The months following France's defeat at the hands of Prussia were difficult for all of Paris's citizens, hardest for those who were set apart from most for they'd be targeted as spies. Just another reason for the mysterious architect who haunted the incomplete Opera from dawn till well after midnight to remain scarce and unseen by human eyes; he loathed human affairs and their senseless destructive wars. The Gypsies that had once frequently performed on the streets for spare coins were now a much rarer sight, donning cloaks and disguises to blend in with everyone else. Times were especially hard for them, the nomadic people remaining on the outskirts of society would undoubtedly be shot as spies despite that they owed their loyalties to no one but their tribe. Precious little concerning them and their wretched kind mattered to the black-clad figure that hid in the belly of the Opera, he'd developed a strong dislike of them a long time ago. It would have stayed that way if not for one night…
He felt the desperate need for some fresh air despite the shells whining through the air and the bitterly cold weather, soundlessly pacing the dark Parisian streets, deserted at such a late hour save for a soldier here or a prostitute there. A sudden commotion in an alley caught his attention, his curiosity getting the better of him and he made his way to where the sounds had come from. A couple of gendarmes stood wrestling with someone, whoever it was putting up a good fight, he was about to turn and leave thinking it was only a suspected spy they had until one of the officers spoke.
"C'mon, darling," he muttered, "It'll be quick, you might even enjoy it, then we'll let you go. Simple as that."
"Like hell," their captive snapped, the other officer twisting, allowing the watcher to see it was a girl they held, "I'd rather rot in the Bastille!"
"That can be arranged," the first remarked slapping her face, "After we've had a bit of fun."
"I think not, messieurs," a voice came from the entrance, "Release the girl and you may yet walk away."
The girl took advantage of the distraction, kicking the one who held her in his most sensitive parts and elbowing him in the abdomen as he doubled over, his partner turning with his pistol at the ready. A rope appeared around his neck, a quick jerk and he fell to the ground before he could fire his weapon, the second officer seeing this and clambering to his feet drawing his own weapon. The mysterious figure that had come upon all this, slammed him against the wall, hands coming up to grasp the man's head before giving it a sharp twist. The officer fell to join his partner on the ground, her dark savior bending down to retrieve the rope he'd used to dispose of the first with a flick of his wrist.
"You didn't have to kill them," she remarked.
"Let them live to do some other poor girl harm?" he glanced at her over his broad shoulder, "I think not."
His voice washed over her, stunning her by its beauty, it'd been the very purity of that voice that had prevented the gendarmes from attacking him as well, leaving them instead in a stunned silence. It had been distorted by what she felt must have been a barely contained indignation, but even then the beauty of it was there, now it was soft and soothing, helping to calm her racing heart.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, turning to look at her.
"No," she replied, "Thank you for saving me."
He'd been impressed by her boldness, thinking on her feet and taking advantage of the interruption to defend herself, she was clearly no prostitute but she was also no proper lady. She was a girl used to the tough life on the streets, he wondered briefly about her place in this cruel world until he caught a glint of gold in her left ear as he was looking her over.
"Gypsy…!" he growled in so feral a tone all trace of beauty was gone from his heavenly voice.
"What of it?" she returned, her hand automatically coming up to touch the gold hoop in her left ear, "What have we ever done to you?"
"Your wretched kind," he spat, "locked me in a cage. All I wanted was some food, I was starving, and they threw me in a cage!"
She stood in stunned silence, golden eyes glaring at her from the darkness, she could see the black clad form against the white snow, shaking with barely contained rage.
"What have I ever done to you?" she whispered, not expecting him hear her.
He stood staring at her, hate burning in his eyes as memories of his years among her heathen race raced through his mind, but that question stuck in his head even as he stared her down, drawn to his full height, his most fearsome glare distorting already deformed features hidden beneath his mask. She shook, not from the cold he knew, but from a healthy dose of fear instilled in her by the menacing form before her, but she did not run screaming into the night as he silently willed her. She faced her fear head on, refusing to run from it, but why? She had jut witnessed him kill two people, so surely she realized what he was capable of, realized he could kill her without a second thought or remorse, perhaps she assumed she was safe from his wrath since he had just saved her. Could he kill her? No, Romani though she was, he had never killed a woman and he wasn't about to start, he may be a monster but he considered himself better than the two brutes, charged with protecting innocent civilians, who had attacked her, he would not sink to their level.
"You were born," he growled out, "That alone is enough. Now scurry home to your rat nest lest you feel a lifetime's worth of hate for your wretched kind fall upon you!"
Without waiting for a response, he whirled his black cloak and vanished, leaving her shaking from fear and fury, truly fed up with the prejudice directed toward her people though at least this masked stranger had his reasons while most just hated her for her dark skin and hair. She scurried off, meeting in front of one of the many entrances to her hidden home with a long, thin figure before both vanished into the night. He watched from the shadows, having followed the girl, staying even after the taller figure turned to look at him, knowing there was one lurking in the shadows watching them, but even his night vision could not make out the features of the wiry form who'd met with the girl. He almost felt guilty, having allowed his dislike of her nomadic people to come before all else, but he could not forget what they'd done to him. Granted it was not the Gypsies who'd locked him in a cage, but the gajo they allowed to travel with them, Javert, who became his keeper, but it was they who'd mocked him, torn his mask from his face when all he'd wanted was some food. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind as he recalled that night, he could hear some woman telling those mocking him to leave him be and give him some food, overshadowed by the torment he'd suffered. Then the girl who'd twisted her ankle and threatened to tell her tribe he'd abducted and violated her though a 13-year-old child was hardly capable of such an act, a slap to his face after he'd taken the time to dress her injury. But he did not forget their annual sojourns to Paris as the weather turned cold and snow became imminent when they would journey to the French city to seek shelter in its underbelly to wait out the winter months that could easily claim many of their number in the cold or to starvation.
He remembered it, venturing through the dark tunnels, skeletons leering from the darkness, mocking him for daring to resemble their skulls while living a life they no longer had, starting when some of those skeletons had moved and surrounded them. Skull-heads were removed to reveal more Gypsies, guards who disguised themselves to catch intruders unawares, a number escorting them to a larger chamber while the rest returned to their posts. A huge open chamber, filled with light and colors, tents and wagons scattered throughout like an underground village, there was even a scaffolding set up toward the entrance, nooses hanging from the gallows ready for any unwelcome visitor unfortunate enough to be caught. Smaller fires were scattered about, a large communal fire in the center, chickens here and there as well as some sheep and a number of horses, a permanent settlement of Gypsies in the bowels of Paris that provided them with a safe haven, secret and hidden from the world. They'd been brought before the leader of the tribe that lived there throughout the year, a long lean Gypsy who despite being barely five and half feet in height had an air of command about him. His skin was dark though not as dark as much of his brethren, a warm tanned tone, his features angular with narrow shoulders and jaw, a pointed nose and large black eyes, a pointed black goatee adorning his jawline. Black hair hung just above his shoulders, the gold hoop in his left ear perpetually swinging as he moved, long thin fingers and hands gesturing with every word, his long legs moving as he shifted his weight from foot to another or shifted one foot in front of the other as he spoke. Everything about this man was long and thin, angular, restless and forever moving, expressive and even then he'd had the impression that this man's lean figure was not due to starvation, that even well-fed he'd have been slim. Those large black eyes had locked with the boy's own ice-blue orbs peering through the bars of his cage as he'd been rolled past as the group headed to settle themselves in some corner of this underground metropolis.
He'd sworn that he'd seen a brief flash of pity come over that angular, expressive face before the man returned to speaking with the one who led the group the boy had found himself an unwilling part of. Javert had allowed him out to help set up tents and such, keeping a close eye on him, a coiled whip in hand for any trouble his little prize might decide to give though the boy hadn't entertained much thought of escape. Where would he go, surrounded by Gypsies and unwanted by his own mother, without knowing how to get out of these tunnels? He knew it would be foolish, he'd seen enough to know this place was a labyrinth, one tunnel looking like the next, one could easily be lost down here and never be found, never find a way out. He was returned to his cage, trying to find some rest on the cold uncomfortable wooden floor surrounded by metal bars, his throat dry and his stomach empty, his body aching from a previous beating when he was still fighting against being displayed as a freak. The only sounds he heard were the scurry of rats in some far off corner and Javert snoring as he slept off whatever booze he'd been drinking when the whisper of cloth and the subtle clink of metal caught his attention. He'd looked to see the wiry Romani man from earlier kneeling before his cage, tools in hand as he picked the lock, opening it as silently as he could and offering a hand to the child, an encouraging smile coming over his face when the boy eyed his hand dubiously. He'd weighed his options, unsure if the man was trying to help him escape from his little prison or planned to steal him away for himself, deciding that if it was the latter, this man would be knocking him out and dragging him by force. Hesitantly, he'd put his own thin hand in the Gypsy's and let the man pull him out and usher him to his own tent, a large structure of purple canvas, not as large as ones that might house a family but larger than most of those that served as home to one person.
He'd handed the boy a mask, the last one his mother had given him that Javert had taken away though he couldn't fathom how the man had nicked it, before putting in front of him a simple meal of bread and cheese and a small bunch of red grapes. He'd sat across from him after setting down two earthenware mugs of hot tea silently as the boy ate, minding his manners even though he was ravenous. The scrawny Gypsy said little more than a word at a time throughout this first meeting, focused on getting some food in a child as thin and wiry as he was who clearly hadn't eaten in some time before ushering him into his own simple bed of blankets and pillows. Before the boy realized how tired he was, he'd fallen asleep and his unlikely rescuer sauntered to the other side of the tent to what looked to be a loosely hanging cloth but what was actually a hammock for nights like this when someone needed his bed more than he did. Morning had come, rousing him with the sound of a violin playing sweet, sad notes, the boy rising from the bed to find the wiry Gypsy sitting towards the back of the tent, bow dancing slowly over the strings of his instrument. The boy had been surprised that he was not holding it in the downward position of the Gypsies as he'd seen the others hold a violin, but properly with it up to his shoulder and tucked to his chin. He liked the tune, it was sad and lonely but sweet and somehow comforting and he sat and watched, losing himself in the music as he watched those long fingers dance over the strings. The boy grew to quickly like this Gypsy who saw him and treated as an ordinary child much as his mother's childhood friend Mlle. Perrault did but without the fear she'd tried in vain to hide, who sought to protect him from Javert. He'd learned to play the violin from that Gypsy, perfected the technique of blending into the shadows from his guards as well as picking locks and his skills with knife and pick-pocketing. That wiry, lanky Gypsy became his friend and protector during the winter months when the tribe he traveled with stayed in Paris, someone he missed when they left in the spring, like the father he'd never known and for a few months, he could pretend he had a family.
Even as an adult, he remembered those days, longed to go back to the closest thing he'd ever had to home, acknowledged the kindness of that man, but he was an exception in thousands, the only exception he would ever make when it came to Gypsies. As he watched the pair vanish through the hidden door that he had no familiarity with, he found himself mildly shocked that the Court was still in use.