Phantom of the Opera The Voice of an Angel

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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The Moon had long since stolen across the black velvet of the sky and was watching over the frozen landscape of Perros-Guirec in hushed contemplation. Concealed by the presiding darkness, Christine Daaé crept noiselessly up to the hoary wrought-iron gates of the old cemetery. They groaned and strained as her trembling hands pushed against them, but finally gave way to her pertinacious importunity. She glided through like a spectral silhouette, taking the well-known route to her father's grave.

The cold night air wrapped icy fingers around her every limb, making her shiver, and she gathered the woolen cloak more tightly around her slight frame. Everything was deathly still: neither the mournful sighs of the wind nor the sharp creaks of the trees bending their naked arms dared to intrude upon such a forlorn scene. The tombstones stood brooding companions to Christine's winding path through the graveyard. Powdery snow obscured the tops of some, while others remained glaringly bare beneath the pale glow of the Moon.

Such somber a sight was sure to dismay even the most irreverent of transients, but Christine's gaze remained unfalteringly distant; it was not, however, the dreamy gaze that ever and anon had been wont to grace the unclouded, limpid eyes of such a radiant blue - it was the gaze of a woman lost in silent meditation about her trials and tribulations.

Her mind was utterly absorbed in its essays of unraveling the ambiguous future towards which she was borne ever closer by each passing day. Raoul had considered it wise for them to leave France altogether, along with Mama Valerius, so as to preclude any involvement in the investigation the police was conducting about Comte Philippe's mysterious death. She had, of course, acceded to his behest, for she knew it would be utter folly to stay; however, taking that drastic decision equated with riving her soul asunder: her music would be left to die in Paris, as would the memories of those ineffable moments spent at the Opéra Populaire.

She had chosen not to disclose her inner turmoil to Raoul, lest her misery add to his distress over his brother's decease. Goaded by this despondency and a desire to bid goodbye to her father one final time, she entreated her fiancé to give her leave to go to Perros-Guirec - unaccompanied - and received an affirmative answer. She hoped to derive solace from being in her parent's presence again and perhaps to be reassured of the righteousness of her actions in some way - preternatural or not.

These thoughts made her oblivious to all around her, neither hearing nor seeing anything. She pursued her course mechanically, past the looming shadow of the small church, past rows of sepulchers, past overgrown shrubbery, until she gained her intended destination.

The inscription on the tombstone had faded with inclement weather and the burden of age, but the name was still legible, albeit dimly: Gustave Daaé. A single tear slid down Christine's pallid cheek.

'Please guide me, father...' she whispered, the words coming out subdued and hoarse.

She suddenly became cognizant of a low noise teasing at her ear. Her head snapped up, and she peered wildly about her, unable to identify whence the indistinct sound came. It gradually morphed into the melodious strains of a violin, as melancholy and disconsolate as the stark tombs.

Christine listened, losing herself to that hypnotic music again, incapable of declining its offer of appeasing her grief. She embraced it like an old friend, whose unexpected appearance always engenders a perplexing wonder at why distance ever interposed itself between such good confidants.

As it veered towards a more amorous theme, a voice weaved through the notes - a male voice, soft yet subtly powerful and so exquisitely sublime that only an ethereal being could have wielded it. The rise and fall of the voice, its mellifluous inflections, and its gentleness all served to soothe and enrapture Christine. She swayed to the song, feeling it all around her and inside of her. The wind seemed to sense the melody too, coming alive to its rhythm, murmuring in muted tones through the branches, conveying a forbidden secret that lies just beyond the reach of mortals.

Christine erelong realized that she was familiar with the verses – it was the duet between Marguerite and Faust, _Oui, c'est toi que j'aime_. When she started singing, the silvery tones of her pure soprano blended perfectly with the silky tenor of the voice, floating together through the air, rising as one towards the resplendent empyrean above, yearning for the promised bliss that music alone can bestow upon the blessed few who possess its enchanting gift.

They attained the crescendo, shattering into a million scintillating facets; drifting back to earth on waves of unadulterated harmony, they ended together in quiet tranquility. The last notes hung in the air as if time itself had stopped to relish that unique consummation of passion and the world was waiting with bated breath. The sweet tinkle slowly faded into darkness, being carried away by wafts of chilling wind.

Christine surveyed the cemetery, anxiously expecting to catch a glimpse of the man in that foreboding black mask; whenever Erik sang, she always cast aside all notions of his horrifying visage, his terrifying rages, his innumerable murders, and his enigmatic peculiarities, in favor of the vivid recollection of her Angel of Music -the only part of his character she truly comprehended. He was so mysterious and elusive, so unpredictable and mercurial that she could hardly decide what to make of him even now. Her beloved Angel of Music, The Voice, was whom she knew completely and trusted uninhibitedly; therefore, she resolved to regard him just as she was wont to do in those beguiling first months of their acquaintance, without acknowledging the quandaries that an encounter with Erik would certainly pose.

She tarried by her father's grave, waiting for his form to be conjured out of the night. The first hour crawled by. So did the second. The minutes inexorably persevered in their dire march, callously uncompassionate to her bruised heart.

Defeated, crestfallen, and with tears threatening to pour forth unabatedly in a rebellion against the long hours of denial, she fled from the graveyard of Perros-Guirec and returned to Paris that afternoon.

She was never sensible of the stifled sobs echoing off the cavernous walls of the small church, which continued until well after dawn had wiped away all traces of woe from the outside world, in their stead installing a vivacious freshness and hope that pervaded the dewy air of a bright new day.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Angst, Tragedy