Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

By the time night fell on the streets of Paris, rain had begun to fall in earnest. Those foolish enough to attempt a journey on foot were soon left sodden despite their haste to reach their destinations. A steady stream of carriages passed through the Rue de Rivoli carrying those passengers who were better prepared for the downpour. One of these carriages, unremarkable though it was, happened to be carrying a most remarkable cargo. A man sat within impatiently, dusting off beads of water from the surface of his heavy black cloak with a gloved hand, sighing audibly as he gazed outside at the sudden deluge. The top hat he had borrowed for the evening was ill-fitting and he fiddled with the brim awkwardly to attempt to clear his vision. His ageless mahogany face wore a deep frown, and his unusually green eyes held a hint of unease.

Moments later the carriage pulled up outside a row of ramshackle terraced houses, and the gentleman occupant thrust a number of coins into the driver's hand before hurrying towards the house at the end of the row, narrowly avoiding a trip on the uneven steps that had become slick in the rain. The door was opened by a short, timid man in a waistcoat, who scrambled away from the door as the master of the house swept past him without a word.

"S-sir?"

Striding into a cosy drawing room, the gentleman flung his cloak carelessly onto an overstuffed armchair in the corner which was positioned next to a merrily crackling fire that had been set in the hearth. Soon the cloak was joined by a tatty pair of leather gloves, the offending top hat and a dress coat that had swamped the man's slender frame. Having dispensed with his borrowed finery he sunk into a deep leather armchair and steepled his fingers underneath his chin, eyes glittering with the reflection of the roaring flames in front of him. His heart, he realised, was still pounding loudly from within the confines of his chest, his breathing was still quickened in an unsteady rhythm, echoing the erratic heart beat. This would not do, he thought.

"Darius!"

The slight, waist-coated man poked his head around the door, an expression of concern crinkled on his lined forehead.

"Sir – is everything alright sir?"

"Get me a brandy, Darius. A large one."

Darius gave a short nod of his downy, balding head and retreated swiftly.

"Darius?"

His face reappeared and the gentleman fought a bizarre and uncharacteristic urge to smile.

"Bring the bottle. And 2 glasses. We're expecting company."

"At this time of the evening?"

"Just do it," he snapped, evidence of his frayed nerves bubbling up to the surface, his manservant's alarmed face causing him to feel a pang of regret almost instantly.

Darius returned minutes later with a decanter of liquid the colour of treacle and two crystal glasses balanced expertly on a silver tray. Placing the glasses down on the cluttered table in front of the fire, he attempted to gain his master's attention, whose out of character behaviour came as a concern to the softly spoken Darius. He swept around the room lighting the oil lamps and bathing the room with their soft glow, dispelling the gloom of the firelight and transforming the surroundings as he did so. The shrill ring of the doorbell sounded, causing the two men to jump. Darius automatically made for the door, but a gentle hand on his wrist prevented him.

"It's fine, Darius. I'll get the door. You're dismissed for the evening."

"But sir, your guest…"

"Will be attended to satisfactorily without your assistance I assure you."

Darius was uncertain of how to proceed. After all, what role did he have in their meagre household if not serving the master and his guests?

"Please, my friend, take this rare opportunity to have an early night. I promise I shall take care of things down here."

"As you wish then. Goodnight sir."

"Goodnight Darius." He followed his servant into the hallway and watched as the man who had served him faithfully for more years than he could count climbed the stairs to his sleeping quarters. Once more he felt a surge of guilt course through him, but steeled himself to face what was to come within the same breath. This was not an event Darius would wish to be subjected to, if he only knew… Straightening his collar on the starched pearlescent dress shirt, he opened the door to be greeted by a shivering, sobbing mess of a young man, luminous cornflower eyes shining with tears that were indistinguishable from the rain and blood smeared across his boyish features. He pushed the back of his hand over his blonde moustache and mouth, a sob shaking through him as he attempted to compose himself in order to speak.

"Are you the Persian?" he asked in a small, higher pitched voice than might have been expected.

"I am." The Persian nodded once and waited for his guest to continue. As he had suspected, the situation he was faced with was not a pleasant one.

"Forgive me for intruding on you at such a late hour. My name is Raoul. I am the – Vicomte de Chagny. And I must ask for your assistance with a most grave matter."

The Persian closed his gleaming eyes for a moment, in attempt to summon to him all of the strength that he possessed. He looked back at the pitiful sight before him, and motioning with a hand, said, "You'd best come in."


	2. Chapter 2

The Persian poured two heavy measures of liqueur into the glasses that had been deposited there earlier, and pushed one of the into Raoul's trembling hand. The boy was leaning heavily on the mantle above the fireplace, staring into the flames seemingly in some sort of trance. He leant his forehead along the arm that gripped the chilly marble shelf; his free hand grabbed the glass unconsciously, his eyes focused on something far away. The Persian sighed, settling himself back into his armchair, taking a long sip of the brandy that he had poured for himself. It had taken some time to tidy the Vicomte up; first the Persian had gently persuaded Raoul to remove his soaking cloak and dress coat, eventually leaving him in a flowing but damp cotton shirt that he had loosened from his fitted navy trousers, in order to allow it to dry more effectively. Relinquishing his waistcoat had caused Raoul to wince in obvious discomfort, a hand flew up to clutch at his side, leading the Persian to suspect that the boy was in possession of several broken ribs. The Persian stepped in wordlessly to gently remove the remainder of Raoul's clothing, noticing as he did so that the boy's knuckles were scraped and bleeding. His sniffing had subsided somewhat, and he caught the Persian's eyes as the man placed the finely embroidered waistcoat on top of Raoul's similarly fine clothing. The Persian felt his pulse quicken. The Vicomte looked haunted, despair and horror radiating from the depths of his round cerulean eyes. What has this boy seen, the Persian wondered, as he left the drawing room to fetch a bowl of water and a soft cloth from the kitchen. He rolled up his sleeves roughly so that his lean, brown arms were bare. When he returned to the drawing room he had found Raoul in position by the fireplace.

"You should drink that. It will help with shock," the Persian observed after a long, silent moment. Raoul blinked and swivelled his gaze towards the Persian, who motioned encouragingly towards the glass in Raoul's hand. He seemed surprised that it had somehow appeared there, but nonetheless took a big gulp and coughed, fresh tears stinging his eyes. The Persian smirked.

"Best to sip if you're not used to it. Your tolerance will be low."

Raoul found himself nodding and smiling in a slightly frenzied way. It crossed his fevered disordered mind that this may be what it felt like to tumble into insanity. He had a more measured second mouthful and sat himself down amongst the damp cloaks and coats so that he was seated opposite his host. Raoul placed his glass onto the table as he didn't entirely trust his own grip. It was then that he examined his poor ravaged hands.

"Are they painful?"

Raoul flexed his fingers gingerly.

"I'm not sure," he said, aware of pain lingering nearby but yet somehow out of reach. He touched his usually fine golden hair that now hung limply down his back, wet stands tracing the contours of his normally handsome face. His nose felt oddly flexible and soft, his right cheekbone was almost protruding from the delicate flesh. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and ran his tongue along his teeth to discover that several were missing.

The Persian watched the boy for a moment before crouching by the fire to retrieve the bowl of water that he had deposited there for warming. He knelt beside Raoul and squeezed excess moisture from the cloth he had submerged.

"is that blood yours?" he asked softly. Raoul stared at the man in confusion. The pads of his fingers were slick with blood.

"I – I'm not sure."

The Persian sighed and began to tenderly wipe away some of the mess that was tarnishing Raoul's features. Raoul submitted to the man's ministrations without a word, resuming his inspection of the flames, retreating into his own thoughts.

The water was stained the colour of rust by the time the Persian pronounced the task sufficiently complete. Resuming his earlier seat, he considered his next words carefully.

"How did you know where you would find me?"

Raoul's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"It wasn't precisely difficult. Everyone at the Palais knows about the mysterious Persian."

"I do hope not everyone. And I would hope that they are not all armed with my address," the Persian said with a scowl. He crossed a slender ankle over the opposite knee and settled into the cushioned back of his chair. Lamplight flicked warmly over the drawing room, presenting the men with an uneasy feeling of safety. The Persian began to wonder how many secrets would be uncovered before the lamplight had faded.

"In my experience, there is only one conceivable reason that you would seek out my particular brand of assistance."

"I hardly know where to begin. Everything that seems so far away once you have left that place…"

The opera. Of course. The Persian understood Raoul's sentiment only too well. He knew little of the young man who had come seeking his help, only that as a Vicomte, he had in front of him a wealthy man, heir to the French peerage; this knowledge alone was enough to make him wish this trouble could have landed at somebody else's door. He had had his fill of royalty and nobility back in his native Persia, his time in the service of the sadistic Sultana had left him scarred and prone to nightmares because of the many atrocities he had been forced to witness.

"Have you been there?"

Raoul's question forced the Persian back into the present with a start.

"The opera? Many times, Vicomte. In fact, I have visited the Palais this very evening."

"No, I didn't mean the opera. I meant – have you been below?"

The Persian's expression darkened, eyes shadowed with unpleasant recollections.

"Once or twice. Vicomte, may I ask you a somewhat delicate question?"

Raoul knocked back the remaining brandy from his glass and gave a slight shrug, which caused him to grab his chest in pain once again.

"Is he…did you…is he dead?"

The silence closed in on them oppressively, lasting for what seemed like hours, the only sound was the crackling and spitting of the logs. The Persian looked into Raoul's eyes, the innocence he might have expected to see there was retreating rapidly in the face of everything that Raoul had seen and now knew. He watched as those tormented eyes welled up once more and the Persian felt his stomach swoop unpleasantly as a wave of anxiety and nausea hit him. He placed a hand on top of the boy's broken ones.

"Raoul?"

"I…I believe so."

The Persian let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He gave the hands underneath his a gentle squeeze.

"I think we'd best have another drink."


	3. Chapter 3

Raoul wasn't sure how much time had passed. The brandy had begun to take effect, leaving him feeling lethargic and less in control of his faculties.

"Tell me about you and him."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What do you know? How did you become such an expert on him?"

The Persian snorted and sloshed more brandy into his mouth.

"Hardly an expert, Vicomte."

"Well, you must know more than most people, or else why am I here?"

"That's a good question." The Persian's tone was terse, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"It's rather a long story I'm afraid."

It was Raoul's turn to find his companion amusing.

"I think we have time, Monsieur."

"Yes, after all it appears we do. Well then, I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning, as is traditional. My tale begins in another world, many years ago…"

The rainforest was never quiet. There was a permanent ringing in the air from the cacophony of birds, insects and other creatures who called the vast, lush expanse of forest home. The heat often became oppressive, it clung to the skin, leaving anyone unaccustomed to the climate bathed in perspiration. The Daroga of Mazenderan was not such a person however. As a native of northern Persia he was acclimatised to the humidity, to the constant chatter of the forest, and to the isolation of the exotic area that he had the dubious honour of living in. He was young to hold the office he did: as chief of police at just twenty one the man felt he had a great deal to prove to the rest of the force that was under his control. His primary duty was the safety and protection of Sultana Zara, who was cocooned in her beautifully constructed sandstone and marble palace. The daroga largely found this to be a tiresome chore, as the round the clock supervision necessary was not a favoured task among his men. After a year in post, the daroga hit upon the idea of creating an elite personal guard for the Sultana, in order to see her served by a selection of devoted and skilled guards. The daroga was swiftly placed at the head of the Sultana's Elite, often working solidly for days at a time, patrolling the perimeters of Mazenderan Palace in a state of constant heightened awareness.

After some time it became clear to the daroga that Zara was an exceptionally unpopular figure, even for a monarch. He was responsible for thwarting numerous attempts on her life from a wide range of sources. He could only guess at the amount of people with grudges against the woman. Although the daroga tried to avoid too much contact with the Sultana, she frequently sought him out, with real or more often imaginary complaints about members of her guard, demanding that the daroga take matters in hand. This he was only too happy to do, as Zara had a reputation for dreaming up cruel and perverse punishments for those who she believed had wronged her, and he did not wish to lose any of his highly trained and by now loyal band of men due to any "mishaps" in the Sultana's infamous Rose Room.

Several years passed by as the daroga sought to continue with the precarious balancing act of keeping Zara both alive and, perhaps more importantly, happy. It was on a particularly humid afternoon that the daroga was summoned to the Sultana's presence chamber at a typically inconvenient moment. The daroga was in the midst of planning upgrades to the palace's security systems, and was embroiled in studying the blueprints with his favoured architect when a messenger, a child of around eight years of age scampered into the room and interrupted. The daroga let go of the plans with a sigh.

"I'll be back shortly," he said, and strode towards the presence chamber as swiftly as possible. He silently curse the gall of the woman, whilst also savouring the chill that now surrounded him upon entering the inner sanctum of the palace, which was paved with pure white marble from floor to ceiling and thus held cooling properties. Two leashed slaves opened the golden lattice worked doors in unison as the daroga approached the throne, descending carefully on to one knee a metre away from the throne dais to show the appropriate respect. Zara was lounging across the golden seat of power idly, wearing a lilac chiffon robe and elaborate jewels around her slender bronze neck. She was barefoot as usual, and had her ebony hair plaited in an extravagant coil to one side of her head, which was adorned with further precious gems. Sultana Zara was undoubtedly beautiful, she had deep emerald eyes decorated with heavy kohl, and full pouting lips from which dripped promises and threats like honey. The curve of her breasts was visible through the sheer fabric covering her taut body, and should she move to uncross her legs the daroga would be handed an uncensored view of Zara's womanhood; a tool that the Sultana often used when trying to disarm men. Fortunately for the daroga, he was not oblivious to the cruelty in Zara's nature, and found that this knowledge soon made her beauty seem hollow and somewhat sour.

"Daroga!" she purred in her most seductive tones.

"Your majesty is looking particularly radiant today," he said with a respectful dip of his head. Zara let out a delighted, lilting giggle, the daroga repressed a shudder.

"As well I might, dear one. I have had a visit from my favourite delegate this morning."

The daroga cursed himself inwardly, a visit from any delegate should have been organised through him, else risk a massive security breach.

"Oh do relax, daroga. Do you think that I would have put myself in any danger? The charming Captain Mohammed organised my security in your absence."

He noticed his second in command standing slightly to one side of the throne for the first time, a look of discomfort etched across his handsome face. The daroga made a mental note to deal with the breach in procedure at the earliest available opportunity. For the moment though curiosity overcame his pride.

"Very well your majesty. A delegate from Shiraz I take it?"

Zara smiled brightly and gestured for him to come closer. The daroga straightened himself and moved instead to kneel at Zara's feet, as was often her whim. She stroked through his silky chestnut hair gently before continuing her tale. He tried not to cringe away from the light graze of her nails against his scalp.

"Indeed. We spoke briefly about the peace treaty between our two nations. It is going well, if you are at all interested."

"That is good news your majesty."

Her hand stilled and pulled his head back so that the daroga was forced to meet her eyes.

"He brought me a gift," she whispered, licking her lips sensuously. The daroga swallowed, but held her gaze. Zara seemed satisfied and released her grip, unfolding herself from her seat and clicking her fingers for the attention of two of her younger female slaves.

"Fetch my present from the Rose Room so that I may share it with the dear daroga," she said, and they curtseyed, leaving the throne room as swiftly as their legs could carry them. The daroga took the opportunity to dust himself off and approached Mohammed.

"What the hell happened Mo?" he growled through gritted teeth. Mohammed touched his arm, chocolate eyes full of apology.

"I'm sorry D, she dragged me from my duty on Rose Balcony, what was I supposed to do?"

The daroga sighed and shrugged, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

"I know. Of course I understand. Is there anything I should know? What is this gift?"

"Best you see for yourself. I'm not sure I can even begin to explain…"

"Here it is!" Zara squealed with delight as her slaves returned, burdened with carrying a young man. A young man who was covered from head to toe with blood.

"Told you," Mohammed muttered, and the daroga offered up a silent prayer to the heavens for strength, as he left his friend in order to better inspect the Sultana's "gift".


	4. Chapter 4

The Persian felt a shiver run through him at his recollections. He stood to stoke the fire, piling on some extra fuel for the hearth as something to distract him from his disordered mind.

"It was him wasn't it? The gift I mean."

He nodded at Raoul.

"Indeed. He was just fifteen at the time, or that was his best estimate anyway. They had captured him from the Afghanistan border, as he was attempting an escape from the travelling carnival he was owned by. They had beaten him until he was unconscious; no trace of skin on his body was left without blemish. Blood, bruises, cuts from the whips that had been used by some of the Shiraz delegates. At first I wasn't even sure if he was still alive."

Raoul winced at the description of the suffering that had been inflicted on a boy not much younger than himself. The Persian had refilled his glass and was swirling the contents in the glow of the fire.

"It's funny, he was trying to escape the cruelty of the carnival, and escaped straight into the Sultana's wicked clutches."

Nothing about the Persian's story struck Raoul as particularly funny, but he did not say so.

"How did he end up with Zara though?"

"You have to understand, Vicomte, the Sultana was well renowned for her…let's call it cruelty. Although I can think of many other ways of describing the way that she treated fellow human beings. Zara had hundreds of slaves at her disposal, for her amusement. She collected oddities. She liked to be brought the beautiful, the talented, the unusual, and to tame them."

"Which of those categories did he fall into?"

The Persian smiled a rare, sad smile.

"We didn't know it then of course, but it turned out that Erik was in fact all three…"

* * *

><p>"Help me with him, Mo."<p>

The daroga grasped the limp body around the waist from one side while Mohammed held the weight from the other. They dragged the boy to the daroga's private quarters in the eastern wing of the palace, depositing him on the cool wash-room floor, while Mohammed ran water into the deep copper tub. The daroga crouched over the boy, gently cradling his head and smoothing dark hair away from the mangled and bloody face. The damage that had been inflicted was barbaric, the daroga felt bile rise in his throat as he traced over the slashes across the boy's cheeks that had cut close to the bone, the bruising to his torso alerted the daroga to the possibility of internal damage that the young boy may have been suffering with.

"Is he breathing?" Mohammed asked, an anxious note to his normally calm voice.

"Barely. Here, help me lift him."

Together they lowered the boy into the water, the bathtub instantly filling with a sickening red tinge.

"Go and get the physician Mo," he said quietly, "he may be able to offer him some relief."

Mohammed hesitated, studying his friend carefully.

"Don't you think it would be best if we simply put him out of his misery?"

The daroga's head shot up. Without speaking he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over his head, stripped his silken trousers from his body, and stood in his underclothes facing Mohammed with a defiant glare.

"And who would explain that turn of events to Zara? When we have been given specific instructions to keep him alive? How do you propose we go about absolving ourselves of that failure Mo?"

"I don't know. I have no idea. But surely you have eyes in your head D, he's likely to die anyway…"

"Not if we do everything we can possibly do to prevent that eventuality, Captain. Now, fetch a physician!"

The daroga was a calm man by nature, and his tone shocked Mohammed into action. As the captain's footsteps faded, the daroga stepped into the bath and lowered himself carefully so that he was positioned behind the boy, his ruined body cradled in his arms. He grabbed the sponge balanced on the side of the tub and began to clean off the worst of the gore, so that the physician would be able to see more accurately where the damage was at its most severe. The daroga started on the boy's face, when he suddenly let out a deep, agonised moan, and began to weakly struggle away.

"Hush, it's alright, you're safe now. We're going to get you the help you need."

The boy moaned once more, although his limp thrashing subsided. He attempted to open his eyes, but one was completely swollen shut and the other would only open a fraction.

"Where…am I?" he whispered, voice gravelly and strained, sending waves of panic through his mangled limbs.

"You are in Mazenderan Palace, and I am the daroga in the service of the Sultana. So you see, you are safe. Safe as can be. What is your name, can you tell me?"

The boy winced as the daroga stroked the sponge over a particularly deep slash which cut across one of his nipples, and closed his eye once more.

"It's Erik," he said, before lapsing back into unconsciousness.

Before long a physician, bearded and wearing the maroon floor length robe of his profession bustled in, Mohammed closely following behind carrying a large case, presumably full of medical tools.

"Well, well, what do we have here daroga?" the elder man asked.

"His name is Erik. I've cleaned the obvious wounds as well as I can."

"He has been awake then? This is a promising sign," he studied the marks across the boy's semi submerged torso and nodded. "You have done a fair job here. Help me get him to the bedchamber and I will begin treatment."

Mohammed and the daroga once more lifted the boy, leaving a trail of stained water across the floor. They lay Erik down carefully, before withdrawing to allow the physician space for his work.

* * *

><p>The daroga knelt on the solid marble of the throne room floor, the physician assumed the same position half a metre behind him as protocol dictated.<p>

"It is good to see you my commander in chief. And what news of our patient?"

Zara was being fanned generously from all directions by four particularly lovely slave girls. She was dressed in a heavier golden brocade, evidently feeling the effects of the heat as she gestured to the girls to speed up their movements.

"the boy is sleeping, your majesty. I am confident that with continued treatment he will make a full recovery," the physician answered smoothly. Zara raised a beautifully arched eyebrow at the elder gentleman.

"I wasn't aware the Sultana had addressed you," she stated coldly, and the daroga closed his eyes, sensing the approaching danger.

"Forgive my colleague, your majesty. He is untrained as yet in the court's etiquette and did not mean to speak out of turn."

Zara stalked down from the dais, alert as an eagle surveying it's prey. She tilted the daroga's chin upwards with one of her dainty bare feet.

"If he is untrained as you say my dear daroga, then why on earth would you bring him in front of your Sultana?"

He carefully schooled his expression into one of sincere regret.

"Apologies your majesty. This man is the best at his craft and therefore his expertise in this matter has been of great value. He has had responsibility for your beautiful gift after all."

Zara paused, and then let out a musical, lilting chuckle, bending down to grasp the daroga's hands she pulled him up to his feet.

"Of course you are right as ever. Now tell me, dear one, is my gift truly beautiful?"

"There is healing still to be done your majesty, but I believe that, yes, he is of an extremely pleasing appearance. Who knows what other talents may be unearthed when he awakens and recovers."

Zara grasped his arms forcefully and leaned in closely, her floral scent and her breath ghosted across his face.

"Just imagine. Will he scar do you suppose?"

"The physician I have brought before you is skilled your majesty. The wounds have all been closed expertly."

The Sultana nodded and closed her beautiful eyes for a moment. She moved towards the physician, who was still prostrate on the floor.

"Very well. Continue your treatment. But I want to make sure my gift is reminded of the mercy shown to him by the Sultana in allowing his rescue. You must leave the wounds on his body to scar."

The daroga's pulse roared in his ears, and he stepped towards Zara, forgetting everything he had learned in his terror.

"But your majesty, that would mean re-opening his injuries, causing him untold pain…"

"Are you questioning me?" she asked, an amused expression playing across her features, "no matter. Physician, be sure to heal his pretty face. The rest should carry reminders of his ordeal. Do you understand?"

The physician swallowed, smiling weakly.

"Yes, your majesty."

"Good," she stepped backed onto her dais and into the glorious breeze of her fans once more. The daroga didn't think it was possible to hate the woman more, but as she turned she smiled a smug, hateful smile at him.

"You, daroga, will be the one to open his stitches. And you will learn never to question me again."


	5. Chapter 5

Raoul was surprised to see tears on the Persian's shining cheeks.

"You didn't carry out her order, surely?"

The Persian however was far away and did not answer. His past was echoing around him, forcing him to stare into the abyss of his worst nightmares.

"Sometimes, I lie awake at night and think I can still hear his screams."

Raoul sipped his brandy noisily, trying not to dwell on the thought of the Persian carrying out the Sultana's insane demands.

"Why didn't you leave?"

The Persian laughed humourlessly, a harsh, bitter sound.

"There wasn't anywhere to leave to. My life had led me to that position. My title and my men were…important to me. The idea of abandoning them to her – well, it didn't bear thinking about even then."

"Okay. I can just about accept that. I spent a year serving in the French navy before…everything. And I suppose I would have been prepared to make sacrifices for the men under my command."

The Persian was somewhat relieved by Raoul's revelation, as he did not need to justify the way in which he had acted all those years ago, although his time in the Sultana's service still filled him with self-loathing.

"I tried to protect my men. Anyone who was in danger actually. Anything I could do to save any of the suffering Zara caused, I would."

"And Erik?" Raoul prompted.

"Well, after that, I felt an even stronger desire to protect Erik most of all. It was partially my fault that he had had to suffer further torment, and I vowed to do my utmost to stop anything ever happening to hurt him again. As he recovered I was offered the opportunity of getting to know him…"

The scent of rose water pervaded the daroga's living quarters, seemingly stronger than the previous day. As chief he was furnished with spacious, comfortable rooms near to the main palace complex, in case the sultana had need of him at short notice. Surrounded by icy white marble and gilt mirrors, the apartment was more than elaborate enough to suit his needs, especially given that the daroga spent little time there. There was a small, leafy terrace leading off the main bedchamber, hidden by swathes of ivory silk. As Erik recovered, the daroga would often find himself arriving home to see the curtains billowing slightly in the warm breeze. He would find Erik with his back to the doors, staring out into the lush greenery that practically enclosed them as time went by Erik spent more and more of his day awake and alert, and the daroga became concerned that the boy would soon grow restless and want to begin his service to the Sultana. The daroga found himself arriving back at his quarters earlier and earlier, for reasons he did not wish to examine too closely. He crept noiselessly onto the terrace, affording him an opportunity to watch Erik for several uninterrupted moments. The boy was tall but his limbs were slender, as though he had not yet grown into them. His skin, although adorned with a tan, was much lighter than those native to Persia, suggesting to the daroga that Erik's origins may have been European. Several of his wounds marred the otherwise flawless canvas of his skin, turning slowly to raw, jagged scar tissue. Erik's face on the other hand was almost completely healed, and the daroga was pleased and anxious in equal measure to note that his prediction to Zara had been correct: the boy was an exceptional beauty. His jaw and cheek bones were angular and framed a full, sensuous mouth, his features already adult in comparison to his body. His hair was dark; thick and glossy, falling across his forehead and creeping across his ears as it grew unchecked. By far the most arresting of Erik's features though were his eyes. They were feline, framed with thick, curling eyelashes, and were an unusual hazel that shone amber in certain lights. The daroga was secretly relieved that Erik's face had been able to recover, as the first day Erik's eyes met his properly it had taken his breath away.

Erik caught the daroga's eye and smiled, a dimple forming in his right cheek.

"Daroga. You're back early."

"I can't stay long Erik, I am expected back on duty within the hour."

Erik motioned to the older man to take the seat next to him. The daroga sat, feeling an intense wave of heat hit him as he did so. Erik seemed curiously unaffected by the humidity, although he was partially aided by his loose cotton trousers and bare, half bandaged chest. Erik eyed the daroga curiously, sensing the man's discomfort.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Better. Better everyday. I suppose my service will be expected shortly."

The daroga shifted his weight and coughed, considering the boy and his unsettling aura of calm.

"Do you have any ideas what type of…service you will be required to perform, Erik?"

"I've heard rumours of the practises of this court, yes," he replied, the lack of fear in Erik's eyes left the daroga wondering if the boy had in fact been left with some internal injury to his brain after all.

"Relax daroga. My time in Afghanistan and Persia has prepared me for this. I have had countless experiences with many methods of pain infliction."

Erik traced the edges of the linen bandages wrapped around his chest absently. He spoke with quiet, yet determined authority, and not for the first time the daroga found himself burning to know Erik more intimately. His presence in his chambers had originally been welcome, but the more time passed, the more discomfort the daroga felt. Alien feelings had begun to swirl around his head and refused to subside.

"Erik, someday soon, when we have the time, I would very much like to hear about your past, about how you came to be here with us."

Erik frowned and swept his fingers through his mane of hair.

"We will need a great deal of time I fear. Suffice to say I was sold to the Vivaldi carnival when I was very young in order to perform for them. I became…tired of the life I led, and made the decision to escape. One of my more marketable skills was as a master of escape artistry. Ironically."

The daroga allowed a smile to grace his lips, and Erik afforded him a grin in return.

"In truth, I am glad for the capture in some ways. I had no clear plan for what I would do next, of where I could go. Now at least I am here, with your charming company."

The daroga embarrassingly felt a blush spread to his cheeks.

"Hardly charming. You mentioned marketable skills?"

"Ah yes. I am quite the commodity daroga, although of course in your professional capacity you may not agree with me."

Erik folded his long fingers behind his head and perched his feet against the terrace railings, stretching his youthful body carelessly in the daroga's cautious gaze.

"Well, as I said, a master escape artist, an accomplished ventriloquist, an illusionist – I am particularly adept at persuading the rich to part with their money. And of course there's my more obvious – charms…"

The daroga's eyebrows rose slightly at Erik's bitter tone.

"You mean to say that you made money from…"

"From my body. Yes. I might find that particular avenue of employment closed off to me now that I'm riddled with imperfections."

"Erik – I had no idea. I'm sorry."

Erik wasn't listening, he knew. What good were his apologies after all? The daroga reached out to touch one of Erik's injuries tenderly. The boy startled, but quickly regained his composure and shuffled himself closer to the daroga, a small, shy smile playing on his lips,

"Do you have a name, daroga? Or must our friendship remain so one-sided, where I divulge everything about myself and you reveal nothing?"

"I never use my given name. I am not fond of it, or its associations. Besides, "daroga" seems to suit me better. The position has overtaken my life somewhat."

Erik's mouth bent to the daroga's ear and he felt his treacherous heart quicken and flutter unevenly in his chest. Breath ghosted across the curve of his ear and the daroga thought for a brief, agonising moment that Erik was going to kiss him.

"Please. Just between you and I. I promise."

His whisper was heavy with hidden promise. The daroga knew in that second that Erik could ask anything of him and he would be unable to refuse him. He told him.

Erik leant back with a smug expression plastered on his handsome face.

"There. You see, daroga? A talent for extortion. Most useful, wouldn't you say?"

His laughter echoed through the bedchamber as the daroga fled, cursing his weak flesh and even weaker heart.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Horror, Romance