A/N: I know that in many ways this story has been a bit slow to start, but I wanted to lay the groundwork for what was to come. Things perk up a bit more in the following chapters, I promise! And look! A new location! Yay! XD

I personally believe the end result will be worth it. Are you enjoying it so far? Is it tedious drivel? Let me know! :D

Chapter Four

Raoul thoughtfully sipped a postprandial brandy and considered his options. He had intended to leave immediately for home as soon as his original mission was completed, but now he found himself in a bit of a quandary.

The most pressing concern, and the least distressing, in a way, was the simple question of where home now was? He had automatically assumed that he would return to the home he and Christine had made in Sweden, but while that little house was home in and of itself to her, what had made it home to him was her. Without her there with him, he had no reason at all to return, and far too many to not. The home was filled with her. Her presence all but shone from the very walls. To remain in it without her would be torture.

And yet, where else should he go? Oh, he could go anywhere, he supposed; upon being cleared of any wrongdoing over his brother's death, his full inheritance was passed over to him. But where would he light? Not the flat he had shared with his brother; that would be as bad as the house in Sweden. The family estate his brother had handed over to his sisters years ago. Even if he had been assured of a warm welcome, the place had too many memories of his various dear departed to bring him anything but sorrow.

He briefly considered attempting to restart his career in the Navy. God knew he'd like to; but he'd resigned his commission without notice and that sort of thing was frowned upon so heavily that he doubted he'd be given another chance.

So the only alternative, really, was to start again somewhere else. But where? He could barely bear Paris itself anymore; the pitying glances he was receiving now that the news was out were almost worse than the cheerful assumptions he was faced with before. Why can't they just leave me alone? He thought. Why won't they all just stop staring at me?

The silent complaint caused an odd twinge of guilt that he didn't wish to examine further. He shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable despite the over stuffing, and realized that the man in the chair opposite was regarding him with open curiosity.

Raoul blinked. In his reverie he hadn't noticed the man sit down; he was in a dim, quiet corner of the club, one usually reserved by custom for members in bad moods who did not wish to be disturbed by anything less than a waiter quietly refilling a snifter, but this man, against all the propriety of the place, was actually leaning forward in his perusal!

"Oh, forgive me," the man gave a self-depreciating laugh. "I don't mean to intrude! But- if you'll forgive the intrusion- you are the younger de Chagny, aren't you? The one in the Navy?"

He was an older man, with a pleasant, somehow familiar baritone. The sense of almost-recognition combined with the odd topic roused Raoul's curiosity. So where he had been intending to tell the fellow to mind his own damned business, in no uncertain terms, he instead found himself cordially nodding confirmation.

"Dubeau," the man smiled, offering his hand, and adding, as Raoul glanced at his fine leather gloves, "Bad circulation, you know. I can never seem to keep warm! But tell me, if you don't mind, weren't you to go on that expedition to find D'Artois?"

"I was," Raoul agreed cautiously, "But I was unavoidably detained in Paris and had to forgo the journey."

"What a pity!" Dubeau leaned back in dismay. "What an adventure it would have been! I myself have travelled widely; and yet, I have never been any further north than Novgorod. Tell me, do you think there to be any truth in the old travellers' tale that if you travel into the extreme northern regions, it becomes so cold that fire will actually freeze? I am told it tastes faintly of slightly burned barley-sugar; but to be perfectly honest I find it unlikely."

Raoul laughed. "I can imagine it becoming finally so cold that even a fine old brandy such as this would freeze, but fire itself? I think not. Certainly the more experienced members of the crew said nothing about it."

"I prefer cognac myself. In Novgorod, though- or rather, in the countryside about the city- the peasants there would make an incredible sort of drink by sitting a jug of apple wine out in the snow to freeze. Each morning, they skim off the ice, and by the time only a cupful or so remains, no further ice will form. They have to store it very carefully, and the sensation of drinking it is not unlike being repeatedly beaten about the head by an apple tree; but it is certainly warming! I cannot see it freezing at any temperature, and even if it somehow did, you could probably still manage to cook a nice supper over it. I'm not sure you could see the flame, though. And you would probably want to light it at quite a distance," he added.

Despite his initial desire for solitude, Raoul found himself warming to the man. He was not by nature of a solitary disposition, and to chat casually about unimportant things like travellers' tales and liquor made him relax, finally, for the first time in months. He hadn't realized how knotted his shoulders had been, having had no relief until now. They chatted lightly of inconsequentials, and Raoul leaned back in his arm chair, sipped his brandy, and let the warm, almost-familiar baritone wash over him like a balmy ocean.

He found himself almost dozing, lulled by the brandy and the fire and the rhythm of Dubeau's speech, telling of the travels he himself had undertaken as a younger man, when suddenly he jerked awake. "I'm sorry," he said, "Did you say you were attacked by pirates?"

"Well, the people of the area are tremendously poor, even by the standards of the region. Preying on unprotected ships is the main opportunity they have for gainful employ. And of course our ship wasn't anything like prepared to fend off a concerted attack; but then we'd never have been anywhere near the place if it hadn't been for the storm. Really, it was just bad luck compounded by bad luck."

"But pirates? How on earth did you escape?"

"Do you know, I think that's the first time I haven't had to try and persuade my audience that pirates do indeed still exist? Mind you, you're a Navy man; you have probably encountered them yourself."

"I was a Navy man, true; but not for a very long time. We had rumours of them in our area, but we could find no sign of them. They were long gone by the time we arrived."

"Yes, they are a tricky bunch, aren't they? But they have to be, living as they do."

"Was this in Somaliland?"

"No, further west, in Hindustan. It gave me a remarkable opportunity to study their language and culture, at least."

"What did?"

"Oh, didn't I say? I'm sorry. Well, they managed to take our vessel, for as I said we weren't very well-equipped to repel a determined boarding party, and unfortunately rather a lot of the crew were killed trying to defend themselves. The rest were set loose in a lifeboat; I have no idea what happened to them. But as for myself, I was able to convince them that I was such a fascinating and entertaining fellow that rather than shoving me over to the sharks, or trying to squeeze me in with the rest in the lifeboat (which really wasn't designed to hold as many as were already in her), they took me along with them. I spent well over a year in their company."

"Good lord!"

"Yes, well, all in all it wasn't a bad situation. Very poor, as I said, but honest, in their own way; and a resourceful and creative man could do quite well with them. I came into them a prisoner; but when I left, we parted friends."

"Fancy that! Friends with a bunch of pirates! I'm not sure that I would have been able to cozy up to such a lot of ruffians."

"Well, needs must as the Devil drives, as they say. And I found them to be more- slightly more- tolerant of shortcomings than some others. When life is already so very close to the bitter edge of bare survival, little things like the shade of one's skin lose a lot of meaning, if the person underneath is reliable."

"How odd. Someone said something similar to me just the other day..."

"How curious. Well, as I said, I was with them for a little more than a year; when we parted ways I found myself longing for my homeland and a rest from adventures. And so I came home to Paris and built myself a little house in a quiet corner of the city."

But Raoul was barely listening anymore. He was engaged in trying to see his companion more clearly without arousing his suspicions. The corner was dim, most of the light coming from the little fireplace, up to which the armchairs were drawn. But Dubeau's face- was it a little stiff? Raoul had thought perhaps the man had a partial paralysis of the face, not entirely uncommon in men over a certain age- but his smile. The way the flesh moved at the corners of his mouth. Not quite, perhaps, natural?

Dubeau, Dubeau. The name was unfamiliar, and yet there was a nagging sense of recognition. But surely- surely not...

De Beau?

"I'm sorry," Raoul interrupted, "But, if you might indulge me- Your Christian name isn't Erik, by any chance, is it?"

Dubeau leaned back in his chair. "Now, what makes you ask that, I wonder?"

"Please- I will explain all, if you will just humour me..."

Dubeau paused for a long moment. "What gave me away?" he asked finally, quite cheerfully.

Raoul's head swam. For a moment he thought the shock was going to make him faint; indeed, his ears rang, and his sight faded- but he was able to hang on with a tremendous act of will. "Good Lord. De Beau- The Handsome. You utter bastard."

Erik laughed. "Now, now, there's no call for insults. Do you know, this is precisely why I stayed with the pirates for as long as I did? With them, the important thing is the man under the skin. But for you-- you and the rest of the 'civilized' West- for you the important part is the skin itself, isn't it?"

Raoul growled, "I should call the police. I should have the porter throw you out or lock you away-"

"For what crime?" Erik asked pleasantly. "The crime of whiling away an agreeable evening? My God, the humanity."

"For- for the crime of being- being-"

"'Me'?" Erik sighed. "Do you know, I always thought that if we had simply met as two men, with no history, no antagonism between us, why, there was no reason at all why you shouldn't have taken to me, is there? As I said, I'm quite an entertaining fellow."

"I don't have to listen to this." Raoul stood, fists clenched. "As you have done nothing wrong that I could take to the police, I won't bother raising a fuss. But I don't have to sit here and listen to you any longer!"

"No, no, you are quite right. The hour grows late." He took a sip of his drink. "However, I shall be here again tomorrow evening, should you wish to continue our conversation." The man, the man who appeared nothing more than a well-bred, slightly greying older man, raised his glass to the comte and drained it.

Raoul stood stock still for a moment, fighting every warring impulse within him, then turned on his heel and left.

A/N: The apple drink here ascribed to Russian peasants is actually an old Lancre recipe. If you have no idea who or what Lancre is, then hie thee off to the nearest bookstore and buy every Terry Pratchett "Diskworld" book they have. You will not regret it.