ISRAFEL
By Hríviel
SYNOPSIS: The tale of the Opera Ghost was only one thread in the Angel of Music's long tale. Long before Christine and the Paris Opera House, the immortal Angel Israfel joined Lucifer's Rebellion, and faced an eternity of consequences …
NOTE: Incorporating elements from various sources of literature and myth, this will hopefully be Israfel's own fable tied into the Phantom of the Opera story. Sort of a prequel, if you will, with allusions to, but not including, a whole lot of the PotO plot. Also, please note that this is not a religious statement, just a story; if you are extra-sensitive to this sort of issue, please turn away now.
Secondary Notes: The Angel of Music (I call him Israfel as Poe does), likely was not one of the Rebels, but I decided to have him come along for the ride for my story. And just to clarify, in this story Erik (the Phantom of the Opera) IS Israfel (the real Angel of Music).
PROLOGUE
"You will do no more harm to that girl's soul than you already have," the voice rang out imperiously.
Erik smiled grimly behind the mask. But, of course, he was much more than the mortal man who was called the "Phantom of the Opera." A rather charming moniker, if he must say so himself. "Ah, so they send you, Tahariel."
The Angel of Purity appeared beside him, looking as they all did: a fair, flawlessly beautiful figure of beguiling androgyny crowned with light. Tahariel, his ivory-feathered wings folded tightly, usually wore an expression of ethereal benevolence; tonight he glowered.
"Oh, do spare me that celestial frown," Erik sneered sardonically, and added, "Brother."
"Do not call me that," the angel snapped. "I am nothing like you, Rebel."
Erik ignored the comment and refocused on the girl who was diffidently trailing her petit rat friend out from the orchestra. Her entire mannerism suggested an air of bewildered fear. It hadn't been her face that seized his attention, no. Although she was lovely enough; her pale round face had very pretty and rather delicate features. No, it was the voice that had shaken him, reignited the energy of the slumbering immortal deep inside.
Pure, radiant angels!
Carry my soul to the Heavens!
"Israfel," Tahariel began sternly, stirring him from that recent memory, "I was sent to protect the girl. You will not have her. You will not taint her."
Erik laughed. What was it now, some fifty years embedded in this mortal incarnation; half a century of blind earthly torment? But how many millennia had it been since he last heard that exquisitely dulcet voice … the voice that he himself had put into her flesh.
"Whatever do you mean, Tahariel?" he asked innocently.
The Angel of Purity glared at him. "You are Fallen, Israfel. She is innocent. Her soul has been revived, along with that voice. It is no fault of hers that she was once in thrall to a Fallen Angel, a zealous follower of the Adversary."
"I Fell of my own accord," Erik hissed heatedly. "I Fell for something greater than you or any of the others still in Heaven could ever conceive of. You are all so trapped by His will, you cannot imagine what beauty and what suffering we have seen, what we have taken upon ourselves! We fell because we recognized a tyranny! Because we stood for our own selves, and for—!"
Fury raced through Erik's veins, clenching his human heart almost as physical blow; his left arm ached for the kill, and the scarlet haze of rage clouded his vision as he reached for the angel's throat. Surprisingly, his hands grasped at a seemingly solid form.
But Tahariel merely laughed and smiled serenely, with no anatomical parts governing his breath. "It seems you have taken on more from this mortality than you think. Beware, Israfel. Soon you will absorb too much humanity to return to Heaven. When you die, your immortal being will be trapped ignorant and unknowing in Sheol."
Israfel paused for the briefest of moments. He knew what Tahariel meant; it was a threat impossible to ignore, to spend all eternity wandering with no knowledge of who you are, who you were, to fade in and out of awareness … with only enough energy to show yourself to mortals for mere seconds, and only to inspire fear. To be a real ghost.
He shrugged away the dread. "Take your threats elsewhere. It is unbecoming to the Angel of Purity. Go ponder the state of mountain springs."
The angel ignored his snide remarks. An expression completely alien to his normal state of uplifted joy clouded his Heavenly features.
"Do not look to him for help, either," Tahariel said slowly. "You know of whom I speak."
"Do I? As you said, I'm just an ignorant mortal."
"You know the Arch-Fiend's curse." Tahariel actually looked afraid.
"Yes," Israfel admitted reluctantly.
"You know he cannot help you."
"I do not require his help, merci," Israfel snapped.
"Then I take my leave of you," the Angel of Purity said quietly. "But heed well my warning. Leave the girl alone."
"Go to Hell," Erik muttered sharply beneath his breath, turning away from him.
"I fear that that may be your fate," Tahariel responded sadly, "and it is not an end to covet."
And he vanished. But Erik could not take his eyes away from the girl's retreating form, drowning in ancient memories …