My Angel of Music (An Alma and Orfeo Waterfire Saga Fanfiction)

At the Opera House

Atlantis was often said to have made classical ancient civilizations look like shanty-towns. It was beautiful beyond comparison to ant other town or village. The island was gorgeous; it was always sunny. Everyone's faces were bronzed and glowing. The people were healthy, educated, and enriched. Even the slums were classy and well-ruled. The crime rate was nearly below zero; there was an average age of around ninety-six, exceptionally good for the time.

The towns were bright and cheery. The City Hall of Elysia was like a palace, where the mages slept and ate and drank during Council. The expansive opera house always emanating confidence and charm, and the singers' voice floated over the island like a cloud. The music told of tragedy and love. Beyond that the temples gleaming in the sun, with the obsidian Temple of Morsa the only one disheveled. But even that gleamed in the afternoon sun. And even beyond, the towns and provinces alight with life and joie de vivre. Napoli, with its historic tales of love gleamed a pale pink in the day time, and a warm yellow in the night. Roma with its ancient grace and charm stood out like a person of confidence amongst the shy. And of course, shining Elysia, graceful, bustling, happy.

Emotions made messes, and people came and people went

It was all a normal day.

Alma Giudicelli was on her merry way to the opera house, dressed in a regular day's attire. Her bare shoulders, exposed by her sundress were only concealed by her flowing, burnt-umber hair and were vaguely rosy from sunburn. Her golden eyes were always lit up from excitement. The summer wind fondled her face. She was in rather a rush. Her bag, cramped with sheet music and fold up music stands and lip glosses was slung across her chest as she sprinted through the crowd. Eventually, after knocking over several people, she made it to the doors, and ran through the hall.

In the locker room, she put on her dance shoes, and smiled at the other girls. They all glared back from behind their fans. It was a hot day for them, but from where Alma came from, east Roma, it was a cool one. Far on the eastern side of the island, there was a village that was poor in material, but not in spirit. There were dances in the square and volley-ball games on the beach. Everyone was either screaming or crying or laughing, and sometimes all three at once, and Alma thrived on it. But the other girls, rigid, rich and fixed on one thing, dance, looked down in her. It wasn't long before she was alone in the room, searching for a fan in the bin. The only one left was broken, but she took it anyway, thrust it into a folded position, and then left, hoping earnestly that she could be in the back, so no one would notice it was broken. The real reason she was here was not for dance, but for singing. Alma lived to hear the music that the singers made, their voices swirling in the echo of the hall. How exhilarating it must be to hear your own voice bounce of the open, circular ceiling, and the beautifully painted walls, to have the lights focus on your face only. Hoping she wouldn't miss any of Gianni Schicchi, she bolted from the hallway and into the studio. She'd come in at the next part. She heard a voice, as clear as the ocean this morning echo in the hall. Then it cracked, as pronounced as the singing had been. Alma's heart pounded. She walked slowly on stage as the singer broke down in tears.

"Thalia!" cried Alma, "You're straining your voice!:

"My voice, are you kidding me Giudo?" she demanded, "I don't care! My parents will kill me if I don't sing Lauretta."

"So will I," snorted the man playing Schicchi.

"He just wants to make out! That's all! I can't believe-"

"Thalia, hush, umm, how about let's not talk about this now?"

The man had left the stage, and another man came out. Alma stared, and then blinked.