Crown Prince, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A/N: Damn. This took me FOREVER to write. Over a month to write and two weeks to type. I'm really proud of this, though. It's Kay-based, so for those of you who know who Madeleine is will have an advantage. For those who don't, in Susan Kay's novel Phantom, Madeleine is Erik's mother (and The Persian actually has a name! It's Nadir! Woo-hoo!). This is a dark fic, but not... not angsty, I'd like to think. Nadir is sort of out of character, but this is majorly AU, as it's in a medieval sort of world. So, yeah. I hope you enjoy this, and please remember to review! Also (yay for shameless self-promotion!) please check out my other Phantom story, Compose Yourself, which I WILL update soon!

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Not the original book, nor the musical, nor the Susan Kay novel, nor the movie! NOTHING!

The queen's cries of pain magnified by the second. It was a long birthing, and a difficult one at that. I rubbed my temples, feeling increasing pity for all the midwives and attendants rushing about her sides. Even out here, rooms and rooms away, in the luxuriant opulence of the great hall, where the rest of the royal court and I anxiously awaited the arrival of the child, Queen Madeleine's screams rung through our ears.

I got up and walked around the hall in my impatience. Waves of silent people drew back as I stepped closer. Some of the higher nobles dared to spare a glance at me as I moved, but my own, cold, facial reply deterred them and reminded them of my entirely truthful reputation as the most unfeeling Chief of Police in all the kingdoms.

The heavily polished glass tiles of the floor clacked against my shoes as I paced with irritated nervousness. This was taking too long. Something must not be right; perhaps the child was unwell. The queen let out another ear-piercing bellow and the court murmured with displeasure. I signaled one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting sitting reservedly on a chair until she was needed. She rushed up to me and curtsied.

"Yes, sir?" she said in a low voice. I cleared my throat and the nobles immediately broke the reverberating silence and started tittering amongst themselves for our privacy.

"Her Majesty's labor should be over by now, should it not?" I asked in my deep voice. The girl's face creased in thought and she put a finger to her lips unconsciously and started tapping. "Her pains started yesterday, is that not so?"
"Some births," she started hesitantly, "do take longer than others—and if there are complications, then, of course it should take a sight longer than usual—"

I cut her off with a short, controlled wave of my hand. "So you believe there to be complications?"

She nodded. "That must be the case." I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting my stress show. I heard her scurry away quite rapidly, and I turned away from her, frowning. She had garnered me no new information, no new thoughts, which was frustrating. A frustrating girl.

Suddenly Her Majesty screamed again, louder than all the rest and with a fierce note of panic drenching her voice. I jumped and instantly ran toward her bedroom. Something was amiss, surely.

The hallways, decorated with ornate tapestries and lined with thick candles emitting a sweet smoke, were empty as I sprinted to the queen's chambers. Her cries grew louder and louder as I neared the door. Several midwives, covered in sweat and Her Majesty's blood, I briskly ushered them back into the room, preparing for the worst.

The queen was screaming, shrieking with fervor; still covered in blood and sweat. Her hair was matted down across her forehead and she was cringing away from a bundle kicking at the air pathetically, laying askance on the mattress. I cautiously took a step forward to the bundle. Slowly, I lifted it into my hands, a piece of cloth covering its face. With an unfathomable sense of dread did I remove the cloth, so carefully draped over the infant's features.

When I saw that mangled, inhuman face all else in the world seemed not present. The queen's shrieks seemed to be universes away. All that remained was I, holding the vile package of life in my arms. Its eyes were squeezed shut, but through thin grey eyelids riddled with blue veins I saw its eyes, angry and jaundiced and crimson, pulsating with a fury.

I abruptly covered its face once more, and I left it on the floor a few yards away. Her Majesty continued to scream and shout, shaking and utterly horrified of her son.

"Madeleine." I leaned close to her and took her hands in mine, forced her to meet my gaze. "Madeleine!"

"N-Nadir," she stuttered in a breathy, forced voice. "It—It—kill it, Nadir! Kill it!" She began to shake even more violently. Her eyes darted nervously between her son and I, panic displayed on her face.

"Madeleine." My voice was ice, cold and calculating, covered with crystalline daggers. "Madeleine, I will kill it." She nodded sharply, embracing that hope like a life raft in the stormiest of seas. "I am going to kill your firstborn son." She met my eyes again, silently pleading. "We will announce his death as stillborn." I slowly stood up, keeping her eyes transfixed on mine as I stepped closer to her son. "I will dispose of the body so seamlessly and so quietly no one will ever know that the prince was not buried in his coffin." My hands hovered over her son, grabbing him and pulling him towards myself. "I will, of course, take care of them—" I paused, gesturing over towards the eight midwives staring at me. "—So that no one, only you and only I, remain to know the events of today."

The queen inhaled, shakily and sharply, and her eyes darted from me to her son. She reached out to cross herself, but I stopped her, grabbing her clammy fingers.

"Madeleine!" She looked at me again, frightened. I fixed upon her a hard gaze. "You," I started slowly, "are grief-stricken." My hands ducked down to his hidden face, then wafted down to his neck. "You cannot believe that your child, your firstborn, is stillborn." She nodded again, panicked, her face contorted with fear. "For days, you will not be able to leave your room. You will take not visitors, save myself. Your midwives will be seen leaving your room. However, shortly after completing their duties for that day, they will flee the castle, never to be seen again." I lifted the child into my lap, and my fingers crept to encircle his neck. They tensed and contracted forcefully, and for a split second her eyes flicked to her son. I saw her shoulders hitch with a note of hesitation. I spoke again, and captured her back as my hands tightened around the boy's neck. "All will mourn the premature passing of the crown prince."

Her eyes closed weakly as her son began to cough and gasp. It grunted pitifully as its skin began to tinge with blue. It kicked, harder and harder until—

"Wait!" she cried suddenly, putting her hands on mine and lifting them. "Wait, Nadir." I looked up at her stonily. "No."

"What?" I demanded, frustration peeping through. "Madeleine, you do know what this thing is? What it looks like? We have to get rid of it. It is your duty, as queen, to save your kingdom from a crown prince such as this."

She looked up at me, snatches of composure and regality forming a patchwork over her face until her grief was concealed. "But it is my duty as a mother to protect my child." She took a breath, careful to maintain the upkeep of her illusion. "Nadir," she exhaled, low tones dominating her voice. "Are you giving me an order?"

I bobbed my head subserviently. "Of course not, Your Majesty."

She sat back, primly nodding her head. "I thought as much." The corners of my mouth turned downwards, and I sat up straighter.

"Your Majesty," I said, brows furrowing. "You understand what will come of this heir. The people will not only despise him, they will believe him a demon from hell. He, and, most likely, you as well, will be executed as monstrous. I could not do anything to stop that. You cannot let this thing rule the kingdom."

The queen pursed her lips and frowned dejectedly. "I—I know, I know." She studied her fingers for a bit, twisting them around and angling them in thought, while the scared midwives looked on. Her eyes fluttered shut, her face morphing into unfathomable sadness. She moaned, drawing the sheets up closer to her body and stroking her stomach gingerly.

Those eyes fluttered open again, and she winced quickly. "Nadir," she murmured. "Nadir, I am giving you an assignment. It is the most important thing I could ever ask of you, of anyone. Nadir—" She stopped, grimacing again. "I am worn out," she breathed, words spattered with uneven gasps. "We don't have much time. Tell everyone—tell them the child was stillborn. Don't let them see it. But take it—take my son, take him far away. Both of you. Go live somewhere on the outskirts of the kingdom and disappear. Make it so no one knows my son exists. Give him—seclude him, Nadir. Do not allow the seeds of curiosity to germinate in him, but give him—give him the best life you can."

I stared at her, for a long time Her tired gasps were the only sound of the room.

"Clean her up." I motioned to one of the midwives, and she scurried over. I left the child on the floor next to the bed and cautiously stepped out the doorway. The concerned hum of the court echoed down the hall, but no one had dared venture up towards Her Majesty's chambers.

"The rest of you," I ordered to the midwives, "Follow me. Stay close, and stay silent." They each stood up obediently and tailed me as I walked to my own quarters. We entered my rooms in a resounding quiet, and they sat down wordlessly. I fished out seven glasses and a small vial from an artfully concealed cabinet.

As a whole they looked away, looked over at each other with grief at the recognition of their fate. I disregarded them entirely, pouring out each dosage into the glass goblets.

"For the good of the kingdom," I said. "For the good of the queen and for the good of all, do what you know you must."

I rushed to Her Majesty's chamber, swiftly and silently. She lay upon new sheets, wrapped tightly in new blankets, looking small and frightened. The queen reclined on the pillows, her head lazily lolled towards her son who was persisting in emitting feeble cries that went entirely uncared for. Her Majesty was, quite obviously, weary and tired, her eyes red and tinged with swelling and tears.

"Madeleine." I dropped to her side, intercepting her line of vision. "It is done."

She inhaled softly. "Already?" Her eyes threatened to well up again. "Oh, Nadir... was it really necessary?"

"Yes, it was. You know it had to be done." I glanced over to the remaining midwife, so shyly trying to sink into the walls, to escape her fate. "She will have to die, as well." The young girl bit her trembling lip. "There is no other way. We cannot risk it." I sighed, a brief lapse exposing my fatigue. "You know these will not be the last deaths to arise on his behalf."

Madeleine's face wilted even more. "I know."

I shook her hands once. "I can be ready to leave in half an hour."

She looked at me, long and soulful. "Thank you, Nadir. Thank you for saving my child."

I inclined my head. "It is my humble duty to serve, Your Majesty."

She nodded and fixed her posture, broadening her shoulders. "Be ready to flight the castle in half of an hour, then. Alert me just before you formally announce the—the stillbirth. I will want you to return weekly, at first, to report to me any complications or changes of status that might arise. You know how to meet me safely."

I jerked my head. "Yes, Your Majesty." I reached over to pick up the child, then stood and bowed as I tucked it to my chest. The midwife followed me timidly as I quickly exited to my quarters. She inhaled softly with horror as she saw her former colleagues' bodies lying haphazardly askew on my lush carpet. I paid no attention to her as I scoured my apartments for all items that would be required for the first week. I could ferry out all other luxuries at another date. The task was accomplished quickly and the provisions hastily stowed in a knapsack, after which another small goblet and the same crystalline vial procured and handed to the girl in silence.

"Sir?" she asked, frightened. Her fingers trembled towards the glass.

"For the queen," I said simply.

She slowly tipped her head back and emptied it of its contents.

Soon the midwives were nothing more than a foul-smelling smoke, slowly funneling out of one of the hundreds of chimneys dotting the palace roof.

Madeleine lay dejected upon her lavish trappings,

"Will you commence?" she sighed tiredly.

I nodded. "I shall. I will take a horse and flee."
She nodded, her eyes twitching closed. "Very good, Nadir. I would not want it to be anyone else." She shifted around on her pillows, opening her eyes again and looking at me. "Hurry. You must leave—"

"Madeleine," I said. "What do you wish him to be named?"

She paled and her eyes widened. "His...name?" She stared at me, creases of fear forming on her face unbecomingly.

I nodded, acknowledging this ironic lapse in her memory. This whole fiasco because of one, out-of-place mothering urge of hers, yet she could not remember the most maternal of acts, the naming of her own son. I knelt by her side. "I have reminded you now," I said, "and I ask you again: what do you wish him to be called?"

She took a huge, heaving breath. "Erik," she said softly. "You—do you know what that name means, Nadir? It means something about one who will rule for all time." She regained some color and sat up again. "I, I, I, I had always rather liked the idea of naming the crown prince after Charles, you know, but now—"

"Thank you, Your Majesty." I cut her off with the tart dismissal of my words and bowed.

"Th-thank you, Nadir. I—I—you know what to do and how to do it. I need say nothing more." Her words were the epitome of regal diplomacy, but in her wavering voice were revealed the fears of a mother hiding away her only child, and of a queen quietly committing what could be viewed as treason.

The nobles were still chirping softly as I entered their midst.

My reflection shone on the vibrantly polished exotic stone floor. His hands were stiff at his sides, yet he spoke with the natural ease of one who persuades and manipulates.

"Stillborn," he announced smoothly. "The child is stillborn," he said with no grief in his voice. "A prince."

The hall of decadence erupted in loudly proclaimed lamentations, and my parallel raised his hand for silence.

"Her Majesty will need more attendants," he said with the barest hint of smugness skillfully disguised in the near monotone of his voice. He exited, softly and without fanfare, disregarding the several women running off to serve their queen.

As he swiftly makes his way off the gleaming tile he disappears, leaving only myself to progress across the darkened hallways to my chambers once more.

My footsteps echoed across the walls as I burst into the front room, the sound of my controlled panting reverberating. The child whimpered feebly, and I picked him up, fastening the bag of belongings to my person. I leapt into the hall, locking my door and jumping into a hidden passageway to the stables.

The stable hand lay, in a drunken stupor, upon the cobblestones matted with straw and dung. I slashed his throat once, twice, thrice for safety, before mounting a nearby stallion and urging him on.

With each gallop, each force of the hoof I bade him faster. Merely his best would not serve me well enough. Tonight's was a task that required the most urgent of urgencies, the most silent of silences, and the most deadly accuracy I could muster from my being. Indeed, this endeavor would be unlike any other. My task tonight was no assassination, was no reconnaissance, was no espionage; it was to fade away, to disappear without notice into the timeworn fabrics of oblivion, this child in tow.

Erik, I thought indifferently as the wind grew tastes of salt to flick in my face. Will you have a life worth living?

His cries were washed away by the air as we continued on into the dark.

More than several night-stained hours passed by before I and my cargo reached not even the mark of halfway. Although the horse ran with exceedingly tiring spirits, I continued to flick the reins forcefully, and onwards still we went. We were journeying by the faith of my memory to a cottage I passed long ago, returning from a formal affair in the next kingdom over. It had been a run-down, small wooden cabin, cloaked in the silence of the withering plains around it. We happened upon it by chance, and it had been barely noted, only as a sight to pass the time.

The child informally christened as Erik wept the constant, superficial tears of an infant. Back in the far-suppressed regions of my mind it registered that I should probably tend to him. That was probably true.

I kicked my heels into the horse once more, whispering hushed commands for speed into his ears, letting the boy wail.

It was near daybreak when I spotted, finally spotted, our destination.

The horse was near dead from exhaustion, and the child from his own vigorous cries. I dismounted and cautiously entered the cabin, confident there would be no inhabitants, but my hand within darting distance of the hilt of my dagger. The door swung open with an infernal twanging wail.

It was entirely deserted, merely confirmations of my own suspicions. The elderly floorboards moaned underneath my weight and I grimaced at the shabby furnishings. A small, barely functioning washroom was situated next to a small enclosure I believe was intended as a bedroom, with a miniscule, hastily crafted hay mattress plopped on a shoddy bed frame. I resisted the urge to grimace when I compared my new living quarters to the absurdly lush rooms I had forsaken.

Erik let out another plea for my attention, and I finally obliged him, lifting him out of my knapsack and looking away from the unparalleled horror of his face. He wailed again, perhaps encouraged by my long-awaited acknowledgement of him.

"Alright, alright," I mumbled, frustration finally overflowing from a corner of my mind. "Hush."

I dug a container of milk from the bag and slowly fed it to him. He gurgled it down, spitting it up occasionally and then licking it off his garish lips. I stared at him, repulsed.

It was quite unfortunate Her Majesty wished this repugnant creature live.

Days passed, and then it was time to see Her Majesty. The visit was short, panicked, and conducted in quiet tones in the depths of the queen's closet. And then I returned to my demeaning position as child-keeper for another week, and then another; until the intervals for our series of pointless encounters slid from weeks to months, and the queen became less concerned about the well being of her child and more paranoid about the minute possibility we could be unearthed.

"Perhaps, oh, perhaps," she moaned quietly. "Perhaps you should just kill him, Nadir."

Each time I agreed (every time), she repeated her lamentation and bade her son live.

As the months I spent with the would-be crown prince slipped into years, the ferocity of his hideousness of his face did not decrease at all. I did my best to treat him as I did all others, with pure, calculating iciness and apathy.

He was average in some areas, mindlessly set back in others, and terrifyingly excelled in yet others, in terms of his intelligence. He obeyed every order that crossed my lips, took to heart every word I breathed out. His aptitude for the arts was revealed even in the utterly counter-productive area we spent our days in. As soon as he was talking he was singing, garbled gibberish turning into acoustic paradise. I was tempted, sorely tempted, not to teach him to talk, but, independent of myself, he picked up language mostly on his own.

Erik was unknowing of all other life. He knew only I, and nothing more. He had never seen anything else than inside the cottage (largely on the part of the great efforts I had made to ensure that) and, if I had my way, he never would.

(If not that, then we return to what I'd already written in:)

I woke up from another sinfully cold night.

Even after three years of this hell on earth, I had not grown accustomed to my paper-thin mattress and blankets not thick enough to warm an inch of my body. The winter had come quickly, had come harshly, and even indoors I found a thin but most definitely palpable layer of frost clinging to everything, even my own flesh. My bones rang with the ache of the perpetually cold. I rose out of my so-called bed, a shell of the fearsome man I once was. To all else, even Her Majesty, I would appear identical and would perform with the same calculating might I was renowned for; but in the corner of my soul I knew, I knew I would never be the same.

I dressed my self slowly and left my room, starting a fire to warm myself by. Soon, I felt the chill lessen from my bones, temporarily, and my misery was lessened.

My ears detected the tiny shuffle of small footsteps from the corner. I did not react, did not turn to greet, the small Erik rising in the corner. He did not greet me, either. I doubted he knew that most people did do such a thing. It mattered not. I was just keeping him alive until the queen saw truth and ordered his death.

"Nadir?" He crept over to me. I didn't look at him, ignoring this uncharacteristic urge of his to strike up conversation; I merely harrumphed, alerting him to be silent.

He did not abide. "Nadir, what do I look like?"

Inside, I froze. Such an odd question. One I had never anticipated, one I had never intended for him to ask. Externally, I remained calm and collected, not allowing my surprise to bleed through my façade of apathy towards him.

"Like nothing. You look like nothing."

"What does that mean?" He persisted, stepping closer to me, his jaundiced eyes expanding.

I turned to him, my own face finally betraying the hatred I felt to him. He shrunk back, looking terrified. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he sniffed and ran to his assigned corner, hiding his face in his arms.

I returned to my fire.

The next day, I crafted a mask for him. He accepted it, subdued; and I was spared the hellish talk of looking at his face.

Erik was a precocious child. That much, I could be more than assured of.

By the time he was seven, I had discovered strings of mathematical scratchings and architectural plans in his wall. I frowned and squinted, leaning closer to them. Small, intricate, ornate palaces carved into the wood, alongside complex equations that took me several moments to understand. I frowned, deeper and more hardset.

"What," I asked him one day, with no curiosity in my barren voice, "are these?" His eyes followed my hands as they pointed to his little carvings, and his shoulders slumped.

"Nothing, sir," he mumbled, dejectedly shifting around.

"Nothing?" I questioned, my voice colder than winter air. "I wouldn't call that nothing."

Erik was silent, trying to sink into the pockmarked floorboards. I frowned for a moment more, and then went to my room. I returned with a packet of dusty paper, and an elderly quill and inkpot in my hands.

"Use these," I said, passing them over to him. "And make sure they stay on the paper."

That evening, the scritching of the quill providing background noise, I thoroughly sanded off his work. He pretended not to notice, but his eyes peeped through the mask towards his creations, and I saw the glum posture he adopted when I brushed away the shavings, leaving the wall bare. This was a boy that was not supposed to exist, after all.

If only.
--

It was in the tenth year in which I learned of Erik's amazing vocal capacity.

I was preparing to rise, still in those last stages of sleep in which one is comfortably drifting between wake and unconsciousness. While I was still between the two, I heard an angelic humming, a soft corner of heaven, darting through my ears. It had almost lulled me back into slumber, when I bolted upright, aghast.

I did not even stop to dress; I was in such a horrified panic. It took me seconds to bolt out of my room in my thin nightshirt, and discover Erik as the perpetrator.

I stood in front of him, disheveled and without defense. He stopped, looking up at me in shock. We stared at each other, just stood there and stared for the longest set of moments imaginable. All sorts of emotions ran through me. Residual joy from the melodic tones of his voice. Dismay at the end of his song. Horror at finding myself so easily manipulated by this boy, this weak boy I hated.

In those moments, our lives shifted irrevocably. I saw in his eyes awareness of the great power he now held over me, and I knew in mine were reflected a desperation, a panicked urge to regain control. But in them must also have bloomed the anger I felt coursing through my body, as I stood there, shaking with suppressed anger. How dare he. Suddenly all my smothered words and actions melded into one, wove themselves into one very tangible, distinct block of rage. I found myself flying through a swirl of red-colored tides, blinded by wrath and sightlessly striking out at this boy who had, most certainly, been sent to this world by the devil himself.

He cried out in pain as my hand met his necrotic flesh. It knocked his mask off, exposing his face. I seethed in my anger, too contorted to care.

He lay on the ground, choking back a sob as I hovered over him, commanding and imposing. I watched him, the currents of crimson emotion draining. He did not move until I did, until I finally walked away, carefully recalculating every plan I had drawn up. Slowly, I heard him sit up. He let out little gasps of pain, and I heard the clatter of his mask against the floor when he picked up and then dropped it.

I dressed in silence.

His artistic talent was unbelievable.

I knew that he would be brilliant from the moment I first discovered those scratchings on the wall, those designs riddled with complex specifications. Of course, his voice: I knew that he would sing. But I had no idea that he would compose, that he would write such breathtaking lyrics or such soulful vocal crescendos. He did, though; and I found the papers stuffed beneath his mattress carefully rationed between his music, and his drawings.

He drew everything. He drew people, he drew animals. He drew the table. He drew the chairs. He drew the floor. He drew the embers of the fire. And then he began to paint. I did not know how he obtained materials with which to mix his own paint, or what he used to stroke it onto the paper so skillfully. But everything his fingers created seemed to be utterly incarnate of beauty and grace and talent.

I found sheets of music, as well. They were everywhere, when he thought I wasn't looking. He would be content for hours, feverishly turning out arcing musical notes across the page. I would hear him hum, a bit, correcting his own musical missteps detectable only to his own ears. At those points I would hush him, harshly, knowing my own susceptibility to his voice. And for the first few years he would obey me, hastily quieting.

I could only wonder when he would refuse to obey, and entrance me again. I knew I would not be able to resist. It was only a matter of time, only a question of when, as to the date he would finally have courage to manipulate me the way he knew he could.

All I could do was prolong that day.

The boy hated me. That was obvious.

When he was younger, he was unaware of the hatred he held for me. But as he grew older, it began to manifest itself, as he learned of the bottomless well of disgust he had for me. He was afraid of me, though. He feared me and everything I did. As he grew, however, his hatred for me began to grow to match, and then eclipse, his terror of my words and actions.

He was a smart, adept child, even at fourteen. I had tolerated his arts, and the occasional scientific theory, but when those theories began to vastly outnumber any creation of his I began to fear. It was relatively fine with me if he chose to dwell in the realms of the unreal, of the imagination, far away from all things concrete. He would be curious only unto himself, wonder only of what he could achieve in his mind. When he began to develop a thirst for the world he inhabited, when he began to crave science and discovery, I worried. I knew that if I did not stop this thirst, he would become so fascinated by the world around him that no matter what I did, he would not stay hidden. He would burst out into the world. As every day passed I grew more anxious, wondering when it would be that he would escape. I could only hope that if he continued to fear me more than anything, I would maintain my fragile control over him.

So I burned my books. I burned the scientific prints I had so carefully siphoned from the palace library over the years, over my frequently fewer meetings with Her Majesty. He watched me feed the pages into the licking flames, and I could practically feel his anger towards me burning onto my flesh.

One day, I awoke to the crisp autumn air brushing my nose, as usual. I briskly stood up and dressed, following my unchanging regime to the smallest detail. I left my room, expecting to see Erik dressed and silent, as usual.

He was not.

I leapt into action, dread waking and rumbling in the pit of my stomach. I tore the cottage apart, searching every nook and cranny with a desperate hope of finding him. Under the table, behind doors, all the places a very young child would hide in. I knew he wouldn't be there. I was right. With growing panic I started to search more quickly. Going through the cupboards, throwing china and silverware to the floor. It shattered violently, covering me with ceramic dust as it scattered over the floorboards. Tossing out the clothes in my dresser drawers and kicking them across the floor, jamming a poker up the chimney and knocking loose bucketfuls of soot.

I turned around, frantically racing over towards the door. Still locked, from the inside.

I turned around again.

He stood in front of me, smiling smugly.

"Looking for me, Nadir?" he smirked.

I stared at him for a long moment. The smile slowly melted off his face and turned into a line of fear. He began to back away slowly, knowing what would come to him.

Some time later, he slowly started cleaning the cabin. When I reminded him where the broom was, his only reply was a heave of pain as the sharp shards of china cut his bruised, spindly fingers, and the ash on the floor smeared into the cuts on his feet.

Erik's intelligence was a curious matter. He was more learned than most scholars five times his age, yet he had not the common sense of the youngest child.

The welts he got from me as a result of that first illusion were a testament to that, even a year later.

For even three years after the incident, Erik's terror of me boiled over and washed across his hatred. He was subdued, quiet, and obedient.

I knew it wouldn't last.

"Your Majesty, he's eighteen!" I pleaded to the queen on a visit. She appraised me with worry, rubbing her belly heavily laden with child. "I will not be able to control him for much longer. No one will. Sooner or later, he'll realize the truth: that he's stronger and smarter than all the rest of us. Madeleine, please! See reason."

She smiled, then, closing her eyes and looking down serenely. "Are you saying that my son could overpower you, Nadir? Are you admitting that you are weaker than my seventeen-year-old child? You, esteemed Chief of Police?" Her smile grew as she breathed softly. "Go back, Nadir. We're done for n—"
"No!" I shouted, slamming my fists against her dresser. The trinkets littered across its surface leapt into the air. "Don't you understand? Madeleine, I've allowed you your pathetic, mothering urges! I should have killed that monster while he was still young, still so utterly dependent and powerless! But I didn't! I've been living my life in exile, given up the best years of my life, for that disgusting creature! Damn it, Madeleine," I bellowed, "don't you understand anything?! Don't you underst—"
"Yes!" she screamed, grabbing an ivory hairbrush and attempting to throw it at my shoulder. "Yes, Nadir, I understand! I get it! You think my son is a disgusting bastard! I understand! But, as your sovereign, as half the power ruling this kingdom, I command you to get a hold of yourself and do your duty!" She started to pace around in a huff, perversely stroking her rounded stomach.

"No, Madeleine." I darted over to her and shook her shoulders, hard. "You are the one who needs to do your duty! That thing you birthed eighteen years ago is a danger to me, to you, to the entire kingdom! If you don't get it through your feeble little head, I'll kill him myself! I don't need your permission!" I pushed her back abruptly and she stumbled to the floor, coughing, untouched fear on her face.

"N-Nadir!" she choked out, clawing at my ankle. "Nadir! Please! Don't—please!" she begged. I callously kicked my foot, feeling it crack into her mouth, but she kept a tight hold. Her belly banged against the floor and the wall violently. "Nadir!" she coughed out again, a note of panic ringing more fervently in her voice than ever before.

I looked down, unbridled anger on my features. "What?" I hissed.

She gasped softly, choking on the blood in her mouth.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking. "Just let me see him."

I kicked her off and heard her slam into the wall.

"Nadir!" she cried with hysteria, as she lay crumpled.

I was already gone.

I urged the horse on with newfound purpose as it raced back to the cabin. I was sick and tired and disgusted, and would not tolerate any end other than the immediate termination of Erik's life.

When the small house finally appeared, I set my face in stone. I loosely tied up the horse and jerked the door open. He was up, waiting for me. I barely glanced at him.

"Nadir," he started bitterly. "Where have you been going, all this time?" He crossed his arms and drew himself up, the white, unblemished surface of his mask reflecting the low firelight from the dying embers. "Where have you been going, every so often, ad why have you been so desperate to hide it from me?" I didn't look at him, only gazed at the tarnished poker, before lifting it in my hands. "Nadir." His voice became a command, and it quivered delicately with scarves of melodic undertones. I poked the orange coals disinterestedly, and then lifted the poker and shook off the ash. "Nadir!"

"Be quiet," I said suddenly, my own voice ringing with power. "Be silent, and do not ask any further questions."

"No," he snapped back instantly. "I want the truth, Nadir: not those lies you've been feeding me my whole life! I know about the world now! You can't make up some idiotic falsehood and expect me to believe it anymore! Na—"

"Did you hear what I said?" I slowly turned to him, wielding the hot poker delicately. "Did you hear what I said?" I repeated, calmly and without apparent anger. My footsteps were slow and evenly paced as I advanced upon him. I saw his posture droop for the barest of a split second, and he started to reach out around him, spindly hands groping out for whatever he could reach. The poker, its tip still glowing and warm, was readjusted in my tensing fingers.

"Wh—what are y-you doing, Nadir?" he stammered. "Wh—"

I ran up to him in half a second, and he instinctively curled up. From each hot blow he cried out, the fabric of his shirt melting to his flesh. By the time the poker cooled off he was weeping from the pain, his mask askew and covered in the trails of his tears. I crudely tossed the poker across the room. It clanged in protest, letting out twangy cries. Erik whimpered, covering his head tightly. I began to kick him, kick him hard. The bruises were ugly and quick to form, and more than a few of my blows broke skin and opened up angry red sores.

He began to fight back, thrashing his limbs and hitting whatever came into reach. The table, my left shoe, my right leg. I kicked him again, and he banged back into the wall. Hastily I reached into my coat, and with fumbling fingers I pulled out a milky vial and squeezed out the cork, twisting Erik's face up. I tried to pry his mouth open. He bit me, and I yanked my finger out, bloody and torn. I grunted and held his nose, pouring the liquid forcefully into his mouth and waiting until he swallowed it.

As soon as I saw his mouth was clear, I stepped back and straightened my shirt. He was still thrashing about, flailing his limbs with desperation.

I went to my room, to bandage my finger. When I returned he was still, lying against the wooden wall, breathing softly.

I ungracefully threw him on the horse and secured him, and then we were off.

The horse was weary, moving much more slowly across the vast expanse to the palace.

Dawn was breaking when I and my drugged captive were not even a quarter way complete with our journey. I feared more the drug wearing off than being seen, so we skirted near the most outlying neighborhoods of villages, rather than cutting enormous berths around them. By the time we had arrived at the palace the dying spring night had just draped its edges around the dulled spires of the building. I rode the horse into the public stables, letting the loyal stallion finally rest. I dismounted and callously pulled Erik off, untying his binds to the horse.

Dragging him through the prison halls, I made my way down to the most secluded cells, where only the worst of the worst were kept. I pulled open the grated door and tossed Erik on the dirtied straw, before slamming the bars and the rows of doors and locking them.

As I rushed through the halls towards Madeleine's chamber, I unwillingly remembered an eerily similar evening eighteen years ago. I arose into the golden hallways leading towards the grand hall and heard the same worried hum from all those years ago. His Majesty was pacing around anxiously, his servants darting around bringing him all the trivial things he thought he would need. I drew back into the passageways, and hurried along. I didn't care who saw me. Erik was going to die. My secret duty would be over, and I could resume my exalted position as Chief of Police in the greatest kingdom of all.

The shadows barely concealed me as I neared the entrance to Her Majesty's chambers. I vaguely heard the sound of sobbing, and suddenly flocks of attendants and midwives were flowing out of her room. They were chattering sadly as they walked with a mournful pace down the hall.

I crept into Her Majesty's room to find her sweaty and sobbing, bloody sheets curled around her feet as she lay in a heap.

"Madeleine," I said. Her head jerked slightly over to me, and I saw her face crumple with immeasurable sadness.

"Why are you here?" she began, her voice wary and dripping with woe. "H—haven't you done enough? You've killed two of my children, Nadir. Will you kill me, as well?"

I frowned. "Two?"

She nodded tiredly. "I miscarried. Th—there was—she was s-so small—"

I nodded briskly. "My apologies. Howe—"

"Your apologies?" She sat up a bit, the woe decorating her voice turning to anger. "Your apologies?" There was the briefest of pauses. "You gave me that beating, which killed my daughter before she was even born! And you killed my son, my son who I've only seen once! You bastard! You owe me more than your damn apologies!" Her eyes welled up with hot tears, which spilled over to her contorted red face.

"Erik is still alive."

All it took were those four simple words to change her world. I could see it on her face, the cataclysmic shifting of the paradigm until this firstborn child of hers was foremost on her mind. "Erik? H-he's—he's still alive? I thought you were going to—"

"I am," I glided in smoothly. "But I simply decided to abide by your request."

Her face morphed into unearthly joy. "Thank you, Nadir! Oh, th—"

I held up a stiff hand. "I did not do this as any sort of personal favor. I don't care about him; in fact, I am anticipating his execution."

"Th—then why--?"

"I have waited eighteen years for this to happen," I lied, "and I can wait another day."

Madeleine nodded, tears streaming down her face in all their glory and valor.

I sat with her the whole night.

She was frothing over with questions for me about her son, questions any anxious mother might ask. I replied to them all with the same deadpan response I had been giving her for years, and gradually her blind glee died down to the subdued dread she should feel.

I told her horror stories of this child of hers: of his demonic face, his Lucifer's voice. But beneath the subdued dread I knew there was a suppressed excitement I could not stamp out, the unfounded hope that perhaps I was just exaggerating, that perhaps her son was good and kind and wonderful. I could see her forgetting his face; see her hoping to powers above that all my tales of his sins were blatant lies.

But bubbling beneath my anticipation for the forthcoming hour in which Erik would be eradicate were scores of my own questions, for the long-awaited time in which I would resume my life at court. Had my position been filled? Who was now the heir apparent to the throne? And had people been curious as to my eighteen-year leave of absence?

Madeleine leaned back on her pillows apathetically, answering none of my questions.

"D—" she started. "Do you really be-believe that he must be executed?" Her face leapt between expressions, caught between royal duty and motherly love.

"Yes," I said frostily. "Yes, I do."

She glanced down and pursed her lips. "Nadir—"

"Get it through your head, Madeleine. He is a menace to the safety of the country. He's dangerous. He's smart, calculating, ruthless. He likes power. He likes being in control. He has no morals—none. No sense of right or wrong. He only knows himself, and that's the only thing he thinks of. Life—people—everything—it's all just a big game to him. Nothing has any meaning to him. He can't live. He can't. He won't. I will personally ensure that if I have to. He can't live. He can't, Madeleine. He can't."

She looked up at me, eyes red and puffed. "Oh, Nadir. You don't understand. You don't, to you? Erik is my son. My firstborn. My flesh and my blood. Well—" she paused, and grimaced. "Not my flesh. But he is mine. My son. And—I—I—"

I rammed my hand on her wall angrily, and let out an irritated, tense burst of laughter. "Oh, please. Please, Madeleine. Humor me—humor me, just this once. For the first time in eighteen years, humor me. Don't be so shallow as to lie and say you love him. Don't be so stupid. You act like a queen, like a strong, powerful queen, but all you are doing is making a fool of yourself and acting like a pathetic, air-headed idiot."

Madeleine stood up in a flash, her hair flouncing about and fraying out of its braid. "Don't you dare say that! I love my son—there! I've said it! What are you going to do about it, Nadir? Nothing! You will do nothing! There is no shame in loving my own son, Nadir! None! And don't you dare talk to me about lies—you're the one who raised him in the middle of nowhere, raised him on a lie! You probably told him I died in labor, that you were his father! And—" she sucked in a breath, wiping sweat off her reddened face. "And you have the gall to make such a statement, pig! I could have you hanged for that, you bastard! I am the queen, and I am the second-most powerful person in this entire kingdom! You will obey me!"

I stepped closer to her, her small body rigid and harsh. "He doesn't know you exist," I hissed, moving around her like a snake. "He doesn't know anything about you. He doesn't know you, or who you are, or anything. I never told him I was his father—I'd be too ashamed to even pretend to have sired that revolting thing. But you, you—you blindly look past who he is, and, in your weak, pathetic mind, you've crafted this illusion of who he is. You won't even acknowledge the real him! You don't love him; you love the Erik you've made in your mind. Well, Madeleine," I spat, "he does not exist. The boy you love does not exist!"

She darted away from me, striding to the other side of her chambers and clutching her robe. "He doesn't know I exist?" she warbled, all power lost.

I shook my head. "He doesn't. And if you do, on the off chance, have any shred of real love for him, you'll recognize that that's for the better. He'd be ashamed of you, ashamed to have you as his mother."

Madeleine inhaled, deeply and sharply. "I want to see him."

"I—what?" I yelled. "Have you even been listening to anything I've said? No! You cannot 'see him'! I won't allow it! No, no, a thousand times no!"

She marched over to me, shoulders squared, deluded into hallucinations of power. "I am your queen. I am giving you an order. If you do not obey that order, I will call in the guards and you will be tried for treason, and executed."

I scoffed callously. "Oh, please, Your Majesty. No one knows of my presence here. Besides, I am not at fault in this situation, as it would appear to any of your guards."

"Oh, really?" she breathed wrathfully. "You are a strange man, who is no regular to court in the memories and minds of most, who is in my room at night, against my will. How would that look to anyone? That is more than enough to have you hanged."

I smirked at her. "Who would they believe, a weak-willed queen, still grieving over her stillborn daughter, or an esteemed, dignified, respected Chief of Police? Besides, my story has evidence. It's lying on the dungeon floor."

She gasped. "Dungeon?"
"Of course in the dungeon, Madeleine! He is a security risk! He is dangerous, and he will be executed!"

"No, he will not!" she screamed suddenly. "He will not be executed! He will live a long, healthy life, with a wife—with children—with a manor—"

I grabbed her by the shoulders. "A wife?! Children?! Listen to me! He is unsafe! He is dangerous! He will be executed, no matter what! You are forgetting, Madeleine, his face!"

"Fine! He's ugly! Who bloody cares, Nadir?! Will you let go of that fact?"

"No. No, he is not just 'ugly.' I will do whatever it takes to get you to realize that!" I seethed.

I grabbed her arms and hauled her out into the hallway. She started to scream and kick, but I covered her mouth tightly.

"You're getting your wish, Madeleine. I'm taking you to see your Erik."

Her struggling subdued a bit, but she pried my hand off her mouth for the briefest of times. "Let go of me—"

I clapped her mouth shut again, and continued dragging her down the hallway. "Shut up, you little slut. I'm giving you what you want." I smiled darkly. "Be careful what you wish for."

The hidden door down into the dungeons swung shut behind us. Madeleine broke free and drew herself up, her barely lit face displaying true hate and disgust.

"What did you call me?" she said in a hiss of words.

"A slut," I said coarsely, "Because that's what you are. That's what the entire court thinks you are. A pathetic slut. You're shallow. You can't think for yourself. Most of your children don't even bear a passing resemblance to their supposed father. You're just a trashy prostitute, dressed in queen's robes—"

Thwam. The slam Madeleine imparted to me rang throughout the dank, cavernous stairwells winding to the prison. I groaned in pain and surprise, gingerly feeling my jaw and wiping blood off my lip. When I looked up at her, she was practically radiating an aura of power. Her face was rock, carved into disappointment. I slowly stood up, straightening my clothes (still stained with Erik's blood) and tried to ignore the burning sting of my face.

"Take me," she ordered softly, "To my son. Now."

I led her down the stairs to Erik's cell.

We passed through fungus-covered archways, past cell after empty cell, our footsteps reverberating through the hollow passages. Time ticked by with each breath we took, sands in an hourglass slipping away. Finally we appeared in the huge, empty cavern surrounding Erik's little crypt. I meticulously unlocked the doors, sliding back rows of complex padlocks and deadbolts until we saw her son, lying on the ground. I reached through the final set of bars and clawed at his mask, prying it off through the bars and clawed at his mask, prying it off with my one hand. He barely stirred, an almost inaudible moan flying from his lips.

"This is your son."

Madeleine gasped violently, covering her mouth. She staggered backwards, losing balance. I eyed her determinedly, watching her lose control and heave up the meager contents of her stomach onto the putrid floor. She started shaking, her face turning to the color of ice and her fingers full of tremors.

After a few minutes of this, I turned her away from her unbroken stares at her son's face. She was sweating, her skin clammy.

"You're right," she whispered once we reached her chambers. "He must die."

Several days passed.

Madeleine accepted scores of visitors, all of them offering their deepest regrets for her stillborn. Written on her face but visible only to me was the grief for both of her children, condemned before either really had a chance to live. I sat at her side every minute, daring not to leave. The well-wishers glanced at me tentatively, the more elderly with sparks of recognition. No questions were asked; fortunate, since none would have been answered.

The king came in as soon as he could, showering Madeleine in apologies and lamentations.

"Thank you, Charles," she murmured, eyes red. "But it's not your fault."

His Majesty regarded his wife with sparkling eyes and embraced her softly. "Tomorrow, if you'd like, we can reinstate Nadir."

She nodded demurely. "Perhaps not tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow," I swooped in smoothly, "would be exquisite."

After King Charles left, a look of puzzlement draped upon his face, I spoke to Madeleine in hushed tones.

"The sooner I have authority, the sooner this will all be a memory."

Madeleine's lip quivered. She said nothing.

The ceremony for my reinstatement was unnecessarily grand.

Madeleine stood with frailty, clinging to King Charles's arm. She nodded to me as I went through the tedious trappings of a court ceremony. I kissed her ring stonily and allowed myself to be draped in formal attire. It was explained that due to my unfeasibly long leave of absence the ceremony was required to officially establish my return to Chief of Police. The guards all saluted as I stood, the lords bowing and their ladies curtseying.

My first task was to make a short, discreet, underground visit to one of the court executioners, one of the more reasonable fellows, and much understood my method of debating. I summoned him to a remote corner of the jail and we arrived at an understanding. The money would be imparted to him upon completion of the job, but I decided to show generosity and placed in his hands a relatively meager fraction of his final sum. His eyes widened, and I retained a snide smile.

"What time?" he murmured.

"Be ready," I said ambiguously.

The next day, Madeleine still lay alone in her bed.

His Majesty allotted her several days in which to recover from the "shock" of losing her "second child." Madeleine hardly moved from her pillows, her ladies-in-waiting anxiously trying to coax her into eating, or drinking, or seeing visitors. She would have none of that, though, would rather lie in her apathy. Only I would she see, although she remained cloaked in silence. So I said nothing, either; merely sat next to her bedside, thinking.

However, several evenings after my reinstatement, long after her servants had been dismissed for the evening and her eyes were glazed over with tiredness, I broke the perfectly sculpted silence.

"Tonight," I said. "Erik will be executed tonight."

She jerked over to me, all traces of detachment gone and replaced with owl-eyed nervousness.

"Dress." I stood up and walked to the door. "Prepare yourself. I will return shortly." The door slammed shut behind me as I entered the deserted halls. I crept into the passageways, heading towards the executioner's small room, adjacent to the prisons.

"Now," I announced casually to him. He woke with a start, wiping drool from his lip, and nodded quickly.

"Where, sir?"

I pointed wordlessly in the direction of Erik's cell, and he nodded again.

"Remember," I said as he started to leave, fetching his equipment. "No one must see you. No one must hear you. Upon pain of death these terms must be obeyed."

He smirked softly. "Of course, sir."

"Arrive at the cell in one hour, exactly." He nodded a third time and left.

I turned around and repressed a shiver. Here it was. The day I had been waiting for, for eighteen years. At long last. My footsteps were almost entirely soundless as I stepped closer and closer to his cell.

Erik was awake, mask-clad and huddled in a tight ball, gripping his knees. I saw him shaking. The burned blisters across his body were black and angry against his gray skin, laced with red. His head jerked up as my steps grew closer and closer, louder and louder. Erik leapt up at the sight of me through layers of metal grates, and I heard him cuss softly.

"You can't keep me in here! You can't keep me in here, Nadir. You bastard, you can't!"

I regarded him stonily. "Then why haven't you escaped yet? No, Erik, I think I can keep you in that cell."

In a flash, he ripped of his mask and threw it on the ground. "You hate my face so much, don't you? Well, look! Look at it, you son of a—"

"Quiet." I met him in the eyes, callously staring into his sunken red eyes. "Don't waste my time. If you cooperate, maybe I'll be nice."

Erik snorted scornfully. "You've never been 'nice' to me, Nadir. Why would you start now?"

I shrugged aimlessly. "Maybe because I'm in a good mood. Damned if I know. But maybe it's because there's someone here who wants to talk with you, wants to talk with you very badly."

He eyed me suspiciously, picking up his mask. "Who?" A soft moan escaped his lips as he stretched the boils on his back.

"Your mother."

The rapping of my hand on Madeleine's door was insistent. She opened it in seconds, nodding to me in her dark clothes and her hair pulled back in a tightly wound braid. We swooped across the gleaming, backlit tile, across the hall into the hidden, labyrinthine corridors. In silence we journeyed, and only the soft quickening of her breathing betrayed the rhythm. We arrived at the oubliette in minutes. Erik was standing tall, clutching at the first set of bars. Mother and child gasped as one.

Madeleine circled around as best she could, craving the sight of her child from all angles. Erik's eyes were locked on her face, unbearably tied on her perfect features. They drank in the sight of each other, drinking from a bottomless well that would never quench their thirst.

"You—" Erik stepped closer, pressing his shoulders against the metal. "You're my m-mother?" His fingers peeped through, itching to reach out to her. She unconsciously stepped away, and I saw the hurt bleeding out from behind his mask.

Madeleine nodded softly.

"Wh—why—" Words failed him. He was speechless. He needed no words to ask these questions.

Madeleine looked over to me, a plea for help. Erik looked at me, too, and speech returned to him.

"Was it... was it because of him?"

Madeleine opened her mouth, breath whooshing in and almost forming words. I cut in. cleanly slicing through, secretly impatient to end this skeletal discussion.

"Your mother recognized that it would be too difficult to raise you in polite society."

"Polite so--? I don't understand—"

Madeleine fired me a pained look.

"You are too ugly, Erik, to be allowed to live in public." Her eyes screamed unheard curses towards the words and their perpetrator.

Erik's eyes creased in confusion and then turmoil, as he turned away and paced around the pen, desperate for satisfactory comprehension. He was silent for a time, then turned back to his mother.

"I thought...." He paused. "I thought th-that mothers... that mothers loved their children, unconditionally."

Madeleine's lip wavered. "Erik, of course I l—"

I snorted cynically. "Most mothers do. Her Majesty, here, loves all of her children: except you."

"Her Majesty?"

"But, of course. Oh, did I forget to mention: technically, you're the crown prince. If anyone besides Her Majesty and I knew you were alive, someday you would inherit the throne. But Her Majesty would rather you dead than give up the crown to you."

Erik stared at his mother with steel running through his veins. "Mother." He tried the title on his lips. "Is what he says true?"

Madeleine sucked in a shaky, whistling gasp. She looked over from me to her son to the ground, trembling. Silvery tears parted from her eyes, running down her face to the stone floor. She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut.

Erik roared, long and loud. He darted around the cell, pounding his fists against the wall and raking them across his head in true animal rage. He could have escaped, if he had been in his right mind, but he was far beyond the reaches of earth. He roared again, grief coloring his voice. I saw Madeleine transfixed, endless rivers of water running down her face.

"Executioner!" I called. He was present in seconds, his face paling as he saw his victim.

"Sir?" he nervously questioned. I darted into the chamber and he followed me, axe and block in tow. I pulled another vial out of my coat pocked and force-fed it into Erik's mouth. After a few minutes he was still, only his eyes still active and fixed upon each one of us.

"Poison? Why d'you need me, if you just poisoned—"

"Poison," I said dryly, stepping out of the cell, "doesn't work on this monster."

The executioner nodded, and propped Erik's head up on the block. His axe rose high, glinting.

"You should have let me kill him at birth," I said to Madeleine.

The queen wiped her eyes, and her fingers glistened, wet. "Yes," she choked out brokenly. "I should have."

The axe swept down sickeningly. The executioner collapsed, dead along with the prince. Erik's mask fell off, revealing eyes flooded with rapidly drying tears.