The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

- Paris 1870 -

- Paris, 1870 -

*flashback*

Paris, France • 1870

I paced in front of the orchestra pit while this year's cast ran through Hannibal for the first time. Carlotta - the Opéra Populaire's leading soprano for the umpteenth year - screeched out the last high note in Act II, smiling arrogantly while the rest of us hid our cringe. If I knew how to perfect singers' voices I could save us all from going deaf.

Waving my free hand I signaled everyone to stop. Glancing down at the sheet music in my other hand I said, "There are some changes here that I need to tend to. The eighth bar needs work." Everyone glanced down at their copy of Hannibal and nodded at where I mention the changes needed to be made. "I'll work on the changes tonight and we'll go through it again tomorrow." The cast began to disperse, Carlotta's thick Italian accent raising above the crowd as she complained about something.

Chewing on the tip of my pencil, I walked up the winding staircase backstage, humming possible changes to Hannibal as I went. Once I got to the roof I went to the ledge and stretched my nose to the night sky, inhaling the crisp Fall air. Opening my eyes, I searched Paris' sky for the brightest star. When I found it, I smiled and whispered, "Hello, Heimdall." The star winked in response.

Setting the sheet music aside, I rested my elbow on the ledge and put my chin in my hand while my other hand dangled over the edge. Closing my eyes I sighed, my ears reaching out to my surroundings.

Below me I heard the people bustle around Paris: their shoes scraping against the pavement, women giggling at something their lover whispered into their ear. Under them, beneath the streets, I heard the rats scramble around the sewers looking for scraps of food to sustain them a little longer. I then strained, trying hard to stretch my boundaries so I could hear the waters of the English Channel. I could faintly hear the waters splash against the shore and the cry of the seagulls. But it all too quickly faded away, leaving my head throbbing from the exertion.

I know that I am capable of hearing further. With enough practice I'm sure I can hear across the world of I wanted to. Perhaps even other realms. For now, while my powers are still weak and developing, I had to keep trying to stretch my hearing over the 150 mile distance to the English Channel. One step at a time. Babies aren't born able to walk and talk now, aren't they.

Relaxing my ears I turned my attention to the sounds coming from within the Opéra Populaire. Carlotta was, of course, loudly complaining about the lack of room in her already spacious dressing room. Her husband, Piangi, was trying hard to console her, but I'm sure he already knew his efforts were in vain. That woman wouldn't be pleased if she owned the entire planet.

In the East Wing I listened to Madame Giry's staff hitting against the floor to help the corps de ballet keep time as they rehearsed. I heard one of the girl's shoes hit the floor at a wrong time, the sound of her body plummeting to the ground following shortly afterwards. Madame Giry rushed over to the girl, her thick French accent coarse and stern, "Meg, how many times must I tell you to follow through with your spins?!"

One floor up, I heard the other ballerinas in their dormitories whisper about the latest gossip.

"Did you hear about Serena?"

"I heard she went out late last night with a man and didn't come back until this morning."

Hmph, there went another innocent soul to a perverted old man who prowls the theater. Poor, foolish girl.