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winterThe final part of the Songs in My Head series, which comprises Singing Songs in My Head and A Cry To Heaven, and should definitely be read in order. Disclaimers in the first chapter.
There are also two optional outtakes from this series - a mood-setting drabble called Hide Your Face and a slash detour Wine and Song. Neither is necessary to understand this story, and in fact I think you can read it both the gen and slash ways with equal validity.
As usual, everything is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fyrie's fault.
ONLY THE MUSIC
There were too many people in the foyer of the Opera Populaire. Raoul saw nothing but a dizzying whirlwind of colours and jewels in women’s hair. Finding a familiar face in the crowd was like looking for a needle in-
“A great success, Monsieur le Directeur.”
He should have known Philippe would find the one quiet nook in the mass of spectators flowing into the opera house. “Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I had to see what kept you so busy over the past six months.” For once, his normally reserved brother was smiling warmly. “I’m glad to see you found something you enjoy.”
“Talk to me about that at the end of the night. Providing I survive it.”
Philippe frowned. “You look tired. Do you want to sit down?”
Raoul laughed tiredly. “You, dear brother, have no idea what opera is. Enjoy the show. I’ll find you after the curtain calls.”
The Comte de Chagny disappeared into the doors that led to the stalls and Raoul hurried back up the stairs. It was good that Philippe approved, he knew. It was not done, not for people like him.
Patron of the opera, yes, the perfect hobby for a young aristocrat. Manager, not quite.
He strode through backstage, making sure everything was ready, or on its way to being so. There was less chaos than during rehearsals, which bode well. He left instructions to be notified of any mishaps that threatened the continuation of the show, then headed to the door near where the corps de ballet was gathered. Meg Giry smiled at him as he passed, then waved the wings she would wear for the first ballet solo. He caught a stray feather and smiled back.
He didn’t spare a glance for the orchestra pit. He knew the musicians were terrified enough by the new artistic director that the music would be perfect.
The new carpet on the stairs to the boxes was thick enough to muffle his footsteps now that almost all people were seated and he was alone in the halls. He heard the overture start, vibrant and overbearing, each note in its own place. He knew the arias and ballets of the new opera had names now, but he still called them ‘the one where the candle got knocked over’ or ‘the one where the stray cat came in through the window and hissed at the piano’.
He heard the devil chord of the harp. That would be the ballet written while he had argued with the workmen renovating the trapdoors under the stage. He’d come upstairs to the music and plans for much better trapdoors spread indiscriminately over every surface.
He could recall every moment of the last six months through the new opera, every day that got them further and helped them find tasks to hold on to. Bad days, too, but there were fewer of them now. They were too busy for that.
The handle on the door to Box Five turned easily under Raoul’s hand. He slid into his seat and reached for the champagne set out on the side table.
“Don’t be a barbarian,” the other man in the box muttered. He was peering nervously at the stage through the half-drawn curtains in the box. “Is the corps ready? Did no-one break the mirror? Is someone keeping an eye on the stunt candles?”
“It’s just to toast the patrons, and everything is fine,” Raoul said as he poured the wine. “Unless you want to get dragged to the aftershow banquet and shown off as our resident genius, stop fretting.”
Erik scowled, but poured himself a glass of his own and downed it in one gulp, then reluctantly settled back in his seat. The hair he’d grown out was covering his scars almost completely, though they were also masked with greasepaint.
Raoul smiled, as carelessly as the first time he had sat in this very box. He was older now, wiser, but maybe it wasn’t all that different.
The overture ended with a flourish and a limelight came on, moving slowly through the audience, then up the wall to Box Five. Raoul stood up and raised his glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called out when the spotlight hit him. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to the first performance of this season in the Opera Populaire.”
He saw the faces turn towards him. In the shadowed half of the box, he saw Erik’s smile.
“Tonight’s premiere is dedicated to the memory of Christine Daaé, the tragically departed primadonna of our opera. I give you-“
How long a way had they come from that rainy night on the bridge?
“-The Angel of Music!”
FINIS
There are also two optional outtakes from this series - a mood-setting drabble called Hide Your Face and a slash detour Wine and Song. Neither is necessary to understand this story, and in fact I think you can read it both the gen and slash ways with equal validity.
As usual, everything is
fyrie's fault.ONLY THE MUSIC
There were too many people in the foyer of the Opera Populaire. Raoul saw nothing but a dizzying whirlwind of colours and jewels in women’s hair. Finding a familiar face in the crowd was like looking for a needle in-
“A great success, Monsieur le Directeur.”
He should have known Philippe would find the one quiet nook in the mass of spectators flowing into the opera house. “Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I had to see what kept you so busy over the past six months.” For once, his normally reserved brother was smiling warmly. “I’m glad to see you found something you enjoy.”
“Talk to me about that at the end of the night. Providing I survive it.”
Philippe frowned. “You look tired. Do you want to sit down?”
Raoul laughed tiredly. “You, dear brother, have no idea what opera is. Enjoy the show. I’ll find you after the curtain calls.”
The Comte de Chagny disappeared into the doors that led to the stalls and Raoul hurried back up the stairs. It was good that Philippe approved, he knew. It was not done, not for people like him.
Patron of the opera, yes, the perfect hobby for a young aristocrat. Manager, not quite.
He strode through backstage, making sure everything was ready, or on its way to being so. There was less chaos than during rehearsals, which bode well. He left instructions to be notified of any mishaps that threatened the continuation of the show, then headed to the door near where the corps de ballet was gathered. Meg Giry smiled at him as he passed, then waved the wings she would wear for the first ballet solo. He caught a stray feather and smiled back.
He didn’t spare a glance for the orchestra pit. He knew the musicians were terrified enough by the new artistic director that the music would be perfect.
The new carpet on the stairs to the boxes was thick enough to muffle his footsteps now that almost all people were seated and he was alone in the halls. He heard the overture start, vibrant and overbearing, each note in its own place. He knew the arias and ballets of the new opera had names now, but he still called them ‘the one where the candle got knocked over’ or ‘the one where the stray cat came in through the window and hissed at the piano’.
He heard the devil chord of the harp. That would be the ballet written while he had argued with the workmen renovating the trapdoors under the stage. He’d come upstairs to the music and plans for much better trapdoors spread indiscriminately over every surface.
He could recall every moment of the last six months through the new opera, every day that got them further and helped them find tasks to hold on to. Bad days, too, but there were fewer of them now. They were too busy for that.
The handle on the door to Box Five turned easily under Raoul’s hand. He slid into his seat and reached for the champagne set out on the side table.
“Don’t be a barbarian,” the other man in the box muttered. He was peering nervously at the stage through the half-drawn curtains in the box. “Is the corps ready? Did no-one break the mirror? Is someone keeping an eye on the stunt candles?”
“It’s just to toast the patrons, and everything is fine,” Raoul said as he poured the wine. “Unless you want to get dragged to the aftershow banquet and shown off as our resident genius, stop fretting.”
Erik scowled, but poured himself a glass of his own and downed it in one gulp, then reluctantly settled back in his seat. The hair he’d grown out was covering his scars almost completely, though they were also masked with greasepaint.
Raoul smiled, as carelessly as the first time he had sat in this very box. He was older now, wiser, but maybe it wasn’t all that different.
The overture ended with a flourish and a limelight came on, moving slowly through the audience, then up the wall to Box Five. Raoul stood up and raised his glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called out when the spotlight hit him. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to the first performance of this season in the Opera Populaire.”
He saw the faces turn towards him. In the shadowed half of the box, he saw Erik’s smile.
“Tonight’s premiere is dedicated to the memory of Christine Daaé, the tragically departed primadonna of our opera. I give you-“
How long a way had they come from that rainy night on the bridge?
“-The Angel of Music!”
FINIS
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-12 02:44 am (UTC)don't mean to budge in where I don't belong ...
Date: 2006-09-14 11:25 pm (UTC)I just saw your post at little details, and thought I’d send you this here:
http://www.holger-saarmann.de/texte_schnitter_tod.htm
Death in German will be called “Der Schnitter” (the Reaper) – see the link above for that – or “Der Sensenmann” (The scythe-man).
The scythe-man is often clad all in black, and his face is hidden in the shadows of a cowl, and he always carries a scythe with him. “Der Sensenmann” is more popular or well known than “Der Schnitter”… at least in the Southeast where I come from.
There would also be “Der Belzebub” but that would be more _devil_ than death.
I hope this was of some help.
=)