A/N—I've been in a Phantom mood for the last week, listening to TOC double CD set, re-watching stage play clips and re-watching the 2004 movie. Time has mellowed my opinion of it somewhat. I've also been re-reading my old PotO writing, and ran across this little piece. I think it was once published on my website, but never here.
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French language are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Please read and review.
L'Ange de Musique
Copyright 2003 by Riene
The Opera was silent. The figure in Box Five stirred from where he had been sitting in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the empty, still building.
Silence. Not even the hiss of the gaslights, nor hum of electricity. Blessed silence, the one time of the year he could be guaranteed solitude. Slowly he rose to walk unseen through the massive building, patrolling the corridors, ascertaining the doors were locked and barred, that no human presence remained hidden in dressing room, practice area, or office.
Returning to his Box Five, Erik retrieved the black case.
He was not skilled in the art of communication. Communication was an art that required two or more for expression. Music was his speech, his outlet, and now his sole raison d'etre. Music needed only one for expression….
Erik stepped up onto the grand stage, hushed and shrouded in utter darkness. Gently he laid the small black case on the floor and opened it. From his pocket he removed a single pillar candle and a lucifer. Striking it, he lit the candle, placing it in a small porcelain dish to catch the betraying wax drips.
Long tapering fingers reverently lifted the polished instrument, its mellow brown varnished surface gleaming golden in the soft candlelight. The violin had been crafted by a master…and this one man had a master's touch to play it.
He drew the bow across the strings, making them moan, transitioning them to a high keening sound of grief. Resolutely Erik turned his mind from the violin's sob and lifted it to his chin. Eyes shut, swaying without awareness, he began to play.
The solo from A Concerto for a Winter's Night echoed through the Palais Garnier. The tall, painfully thin man gave himself over to the music, as though the very Deity who had denied him any warmth of human contact in this life spoke directly to his soul, a wordless communication of the spirit and the essence of song.
Once someone had actually called him the Angel of Music….
Erik played for the nonexistent audience, played the music no one would now ever hear, allowing himself this one night of performance on stage, reveling in the glorious sweep of sound that swelled across the stalls and boxes. After all, it was Christmas, and even the Phantom of Music deserved some small pleasure.