Christine in the cemetery at Perros.

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera. It was written by Gaston Leroux, but I'm almost certain it's public domain now, so I suppose a disclaimer is unnecessary.

I would like to thank Project Gutenberg for making the full text of Phantom of the Opera available online for reference. It has helped me a great deal.

The Resurrection of Lazarus

The night is still as I hasten through the street. The moonlight reflects off the white snow, illuminating the church, the barren trees, and the cemetery gate. The gate lies open, awaiting my approach, and I slip through it quietly.

As I enter the graveyard, I glance around. This place is so familiar to me, as I have come here many times since my father's death. There are rows and rows of graves, marked by weathered stone crosses, the names of departed loved one just barely visible beneath a layer of snow.

I pass all these strangers' graves, my feet sinking slightly into the snow as I walk toward my father's grave. I reach the so familiar cross and once again read the inscription. One word: Daaé, and a date. This is all that is left to memorialize my father.

But to-night, I remember him. I remember the times when I was young, when he used to play for me on his violin – sweet and cheerful tunes as well as slow, mournful airs. He would tell me stories that made me laugh or shiver in fear as I sat on his lap. When I was sick, he nursed me, and he lulled me to sleep with his music.

As I grew up he became my companion. He was always willing to listen to my sorrows, my worries, my dreams. I entrusted him with everything and he never belittled me or betrayed my trust. He never ceased to encourage me and when I failed, he helped me to begin anew.

I kneel down, heedless of the cold and the snow, and begin to pray, "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

Suddenly, the church bell begins to toll. I look up anxiously, waiting. I remember the promise of the angel, that he would come at midnight and play for me on my father's violin, but I am afraid. What if I am not deemed worthy of his angelic presence? What if I have offended him, and I will never hear him again?

I take a deep breath and close my eyes as the bell rings ten, eleven, twelve times. As the last toll fades away, music fills the air, and I am lost in it.

I know this air. It is one that my father used to play: The Resurrection of Lazarus. But what does it matter what tune it is, when it is played by an angel? No, the tune doesn't matter; the cold doesn't matter; my life doesn't matter. Only the music is important now.

The tune is slow and sad, each note like a tear falling to the ground, seeping into the earth and permeating it with sorrow. The whole earth seems to mourn for my father.

Slowly, the music speeds up, as it changes to a higher key, and for some inexplicable reason I feel that I have more life, more energy. The sorrow and worry that have been burdening me down are lessening. Peace and hope flow through me as I hear the words of Christ: "Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!" As the music swells to a climax, my heart soars with it, for I know that my father is not dead, no, he will never die.

The music ends with one final, pure note that lingers for a moment, and as it fades away, I look up. I realise that my hands are raised, and lower them quickly. Standing up, I brush the snow off my skirt. I leave the cemetery slowly, my mind and heart still full of the music of the angel.

C'est fini!

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A/N – This is my first Phantom of the Opera fic. Please be kind and review. Don't be afraid to criticize me, I'm sure I could use your constructive criticism. Merci beaucoup pour lire mon histoire!

-Malacandra