Because I'm a journal-updating fiend!
Nov. 18th, 2004 12:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icepixieSorry for the spam. I think I'm making up for pretty much staying away from LJ for most of this week.
Anyway. During my essay breaks, I wrote a short Phantom of the Opera fic for Chandra's Christmas present (she does Phantom like most of us do Farscape; it's scary), and I thought I'd toss it out here. Comments are welcome.
Christmas at the Opera
Paris was cloaked in the magic of the first snowfall of the year. It had come late this winter; it was already Christmas Eve. The whole city seemed transformed by the glittering layer of white into something cleaner and more innocent. Parisians thronged gaily in the streets, shopping for last-minute holiday gifts or just enjoying the crispness of the air, and excited children darted through the crowds, throwing snowballs and catching snowflakes on their tongues.
Christine Daae couldn't keep a smile off her face as she walked the short distance from Madame 's to the Opera House. Her step was lighthearted, and her feet made no sound in the blanket of snow.
Her entrance to the Opera House was met with appreciative murmurs from all corners, for who could not be delighted by her flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and the way the melting snowflakes sparkled on her scarf and hat? Christine, as usual, noticed none of them. She allowed her coat to be taken away, and quickly joined into the bright atmosphere of the Christmas party.
The hours slipped by, filled with music and dancing, not to mention some mildly intoxicated impromptu caroling. Christine did not once look at the clock in the lobby, caught up in conversation with the other chorus girls and the various prominent Parisians the management had invited to the gala. It was nearly midnight before she departed the party for her dressing room; like the other girls, she sometimes slept on the chaise in the room if she had stayed at the Opera too late to walk home in safety and propriety.
She had changed into a nightdress and was sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair, when she heard it.
"You're late," a voice said from behind her mirror.
Christine set her brush on the table and stared into the glass. "Oh, Angel, please don't be angry," she implored. "It's Christmas."
"Au contraire, it is still Christmas Eve, you still have a lesson, and you are three hours late." The Angel's voice was such that Christine could not quite tell whether he was still angry or had moved on into amused tolerance of her tardiness. It mattered little, as the Angel did not wait for a response; he instead commanded, "Begin your exercises. Scales, please."
"Wait." Christine rushed to the wardrobe and knelt on the floor, rummaging in the darkness. "I have something for you. Just give me a moment to find it..." Her hand brushed against the wrapped package she had laid in there three days ago, and she pulled it out triumphantly. She hoped her angel would like it; she had spent weeks trying to think of something to give someone she had never seen in person.
Christine set the small package on the dressing table. "I hope you like it," she said.
There was a long silence from behind the mirror, so long that Christine feared her Angel had left until he finally asked, with a faint tremor of disbelief in his voice, "A gift...for me?"
"It's Christmas," Christine answered simply.
She heard a soft exhalation from the other side of the mirror. "It is indeed," her angel said quietly.
Christine broke the uncomfortable pause that followed by asking, "Shall I begin my exercises now?"
"Are you sure you are not too tired?"
The angel's question brought the fact that she could barely keep her eyes open and her head from slumping onto the table to the front of Christine's mind. "I think--" a yawn broke into her sentence.
"I suppose that answers my question," the angel said, as much amusement as he ever showed coloring his tone.
"I'm sorry, Angel, it's just that the party..."
"Think nothing of it. Christmas began exactly one minute and fifteen seconds ago."
Christine smiled into the mirror and laughed a little. "Well, then, Joyeaux Noel, Angel. Don't forget your present."
"I should never do that," the angel answered her, subdued once more.
Feeling daring, Christine quickly pressed a kiss to the mirror. "Good night, Angel."
The faintly shell-shocked answer of "Good night, Christine," came as she was putting out the gas lamps in the room. Christine got into the makeshift bed provided by the chaise, knowing that her angel would not enter the room unless she was either asleep or absent. Feeling almost like she was waiting for Pére Noel again, only in reverse this time, Christine focused all her concentration on traveling to dreamland.
* * *
Christine was unsure why she awoke, only that she could feel a presence in the room with her. Her heart racing, she let her eyes adjust to the dark until she could see a tall black form moving around the room, making almost no sound on the wooden floor. When the form approached the chaise, she shot out an arm and grabbed its wrist.
Her fingers caught on fine velvet, but her grip was broken immediately when the owner of the wrist jerked it roughly from her hand. She saw a dim flash of white reflecting off of the man's face in the light that seeped in from under the door. "Angel?" she asked sleepily.
"Yes," the familiar voice of her tutor answered.
"Did you get your gift? Do you like it?"
"I did, and I do. Thank you, Christine." His voice was completely sincere, with none of the sarcasm that it usually held.
Christine smiled as her eyes closed again, satisfied that her choice of a book of stave paper and a fancy pen had been correct.
"I have something for you as well, Christine," her angel said. "It is on your dressing table. Open it when you wake."
"All right," she agreed, her voice growing fainter and fuzzier as she returned to sleep.
In the morning, Christine wasn't sure if the long, almost-skeletal, yet strangely soft fingers that tenderly brushed her cheek before disappearing in a rush of air had been a dream or had been those of her angel. She touched the skin thoughtfully.
With the light coming in from the window, Christine could see a bundle wrapped in white paper, tied with a black ribbon. She set upon it with all the glee of a child on Christmas morning, though taking more care to preserve the ribbon and remove the paper cautiously.
A gilded rose met her eyes, the gold so thin it took on a pink blush from the red blossom underneath. The stem, too, was painted gold, including the thorns. Christine eagerly took the flower between her fingers and held it up to the sun, where it sparkled in the reflected light from the new layer of snow on the ground.
Christine turned to the mirror. "Thank you, Angel," she called. "It's lovely."
She could have sworn that the mirror winked at her in the sun.
Anyway. During my essay breaks, I wrote a short Phantom of the Opera fic for Chandra's Christmas present (she does Phantom like most of us do Farscape; it's scary), and I thought I'd toss it out here. Comments are welcome.
Christmas at the Opera
Paris was cloaked in the magic of the first snowfall of the year. It had come late this winter; it was already Christmas Eve. The whole city seemed transformed by the glittering layer of white into something cleaner and more innocent. Parisians thronged gaily in the streets, shopping for last-minute holiday gifts or just enjoying the crispness of the air, and excited children darted through the crowds, throwing snowballs and catching snowflakes on their tongues.
Christine Daae couldn't keep a smile off her face as she walked the short distance from Madame 's to the Opera House. Her step was lighthearted, and her feet made no sound in the blanket of snow.
Her entrance to the Opera House was met with appreciative murmurs from all corners, for who could not be delighted by her flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and the way the melting snowflakes sparkled on her scarf and hat? Christine, as usual, noticed none of them. She allowed her coat to be taken away, and quickly joined into the bright atmosphere of the Christmas party.
The hours slipped by, filled with music and dancing, not to mention some mildly intoxicated impromptu caroling. Christine did not once look at the clock in the lobby, caught up in conversation with the other chorus girls and the various prominent Parisians the management had invited to the gala. It was nearly midnight before she departed the party for her dressing room; like the other girls, she sometimes slept on the chaise in the room if she had stayed at the Opera too late to walk home in safety and propriety.
She had changed into a nightdress and was sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair, when she heard it.
"You're late," a voice said from behind her mirror.
Christine set her brush on the table and stared into the glass. "Oh, Angel, please don't be angry," she implored. "It's Christmas."
"Au contraire, it is still Christmas Eve, you still have a lesson, and you are three hours late." The Angel's voice was such that Christine could not quite tell whether he was still angry or had moved on into amused tolerance of her tardiness. It mattered little, as the Angel did not wait for a response; he instead commanded, "Begin your exercises. Scales, please."
"Wait." Christine rushed to the wardrobe and knelt on the floor, rummaging in the darkness. "I have something for you. Just give me a moment to find it..." Her hand brushed against the wrapped package she had laid in there three days ago, and she pulled it out triumphantly. She hoped her angel would like it; she had spent weeks trying to think of something to give someone she had never seen in person.
Christine set the small package on the dressing table. "I hope you like it," she said.
There was a long silence from behind the mirror, so long that Christine feared her Angel had left until he finally asked, with a faint tremor of disbelief in his voice, "A gift...for me?"
"It's Christmas," Christine answered simply.
She heard a soft exhalation from the other side of the mirror. "It is indeed," her angel said quietly.
Christine broke the uncomfortable pause that followed by asking, "Shall I begin my exercises now?"
"Are you sure you are not too tired?"
The angel's question brought the fact that she could barely keep her eyes open and her head from slumping onto the table to the front of Christine's mind. "I think--" a yawn broke into her sentence.
"I suppose that answers my question," the angel said, as much amusement as he ever showed coloring his tone.
"I'm sorry, Angel, it's just that the party..."
"Think nothing of it. Christmas began exactly one minute and fifteen seconds ago."
Christine smiled into the mirror and laughed a little. "Well, then, Joyeaux Noel, Angel. Don't forget your present."
"I should never do that," the angel answered her, subdued once more.
Feeling daring, Christine quickly pressed a kiss to the mirror. "Good night, Angel."
The faintly shell-shocked answer of "Good night, Christine," came as she was putting out the gas lamps in the room. Christine got into the makeshift bed provided by the chaise, knowing that her angel would not enter the room unless she was either asleep or absent. Feeling almost like she was waiting for Pére Noel again, only in reverse this time, Christine focused all her concentration on traveling to dreamland.
* * *
Christine was unsure why she awoke, only that she could feel a presence in the room with her. Her heart racing, she let her eyes adjust to the dark until she could see a tall black form moving around the room, making almost no sound on the wooden floor. When the form approached the chaise, she shot out an arm and grabbed its wrist.
Her fingers caught on fine velvet, but her grip was broken immediately when the owner of the wrist jerked it roughly from her hand. She saw a dim flash of white reflecting off of the man's face in the light that seeped in from under the door. "Angel?" she asked sleepily.
"Yes," the familiar voice of her tutor answered.
"Did you get your gift? Do you like it?"
"I did, and I do. Thank you, Christine." His voice was completely sincere, with none of the sarcasm that it usually held.
Christine smiled as her eyes closed again, satisfied that her choice of a book of stave paper and a fancy pen had been correct.
"I have something for you as well, Christine," her angel said. "It is on your dressing table. Open it when you wake."
"All right," she agreed, her voice growing fainter and fuzzier as she returned to sleep.
In the morning, Christine wasn't sure if the long, almost-skeletal, yet strangely soft fingers that tenderly brushed her cheek before disappearing in a rush of air had been a dream or had been those of her angel. She touched the skin thoughtfully.
With the light coming in from the window, Christine could see a bundle wrapped in white paper, tied with a black ribbon. She set upon it with all the glee of a child on Christmas morning, though taking more care to preserve the ribbon and remove the paper cautiously.
A gilded rose met her eyes, the gold so thin it took on a pink blush from the red blossom underneath. The stem, too, was painted gold, including the thorns. Christine eagerly took the flower between her fingers and held it up to the sun, where it sparkled in the reflected light from the new layer of snow on the ground.
Christine turned to the mirror. "Thank you, Angel," she called. "It's lovely."
She could have sworn that the mirror winked at her in the sun.
