Prologue: Resonance: The Angel of Music


Author's Note & disclaimer: This is, for the most part, set in the world of the Andrew Lloyd Webber/Joel Schumacher film. I don't own it, it owns me. ) I made a banner for this story, which can be found at my LiveJournal: http: Please check it out, and enjoy my story!


"And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures."
- attributed to the Koran by Edgar Allan Poe.

Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu'on le touche, il résonne.

- De Béranger

"His heart is a suspended lute; as one touches it, it resounds."


This is forbidden.

Israfel flinched at the thought. He gingerly ran his hand over his lute, made of his own heartstrings, before sighing and putting it down. Soon, very soon, he would not need it. An artifact of the divine, which produced a delicate melody as he turned away.

Masquerade, paper faces on parade ...

His mind churned; for some time now, he had desired it. Yet he knew it was forbidden, an act never before committed. Who knew what unspoken wrath would be visited upon an angel for entering the flesh. Even the famed Angel of Music. The others oft teased him about discord in Heaven would he be absent, but Israfel ignored such idle talk. He flared and stretched his feathered wings with a flourish. They neither knew or cared about the art or experiences of humanity. He did. He gave his heart to mortals every day. He remembered Orpheus' sorrowful songs, cries of a broken heart for his lost wife. And the Greek had been such a promising protégé.

The cacophony of Heaven was growing too monotonous for the Angel of Music, the same themes and motifs, an endless procession of emptiness. He wanted to experience life: the one thing beyond his grasp. Life, warmth, love, and for once, to be recognized for creating the music that humans craved. Such works of beauty that sprang from his lute, and they never knew where it truly came from!

Well, Israfel was ready to make his debut. He had planned his "masquerade," and all that remained was to take action. Yet he hesitated, staring down at the surface of earth; again, came the unwanted warning: This is forbidden. But he no longer cared. Already, mortal emotions ransacked his mind. Uncertainty, fear, bravado, but above all, an endless longing. The moment had come.

Without a backward glance, he folded his vast wings and fell, singing as he plunged.


In a small town near Rouen, France, a baby released a powerful, melodic scream. But Israfel's punishment was no light matter. The child would be looked upon as a smouldering-eyed demon, for he lacked the fair and gentle face of an ordinary infant. But soon, music found him once again. He would live out that mortal lifetime in darkness and solitude; denied his memory, identity, and in the end, even love. The only thing that he was allowed was his voice. This man had the voice of an angel.


Erik frowned, and fingered the edge of his black cape. He stood listening behind a cold, stone wall of the opera's tiny chapel, where a little girl with brown curls was praying in a tear-stricken voice. Oddly, her voice and her words seemed to resound inside of him, like an echo of long ago. She was asking her dead father for the Angel of Music ...