This is my first attempt at POTO fan fiction. I have written many times before, only for other interests/shows, and never on this site before. I've been reading a lot of stories here and have been getting the urge to produce something of my own. I hope you enjoy this one. It's partially from an idea I've had for a while, but decided to put it into the context of POTO. I've labelled this story as AU since it doesn't take place in the familiar Paris setting but an entirely new location with elements of fantasy, I suppose. The time period is roughly set around the actual time period of the movie/books. If it helps, I was thinking of M. Night Shamalan's The Village when I wrote this first chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this story just as much as I enjoy writing it. I welcome questions and reviews.
The woods had left its mark upon the town this year. The small town, tucked away in a remote corner of the country and nearly entirely surrounded by the great woods, save for a road leading up from the south, was the last inhabited place before the wilderness beyond. It lay along a great road, leading from the larger cities to the south. Travelers from the larger cities often dismissed the town's inhabitants as old-fashioned and superstitious. They were stuck in the ways of the past and seemed to refuse new ideas. The summer had been particularly cruel for the townspeople. The weather had been harsh for the usual temperate area. Heavy torrents of rain spilled from the skies nearly every day. The wolves were unusually active this year, wandering too close to the town's limits and sometimes even crossing the border.
But nearly everyone agreed that this year was worse. Darkness seemed to spread across the sky and fill the minds of the people with hopelessness and despair. It was obvious to an outsider that the weather was dampening the people's spirits. There was talk of strange sightings in the woods by those who dared to journey through the dark, menacing trees to the north. Of shadowed horsemen. Whispers among the trees. Of a strange voice that echoed throughout the words, but of which no source could be found. The signs were becoming more frequent, and by summer's end, the town council decided that action must be taken.
The eldest of the council pulled out a thick, worn, dust laden book. He brushed a worn hand across the surface before opening the book and gazing at the text that appeared on yellowed paper. It was a chronicle of the town, going back hundreds of years to nearly its founding. Steeped in superstition and ignorance, the town's inhabitants had recorded a history of the strange goings-on. To them, the forest held an ancient evil. It was said by some that a war fought ages ago in the north had left its stain upon the land. That spirits of the dead haunted the far recesses of the forest. The people had spent years trying to figure out what to do; how to prevent the woods from overgrowing the town, destroying crops, and killing all of the inhabitants. Their solution had been a strange one, but in their ignorant eyes, it had worked for the last three hundred years.
Each time the signs began to appear, which had occurred only twice in the last few centuries, a lottery was held. Each adult citizen cast his or her name into the lottery and prayed fervently that his or her name would not be chosen. Such a person would carry the burden of the town. That person would be a sacrifice to the forest. But following such a sacrifice, the people believed that the problem was solved. The forest was satiated. Two men had gone to their deaths since the practice was instated nearly three hundred years earlier. One had never returned. The other was found dead, still tied to the tree miles into the woods, apparently attacked by hungry wolves.
The council agreed at the end of the summer that something must be done. They had waited nearly 70 years and now the signs were showing again. The lottery must be drawn. Census-takers appeared at every door and recorded the names of every adult in the town. It was on a cold, dreary Saturday, that the names were finally assembled. The eldest council member slipped his fingers among the many ballots and grasped onto a random slip of paper, feeling his throat tighten and his heart pound, as he pulled the paper out. A single name appeared on the paper. A lovely name.
Christine Daae
A young lady sat at a small desk, illuminated by a single candle, and wrote quietly in her journal. The breeze from the window swept through her thin nightgown and sent a shiver down her spine. She rose quickly and crossed the room, shutting the window before returning to her writings. Christine Daae had not lived in the town all of her life. She had come when she was a small child. Her father, Gustave, had been a prolific musician and had brought his little daughter with him on his travels. They had settled in the town for a few years, living in a small cottage owned by a matronly figure in the town, Madame Giry. Her father enjoyed the peace that the area offered, compared to the bustle of the larger cities. Little Christine had been enthralled with the beauty of the land. She often walked through the flower-laden fields or strolled along the boundaries of the woods, always trying to gaze through the tall trunks to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond.
Christine was not just any young girl of the town. Her father, having been educated in music and literature, had bestowed his gifts upon his daughter. He taught her to sing at a very young age. It was not uncommon for the two to perform together at a host's house. Gustave would pull out his violin as his young, almost angelic daughter lifted her small voice in song. His collection of books from his many travels were frequently pulled out and read. Christine especially adored the fairy tales from distant lands.
But the joy and contentment that filled her young life was quickly cut short. As she had grown into an adolescent, Christine watched in fear as her father's health began to deteriorate. The parent she had grown to love so immensely slipped from the world when she was fourteen. Young Christine, with her long, curled, chocolate hair and warm, brown eyes, stood beside her father's grave adorned in black. Madame Giry, with her young daughter Meg at her side, clasped the girl's hand as the last of the dirt was piled atop her father's grave. The woman took it upon herself to raise Christine in her own household.
By the time she reached eighteen, Christine had grown into a beauty young woman. She was a graceful, lithe creature, not too short but not too tall. Her long hair was thick and luxurious. Her beautiful large, brown eyes were more expressive then any other aspect of her form. Her voice, though now rarely raised in song, except for the visits to her father's grave, was stunning. But the emotion and joy that used to fill it were gone now. She no longer found any pleasure in singing. It was a reminder of the past. Of what she did not have.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Yes?" Christine asked softly.
The door opened and Madame Giry smiled sadly her. "Why are you up so late, my dear?"
Christine glanced down at her journal. "I could not sleep. I needed to write," she responded quietly.
"Christine," Madame Giry began, lacing her fingers together nervously, "there is someone here to see you. Can you come to the door?"
She nodded, slipping a robe over her nightgown before following the older woman down the hall. Madame Giry walked with a slow, deliberate step. She was tall and slender, with a dark fitted gown drifting down to her feet, and dark, red hair pulled back neatly into a bun. Meg opened her door as the two passed, peering out into the hallway with sleepy eyes.
"Go back to bed, Meg," Antoinette said sternly. Meg's blue eyes flashed in confusion before the door was shut.
Madame Giry entered the parlor and set her oil-lamp down on a table before continuing to the door. A man stood in the doorway, having removed his hat, and looked at Christine with a stranger, serious gaze as she followed behind Giry.
"Now, Monsieur, what news have you brought?" Madame Giry asked, her brow furrowed.
"Forgive me, madame," he said simply, "but I bring news from the council. As you know, a lottery was drawn today."
Anger flashed in Antoinette's eyes. Superstitious fools, she thought.
"I'm afraid that Christine Daae's name was chosen."
Madame Giry sunk against the nearest wall. Her hand was clutched at her heart. Christine let out a strangled cry and stepped back from the door.
"But she cannot. . .she is too young," Giry protested, gathering her senses together and pulling herself from the wall.
"She is eighteen and by law, an adult now," the man responded. He nodded at the young woman who stood, quaking behind the imposing figure of Madame Giry. "We will come tomorrow."
The next morning was dreary. The sky had not lifted its cloudy, grey veil. Christine walked blindfolded, amidst the small group of men that were to lead her to the place. She wore a simple ivory gown chosen from the small wardrobe in her room. If I am to be with my father again, among the angels in heaven, I will wear my finest dress for him, she thought sadly to herself. She had offered no protest this morning when they came to her door. No fit of crying. Meg had stood behind in the hall, weeping bitter tears into her sleeves. Madame Giry, the woman who had grown to be a mother to Christine, stood beside her at the door. She dropped a small crucifix on a gold chain into the girl's whitened hand, and closed her fingers gently over the item.
"It was your father's," she whispered into Christine's ear. "I cannot prevent what these men are to do. If I had the strength, I would. But believe that what they say is false. There is no evil in those woods, only the ignorance of these closed-minded people. No spirit will steal your soul. Remember your father's love for you. That is real."
Christine nodded gently. Madame Giry placed a soft kiss on her cheek before turning the young girl to face her, her arms clutching at her shoulders.
"An angel will watch over you," she said, almost urgently.
An angel will watch over me, she repeated to herself as she walked blindly. An angel of music, she added. Her father had once told her about the angels of heaven. How an angel of music would guide her when he was no longer there to care for her. She wanted to believe his words. But her fear grew as they traveled deeper into the mysterious woods. This was the realm that she always dreamt about. She had longed to know its secrets. Now she did not want to be in this dreadful place. She wanted, more then anything, to feel her father's embrace. A tear slipped from beneath her blindfold.
It was not long before they found the quiet place in the woods. A small clearing lay amongst the thick trees, which towered overhead and blocked the sun with their leafy canopy. No underbrush grew in this small area. Only a single tree grew in the center of the circular enclosure. The men drew her up towards the tree and bound her to its thick trunk. They pulled the blindfold from her eyes, but it did little good, as the forest was already growing dark as evening drew near. She watched them leave, fighting back her tears, and clenched the small crucifix in her hand.
The sounds of the woods began to consume the footsteps of the men as they journeyed farther and farther away. Christine stood trembling in their wake.