she knew had nothing to do with the trickling water. She sat down on the curb and looked ahead at the dream that was now so close to her, but quite possibly impossible to ask for.

As Belle started shaking in fear, a door opened, glowing Belle and the curb she sat on with a hue of oak. And from out of that door stepped a girl, no older than Belle, holding a bag of what looked to be garbage as she looked towards a disposal bin not far from where Belle sat. The girl wore a rose-colored dress and upon seeing Belle, concern overtook her features.

She came over to Belle, and offered her hand, introducing herself as Ruby. With a gentleness Belle hadn’t truly felt since she last saw her mother, Ruby asked what she was doing in the rain. Upon hearing Belle’s story, Ruby took Belle’s shoulder into her hand and invited her inside The Opera House, saying that she would take care of her.

And take care of her is exactly what Ruby did.

Ruby was a young dancer-in-training, and her grandmother Madame Lucas, a dance instructor. And she just happened to know of an opening that needed filling for another new dancer.

It was late at night when Belle met Madame Lucas. While originally grouchy at the prospect of a spontaneous visitor, Madame Lucas quickly came around upon seeing Belle’s fragile and wet form, welcoming her into the room where the ballet dancers slept. The following morning, after Belle had the chance to explain what brought her to the Paris Opera House, Madame Lucas invited her to train alongside Ruby and the other dancers. There, she would live, train, and work under her care. Madame Lucas warned Belle that it would be hard work, but it seemed that even her attempts to appear tough on Belle seemed to only be a facade, she seemed to immediately know that Belle would be up to the challenge.

And Belle, to this day, makes her living at The Paris Opera House, practicing and performing alongside Ruby and some of Paris’ finest dancers, a population that now includes them. Belle and the others work Madame Lucas’ regimen as if it were second nature. And through years upon years spent perfecting her craft and furthering her studies, she’s grown far more experienced in the ways of The Opera House. She now knows what it’s like to work from dawn to dusk and retire for the evening with barely the ability to speak. She now knows what it’s like to repeat the same moves dozens upon dozens of times and still see Madame Lucas unsatisfied. She now knows what it’s like to wait in anticipation of the latest reviews of the newest operas, understanding that her very way of life could be on the line should things go sour.

But Belle still loves all things having to do with the opera. In fact, she loves it even more than she did when she first heard those opening orchestral notes all those years ago.

Now though, her dream is more focused. She’s not about to give up her work in the ballet so soon, but Belle knows her destiny is to not dance in operas, but to pen them.

She’s the only one who thinks so either. Ruby and Madame Lucas know she’s talented, too. Whether intentional or not, Belle’s made it rather easy for them to follow her work. They hear her comment on the stories and compositions of the operas they perform with the intelligence of Paris’ most talented writers. It’s impossible for either of them to not notice Belle stay up well past curfew most every night scribbling and tossing away pages of filled sheets of music and scripts, and ones that are already pretty good at that. The way Belle hums invisible notes only to excuse herself from dinner and rush to write them down in one of her notebooks is predictable to the point of mundanity.

And she’s only getting better.

Lately, fewer and fewer pieces of paper are being thrown away. Complete lyrics and melodies are being muttered, hummed, and sung under Belle’s breath. Story threads are finally starting to come together and make sense. One night, Madame Lucas sneaks a peek at the notebook Belle’s been frequenting the most lately as an excited Ruby -- who may or may not have told her where it was -- waits just outside for details.

Yes, Belle’s shaping up to be quite the talented composer -- a stand out creator of her era.

However, nothing’s that simple.

No matter the year nor all the undiscovered wonders of this world that entice those who yearn for them, the brilliant ideas of women are fought every step of the way for their day in the sun, if they’re even listened to at all. Belle’s works, unfortunately, are no exception. She’s regularly brushed off by the managers every time she requests that they so much as look at or listen to one of her songs.

But fuel is only added to the fires of Belle’s difficulties as she’s forced to not only compete for the management’s attention with the operatic composers of the past who haunt her like ghosts with their established renown, but with a modern composer who haunts her present. For all she knows -- nor cares -- he knows not of her existence, but she’s more than familiar of his. His operas have been performed four times in as many years. He oversees each and every one of them, combing over details and punishing anyone he finds to be subpar and vulnerable, like a hawk waiting to snatch up his prey. Those who toil to meet his almost impossible demands consider him a manager in his own right, one to be avoided and feared beyond either of the two actual yielders of the title. But for as utterly charmless as he is to all beneath him, nothing is done to hinder his merciless mission for perfection at any cost. This is because in addition to being the Opera House’s rising star, he’s also its most generous patron.

So despite Belle’s talents with a quill, through no fault of her own, this game of patriarchal superiority and wealth leaves her outmatched to the point of making her naught but an obscurity in the grander scope of the Opera House.

After all, just how can she compete with the likes of Bertrand, the Vicomte de Friper?

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bertrand de Friper isn’t a people person.

His personality is often deemed as “testy” at best, his appearance is rather unconventional, and his ancestry leaves a lot to be desired.

It’s a multi-layered problem.

That’s not to say that there exist no advantages to being him. After all, what does a Vicomte have if not money, and all the power, influence, and sometimes freedom that money can grant?

An Opera House isn’t an easy place to spend one’s days when they’re not a people person. However, when one’s chosen to dedicate their life to creating operas, where else could they go?

Composing operas does something for Bertrand that nothing else finds itself able to do -- it gives him something that’s all his own. It gives him something clean of his family’s influence — apart from the money used to finance it — and a chance at a legacy that might not be as tarnished as it would be without it.

Opera speaks to Bertrand -- its blending of performances, sets, design, and musical numbers allows room for complexity. His works aim for that same complexity, as it’s a complexity he sees in himself, and because of that, he acts as if it’s a mirror of the very person he wishes he could be. And that inspires his every flick of the quill.

He’s more hands on than most other composers. Bertrand knows that to be true. In his own defense though, most other composers are no longer around to see their work come to life.

So why should he waste his time as nothing more than a silent creator when he can do so much more to make them as majestic as he knows they could be? He’s written and paid for these operas and damnit, he’s going to make sure his vision sees the light of day in the exact way he wants it to! And if that means he’s gonna sit in on every rehearsal and talk the managers’ ears off and nitpick the lighting whenever he finds the slightest flaw, then he’ll do it with all the gusto of a late December’s snowstorm. And he’ll fire anyone who refuses to meet his demands without the backbone to tell him why they can’t be so.

But understandably, it also does no good for Bertrand because that work is the closest thing he’s got to any manner of a real social life, and that cruelty does little to better himself as something even resembling a people person. And his family is of little help in breeding any genetic social charisma, whether through genetics or renown. His parents are rather cutthroat and it’s given them a bit of a reputation that’s followed Bertrand socially.

Things have never been easy with his family. They’re rich and have a status of nobility, but that status has come from means that were...less than admirable. There are rumors -- some true, some not -- of deals made under the table with much of the city’s criminal underbelly, raises in savings at their bank that line up just too closely with news of a robbery at a bank not two miles down the road, and price gouging at legal firms that the patriarch of the Friper family just happens to own. But money is money. Their titles were granted more out of obligation because of their wealth than any interest in making them part of high society, and it shows to this day. They’re often shunned, but never directly -- kind of in that indirect way that the upper class tend to do. They’ll always be invited to a party, but tables had a way of never having enough space for one of them and invites for other gathering to elude their grasps.

However, Bertrand’s parents liked to show that right back in the most passive aggressive and manipulative ways.

...And maybe he did too.

Okay, he definitely did.

And that’s why, for all his success in business and art, Bertrand de Friper is not a people person.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The Paris Opera House is often bustling, but never has it been as bustling than the week following the managers’ abruptly announced retirement.

What kind of long-standing managers only give a week’s notice before retiring?

Well, they’ve never been the greatest communicators -- that’s what Belle’s grasped at least over her tenure here -- and so now, thanks to their rash decision, the entire Opera House drops everything and scrambles to arrange some sort of send off for them. Madame Lucas has them up early every day practicing to put on a dance from one of their favorite operas. The breaks aren’t plentiful and by the end of the day, Belle has to find the strength to eat dinner before she falls asleep. Outside of their space, Belle can hear stringing and tuning of instruments most everywhere she goes and stagehands arguing with each other and gossiping about who's taking over. It’s all quite hectic.

Everyone’s relieved when the change is finally made and the new managers take up their posts. Those not forced by their positions to socialize with the new management take off for desperately needed breaks and those unfortunate enough to need look like they’re in need of a nap as they push themselves towards their new bosses.

The new managers seem okay. Belle’s not overly optimistic that this management team will be any more receptive to her ideas than the old ones were, but she’ll take a gamble on that in due time. For now, though, it seems like everyone and their mother who holds a higher position than a dancer, a chorus girl, or a stagehand wants to talk to them, so Belle’s content waiting.

As a matter of fact, Belle’s more than content waiting. In all the business of the past week, she’s had to neglect her opera. But now, there’s time to work on it, and Belle’s not about to waste even a second of her newly recovered free time.

Melodies swim through her mind like guppies in a school. Things have been coming together on one of her final uncompleted pieces so nicely. She almost can’t stand how proud she is of her own work.

In her excitement, Belle allows a few bars to escape her lips and movements leave her feet as she casually makes her way back to her room.

But all the while as she lightly sings and moves through her trip, Belle, for the briefest of moments, finds herself unaware of the fact that she’s not the only member of her impromptu performance’s audience.

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Bertrand’s not sure what to make of the new managers. They don’t seem too different than the old ones, but appearances are nothing but deceiving -- though if he’s to believe the opinions of most everyone he’s ever known, he’d likely believe that to be a lie.

He tries not to believe it himself.

Not one to give himself an air of brown nosing, Bertrand watches the new managers’ introductions from afar. While in truth, he’d wanted to wait a few days to further acquaint himself with his latest opera’s opening night on the horizon and nagging at him with the force of the sunlight on a hot summer’s day, Betrand knows he doesn’t have the luxury of delaying his introductions. So as soon as the company at large is dismissed for the day, Bertrand moves past stagehands, chorus girls, and ballet dancers alike as he sets out towards his new coworkers. At the very least, he wishes to find a later time when they can talk further, but he imagines that his status as The Opera House’s biggest patron will immediately garner himself the lion’s share of their attention.

It’s by no means a fun way to spend an afternoon, but Bertrand focuses on how after today, he’ll be able to work to further perfect his opera once more.

And that is what’s going to get him through the day.

As Bertrand passes through the groups of gossiping men and women, something catches his ear -- something that makes him stop dead in his tracks. It’s a lone voice, within yet at the same time somehow distant from the crowd of dancers. Bertrand’s hearing is strong. It has to be for him to do his job as well as he does, but right now, the talent is being used to hone in on strings of notes and lyrics.

The melody he hears from that voice...Bertrand’s utterly captivated by it.

It’s exciting.

It’s memorable.

But most of all, it’s different from everything he’s ever heard before.

Bertrand knows how rare compliments like that are. While he’s personally been no stranger to them, he’s well aware that so few composers in this age of discoveries have but only longed for words even close to them to be directed their way.

And Bertrand himself -- by his own admission -- is a man of few compliments to spare on a good day.

So for him to describe naught but a scant number of bars and lines in such a way, they are bars and lines that are truly something to behold.

He needs to know where the voice that produces such notes is yesterday.

Bertrand follows his ears like a leaf follows an autumn breeze’s path until he’s able to latch onto one woman. Her back is turned, but the fact that it’s her voice making such music is unmistakable by the way her feet move in time with her bursts of singing.

There’s no hesitation in Bertrand -- not an oddity, but also not a regularity by any means -- as he taps on the woman’s shoulder. She practically jumps in her spot, surprised, before turning around to face him.

If Bertrand is to describe his initial impression of the woman who stands before him during those first few seconds before they’ve exchanged a single word, it would be ‘soft.’ She seems surprised, but a residual happiness from her music is as clear as day on her face, creating a soft sense of contentment all around her. Soft dark brown curls cascade just below her soft shoulders deprived of nearly all manner of tension. A dress of a soft pink shade -- one that matches those worn by the other women of the ballet -- covers her form, giving her something of a heavenly air about her. Even as her sky-shaded eyes turn curious and almost dark whilst she takes him in, there’s still an unexplained softness to them.

And just like that, before he’s even talked to this woman, Bertrand de Friper’s absolutely smitten with her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

If there’s anything that can absolutely ruin Belle’s day, it’s a reminder that Bertrand de Friper exists.

That said, seeing him appear before her, smiling of all things...is strange.

Belle’s been lucky to have never had direct contact with him thus far in her opera career. Most of his critiques towards the ballet have been made through Madame Lucas. Belle, Ruby, and the rest of the ballet have seen many a heated debate between them over choreography, schedules, and positions. Yes, Madame Lucas may answer to him on some level, but he does not by any means control her and she’s not at all afraid to stand up for herself. Belle admires that.

Bertrand de Friper, however, is someone that she does not admire.

“Can I help you, Monsieur le Vicomte?” she asks, her tone perfectly even as to not show fear, but also to keep any sass on her end at bay.

Scenarios play in her mind over what brings his attention to her of all people. Was her dancing off during the old manager’s send off performance? Is there an issue with her costume?

There’s an interesting glint in Bertrand’s eyes. He looks almost bewildered by her.

Belle can only hazard a guess at what that could possibly mean.

But if she’s honest, she’s beyond curious to find out.

“That music -- what you were singing and humming to -- what was that from?”

Out of all the questions Belle expects him to ask, that’s just about the last one on this Earth that she can think of.

She’s speechless. There have been times, she’ll admit, where she’s fantasized about what it would be like to be approached about her opera. Usually, they involve the managers, sometimes, it’s a singer, and rarely, it’s a director of another Opera House who then takes her to a far off exotic land where she can spend the rest of the days writing masterpieces with all the creative control she could ever ask for.

Never though have a single one of those fantasies involved Bertrand.

...Well, apart from a bit of gloating at him whilst reveling in her success, that is.

Despite preparing speeches and pitches in her mind right before she’s gone to sleep every night since she was twelve, she’s not sure how to answer now that a similar inquiry’s been thrown at her feet by the very last person she would expect it to come from.

It’s mostly a fear of a response, she reasons. Apart from the family she’s made with the Lucas’, most everyone involved in her life has mocked her dream in some way, shape, or form. She has a hard skin for it these days, but laughter still hurts and with the new managers having just started, it could be detrimental to her hopes of her work ever being heard out.

But Bertrand has asked her a question and he’s just persnickety enough to bother her to the point of insanity if she lies or tries to dodge it.

Belle takes a sigh and speaks.

“I wrote it,” she says carefully. “It’s part of an opera I’m writing.”

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

An opera.

This woman, a woman whose name he hasn’t even learned, is writing an opera.

It’s as if God above hasn’t already given Bertrand enough of a reason to fall for her.

She truly is a woman after his own heart.

And dammit, she’s succeeding in the endeavor.

Bertrand feels himself smile. It’s been a while since he’s done that for a reason outside of his own success in quite some time. His face crinkles to reflect his bewilderment.

He’s simply amazed.

She’s written an opera, and by those bits of music he’s been blessed enough to hear, it’s one that may very well have no rival.

“I can’t believe it.” An innocent laughter bubbles under his throat. “Th-”

The words he’s about to say die on his lips.

Her expression has changed from skeptical to enraged in a single heartbeat.

Crap.

Bertrand’s never been the most straightforward man when it comes to communicating his approval of others and their works -- a rarity in its own right.

And unfortunately, the meaning behind his words has been once more betrayed as a result of that.

He rushes to elaborate on his intentions, but he’s not offered the chance.

“Excuse me!” the woman interrupts, a fire in her speech that matches the flames that burn behind her ice-colored eyes as she all but shouts her protest. “How DARE you imply that it’s somehow unbelievable for me to write an opera?” A finger points directly in the direction of Bertrand’s nose, unwavering and menacing.

Fear isn’t an emotion unfamiliar to Bertrand. He’s afraid of many a thing, but never would he have imagined that a pointed finger of all things would halt a mouth he’s seldom ever bereft of a voice when one has been wanted.

While Bertrand wants nothing more than to stop this rant before it can continue, the words refuse to come out.

And unfortunately for him, the woman’s words are more than happy to compensate for his silence.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been studying opera since I was five years old! I’ve worked here for over ten years, read dozens of operatic pieces ranging from Shakespearean adaptations to “Ghiselle,” talked with most every person in this Opera House at length about their jobs -- probably to the point where I could do any of them upon request -- and personally tested out every bit of my opera too many times to count.”

“Bu-”

Bertrand’s cut off before more than even one more syllable can escape him, only stopping out of fear that his intrusion will only make things worse.

“I am MORE than qualified to write an opera and I won’t have yet ANOTHER aristocratic man whose likely worked HALF as hard as me for double the accolades telling me that I can’t out of some chauvinistic mindset! So instead of believing those ideals of the past, start believing that I’ll be the one selling out this theatre instead of you soon enough. I promise you, I won’t be the only person happy to see you overthrown.”

The woman then turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction for him.

Bertrand follows her, keeping at somewhat of a distance to prevent bringing her fury to a head once more.

“Please, wait!” he half cries, though only to prevent a scene. “I didn’t mean it that way. I-I’m sorry! Your work’s good -- better than good, great!”

She doesn’t seem to spare him a thought as she retreats back to the ballet’s quarters. Bertrand stops as she goes beyond where he could respectfully follow.

In an Opera House full of people -- even those that don’t particularly like him -- never has Bertrand felt so alone.

But right before she escapes his vision, Bertrand sees her hesitate. She almost looks like she’s about to turn back, like she’s accepted his apology and corrections as truth, but she seems to decide against it, walking through and closing the door closest to her.

Bertrand’s about to throw respect to the wind and go after her when suddenly, he hears a scream. It’s blood curdling and sounds like it’s coming from the stage.

Though somewhat reluctant due to the woman now running through his thoughts like a wolf in a forest, Bertrand does go to the stage to investigate. A girl who Bertrand can tell by her costume is part of the chorus lays on the floor. Her foot is crushed underneath and mangled by a sandbag that’s at least twenty-five pounds in weight. According to her cries as two stagehands attempt to remove the obtrusive menace, she heard a snap upon the sandbag’s contact with her foot. The cries are given evidence by an unnatural appearance her ankle presents as it once more meets the lights of the stage. Whispers emerge with the ankle, and there’s an all-to present fear amongst those who’ve responded to her wails that she may never walk wholly again.

A rope suddenly falls from atop the rafters, clearly one that once held up the sandbag. Most present on the stage not helping the chorus girl look up to the apparent scene of the crime for some semblance of a clue as to what happened. There’s no one above there, but light specks of dust fall like snow.

While the ‘why’ of the matter remains unsolved, the ‘who’ is as clear as day, for this is not a crime that’s new to The Paris Opera House.

Over the past few months, things like this have had a tendency to occur. Sandbags untouched for years as evidenced by the dust they’ve accumulated have been falling around and now on unsuspecting workers. Costumes have been mangled with scissors practically starving for fabric. Grand set pieces have been made hazards by artificially faulty support beams.

And just as with any dangerous oddity, they find themselves the subject of rumors, and The Paris Opera House has taken all of these incidents and made a demon of their own.

This latest of crimes is the work of the culprit that those in The Paris Opera House have dubbed as “The Phantom of the Opera.”

#ouat #rumbelle #belle french #rumple #Rumplestiltskin #once upon a time #Phantom of the Opera #rumbelle au

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dramaticveron · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1 ~ The One The Devil Sent

I woke up to girls laughing and the sound of shoes echoing on the floor. I sat up, rubbing my eyes as I notice how I was laying in a bed. I looked around and noticed something strange. I was in what seemed a dorm, surrounded by ballerinas. One blonde hair girl was talking and making the most noise. Holy Shit.

It was Meg Giry. Christine Daae's best friend and one of the corps de ballet dancers. Her blonde curls tumbled down her back as she talked to another girl, holding onto a old wooden dresser on pointe. Goodness how could people ever dance like that?

But it was Meg Giry. I stood up and she quickly took notice, rushing over to me. "Victoire! Are you feeling ok?" Meg looked at me, a sense of worry in her eyes. She stood shorter than me, at 5 ' 4, the same height as Christine.

"What even happened?" I was so confused. If Meg was here, then that meant I was in my ultimate dream. I had to pinch myself, digging my very short nails into my skin. Yeah that hurt like hell. Guess this isn't a dream. So what the fuck happened?

"Darlin' you fell yesterday during practice and knocked your head hard on the stage." Meg said, going back on pointe and checking my head. "Just a little bump. Mother was right" Meg went back down on her feet and smiled. "You need to get ready we have practice for Hannibal today!" She smiled before rushing off with the other girls to go to either breakfast or the stage.

I really was in the world. I really was here. And I was really confused. I sat in front of vanity, which seemed to be shared. I was the same, I looked the same. Even then I had minor changes when I inspected. My hair was quite longer. My hair was only to my shoulders just yesterday before I woke up here. Now it reached to the bottom of my back. Why is it of all things my hair decided to grow? Now the once flatter strands are now long and curly, twisting in spirals of fiery red.

I sigh and look down at what I was wearing. It was the Hannibal slave girl outfit, a red and green striped top with gold trimming and small thin strips of red, gold, and green fabrics making up the skirt, all just connected once to the top. Along with the change of my hair, I noticed my muscles were more defined and stronger. I found quickly after noticing this fact I was also able to go on pointe just as Meg did. My body contorted to fit me into this world it seemed.

This all still didn't answer my question. Why the hell was I in the word of Phantom, and how did I even get here?

So, just as I suspected, my brain even knew each dance step. When to leap, when to spin, when to do anything. I didn't even have to think about it. But now I was struck with another question. Where was Christine? She was supposed to be here dancing yet I didn't see her. And I still haven't heard the shrill of Carlotta, the lead soprano of the Opera house. I danced as the other girls did, Madame Giry calling out each girl for their mistakes. Her hair was long and dark, pulled up into a simple yet formal bun. She looked as young as somebody in their early 30s, even for a lady in her late 50s. Soon, we stopped as she slammed down her cane as who I was guessing was the manager, Lefevre, and two older men followed him, seeming to be in their 30s or 40s. One of them even looked to be in his 50s. It took a moment but soon I noticed it was Firmin and Andre, the new managers.

They chatted quietly among theirselves and Madame Giry. I listened in, even if I already knew their conversation.

"Who's that girl, Lefevre?" Andre asked Lefevre, looking to Meg.

"Her? Meg Giry, Madame Giry's daughter. Promising dancer, Monsieur Andre, most promising." He simply replied, Madame Giry looking over at the mention of her daughter. Her head turned back and she banged her cane on the stage.

"Victoire Bournival, pay attention." I quickly corrected myself. I didn't realize it but I was a few beats behind. Seems my brain can't help me survive this all completely. I kept my focus on the dance, still listening.

"Bournival? Curious name." Firmin piped up, looking to Madame Giry.

"Any relation to the singer?" Andre piped up. Seems one of my parents was a singer in this world. And if I was here, I'll place my stakes on I won't ever meet them.

"Her daughter I believe, always had her head in the clouds" Lefevre replied, Madame Giry sighing and interjecting.

"I treat her as much of a daughter as I do Meg."

But once again, lo and behold, I started to think again. I knew this dialogue. This was meant for Christine. She was supposed to be spoken of, and mention of her father was to be made. And yet I still saw no Christine.

And then I saw it. Side stage in a big dress, the same top as ours but with a skirt made with a hoop and stitched together fabric, brown curls all tied up in a tall bun, was Christine Daae. She stood there, her face smug and hostile, in the clothes of Carlotta. I saw Piangi, who was meant to be Carlotta's lover and the lead male singer. Her was bald, and wearing a lopsided wig. He was playing the role of Hannibal, and Christine seemed to be playing as Elissa, the wife of Hannibal.

Christine came on, singing loud and clear, none of her shyness there as her voice went up and beyond what you may even deem possible. She probably slapped some angels in the heavens with her voice. But how? Carlotta was supposed to be singing, and then give an aria to Firmin and Andre, then the backdrop would fall right by her because of the Phantom.

But if Christine was already here, that wouldn't happen. Unless the Phantom no longer loved Christine in this world. Something told me that wasn't the case. No Phantom meant Christine would never have learned to sing. Ever.

Soon, Lefrevre interrupted when they finished their singing and Madame Giry banged her cane once again. I instantly looked above me, eyes searching. If I was trapped in this dream, I'm going to take my chances and look for the Phantom. The very one who I felt sorrow for, that I loved since I was a child.

"Thank you. As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre." The people weren't shocked but some clapped a small bit.

They introduced them to Piangi and Christine, who was quite rude to them. But no aria. Carlotta was supposed to sing for the new managers and be interrupted by the Phantom.

Everything was wrong. What in the hell did I get involved in.

#fanfiction #fiction #phantom of the opera #erik destler #original character #christine daae #meg giry #phantom

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rkkyul · 5 years

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190801 MGA SEASON 5 + EPISODE FIVE + #5050 FEATURING : TEAM KT ⟨ ━━ ❀ ° PART ONE: PERFORMANCE, LION HEART + I GOT A BOY ( LINES / SONG ) ⟩

it hits her all at once, the overwhelming emotions trapping her before swallowing her whole. she’s going through the motions - watching heejin and minho rise from their seat beside her as their names are called, numbly following them up onstage. kyulkyung isn’t sure she’s breathing air, mouth opening in surprise and eyes widening as her teammates lead the way. perhaps her reaction is a bit dramatic, but oh is it genuine.

the whole experience was so surreal - to even be considered for the top performance of the week when she had failed to do so the entire show. kyulkyung was tired of being average, of resting on that safe middle ground between being the best and the worst. average. want an ugly word. their names weren’t called when the top performance was announced, but she was too high in the clouds to notice - hand clasped tightly around heejin’s as they awaited the announcement. was it disappointing? maybe a little, but to finally be at the point was certainly an ego boost.

semi finalist.

the words were strange to her. the woman who had allowed herself to persuaded into something she once found silly was now officially a semi finalist for the mga’s fifth season. oh, she couldn’t wait to tell her mom.

her heart was still racing when the trio once again returned to their seats, following throughout the hug minho gave them - adrenaline coursing through every part of her being as the show went on without her. kyulkyung listened, watched more talented performers leave them and she wondered how she had even managed to make it this far. she didn’t doubt her worth or talent, just wondered what happened to suddenly have luck on her side.

after the disaster that was 2018, the woman entertained the idea of this just being some cruel joke. zhou jieqiong? making it this far on her own? joonho would’ve laughed in her face. but she tried to not think about that.

she’s slapped back into reality when the contestants suddenly awake with life, their bodies moving in shock and excitement rising in hushed tones. moving her eyes from where they stayed fixated on her shoes, they follow the movements of the new appearances on stage

from sphere entertainment, please welcome CONVEX’s very own JINKI and JINWOOK, as well as our star trainee and winner of the last season of the MGAs, GO HOJUNG!

her ears hang tightly onto the world CONVEX, hoping a familiar someone’s name will follow but much to her disappointment, she’s left with unfamiliar faces and dismay. but she perks up, attentive in her seat as she patiently awaits the coaches from TRC to be announced. JINSOUL - kyulkyung can’t help the tiny noise that passes her lips, excitement enveloping her entire form when she lays eyes on her best friend. “hey, that’s my best friend!” she attempts to whisper to minho and heejin - practically shaking in her seat and definitely way too excited.

i can’t believe she didn’t tell me, despite her thoughts, kyulkyung grins anyway. her anticipation only grows as time passes. please let me get onto trc’s team. please. please. please.

and no, not just because that would mean jinsoul gets to coach her.

she’s just a tiny bit disappointment when the TRC group announcement rolls around and her name is passed up. just the tiniest bit. however, this is short lived when her name is revealed under KT. the company is a bit surprising, solely for the fact that she wouldn’t have chosen it for herself. out of everything, she was expecting nova the most. but getting picked to perform in a group for a company run by katie lee, that’s pretty amazing.

❀

"semi finalist? oh, god i can’t believe.” yea, she can’t either.

kyulkyung laughs at her mother’s enthusiasm over the phone - feeling her cheeks grow hot at the woman’s constant, unrelenting praises. it’s nice to hear the complements and she allows her ego to inflate with each syllable. her mother always complemented her, but it was nice to hear something the woman herself could also feel proud of.

the mgas were different than anything else she had done in life. there was no reliance on anything other than what her talent alone had to offer. there was no behind-the-scenes magic that needed to worked, no amount of bills slipped under the table and secrets to be kept. the fact made her prideful if anything.

after last year, it seemed as if everything wrong she had done had constantly stayed on her back - a quiet monster, the chill that ran down her spine and kept her awake at night. it was hard to put it past her, but somehow she had managed to tuck it away far enough, bury it so deep within that it never even became an afterthought. the process took time and trust, especially with her mother who felt almost as guilty as her.

“you know after last year, i worried about you. i felt like i set a back example.” kyulkyung clenched the phone pressed against her ear tightly in her grasp, fighting back whatever emotions spewed up. biting down on her lip, the woman pushed through whatever words left her mother’s mouth through the phone. perhaps the worst part about the whole situation was that her mother felt responsible, took on her daughter’s worries and that was not okay.

the woman’s voice is strained through the phone and she fears she’s holding back tears. “but i’m proud of you, for doing something and making it this far. i really hope you make it this week, jie.” me too, mom. she answers, burring herself further beneath the sheets - feeling the dull ache of attachment to the woman who can only speak to her through a phone or stupid screen.

“i wasn’t going to tell you this in case it jinxed you this thursday but chun and i are coming in next week - just in time for the finals. he has a business down there, but i figured i’d tag along just to see my girl.” and lying in her bed that night, phone tucked between her ear and pillow, making it to the finals next week meant so much more to her.

❀

once again,the week goes by rather smoothly with her teammates. except for the fact that they are busy, busy, busy.

the coaches and teammates are alike in the ways that they are helpful to a girl with minimal singing experience. and lucky for kyulkyung, this week she’s in a room full of incredible talents. of course yukhei and her scream over each other their first meeting, having only spoke to the boy over suwoong’s phone a few episodes ago and having got along pretty well. he’s just as fun as the woman expected and paired with talent to combat his upbeat nature.

the girl known for her singing and musical talents, yuri is just as amazing to work with as she expected. their team is full of power vocals, yuri and sia bringing enough to the table and offering whatever tips they had to ever so curious kyulkyung. “c’mon please... think of me please?” she begs yuri to sing such an iconic song - phantom of the opera being a personal favorite of the woman. she could never get enough of the tragic story that was erik and christine. ugh, it made her cry every time.

“i’d say i’d help sing it, but that’s a disgrace to phantom of the opera. it’s a sin.” kyulkyung pulls a hand to her chest, bowing her head in sadness before shaking her head at the thought. yuri is the only one who could do it justice while she couldn’t bare the embarrassment for herself.

kyulkyung’s delighted witrh yuri’s compliance, elated to hear one of the songs from her favorite musical from personally one of her favorites on the show. before being teamed up together, the woman had always admired her from afar - completely losing herself in her voice and loving every moment of it. just as expected, yuri’s voice complements the song nicely and she can’t help the long drawl she lets out, pressing a hand against her heart and swaying ever so dramatically to the tone of the other’s voice.

all shenanigans aside, the woman found herself in a situation that left her bewildered. she didn’t mind to help usually, but sia’s call for help left her a bit nervous. kyulkyung didn’t have experience with cutting or mixing music, but the other girl needed help and who was she to refuse? “i don’t care to, but you’ll have to lead the way some.” the woman admitted with a tiny smile, eager to help out in any way that she can.

the process wasn’t too difficult, but it was a process. creating the choreography with nakyung for the dance break wasn’t nearly as hard as creating the mix, but eventually they got it done ( and kyulkyung was there to offer any extra help whenever someone needed it ). the fact that they had managed to pull it off was extremely exciting for the woman, even going as far as to do a mini celebration dance whenever they finished it. yes, she was embarrassed with herself afterwards but damn was she proud.

turns out she’ll be heading back to hook & crook after the show with a little bit more than dance and performance tips.

❀

thursday approaches quickly and this time, kyulkyung’s a bit nervous when she climbs onstage. the semi finals held a lot of more meaning than the other performances and after being in the top 3 last week, she’s sure there’s an expectancy for both her and her team. in fact, the entirety of team kt had at least one episode’s worth of top 3 experience under their belt and it makes her wonder if they’ll be watched that much closer.

her hair, now faded a bit after a few washes, hangs loosely atop her head - the white nature of her top and shorts a contrast to the red bandanna that’s tied around her thigh. she’s standing on stage with her team, head held high and signature smile wide despite the nerves that light up when the judges and eyes of their first live audience lays upon them. “hello! we are FOH!CUS.” the team greets before being met with the thunderous clap of applause.

the noise is enough to brighten her smile and settle whatever negative emotions she felt. kyulkyung did not get stage fright, well not anymore at least. the eyes of an audience was not foreign to her especially after her time with knb. it was all just noise to her, eager eyes there to watch them perform and their entertainment for the night. they’d give them a show worth while, especially with all the pretty faces and power vocals up there.

in the most arrogant way possible, kyulkyung thought team FOH!CUS was hard to forget.

“hello! constant #5050, zhou jieqiong here again!” she will never forget that tiny bit of chinese at the beginning of her introduction - not until the very end ( it’s kind of a habit at this point, honestly ).

as the group arranges themselves for the beginning of the performace, yuri finds herself in the center - surrounded by her teammates and introducing the audience to chi chi’s lion heart. the vocals are soft as are their movements, the singer’s tone and charisma alone enough to draw attention and set the mood of their performance. kyulkyung’s sure the audience’s heart fluttered just a little as did hers when she heard yuri sing the song for the first time.

ah 넌 달라진 게 없어 여전해 난 애가 타고 또 타 사냥감 찾아 한눈파는 너

kyulkyung’s voice follow’s the other girl’s smoothly, a nice transition into her sweet tone and flowing nicely with the music. luckily for her, the movements during this part are minimal for her at least - allowing her voice to carry unfaltering and comfortably. singing live was something she worried a lot about, but with tips and a lot of help, her confidence grew little by little. her smile is delicate upon her lips, her legs carrying her into the next series of moments as they draw into the chorus.

chi chi’s choreography isn’t hard to follow, but it’s nice and fun to watch. the song and melody allows for an easy smile from kyulkyung, putting on an image of a girl in love and innocence. their movements and choreography are soft and flows nicely against the music, but that makes it so much better when the shock of their transition settles in.

lion heart suddenly comes to a halt and everyone is moving into new position - a new light overwhelming them as the beat changes entirely. the mix that kyulkyung and sia put together takes over the stage, the group moving in sync with one another in a way contrasting themselves just a few moments prior.

nakyung and kyulkyung were responsible for creating the choreography, transitioning them into the beginning of i got a boy and creating a whole new mood for their stage. the woman’s presence changes drastically, a more coy, cheerful look overtaking her frame as the upbeat tone of the music sounds. personally, she prefers songs like this to lion heart - feeling more like herself with peppy beats and modern lyrics. hahaha! eh let me introduce myself - kyulkyung points to yukhei as speaks, here comes trouble, whoo! there’s a playful grin on her lips as she moves - raising a hand to motion a ‘come here’ movement with her fingers, 따라해.

어떨 땐 오빠처럼 듬직하지만 애교를 부릴 땐 넘 예뻐 죽겠어

preparing for their performance was once again fun for the woman - this being what she looked forward to most when she joined the competition. and honestly speaking, kyulkyung learned a lot more than she thought she would. working with people was one thing especially on a show like the mgas, the fierce nature of the competition threatening to bring out the worst in people but so far, that hadn’t been the case ( at least for her ).

the way they move alongside one another on stage is exciting - no doubt a visual and talent overload for their audience and she wonders if this what being an idol felt like. and if that’s case, it makes her want that contract even more.

making it this far was exciting, but left her greedy more than ever. there was a lot pending on today’s performance, on her advancement into the competition that she undermined completely. coming in with no expectations and following through with nothing but the highest, that was surely a shock. but not only did she want a contract presented to her in the end, kyulkyung would also love for her mother to at least see her perform once.

귀 기울여 주는 너 너

her mother’s words drive her confidence, fuel the endless stream of energy that courses through her as they near the end of their performance. kyulkyung didn’t have a lot of lines, but she didn’t asked for many - leaving the singing up to the professionals and taking as many notes as she could. the coaches and her teammates helped equally and she matched their drive with one of her own, practicing up until the very last moment because she didn’t need the embarrassment up on stage.

she’s not as perfect as she’d like to be, but she knew what she had to work with and milked it for its worth. what she lacked in singing she made up with her dancing and countless expressions, enjoying every minute she was up on that stage.

as the performance neared its end, kyulkyung couldn’t help the bottomless pit of worry that began to sizzle deep within her stomach. no matter how good they did or how much the crowd loved their performance, one of her teammates would be going home.

it hurt to think about, but she supposed that’s just the nature of a competition and she’ll do anything in her power to make sure that person isn’t her.

#rkmga5 #rkmga5groups #❀ ° ～ once upon a time.#wc: 2674 #rkmason #rkheejin #rksuwoong #rkyuri #rkxuxi #rksihyeon #rknak #haseulrk #rkariel #rkxluda #etc: italics are chinese

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walkingshcdow-a · 6 years

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🔥 gimme the salt on poto

Satly Saturday | Buckle Up. | Accepting!

Do you want ALL THE SALT or just some of it? Because i feel like I could write a dissertation on everything wrong with PotO and, more specifically, the Phandom and be only a diploma shy from my doctorate.

One of the things I’m incredibly angry about is that it is still an “unpopular opinion” that Meg Giry is anything but blonde and white. In the novel, she is described as “swarthy” with dark hair and eyes, but even if that were not the case, who does it harm to headcanon her as a WoC? I think it is much more damaging to ascribe white traits and white traits only to her, not only because in the Leroux text, she is not white, but because other interpretations of PotO, whether they be the stage show or a roleplay portrayal, should be more open to diversity in general. The world is diverse. And the world was diverse in the 19th century. Historians, novelists, and filmmakers tend to whitewash history and create a false monolith of Europe and the Americas, except when it furthers a particular narrative (typically revolving around the American South, even when the American South has no bearing on a story, like PotO, which takes place in a different country altogether). It’s disgusting.

The thing that gets me, though, is that the Phandom largely just accepts that Meg Giry is white and blonde. That’s the way it is in the stage show and since stage shows (and their subsequent film adaptations) are visual mediums, whereas novels rely on imagination, it’s “easier” to use images from the show to make aesthetics, fan art, etc. about Meg. It’s pure laziness most of the time; ignorance in other instances. This, to me, is dangerous in a different way than adamantly demanding Meg Be White for thinly veiled reasons tied up in racism. We know the latter is wrong. We take people to task on the latter. We demand more and better from our fandoms than casual, but intentional, racism. When it’s unintentional… or when it’s intentional because 99 percent of media including Meg Giry whitewashes her, we still hit that like button or that reblog button, instead of demanding better from our fandoms. I’m not calling for people to spam content creators with vitriol over their blonde, cherubic Meg Girys. I am calling for people to create more black Meg Girys, more Asian Meg Girys, more Jewish Meg Girys, more Latina Meg Girys, more Middle Eastern Meg Girys. Take what precious little Leroux gave us about her and expand your interpretation. Be kind to interpretations that are racially/ethnically different than the norm, or even than your own. The headcanons someone is posting about a Romani Meg Giry might be their way of connecting their own heritage to the text, of seeking representation that was hinted at in the book and destroyed in later interpretations. The fan art of a black Meg Giry might be a young woman’s way of seeing herself or her friends or her sisters in an art form (ballet) that has traditionally been unkind to WoC. Meg as a woman of color is so important - especially when you dare to mash up Leroux with ALW because the traits they each give her, when put together, create a complex and nuanced young woman that anyone might be happy to identify with. Whitewashing her takes that opportunity away from fans, especially young fans, who do not otherwise see themselves reflected in this beautiful melodrama. Ad who wants to be the gate keeper to a world of fun and joy? The ones we should be taking to task are the casting directors of PotO productions - especially in the US and UK, since those shows are most widely seen and publicized. Not just the ALW show (although I do hold the ALW show responsible for whitewashing Meg in the first place), but future productions of PotO by other creators.

I also think that for people who aren’t fans of Meg, who don’t pay her much mind, don’t understand why this is such a contentious issue for those of us who love her, whether we love her from Leroux, Webber, or another iteration. For me, the version I take issue with is the ALW version… largely because I believe ALW Meg to be a composite of Meg Giry, La Sorelli, and Cecile Jammes from the Leroux novel. You see traits of each woman reflected in ALW Meg. She’s aged up, perhaps not prima ballerina, but a principal dancer. She’s superstitious, but level-headed. Kind, almost maternal, but bubbly and fun. She’s bold and fascinated by the strange goings-on around her. If ALW had wanted to give her the blonde, blue-eyed good looks of a Barbie Doll, he would have done better to name her after Jammes, who has a peaches and cream complexion in the novel. He could have even named her after Sorelli, though this move would have been more difficult, since Sorelli was a principal dancer and not the daughter of one of Erik’s employees. No. He chose to name her after Meg Giry and elevate her to secondary character status. The least he could have done was make her look the part. It would not have been the first time a principal cast member in an ALW was a PoC. Ben Vereen played Judas in the Broadway debut of JCS. So, why so scared to cast a black woman (or, really, any WoC) as Meg Giry? Come on, ALW. Would it have been so hard? It could have started the conversation about race in period dramas or the conversation about racism in the fine arts (especially ballet) twenty or thirty years earlier. And even if it didn’t, PotO would still be the beautiful leviathan it is today.

Of course, I know that in a post-LND world, a lot of people have bigger complaints about Meg Giry’s treatment in modern stagings. I agree with them - the characterization of Meg Giry in LND is painful to watch. It’s inconsistent with what we know of her in the original show; it certainly is divorced from the novel in all ways. The flaws with Meg’s character in LND have nothing to do with the fact that she’s made into a sex worker (although that choice is questionable from a narrative standpoint, not a moral one. What does it add to Meg’s arc that she sold herself to help buy Phantasma? The implication that we’re meant to see her as lesser than Christine for it is the real moral quandary, But I digress). Rather, the flaws with Meg’s character stem from her being inconsistent with all previous and recognizable versions of her character and with the anti-feminist need to pit two women, who were previously the best of friends, against each other over a man… Not even a man who treats one or both of them right… like… it pits two best friends against each other over an abusive narcissist. It does no characters any favors, least of all poor Meg, who is made out to be needy, jealous, emotionally unstable… It does a poor job getting from Point A to Point B.

This bastardization of Meg’s character would probably seem like a great bullet to dodge, insofar as representation goes. I think it would be absolutely disgusting to cast a black woman as LND Meg, due to all the negative stereotyping that would end up clouding even the best performance. However, LND was not the commercial or critical success ALW hoped it would be. Not even close. It underwent a lot of rewritings, still was not highly successful, and (by and large) disappoints both fans of the original story and newcomers to the PotO story. It is nowhere near the cultural phenomenon that PotO is. And so, then, again I ask - why have we not seen a WoC in the role of Meg? It’s only very recently that we’ve seen PoC in the roles of Christine, the Phantom, and Raoul. Meg is still depicted as white. I’m hoping that the trend of diversifying Broadway is more than a trend, but instead a cultural shift in how Broadway appeals to the masses. I hope to see a WoC play Meg (and Madame Giry, who I’ve neglected to mention until now, woops) within my lifetime.

Honestly, I think that I only really started thinking about this critically two years ago when my Salt Squad and I got talking about representation in the Phandom, particularly in the RPC. I was rereading Leroux at the time and meditating on Kay (as one does) in my spare time and it occurred to me that if I wanted to see some change in the Phandom, I had to be a part of the side I wanted to see prevail. I had to be some of the change I wanted to see in the Phandom. So I took up Meg as a muse. I’m starting to see more and more racially diverse Megs in the Phandom and that thrills me. I want to @fillescharmxnt because her Meg is what I aspired for mine to be in so many ways. There are plenty of other fanartists, fic writers, and aesthetic makers who are doing such great things with recontextualizing Meg Giry for the 21st century.

I do want to include this disclaimer, though: just because someone is roleplaying, writing, drawing, headcanoning Meg as white, doesn’t mean that their ideas are without merit. There are plenty of very talented artists, writers, and bloggers who depict Meg as white. My goal is not to shame them - a lot of them do great work, both from a technical and emotional standpoint - but rather to invite them to the conversation about Meg Giry, race, and representation. I urge these fans to challenge their notions about Meg Giry and to be open to accepting ideas that are different from theirs. Even those of us who HC Meg as a WoC enjoy and support content with blonde Meg (like… can we talk about the Brazilian actress with the freckles?!). All I ask is that fans of white Meg Giry enjoy and support content with black/Asian/Jewish/Romani/Latina/Middle Eastern/Other Meg Giry in return.

Fans can question the media they consume. Fans can challenge the media they consume. But at the end of the day, it is the media that we create and ask to be created that make the most difference. The only way media gets created is if there is a demand for. Be willing to demand a more inclusive, more historically accurate depiction of Meg Giry and you will be rewarded with a creative explosion of fan created content.

#asks #meme response #((this is not what you asked for is it?))#tw: racism #fictioncoxnt

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phangirllnd · 6 years

Text

Love Never Dies US Tour Review - 12/29/2017

Note that these are just my opinions and they are not fact. You can think any way you want to about the show. Personally I like it, and here are some things I had to say about the cast and show.

The Cast

Gardar Thor Cortes (The Phantom)

Awkward. Like, there isn’t a better word. Half the time he wasn’t standing up straight, but had his knees or back bent and appeared more hunched over. His arms and hands were off to his sides at most times making him look odd. Overall he played his Phantom very aggressively. He manhandled Christine, made a threatening gesture to backhand Meg, and dragged Gustave about the stage during “Beauty Underneath.” While he does have a nice operatic voice, it was lost a lot during his scenes with the other performers, as he was performing more operatically and they were performing in the musical theater style. This was most apparent when he sang “Devil Take the Hindmost” with Sean. He also did not articulate his words fully and often would let them blend together weirdly. This may be due to the fact that English is not his first language, but many times if I hadn’t known the lyric, I wouldn’t have known what he was even trying to say. Overall, not a fan unfortunately.

Meghan Picerno (Christine)

Sang well overall. However, her acting is lacking at times. When she is in scenes where she is yelling or overemotional, her acting begins to take on an over the top acting style of Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz (“Oh no, Auntie Em!”). She chose to take on an English accent for this role, but when she went into the more emotional scenes this dropped quite often. She appeared older than I have seen the other Christines in Love Never Dies made up to me. This could have simply been heavy makeup. I believe she is on the shorter side, because her costumes almost appeared overly large on her or not cut appropriately. Most apparent was her white gown in “What a Dreadful Town” through to “Once Upon Another Time.” The bodice was too large and didn’t sit at her waist appropriately and the skirt was huge on her and she often had to push it to move with her, instead of flowing gracefully behind her. Overall not impressed by her either. I would have loved to see Rachel to be honest.

Mary Michael Patterson (Meg Giry)

Mary! Mary you did it girl. Really exceptional performance by Mary as Meg. She sang beautifully and had a charm to her. Her ever growing darker mood was apparent in every seen and she was very foreboding at the end. Lovely dancing and costumes fit her beautifully.

Karen Mason (Madame Giry)

At first I wasn’t sure what to think of Karen, because it appeared that she was straining her voice at times and she appears to be quite a bit older than her “daughter” (she could easily pass as Meg’s grandmother). However, she pulled through stunningly with the strained voice actually working in her favor as a kind of ominous character. She nailed the reprise after “Beauty Underneath.”

Sean Thompson (Raoul)

Sean was there. Not much else to say. I think he could have been more present in his role, but I believe that producers are pushing him to be more cold and aloof than ever to Christine. He was brash and careless in the beginning, setting the scene for how this Raoul would be portrayed. He did have a sweet moment with Gustave and the music box. Sean’s acting and singing were both great, with “Why Does She Love Me?” being a strong point for him as the audience definitely felt the hopeless and morose attitude of Raoul’s character at this point.

Katrina Kemp (Miss Fleck)

Katrina was amazing. The audience loved her and responded well to her. She definitely stole the show from her two cast mates.

Richard Koons (Squelch)

Not much to say about him. He played his part well.

Stephen Petrovich (Dr. Gangle)

Stephen was so overdramatic that at times it was cringy and at other times humorous. He reminded me very much of Herbert from Tanz der Vampire and if I had met him after the show I would have commented that to him. Just overly dramatic facial expressions and posturing. He sang well and played his part well however.

Casey Lyons (Gustave)

Nothing much to say about Casey. Beautiful voice. He took it in stride though as he kept getting dragged around stage.

The Show

I’m only commenting on songs that had parts I had something to say about, so not all scenes or songs are listed here. If they aren’t, I just didn’t have anything to say, good or bad, about them.

ACT I

“Til I Hear You Sing”

Nothing much to be said about this stage. It’s the same set and blocking as the Australian version. There was a light shining directly into my face from above though, so I was a little preoccupied with not being blinded. As this song ended and the next began, there seemed to be a bit of a weird pause where the trio of Dr. Gangle, Squelch, and Miss Fleck were beginning and the Phantom was just continuing to look down at them as they began. Then his little “tower thing” was jerkingly brought back bit by bit into the foreground. Not sure if this was on purpose or a technical aspect, because the Phantom was just hovering weirdly.

“Coney Island”

Set design the same as Australia again. Overall nice intro. The part that I noticed missing however were the “regular” customers of Coney Island who would have been on the carousel or mingling around the park. It was just the freaks. It made the transition smoother from this scene into the next when the “normal” people were entering the park and being a part of the experience alongside the freaks. The trio were riding the carousel horses instead.

“Christine Disembarks/Arrival of the Trio”

Christine came off the plank smiling and basking in the reporter’s presence which is very different from how other Christines have played this scene (most of them being apprehensive or taken off guard by the reporters wanting to speak with her). I didn’t like this as much, because it portrayed Christine as being almost conceited that she knew there would be people clamoring for her autograph. This takes away from the Christine we knew and loved from the original POTO who was overwhelmed by the praise and very humble. The carriage was HUGE and Miss. Fleck was driving it which was delightful. A loud thunder clap at the end scared a lot of the audience.

*also note that there were a lot of onstage cameras flashing so beware if you have sensitivity to this

“Beneath a Moonless Sky”

Christine appeared very angry with the Phantom, like seething mad, ready to slap him mad. The Phantom was very grabby and touchy. The Phantom was very aggressive in this scene, overly so, grabbing at Christine and manhandling her and she was just as aggressive at some points. The scene felt weird however, as Christine never truly dropped down from her anger and it was more like watching a guy try to force himself on a woman instead of remembering a moment together in their lives that meant something.

“Mother Please, I’m Scared”

Phantom was aggressive with Gustave, hauling him onto the railing which even made myself as an audience member kind of nervous for the actor playing Gustave. Phantom was very overly awkward in this scene too and his face was much too close to Gustave at certain points.

“Ten Long Years of Yearning”

This scene is where the anger did play out well, with the Phantom lunging at Christine near the piano and her fighting back. Even though I was expecting it, I was drawn to the scene with both actors fighting tooth and nail.

“Dear Old Friend”

My only comment is that it is not a wonder that the Phantom didn’t know you were into him Meg, because you slapped one of your fellow male dancer’s butts offstage.

“Beautiful/The Beauty Underneath”

I hated that this was changed so that instead of Gustave just doing his little piano part and the Phantom singing “he’s just 10 years old,” Gustave instead magically knows the tune to “The Phantom of the Opera” and he does the high notes like Christine did in the original. This was weird, especially as that scene is originally played as sexually awakening and personal. Just very awkward. The new lyrics were fine, but I still very much enjoyed the old ones just as much. The Phantom was literally dragging and grabbing at Gustave so much that I imagine the poor kid has bruises. There was a weird figure in white who appeared on one of the side balconies, who seemed to be channeling Christine dressed all in white like a ghost’s wife. Not sure why. Also, who let those It clowns into the carnival?)

“Phantom Confronts Christine”

When Meg moves forward to comfort the Phantom, the Phantom raised his arm in a gesture to backhand her and made an aggressive grunting sound. I also did not like this, as it harkens back to the new tour where the Phantom is very aggressive with women. The Phantom’s hair was sticking up all kinds of crazy during this scene and while I know this is common, it just looked very clowny and took away from the seriousness of the moment. Madame Giry’s entrance and song were on point.

ACT II

“Why Does She Love Me?”

The second shift bartender was chosen for his dark looks which look very similar to the Phantom’s. He bent down beneath the bar quite a few times and one of those times I was sure he was down for good, because he had been gone for a good 15 seconds, but then he popped back up again. The Phantom didn’t make the switch until a few seconds before confronting Raoul.

“Devil Take the Hindmost”

The singing styles between Gardar and Sean were very apparent during this and it made it so that the song did not flow as nicely and the Phantom’s threats didn’t seem as threatening when sung operatically.

“Mother Did You Watch?”

Meg did not get overly upset and scream too much at the end, which made it to be more ominous. She shouted briefly and then stood there facing the audience as the next scene was brought in with the light just slightly shining on her which made her appear foreboding and dangerous.

“Devil Take the Hindmost (Reprise)”

So I have no idea why, but there is a Phantom double in this scene. He appeared on stage right on one of the side balconies and as I was looking at him I noted that he did not look the same and his singing was not quite matching up to his lip movements. I honestly tilted my head in confusion which I think the double may have seen (sorry dude, work on your stuff). He exited and then about 5 seconds later, Gardar appeared on stage right on another side balcony. There was obviously not enough time for him to move across that whole expanse of stage, which threw the audience for a loop too with them wondering how he did that so fast. I just did not understand the point of a double. Just have the Phantom stand in one spot. It’s not a big deal. It was a bit hard to hear Madame Giry during this time. Not sure if her voice was just being overpowered or her mic was low.

“Love Never Dies”

Raoul steps forward involuntarily as soon as Christine sings, knowing he’s lost but entranced by her singing still. The Phantom was standing opposite to him awkwardly with his arms outstretched to his sides and gaping at Christine. When Raoul leaves and Christine looks back over, she honestly did not seem the least bit upset that Raoul was gone and immediately smiled and launched into the next stanza (I guess she didn’t really love him).

“Ah Christine/Gustave, Gustave”

The kiss was blocked in this scene because the Phantom’s arm came up in the front and blocked their faces. Not sure if this was on purpose or if the blocking was forgotten. Also the Phantom left first and slammed the door after him (Rude. Hold the door for Christine, man).

“Beauty Underneath (Reprise)”

I really liked this scene and thought it actually did add to the production. Meg is taking Gustave and she’s singing to him asking if he wants to see all the weird stuff and of course he agrees. A part of the roller coaster is in the middle and as the reprise is sung, it’s being spun around with Meg and Gustave on top of it. It appeared to be spinning quite fast and it was exciting to watch that. This gave a little more background into how Gustave was persuaded to leave the stage area however, as he trusted Meg and was very interested in “weird” things.

“Finale”

They used the same piece of roller coaster that Meg and Gustave had been spinning on. It was more curved than the Australian production and had a little platform at the end with no railing around it. There was only a rail on one part of it (and though Christine and Gustave were clinging to it, I don’t think Christine pulled it down like in the Australian version). The reason I really did not like this was because the coaster part actually had to be turned part way through so the other half of the scene on it could be displayed. Meg played her part very well. When it came time for the fight over the gun, it appeared that Gardar was manhandling the gun so much that Mary couldn’t even fire it, so the fight was prolonged for a few seconds until she could actually pull the trigger. This took away from the scene because the gunshot is supposed to be very unexpected and unintentional, but with the prolonged fight over the gun, it was inevitable that someone would be shot, it was just a matter of whom. The scene where the Phantom is holding Christine was a bit hard to see, especially since Christine was not sitting up that much (as is seen in Les Miserables with Fantine in “A Little Fall of Rain”). The Phantom’s breaths with obvious upset in them were touching and his cry at the end was also. The Phantom hands over Christine’s body to Raoul and walks to the end of the “pier.” When Gardar turned around to sing to Gustave though, one of his feet was dangling off the edge of the “pier” and it seemed for a moment that he might possibly throw himself into the ocean, so I think Gardar just needs to be mindful to keep his feet on the set, so as not distract from the moment.

Final Thoughts

Overall, I would see it again, but I would prefer to see a different Phantom and Christine to see their dynamic together. If it’s in your area, see it, even if just to say you have seen it.

I did make an audio recording of the show. I just need break it apart, see how I can improve the sound, and block out some of the white noise. I’m more sure how long that will take me, as I’ve never recorded a show before.

#love never dies #lnd #love never dies us tour #lnd us tour #gardar thor cortes #meghan picerno #mary michael patterson #sean thompson #karen mason

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kimwexlers-brownhair · 7 years

Text

Yellow Rose, epilogue

Short but hopefully a sweet and satisfying conclusion.

This has been a long labor of love. I wrote this as a love letter to the character of Meg Giry. Although she might not have had the most lines in the musical, her actions spoke for her. She was a true friend, showing amazing bravery, strength, and compassion throughout. I love her very much.

But I dedicate this to my faithful readers, whose wonderful, insightful reviews inspired me when writer's block threatened to break me. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

I can't believe this is over. I started this in 2014. Three years. It feels longer, and yet at the same time I'm shocked it's been this long. Thank you for staying with me. Love to you all.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10695372/60/Yellow-Rose

Anahid sat on the expansive porch of her daughter and son-in-law's summer estate on the coast. The sun was high against the sky, turning it the bright blue shade of a robin's egg. The waves rolled against the shore with the same placid rhythm as Anahid's murmured "shh" to the cooing babe in her arms.

Her granddaughter.

They were all on holiday, Meg and Erik celebrating their second wedding anniversary. Her little Meg was now the celebrated Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac, much loved after her triumphant return to Paris. She still danced, and danced, despite her new title, lands, wealth, and mysterious husband. This husband inspired much gossip: tall, quiet, and strikingly attractive, even with that slight stiffened half of his face – a stroke? An accident?

It was once said that La Giry and her mother were accomplices of the infamous Phantom, who was rumored to have followed them to America in disguise as their manservant – could it be that turned to love, and in exile they…?

But no, those in Reims said. The Baron was sent away to a monastery when he was young for his health, as he'd been such a sickly child that hardly anyone in their village was allowed to see him in his infancy. He had been in training as a priest, but abandoned that life once his brother died. He took up his family mantle.

He did so with his lovely wife at his side. The fact she was a dancer created only a small scandal. After all, Christine Daae married a viscount. Perhaps society's rules were slowly changing.

Yet how did the two meet? This was never answered to the public's satisfaction. And so the rumor of the Phantom lingered, though the more serious stratum of gossipers merely scoffed at the outlandish theory.

Madame Giry smiled to herself softly. How often it is that the most fantastical story holds the most truth.

She hushed the baby again as a nearby seagull disturbed the child's sleep.

So small. So helpless. She was four months old.

Anahid had at first been in shock that morning over two years ago. Meg bounded into her room in their house in New York, happy tears streaming down her face. "Mother," she beamed. "Erik and I…" then she squealed and threw and herself onto her mother's bend, hugging her ecstatically.

But then the shock melted way. Anahid had known. All this time, she'd known. She'd seen the love grow between them, without fully realizing it. She'd seen her little sparrow change slowly from the frightened, curious creature who shrieked at any sign of the Phantom to pitying him, caring for him; and then ever so slowly that transformed into a strong, steady love.

And Erik: his denial had been fierce and strong throughout. Little Giry was a pest he'd had to look after over the years, and then she decided to intrude on his heartbreak – only to slowly mend that heartbreak with her small hands. Not in any conscious way: Anahid knew firsthand that all it took was Meg's cheerful, frank, and dauntless example to bring light into the life of the world weary.

So how could she withhold her consent? They married shortly before returning to France. There was no question that Madame Giry would make their home hers as well. Neither mother nor daughter could bear the thought of separation.

Madame Giry rocked back and forth in her chair on the porch as the baby drifted back to an easier sleep. Giry squinted into the vast blue sky.

After Meg's return to the Paris stage, amongst thunderous encores, she'd braved a visit to her grandfather. The man was quite old and secluded in his estate just outside Paris.

His vision was failing, and so at first he thought she was her Aunt Melanie come to visit. Then Meg kneeled delicately in front of him from where he sat rigidly in his bedroom arm chair. In her soft little voice, she explained who she was. The old man stared at her incredulously. But through his cataracts, he recognized Julien's strong chin and honest, grave gaze.

And the old man wept.

Although Julien was gone, his daughter forgave his father his elitism, his disownment.

Meg had sobbed the story into her mother's shoulder that night. But they were glad tears, like the tears she'd shed when telling Anahid about her and Erik.

The baby stirred and yawned. She opened her eyes.

"Hello, my love," Anahid whispered to her.

The child grinned and squeaked in pleasure as her grandmother stared at her with a deep, intense love burning in her black eyes.

Julie was her name. Julie Anahid.

Giry recalled how relieved she'd been at Meg's predominantly French look at birth. Now she was pleased that the Persian blood appeared strong in little Julie, from her black hair to her golden-brown complexion.

There was one exception: Julie's eyes. They were blue-gray – like her grandfather's. Her namesake's.

Anahid suddenly closed her eyes, taken back to a courtyard surrounded by yellow roses on a dark blue night. Julien had taken her in his arms for the first time that night. She could feel those arms around her still. Always.

Perhaps enough time has passed. Perhaps I can return to that moonlit courtyard, the scent of roses lingering in the air.

My Julien.

The sweet, tender strain of a violin reached her ears. She opened her eyes.

In front of the grandmother and granddaughter stood Julie's parents on the beach. Erik played his violin for his wife.

Meg smiled. Her hair streamed down her back, the waves of strawberry blond flowing in the slight breeze. Eyes warm with love, she stepped barefoot toward her husband.

While he played, she took off his mask and kissed him.

END

#Yellow Rose #meg giry #erik/meg #poto #merik #phantom of the opera

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tophatsnap · 7 years

Text

A Monster Stared Back

What if the mob had never reached Erik's home?

Hi guys. I know I haven’t finished my other things, but I started another thing.. Let me know what you think. It’s just a one shot for the moment. Phanty belongs to Leroux & Lloyd Webber

She had placed the ring in my palm. Her two small hands had closed over my own for a single, precious moment; her touch was soft, tender- something I had seldom experienced. It was one of the few times she had willingly touched me, and we both seemed to pause slightly at the foreign sensation. A final barrier was broken between us as her hands touched mine.

The hands belonging to a man; just a man. Not a ghost, Phantom or specter.

I walked to the bank of the lake and watched her disappear from sight. I do not know what possessed me to do so. Perhaps I was a glutton for my own agony. My chest tightened as I saw her turn back briefly. Our eyes met for a second or two, and then she looked forward once more. Something I would never be able to do.

My fingers still closed around the ring she had given me, I sat down, allowing the tears to freely fall now that Christine was not around to see them. My home had never felt so empty- the oppressive silence was almost too much to bear. How had I lived like this for so long?

The silence was strange tonight though, given everything that had happened above ground. I would have expected some callers by now; the mob, the authorities… or both. Standing up and stashing the ring in my pocket, I waded once more into the murky water before me and peered as far as I could through the tunnel.

Nothing… Not a sound. No yells of impending doom, no distant flashes of light to signify torches approaching… nothing at all. My home was difficult to find, I had made it so, but after all the chaos and destruction I had caused, I was sure that someone would have found me on hatred or revenge alone.

Perhaps Madame Giry had drawn them away, or perhaps she had set her daughter the task. Part of me was relieved by the idea that I would be able to stay where I was and wallow in the grief that was suffocating me with each passing minute, that at least I would have my routine and security… my safety, but the other part told me that I needed to leave… one way or the other. I had either to submit myself to the mob, or the authorities and whatever they had in store, or I had to take my future into my own hands and walk away. Walk away from it all. Whatever that meant…

Everything in this Opera house would now remind me of Christine, the way I had treated her and the person… the monster I had become in the end.

Unceremoniously wiping my nose with my sleeve, I waded back to the shore. I bent down and picked up her veil, placing it back on the mannequin. It used to sit atop the mannequin’s head comfortably, but now it seemed so out of place. It did not belong there anymore. It belonged with Christine.

I decided to leave the portcullis up. For whoever found me in the end deserved the right to justice or revenge... they seemed interchangeable now. What did I have to live for now? I still had my music, but Christine was my music. She was my muse, and for the last few years, she and music had gone hand in hand in my mind. How was I to separate the two?

Another day passed.

Another day of agony…

Finally, I changed out of what was left of my Don Juan Triumphant costume. I couldn’t care less what I wore, but what I did not need was another constant reminder of that night- my home and memories, my face… they were enough. To my disgust, in spite of everything, for the last two days, part of me had expected her to return. To have changed her mind, to have forgiven me… but I knew that I did not deserve forgiveness. I hated how weak I had become because of her. I knew that if she showed her face, I would accept her with open arms and I loathed myself for it.

I hadn’t sought out food since before the night of Don Juan. I hadn’t bathed. I hadn’t even been brave enough to face a mirror. But I hardly felt the pain of hunger, I hardly felt the grime on my body even though prior to this I was exceedingly fastidious with my cleanliness. I found that even though at the root of everything was my appearance, for the first time I hardly cared how I looked.

I hardly cared how I felt save for the ache in my chest and sickness in my stomach that had not left since she had…

The time dragged, and I felt each agonizing second tick by. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to physically hurt so that I could feel something other than this never-ending torment. The sickening thought that she might return, that still… Still she might change her mind…

I was still expecting someone to pay me a visit and make it easy for me; take my life. Take the life that I should never have been given, and since birth have not deserved. But no one came.

I did not know what was happening above ground. It was likely that the Opera had closed for repairs following the damage I had done- if it was to be salvaged at all. I had not yet seen the damage for myself. At this stage I was not leaving my home, but for all I knew, that option might not remain. I could be buried under rubble and not even be aware of it. Entrapped forever in the building I loved so much. A tomb for a corpse; fitting.

Not knowing what else to do, I poured a large glass of wine and drank it all. I poured another and did the same. I approached one of the mirrors that bordered my home and for the first time in days, stared into it.

A monster stared back.

Just as my mother had said it would all those years ago.

Stay away from mirrors, Erik. Or the monster inside will get you!

Well, she was right. The monster had gotten me after all. What was staring back at me was no man. If there ever was a human being in that reflection, he was all but gone now.

All of a sudden I found that the monster was smiling back at me. What was humorous? Who knew. Perhaps the monster was mad. Soon both the monster and I began to laugh together and seemingly minutes passed.

The laugher turned to pain and soon I couldn’t stop the grief from showing itself. I heaved and wept, falling against the mirror- staring back at what I knew was myself.

This face. I was tired of it. It had taken everything from me.

I threw my fists into the glass, each punch sending shards flying out in all directions. It was beautiful, and now I could no longer see the face that had destroyed my life before it had even begun. Feeling slightly better about things, I took a deep breath and poured another glass of wine. I felt nothing as the blood ran down my fingers and onto the ground below.

I moved to the next mirror and repeated the process, beginning to smile again as the alcohol took charge of my actions and I no longer needed to think.

I walked back up to where my wine bottle sat and poured another glass… or half glass. Apparently I had finished the bottle. Picking up the glass and attempting to drink it as I made my way down the stairs to my desk, I lost my footing, slipping on a shard of glass. My wine fell from my hand, and in an attempt to gain balance with the other leg, I twisted my ankle and went tumbling unceremoniously to the floor.

I cringed as my ankle screamed with pain. What had I done? I wasn’t usually this light headed after a single bottle of wine, but my emotions were running high, and I had not eaten for several days now.

I hadn’t wanted to leave, but now I truly couldn’t. I laughed again at the situation I was in, but there was no one around to hear it, and the silence that engulfed my voice made me feel pathetic. I attempted to sit up, only to feel a sharp burn in my side as I did so. I looked down to see that there was a patch of red on my shirt. I lifted it to see that a piece of glass had in fact sliced my side open as I’d fallen. Fantastic. At least it didn’t look too deep.

With a cringe, I sat up. I yelled as I pulled myself to my feet. I truly could not put any weight on my right foot. It would prove troublesome If I did actually need to abscond from my home at any point. Thankfully, seemingly, both the mob and the authorities had given up on me that night. Although, it hardly mattered whether they had or not. What I was doing was not living, and so perhaps it would be alright if they took my life after all. No one else wanted it and I was certainly indifferent at the present time.

Knowing that I should at least elevate my ankle, but neglecting to do so out of spite for myself, I sat at my organ. Not playing, just staring at the keys. I placed my bloodied hands atop them, the keys turning from white to red as I smoothed my fingers over them.

I sat sprawled across my organ, on the verge of sleep when I heard the voice.

“Angel.”

I lifted my head, squinting into the darkness. I must have been dreaming, or perhaps I was still inebriated. No, I couldn’t be. It had been hours and the headache that now plagued me on top of everything else told me that the fun was over, and that now I had to pay for all that I had consumed and the speed with which I had done so. I lay back down, settling into my awkward sitting position, one that had no doubt spoiled my back over time, and closed my eyes.

“Angel. It’s me.”

That voice again. It was her. I sat up again, slowly turning around where I sat to see Christine standing at the bottom of the stairs I had fallen down. She was looking down at the detritus surrounding her; shards of glass, wine stains, other stains… her gaze shifted to mine as I turned. My first reaction was to go to her. For she had returned, and for the last 3 days or so that was all I’d been able to think about. But I calmed myself; my true persona took hold once more once I realized that she had left me. When I had released her, she had not thought twice about leaving with her boy and she had likely only returned out of some sense of pity or duty to her conscience.

“I can see that.” I finally spoke.

She flinched slightly at my cold words.

There was silence as I glared at her.

“Are you alright?” She asked. If it had not been so dark, she might’ve been able to see that I was not, in fact, alright. It was visible that I had not slept, nor eaten, and that I was bleeding from more than one injury.

“Why are you here?” I spoke softly, ignoring her question.

She stepped closer, perhaps taking my question as an invitation.

“Don’t.” I said, turning from her slightly. I still hadn’t replaced my mask, and a harsh word or stare from her in the state I was in, would crush me.

She stopped walking.

“I had to see you.”

“How kind of you.” I quipped. It had been snide, yes, but I didn’t care.

“Angel, please.” She began. “I had to see that you were alright… After we left… I was worried that the mob…”

“You can’t have been too worried, though.” I replied darkly, cutting her off. “It has been two days.” It was a childish argument, and I regretted allowing her to see that I was affected by her in the slightest…

“I know.” She said, looking down. “It was the soonest I could get away.”

Yes, with your marriage planning, I suppose you were quite busy.

I remained silent. She was being guarded too, but why?

“Angel, what happened here?”

“I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Christine.”

“It is of my concern!” She spoke, stepping forward again. This was the first time she had raised her voice to me.

“In what way?” I argued. “You have seen what you came here to. I am alive, if you could call it that. Let your conscience be sated with that, and leave this where it is. Your priorities were made clear to me on Thursday night.” I looked down. She remained silent.

“I let you leave.” I began again, my voice softer. “You did not need to return. You should not be here.”

My last words were spoken in sincerity. I wanted her with me more than anything, but I had let her leave because I saw that love was not about selfish yearning, but instead, selflessness. I wished her to be happy above all else, above myself. How was she to achieve that If she was still with me? The man who had kidnapped and entrapped her? I felt ill the more I thought of it.

“Well is this how you wish to leave things?” She argued. I looked up.

“We already left things, Christine. I’m sorry, but if you have come here for some sort of closure, I do not know what to tell you. You are free to leave and enjoy your life… I meant that when I said it.” I wasn’t being snide. I hadn’t the energy for that anymore. “Please, go.”

“I will go, but I don’t wish to leave things like this. Not after everything.”

“Please, Christine.” I spoke. Couldn’t she see that her mere presence was torturing me? Taunting me with promises of something that I could not have, that did not want me…

“Angel…” She began.

“Please. Stop calling me that. We both know that it is no longer appropriate.”

“And what is appropriate?” She asked

“…Erik.” I said, almost a whisper. “My name is Erik.”

There was silence for a moment, and then she spoke.

“Well, Erik. Would it be alright If I stayed for a few moments?”

I stared at her, though I was sure she could not see all of my face. Only a few candles were lit by this point, and all that she had with her was a dull lamp. I wished for her to say. I wanted it more than anything. It would be torturous, but she had asked to stay, how could I refuse?

“You may do as you please.” I said coldly.

“Thank you.”

She approached me slowly, awkwardly…

“I will find you a chair.” I said. Though, as soon as I stood up and put my weight on my right foot, pain shot through me and I fell back onto my organ, holding it for support.

“Are you alright?” She cried. I could not stop her from approaching now, nor could I move away. All I could do was cover my face, and so I did so.

“What happened to you?” She asked, moving closer. “Oh… your hands… you’re bleeding!”

“Yes.”

Indeed, I was. It had not really bothered me until I had seen the pieces of glass sticking out of my skin, and now it was beginning to sting.

“Let me help you.” She reached out for the hand that was leaning on the organ, giving me balance. I pulled away, almost falling again.

“Don’t touch me.” I said. I hadn’t meant for it to sound so harsh, but I couldn’t let her in. Not when I was already in so much pain at the thought of losing her. I yearned for her touch, and yet I knew it would be the end of me… “I can do it myself.”

“What happened?” She asked again.

I did not respond. Instead, I stood up and limped to the bedroom she had once slept in. She followed me as I entered and sat on the edge, bending down to retrieve my bespoke first aid kit from underneath it.

“What is that?” She enquired, staring at the small box I had in my hands.

“You need not worry.” I said curtly.

“There is no need to be rude to me.”

No, there wasn’t. If I didn’t want her around, I needed to tell her. But I did… oh, how I did.

“I apologize.” I said. “But you do not need to be here, nor do you need to witness this. You should leave.”

With that, she stood up and left the room. I stared after her. Was that it? Had she left? Without so much as a goodbye? Perhaps it was for the best. I set the box down and lit some of the candles in the bedroom. I needed to see what I was doing. I was not particularly fond of living, but I did not wish to die from infection. I had come close before and It was not pleasant.

The light in the room made me more comfortable. It hadn’t before, but now, I felt less alone. I could pretend that everything was as it had been before Thursday; before Don Juan Triumphant.

I stood up, ready to limp to the kitchen in search of a bowl and some water to wash out my wounds, and Christine entered the room, standing before me just inside the door way. My hand flew to my face.

“I thought you’d left.” I said,

“No.” She said, now only two feet from me. She was intoxicating. “I went to find these.” I looked down at what she was holding out; my mask and wig. Could it be that she wanted me to feel comfortable? “You shouldn’t have to hide your face in your own home, but I thought these would make you feel more at ease.”

I took them, turning my back to her to put them on. I did indeed feel more at ease. I had not worn a mask since she had ripped it off me on stage… I turned back to her, smoothing my wig back in an attempt to look more presentable. Though, I hadn’t shaved in days and I likely looked like death due to lack of sleep.

“Thank you.” I said, my voice low, not wanting to give away too much. In truth I was amazed by the gesture. Did my comfort mean that much to her, or did she want my face covered for her own benefit? I tried not to think about it.

“You’re welcome… Erik.” She said. My name sounded beautiful on her tongue. “Now please, let me help you, and then if you still wish it, I will leave.”

Avoiding eye contact with her, I nodded.

“Water.” I spoke. “I will need a bowl of water.”

“Alright.” She smiled guardedly, before leaving the room again.

When she returned I was sitting on the side of the bed once more, tweezers in hand. She set the bowl on the ground before kneeling before me, watching my hands intently. It made me nervous. I don’t know if it was her or the pain that was making my hands shake but it was making things very difficult. As soon as the tweezers came in contact with a piece of glass I yelled in pain, refraining from cursing aloud.

“Allow me.” She offered, reaching for the tweezers.

“No!” I growled. “I can look after myself, Christine!”

“Let me help you!” She retorted.

“Why!”

“I am not going to sit here and watch you put yourself through pain! Now, give me the tweezers!”

I was stunned. Who was this woman? Before I could say anything she had taken them from me and held out her hand.

Slowly, I offered her one of mine, and as soon as our palms touched, I felt weak. Her hand was warm and soft. Suddenly, the pain was gone. How was I to live without this feeling now that I knew what it felt like?

“Thank you.” She said sternly.

We did not speak as she gently removed the shards from one hand, and washed it in water. I handed her the iodine without a word and she poured it over my hand. It stung horribly, but as Christine wiped the excess blood away and gently bandaged me, I could not help but stare at her. She was so gentle with me after all I had done. I did not deserve this. I offered her my other hand without her needing to ask, and she offered a small smile in return. She was so beautiful.

She repeated the process in silence. She had asked numerous times what had happened, and I had neglected to answer. Why was I making her suffer when she was offering nothing but kindness?

“The mirrors.” I stated awkwardly once she had finished.

She looked up.

“You asked what had happened.” I added.

“The mirrors.” She began. “I just pulled pieces of them out of your flesh, therefore I gathered as much.”

Was that sarcasm? I stared at her- unused to being spoken to like this, I remained silent.

“The real question is why.” She spoke.

“I don’t have an answer for that.” I said. She nodded again.

“I see.” She said. “And what of that?” She gestured to the patch of blood on my shirt.

“It’s nothing.”

“Just like your hands?” She smirked.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you cannot help yourself.”

“I can. And if that is why you are here, you may leave.”

“I am not leaving until I know that you are alright.”

“But why do you care?!”

“Because it is who I am! You once meant a lot to me. You were there for me when no one else was, and you did more for me than anyone could hope to understand. Over the past few months you turned into something else but I know that the real you is still in there somewhere! And that is who I am helping! Are you satisfied with that!?”

No, I wasn’t. Not at all.

“You don’t know the real me.” I began, continuing the argument.

“And neither do you! You have become so disconnected with yourself that you had to pause when I asked what your name was!”

I did not expect this from Christine and I was in no mood for an argument.

“I am the Phantom, Christine. Whether you like it or not, that is who I am now, and that is who you are helping.”

“…And if I asked you to be someone different? If I asked you to be Erik?”

I paused, looking down at my bandaged hands. I would do anything for her, be whoever she wanted me to be- perhaps she knew that.

I sighed.

“I don’t know how to be that person anymore.”

“You do.”

I had been the Phantom for so long that Erik had not mattered- he had not been needed. But perhaps the only way to keep Christine around was to find him again.

“Now, am I sitting before the Phantom tonight?” Christine continued. “Was it the Phantom’s wounds I just dressed?”

I shook my head slightly.

Christine nodded in response.

“Alright.” She said. My eyes met hers briefly. I could not hold her gaze for long, not like I used to. Not when I was feeling so powerless. “Can I see your side? I’d like to see if there is glass in there. The only way you’d be able to do that yourself is if you used a mirror- and you don’t have any of those left.”

The girl had made an attempt at humor. I smirked slightly. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen it.

“Lie back.” She said. I did as she instructed. Unfortunately, the cut was fairly high up, across my ribs. I watched her carefully as I lifted my shirt, just enough for her to see the wound. She seemed nervous, and I saw her take a deep breath. Was she… blushing?

I had several scars littering my torso that I did not want her to see and question. But apart from that, it was improper. I was already feeling self-conscious, so when she took hold of my shirt and pulled it around further I stopped her.

“Stop.”

“Ang… Erik. I have to see the wound.” She seemed annoyed.

“You could see it. I pulled my shirt up high enough.”

“You need to hold it up higher if I’m to clean it for you.”

“You shouldn’t have to see this.”

“Erik, I lived in the theatre for many years. I have seen a man’s chest before. Please, relax.”

It wasn’t that. I wasn’t ashamed of my scars as I was my face, but I didn’t want the questions… the pity… I’d suffered enough of that tonight.

“Please.” She added. “Don’t fight me on everything.”

I looked at her sweet face. How could I deny her? I would just have to explain myself- something I loathed doing.

I took a deep breath.

“Scars.” I spoke, my voice low. “I have scars I do not wish for you to see.”

“Everyone has scars.”

“Not like this.” Indeed, not many people had been whipped, cut, and burned for entertainment. “I have cared for myself many times before, Christine. And I have survived. Please. Tell me if there is any glass that you can see, and I will do the rest.”

She sighed, but thankfully she did not question what I said.

“There was no glass.”

I nodded.

She handed me a cloth soaked in iodine, and I cleaned my own wound. It stung terribly- but I could tell from the pain that I would not need stitches.

Though, my ankle throbbed, and I made the mistake of glancing down at it.

“Your ankle?” She asked. “What did you do?”

“I twisted it when I fell. But please, you need not…”

But she was already at the foot of the bed.

“Which one is it? Your right?”

“Christine please. Really. You don’t need to.”

The last thing I wanted was her inspecting my foot. In my life people had seldom touched me with good intent. No one had ever touched my feet, I didn’t want to subject her to that. Also, it felt strangely intimate, and it would be incredibly awkward. I didn’t want that.

When she touched my boot, pain shot through me. I clenched the sheets and groaned.

“I’m sorry.” She asked apologetically. “Did that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“We have to get it off before the swelling gets worse.”

I knew it to be the case, though, I did not want her involved.

She touched my boot again, this time more gently. She slowly unlaced it and pulled it off.

“Christine, no. Just leave it. Please.”

“It looks quite swollen.” She said, ignoring me. She began to remove my sock.

“Stop. You shouldn’t.” I said, pulling away from her. Though the movement that pulling away caused me was excruciating.

“Why not?” She asked, a smile coming to her lips. “Ticklish?”

Was I?

God, I hadn’t even thought of that.

Surely she wouldn’t…

She wouldn’t dare…

Not while I was in pain.

Not ever!

Why was she still here!?

I frowned at her, unimpressed with what she had suggested.

“No. You just…”

She watched me struggle for words.

You shouldn’t have to do this to someone who treated you so poorly.

“It-It makes me uncomfortable.” I finally said.

“Erik, for the last time. I am going to help you. Now stop fussing, please. You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be!”

She pulled off the sock and inspected my ankle. I looked away and closed my eyes, not wanting to see her expression. This was too strange. The situation was surreal; I didn’t like feeling this human. This vulnerable. But I didn’t have a choice. The girl was determined.

“It’s swollen and bruised.” She said. I opened my eyes and looked down. It was indeed. It looked awful. “I don’t know much about injuries unfortunately, but I have rolled my ankle once or twice while dancing.”

I knew she had. I had seen it each time it had happened and it had taken every ounce of strength not to go to her and pick her up.

“I have had injuries that have looked similar to this.” She said. “Does it feel broken?”

“No.” I stated. I just wanted this to end. She gently took my foot in her hand, slowly turning it to the side to inspect the other side of the ankle. Having never been touched there, my skin was sensitive. It felt heavenly. I closed my eyes, guiltily enjoying the feeling of her soft skin against mine.

“It looks worse on the inside.” She said. I opened my eyes again. “I’ll wrap it for you.”

“No, you don’t…”

“You cannot do it yourself, Erik.” She said, clearly annoyed with me.

She gently wrapped my ankle. Each time her skin came in contact with mine, a jolt of pleasure shot through me. She couldn’t be here anymore. I could not bear it. Christine placed a cushion beneath my foot and walked nearer to me, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.” She said. “And you should change your shirt. The last thing you need is an infection.”

I nodded, deciding it was best not to argue with her. She was not the Christine I remembered.

“Will you be leaving now?” I asked. “I am quite capable, Christine. Despite what you may think. You should feel free to leave.”

“I do feel free to leave.”

I stared at her. What was she trying to say?

“Do you wish for me to leave?”

Of course I didn’t.

“It is not up to me.” I answered strategically.

“It is a simple question, Erik. Requiring a simple answer.”

How had Christine Daae changed in such a short amount of time? Perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps I hadn’t really known her at all…

What I had suffered was demeaning. I was not accustomed to accepting help; being treated like I was incompetent, like a child. But never had anyone helped me as Christine had, and if it meant her staying around for just a little while longer, I would accept it.

“No, Christine. I do not wish for you to leave…”

#poto #phantom of the opera #phanfic #fanfic #2004 phantom #erik #christine daae #andrew lloyd webber #gaston leroux #tophatsnap #a monster stared back

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