A/N: It's been a year since I went to my first live Phantom of the Opera musical. A little one-shot; I had next to no factual sources for life in a Persian palace during the 18th century so there's a gutful of artistic license in here. I've got a hundred bucks of birthday money left; guess what book by a woman named Susan Kay I'll soon be buying...
The main idea behind this is not mine. It came from the mind of Roy Weissensteiner himself, the matinee Phantom on this day a year ago... A hundred years of happiness for the fansite forum from whence these words were spawned.
Disclaimer: I who have nothing declare this disclaimer self-explanatory. :D
The Monkey
The walls were hung with sumptuous fabric and gold washed over the floor. Perfumes, strange and soothing, permeated and sweetened the air. The palace of the Shah-in-Shah was filled with still, humid air.
And the little sultana was feeling bored.
Eyes narrowed threateningly, looking down her nose, this is her command: "Dance, little monkey."
The creature screeched and scrabbled on the floor. A sparkling, squat goblet crashed behind him and dates spilled onto the ground. They rolled around in wild curves and circles for a while, startling and confusing the monkey even more.
The sultana deemed this suitable entertainment. The dour expression on her countenance faded somewhat as she called for a plate of fruit and some wine.
As a shower of scarlet liquid arced through the air, the small animal blinked his black eyes and searched for a hiding place. The world swam with streaks of gold and red.
There was a robe standing invitingly in his vision. The column of fabric was black, but to the monkey that only meant darkness in which to hide.
The monkey lowered his paws and ran.
"Here, little monkey. Little monkey? Where are you?"
The boy sighed and straightened his back. He had not dared to say anything to the sultana when she had issued her orders, but his gut twisted when he thought of what he was about to do. It was difficult sometimes, to be the official play mate of the spoiled sultana.
He turned down a corridor, side-stepping some courtiers. His resolve quaked as he neared the Trap-door Lover's rooms. To go into the Conjuror's chambers? To seek entry to the dwelling of this mysterious and fearsome man?
"My monkey has taken a liking to Master Erik," the sultana had said. This was not necessarily true, as there were many monkeys that came and went through the palace. But the sultana could claim one as hers if she wished, and no one would argue.
She had handed a cup to her companion as she said, "I am bored again today. Feed the monkey some fruit, will you?"
"Do you want a date, monkey?" the human child said. "Come on, take it."
The monkey tilted its head, black eyes quizzical. This human did not usually feed him. His usual and well-loved carer was a man of different skin colour, with shiny eyes and cold hands. He did not like the man's hands, but he put up with them since they often contained very nice food. It had been many days, he supposed, since he and the man had become regular companions.
You could even call them friends, if it pleased you.
The monkey would often sit on the man's couch while he wrote, nibbling on fruit and whatnot. There were many red dots on the paper when the man retired, he saw. All spidery lines and squiggles of ink.
"A king's ransom for someone to accompany me in my music-making!" he had muttered one day. The monkey did not understand what this meant.
The man had even sewn him a vest, one of red velvet and silk with gold thread. The stitches were tiny and intricate; everyone had admired it greatly. The majority of the court was highly amused by such a sight. A monkey wearing clothes almost finer than the Shah-in-Shah's!
"Or would you prefer a grape?" the boy said, holding one out imploringly. "Please, little monkey. The sultana will scold me." The whites of his eyes shone with anxiety. The only response he received was a shiver of the pale fur around the monkey's face.
The man with yellow eyes would not think this as betrayal, would he? If he took the grape from this child? It couldn't hurt. Just one grape, the man would never find out. It wasn't exactly disloyalty. One can always squeeze in another more morsel, after all...
You only live once.
The Conjuror held the monkey in his hands. Its limbs and tail were flaccid, its head rolled back. Beneath his fingers, the heart did not beat. How curious, he thought.
A genius must never rush. Similarly, a friend must never delay. Shall he make this crude or perfect?
How swiftly and deftly his fingers conduct with the needle, how tenderly he closes the wound! A handful of herbs go into the chest cavity. His animal friend must breathe clearly, yes? The ebony black eyes shine again, looking beyond death.
How slick the blood makes his hands, covering them in fleeting warmth...
The monkey sits on his couch again, eyes smiling and sporting his luxurious vest, and the man with yellow eyes finally has musical accompaniment.
But strange, Erik thought, how the monkey did not like to dance any more.