A/N: "O Holy Night" placed fifth in the Mort Rouge Christmas contest, and I'm happy to snatch a moment to post it on FFN, as this little drabble is my favorite of the two entries I submitted. Read and, of course, review if you have a chance!

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Gaston Leroux. If only all this were mine, however-- oh, the shoes I would buy!


O Holy Night

By Ceinwyn


When he could no longer bear to splay his skeletal fingers across the keys, he retreated to his box, perched on the edge like a gargoyle surveying its domain, stared unseeingly at the greenery mounted on the walls and the tree, stiff and regal, dominating the center of the stage.

December again, he thought with disgust. It will be time for carolers soon. I shall be forced to stuff my ears with cotton until this damnable season is done.

As if on cue, the doors in the back of the theatre flew open with a crash.

"Where are you going?" a voice cried.

He sank into the shadows, wrapped his cloak tightly around his emaciated form. That voice he recognized – Meg Giry's wheedling tone echoed throughout the theatre constantly. He crept forward on silent feet to peer over the lip of the box. Ah, yes, the Giry girl was below wearing a brilliant red coat.

She hovered behind her companion. "Christine, we've got to meet the other girls soon!"

"But I forgot my music—"

"What, you're too afraid to go backstage and get it yourself?"

"I'm not!" The other girl spoke softly. The snow had not yet begun to melt in her fair hair. Her eyes were downcast.

Meg tossed her hair imperiously. "Afraid of the Opera Ghost, I bet," she said. "Well, I'm going. I'll meet you outside."

With that, she strode out.

He watched with interest as the remaining girl – what had the Giry girl called her? Christine? – looked forlornly after her friend, then squared slim shoulders beneath her threadbare coat and made her way onto the stage.

He followed silently, a few steps behind her slight form. These girls must learn not to leave their silly belongings where any thing can sneak up behind them, he thought.

Thus, as the girl searched the dim corners and finally came upon a thick black folder, a hand, gloved and grasping, emerged from the shadows, reached out to whisper across her fine curls—

"There you are!" she said delightedly, picking up the lost folder and running a relieved hand over its surface. She began to hum a few bars, and then to sing in earnest.

O holy night! the stars are brightly shining.

He froze then. His breath caught in his throat; the stage felt suddenly vanished, as if one of his trapdoors had accidentally opened beneath him.

That voice! It poured into his ears like warm honey, sweet and soft and fluid, and his waiting hand faltered, fell, clutched the cloak against his heart as he listened. She was not perfect, no; her technique was lacking, and yet…

Long lay the world in sin and darkness pining.

Yet, if he were to search the world for a thousand years, never would he find a voice as pure as hers.

He could feel a desperate, unfamiliar need pulsing in him now, and as she passed him, unseeing—

Oh night divine – oh night divine, oh night divine!

—her song resounded within him, and the rose-scented perfume of her hair made him quake with sudden desire.

The door closed softly behind her, and he expelled a shuddering breath.

O holy, holy night indeed, he thought wildly. I will have her – voice. Soul. All.


"Read in order to live." (Henry Fielding)

Thanks for reading!