Epilogue: Echoes: Angel of Death

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"If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky."

- Edgar Allan Poe, "Israfel."

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"Wh-who are you!"

Azrael shivered. That voice-it was still the same; but the face ...

The grim angel looked down at the man cringing before him, wracked with pain and age; there were such shadows in his green eyes. The man was seized in a paroxysm of violent coughing, and he backed away, dizzy. His vision was growing dim. His once-fine evening clothes were tattered and dusty, and his disfigured face exposed. The Angel of Death said quietly, "Don't be afraid ... Erik."

When he heard his voice, the man stared up into the angel's dark eyes. "How did you—?"

Was that recognition? It pained Azrael, who remembered his companion, the creative one, with a fondness for flapping his wings with great gusto, and playing his lute to make all of Heaven listen rapturously. The unbound passion and great ambitions. But he also remembered the ruthless expression on Erik's face as he strangled Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi. Azrael had stood there, above him, watching the fallen idol commit murder. "Too long you've wandered in winter, my dear friend. Come back to us."

Azrael extended his hand slowly, beckoningly. The pain in Erik's chest crescendoed, and he collapsed onto the ground, with one last whisper, "Christine."

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Israfel looked down at the corpse with sorrow. Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, was dead. He lay in a heap of old black silk. Israfel, the Angel of Music, was restored; but he would never be the same. He wept for the memories of his mortal lifetime. He knew things angels had never known before: loneliness, fear, hatred, death, and love. He dropped to his knees before the body he had inhabited for many years. These human emotions would be immortalized in his music forevermore, and fill the reaches of Heaven. But no other angel would ever comprehend the depths of love. Israfel had known love of the most exquisite kind, an immense and tragic love. His lute would spill forth such music few could truly understand.

That is, if his heartstrings weren't broken.

Christine, I love you ...

Israfel reached out and touched the cadaverous hand. It was growing cold.

"Go back, Azrael," he said through his tears.

"But Israfel—"

"There is one last thing I must do," Israfel said softly. He opened the dead hand, and removed the tiny object that had been tightly clutched there.

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He knelt upon the ground. He had visited here many times in life, but he knew this would be his last. Gently, he laid the rose upon the cold stone, the only color in such a dead setting - vibrant crimson upon grey, tied with a black ribbon. Woven into the ribbon, a glittering diamond ring. Israfel bowed his head, and sang, "Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do … There will never be a day when I won't think of you."

Just then, he heard a car approaching. Israfel didn't budge. He was invisible, after all. He watched silently as Raoul de Chagny mournfully placed his old Persian music box on Christine's grave. Israfel sighed tremulously and turned away. As the old Vicomte noticed the rose, the retreating angel spread his wings wide and rose from the earth.

An echo of a song rang in Raoul's ears:

Christine spoke of an Angel ...

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Please review, and, if you enjoyed my twist on the classic Phantom of the Opera tale, be sure to read my ghostly mystery, "Haunted." Merci beaucoup! - Hriviel.