A/N: This is an original, alternate universe tale set at the turn of the twentieth century. Full of action, adventure, danger and romance, it's a spy-thriller of sorts with some Susan Kay references sprinkled in. All main characters are PotO-based and it's (naturally) an E/C pairing; being an AU story I had some leeway with regards to their backgrounds and portrayals but I tried to stay as in-character as possible.
Erik is of course himself—biting sarcasm included—he is hiding from an unfortunate past and its associated secrets. His life is consumed by his work as a part of a fledgling unit of British foreign intelligence. He has been a lone wolf from a tender age and has no desire to change his methods for any reason or anyone.
Christine is spirited, driven, and no-nonsense - although she comes across as uptight and dour. She's trying to be an educated, independent woman back when there really wasn't such a thing and takes exception to relying on a man. Her father (still alive) is self-made man and widower who dotes upon her, encouraging all intellectual pursuits. A love of academics, thorough education and sheltered existence has lent her an inflated ego. As a result her personality clashes magnificently with Erik's when they are unexpectedly thrown together.
As for Raoul, he will not feature prominently in this story; his function is that of an older brother figure to Christine. There is absolutely no romance between them.
The story is rated M for the later chapters but will edge more towards T for the most part - however, it does contain explicit language and several mature themes including mentions of abuse, sexual violence, and torture.
Hopefully you guys will find it an interesting read.
*I don't own any of the PotO characters, in case you didn't know already.
Tehran - Summer 1889
As the man rode down the city's narrow streets he could not help but scowl in disgust while attempting to guide his horse around the blasted vendor stalls and hordes of people. He had been in Persia as a translator for a year now - still he found its capitol filthy and longed for the day when he could return to England, to his comfortable townhouse in Marylebone where resided his lovely cook and all of her delectable dishes. The very thought made his stomach clench painfully; he could not recall the last time he had decent fare or a proper cup of tea.
True, Victorian London was overcrowded and rife with social problems but one could at least keep to the more respectable areas - out of sight, out of mind so to speak. Here the poor were everywhere, a constant reminder of humanity's exile from Eden.
It was indeed the height of cruelty that God's finest creations were made to suffer so. Difference of faith and culture aside, no one deserved such a bleak fate. He tried to keep his eyes ahead but could not prevent the occasional glance: men missing limbs on makeshift crutches hoping to sell their wares; the elderly, delusions spilling from their decaying mouths, wondering why they were made to linger amongst the living; women, battered and broken, selling any part of themselves for a morsel; children, squalid little skeletons, lay at their mothers' feet and sometimes quite alone, long-since abandoned in the hope that death would come swiftly.
Once again he was grateful for the keffiyeh shielding his face as he wept.
This was one of the circles of hell, of that he was convinced. Each time he was made to pass through it his spirit dimmed a bit more, a dying star fading away. At last he reached the courtyard of the British Mission and, dismounting, breathed a sigh of relief. A boy was by his side in an instant, his black eyes roaming over the beast with reverent approval as he took the reins.
"Beaut-i-ful an-i-mal, sir." he said in heavily-accented English, drawing out every syllable for clarity.
The man murmured a hasty gramercy in Persian and started towards the building only to halt mid-step. Perhaps it was the wretchedness he had just witnessed or that he had taken a liking to this lad, who always ensured his horse was well looked-after—or maybe still it was his need for absolution after a fortnight spent in sin—but he turned round and pressed a handful of coins into the boy's grubby palm. His action won him a low whistle of astonishment and he hurried away before anything could be said on the matter. Displays of emotion had always left him discomfited - a likely explanation for his enduring bachelorhood.
His stride did not falter until he reached his destination: a worn wooden door on the second level. Knocking, he was granted immediate entry and came to stand in front of a polished desk that was quite out of place in the otherwise shabby, dust-covered office - a small tast of luxury amidst squalor, he surmised. Then, everybody had his own method of coping. He would certainly go mad if he had to spend a great amount of time in Tehran or any part of this bloody country. A year had proven challenge enough, he had not the foggiest idea how his countrymen withstood it. Perchance that was why there was a new ambassador every few years.
He removed his headdress and cleared his throat impatient to deliver his piece and retire to his flat so that he might soothe his aching body with a bath. Yes, after a scorching, gritty day in the saddle a bath was most definitely in order. Thankfully Captain Bertie Clarkson was not one for needless banter and looked up from his papers forthwith.
"Why, if it isn't old Edgar Hill. What a pleasure to see you, dear chap! Sit down, please, sit down! Would you care for a tot of brandy?" Clarkson gestured to a handsome lead glass decanter, the only other piece of finery in the room.
Hill received the snifter graciously. The initial taste of spirits on his tongue was bliss, he swore angels parted the heavens with their song to ring in his rapture. Fine brandy, port, and sherry cobblers were on the list of items most missed during his work in Persia. Once he was settled the Captain cut directly to the heart of it.
"I trust your stay in the Shah's palace was a pleasant one? Hally said you were an immeasurable asset." Things could not have unfolded more favorably. Soon he would be enjoying a leisurely evening, his first in an eternity.
"Yes, court life is ah, interesting to say the least. Lord Halston was absolutely enamored and made ample use of my skills, I barely had a chance to catch a breath."
"AHA! How immensely typical of old Hally, eager as a schoolboy! That enthusiasm of his is what makes him such a crack chargé d'affaires." His next words were issued low, furtive, "And what of your other business, were you able to look into the matter?"
"I was, in fact - although, finding time away from Lord Halston was not easy."
"I figured as much. If he had his way he would carry on day and night without a wink of sleep. Nevertheless, I am rather glad you've managed. Tell me, are the legends founded in truth or are they simply village lore?" His impressive moustache practically twitched with anticipation. Clearly he had expended many an hour of contemplation over the veracity of these claims.
Edgar took a methodical pull of brandy, savoring its aroma and flavor. It was the closest he had come to sampling ambrosia.
"The rumors are no fabrication."
"Good Lord, what manner of answer is that, old boy? Were you any more vague you could enter politics!" He chuckled at his own joke, leaning over his desk, eyes wild.
"What is it that you wish to know, sir?" Edgar rejoined calmly. The spectacle was an amusing one, this staunch military man breathlessly awaiting a tale stranger than fiction.
There was an incredulous splutter. "You are well-aware of what I desire to know! What they've said, is it true, the fearful whispers in the gloom, the hushed mutterings of death? Is he real, the one they call the Angel of Doom?"
Images, unspeakable sights and fantastical illusions from the past two weeks flashed through his memory. So authentic he could nearly reach out and touch them. His expression darkened ominously.
"Oh, yes, quite real, and so much more than the stories; he surpasses even the most fantastical anecdote. I've not seen anything comparable within the realm of reality or imagination." The last sounded trite, absurd. He was a respectable scholar not some misguided peddler of cheap penny dreadful twaddle. Anyone who knew him would have believed him a loon for such sentiment; they would shake their heads and say that the desert heat had finally turned poor Professor Hill daft. Yet he had seen things, things that violated the natural order. Seen not concocted.
—and now he could not unsee.
"Much more did you say?" Hill struggled to construct a fitting explanation, a difficult endeavor.
"This—" Lord, he was not certain if the word 'man' was applicable and settled instead for an ambiguous descriptor, "...being is not merely a court assassin, he's an artist, composer, magician, inventor, architect, a wonder: Angel and devil fused into one and hidden behind a mask white as bone. He wears not the cowl of Death but the attire of a gentleman, a demon cloaked as an angel. His voice, my God, he can do extraordinary things with it, as if it were a weapon the same as any sword or pistol. It is both terror and beauty, supernatural, sublime. I consider myself a man of logic foremost, sir; I was an engineer with the army before I became a professor of linguistics. I do not hold with spirits, daemons, animism or peasant superstitions but this entity is—"
"Sui generis?" came the helpful suggestion.
Captain Clarkson was collected, the marked opposite from his stunned, affected companion. On the contrary there was a sort of grim validation etched onto his features as if a physician had just confirmed a suspected diagnosis. Surely he did not have prior knowledge of this creature. Else why would he have had need to send a cantankerous old man on a mission of reconnaissance? And, yet his air of nonchalance spoke for itself. The stodgiest, most hackneyed lecturer would have been intrigued by such a description, let alone the masses. His colleagues at Oxford would have been fascinated, the inquisitive, callow pupil that resided at the core of every intellectual stoked. Good God, even those with a specialty in maths would be piqued and they were the very definition of prosaic.
There was something amiss, a nagging intuition of secrets lurking like an iceberg beneath the surface. He was abruptly struck with the impression that he had been played for an unwitting pawn in some larger scheme. The sensation was far from pleasant.
"You were already aware of him, this 'Angel of Doom'? May I ask, then, why you required my aid?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes, but I knew of hearsay and whispers. What I needed—and what you have so kindly provided—was proof and for that I am tremendously obliged." Clarkson paused, a cheerful glint in his eye, "Say, Hill, how would you like to return to London?"
He stared agape, a fish out of water.
What madness was this?
It took Hill a moment to gather his wits and another before surprise ebbed enough to allow speech. Shock quickly morphed into irritation. On a good day he had no tolerance for needlessly rhetorical questions but after hours spent on horseback baking in the sun he had even less so. Of course he wanted to return, what an asinine query! What Englishman in his right mind wished to stay in this barbarous land with its primitive laws and debauched customs?
"I ... I should like it very much indeed." A frown creased his already lined face, "Do you ask to bait and tease me?"
"Not at all! You have that charming residence in Westminster, do you not?"
"Marylebone. A townhouse on Baker Street."
"How delightful! I do so enjoy that part of London, you know, the epicenter of theatre and the arts. I am somewhat of a connoisseur of opera myself. At any rate, you have done me a great service. I am in your debt and it occurs to me that the best recompense would be to send you home. Unless you'd prefer some other reward?"
A second instance found Hill flabbergasted, his swimming, swirling head limited to the most basic of responses.
"No, sir."
"Excellent! It is settled then! There is a steamer departing from Mazandaran the Saturday next, I shall book you passage." The Captain rose and extended his hand indicating the meeting had concluded.
A dream made real, that's what it was. It was everything he had hoped for since stepping off the first bloody ship - but also an impossibility upon further consideration. What of his job, what of Lord Halston? If it had been as elementary as tendering his resignation he would have been home eleven months ago. Reluctantly, disheartened, he bit back his giddiness.
"With all due respect, sir, how is this possible? A translator is requisite for the ambassador and his staff."
"Oh, do not trouble yourself over that, my good fellow! I've secured both the necessary permission and a replacement, one with a connection to the palace no less. The situation is all well in hand. Go, dear chap, enjoy a production at Covent Garden for my sake."
Finally Edgar stood and shook the Captain's hand, shook it with such gusto he worried his arm might drop off. The lure of a bath called to him like a siren. He hesitated at the door, a final thought, no more than a niggling curiosity persisted - his mood buoyed and bright he decided to ask.
"Forgive me, sir, but why the vested interest in this court assassin? He is incredibly dangerous, the prudent course would be to stay far away."
"Perhaps I lack your wisdom, professor." Clarkson grinned broadly, "As for my interest, my business is entirely my own and that of my superiors. You may rest assured that all aforementioned motivations are aboveboard." Deciding it foolish to probe further and risk a rescission of the charitable gift he nodded and left it there. Best not pry, it was no longer his concern. Besides, what right did he, a translator, have to care?
"Very good, sir. You have my eternal thanks for the brandy and everything else. I apologize for my intrusion."
"Nonsense! I'm sure you meant no harm by it. Have a safe journey and God-speed, Hill."
"Thank you again, Captain."
o o o
Riding back to his leased flat Hill was unable to stem the queer miasma of disappointment that arose within him; it should have been elation. After all, he was going home. Never had he imagined when he awoke this morning that he would be thusly blessed, not in a million years. Maybe he just required time to adjust and accept - yes, that had to be the problem. What other cause could explain his conflicting feelings?
Time was the remedy for all things.
He would revisit the subject after a long soak - or, better still, never again.
Yet, as he lay in bed that night he could not banish the thought. Miles and miles from the palace the Angel of Doom continued to haunt him. Whenever he attempted to close his eyes he was met with dazzling phantasms and scenes of violence, both equally unsettling. Had it not been folly he might have drawn a comparison to a guilty conscience but the juxtaposition was preposterous, he had no cause to feel remorse. Absolutely nil, his inner voice concurred. Even so, he couldn't overlook the sense of betrayal eating away at his innards like moths trapped within a wardrobe. What a ridiculous notion! He scoffed; he had crossed nobody and assuredly not that thrice-damned brute.
—assuming one could play Judas to a veritable monster.
All he had done was affirm the existence of a myth and, really, anybody could have done as much - and eventually would have. So what cause for guilt had he?
An involuntary shudder swept through him; tonight he had been sure to lock his windows and doors, though he was heedless as to why. Presumably a creature of such incomprehensible skill could pick a standard lock within seconds, that was if he didn't drop from the ceiling like a bat or appear in a cloud acrid smoke. He laughed at those last two.
"Be gone! Cease your tormenting, I've committed no treason against you. Angels do not plague mortals, even if they are devils in disguise." Now he was shouting nonsense into an empty room. Maybe the desert had gotten to him.
Ah, but I am the son of the morning, the one they called Lucifer, cast from heaven. My wings have burnt and withered, my soul is charred blacker than ink, my beauty is forever twisted and marred - angel I am no longer. I am hideous, a demon more horrible than any can bear. Monster, creature, beast, devil: none of these paltry words do me justice. You will discover this for yourself when you join me in my underground realm, for it is you who has henceforth sealed my tragic fate.
The response blew forth on an exhale of wind, each word formed by creaking and rattles. Alarmed, he threw back the covers glancing frantically about the room and saw nothing, or more specifically no one. He was alone and this—
This was doubtlessly a hallucination of an exhausted brain, was it not? He was torn on the subject, rationale and emotion at war. One fact became apparent, sleep would not come willingly tonight.
"What have I done?" Edgar Hill whispered into nothingness, positive he could not begin to fathom the answer to that question but filled with dread nonetheless.