A/N: Here's the edited, looked-over chapter for today! Remember, dear readers, our review goal is 67 this time. Once we reach that goal, I'll put up the next chapter. It doesn't take long to say a few words!

And thank you so much for the enthusiastic responses for chapter 10. I really, really appreciate it and as you all know by now, your comments keep me going.

So review!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, The Enemy, belongs to Mumford and Sons.


We will meet back on this road,

Nothing gaining, truth be told.

But I am not the enemy,

it isn't me, the enemy.


The room was still, moonlight peeking through heavy curtains. A soft breeze whispered through the air, mist slowly forming on the window. Moonlight shimmered, illuminating the room in a faint glow. It was quiet, peaceful, silent—another ordinary night in Moscow.

Two lovers lay on the bed, snoring softly as they curled against each other. The woman, dozing on her back, shifted lightly to face her side, slipping out of her beloved's grasp. An arm emerged from the blankets, subconsciously reaching for cool air. Coffee-coloured curls spilled across one pillow, impatiently pushed away by the same drowsy hand as its inhabitant searched for a more comfortable position. The man, upon feeling his darling move away, unconsciously slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her against his front. He buried his face against the back of her neck, sighing in contentment at sweet vanilla, a trickle of roses within her hair.

His lover, however, wriggled against his grip, moaning in her sleep. Often, she loved to reside in his embrace, but would occasionally value her space. She finally blinked her eyes open when he didn't relent. Blue heavy-lidded eyes squinted, adjusting themselves to consciousness, and she let out a soft groan, voice thick with sleep. His arm lay draped around her waist, firm yet relaxed; she would not be able to move away without waking him up.

"Erik," she grumbled, voice thick and laced with sleep. Squirming within his tight grasp, she tried to rouse him by brushing against his body. While she would usually try to be as covert as possible when dealing with her sleeping husband, she did not have the patience to now; she was tired and had rehearsals tomorrow, and damn it, she just wanted some sleep.

Ironically, her usually insomniac lover slept on blissfully, his body holding hers so tightly that she huffed with discomfort.

She tried to turn within his hold, intending on pushing his smothering body away from hers in her impatience to sleep. "Erik," she tried again, wriggling more forcefully in his grasp. Still, he did not budge.

Thoroughly irritated by now, she tugged away from him, lifting her body from the mattress slightly so that she could properly face him. A reluctant arm was propped by the side as she pushed her torso up. It took a lot of work, but finally she was facing him. Propped up by her elbow, she took this time to scrutinise him—his smooth skin, long face, sharp nose, thin lips that parted as he slept.

Instantly, she felt her irritation fade away—the sight of him peacefully resting was enough to melt her heart. Erik never did sleep restfully; his line of work made him prone to jerking awake at any possible movement, or fitfully tossing as a nightmare claimed him. Seeing him now, brow smoothened as he relaxed in a deep sleep, was enough to blow any exasperation she felt towards him away.

As gently as she could, she reached out one hand to cover his cheek, stroking his skin tenderly. Her fingers brushed at growing stubble, and her lips tugged into a small smile—Erik could never stand facial hair, always shaving as soon as he woke. She had once asked him why; he answered that it was unclean to do so. Her endearing, crisp, clean-cut man. Unable to resist, she leaned in to plant a soft kiss upon his lips, slow and savoury.

Golden eyes stared at her when she pulled back, alert and flashing. She froze, surprised that he had woken—he seemed so deeply asleep. Warningly, her mind reminded her that Erik was often unpredictable when he woke in the middle of the night. Immediately, she resumed brushing her thumb across his cheek soothingly, opening her mouth to tell him that it was just her, that he was safe, everything was fine—

An unfamiliar texture grazed her thumb where she stroked his cheek and she frowned, ceasing its movements. That was odd; his skin felt rough and calloused beneath hers, and she never quite recalled his cheek dipping like that. The crease by her forehead deepened and she lifted her hand, curious to see what was underneath.

She only saw decaying bone, tendons stretched across withering skin, a hole where his nose should have been.

Christine screamed.


Present Day

Erik was sitting on the couch he had inhabited for the past few months, strained fingers grasping at thick hair, when he heard her scream.

Instantly, he shot up. His night had been spent awake by the windowpane, staring out blankly onto the dead streets as his mind replayed the scene in the bathroom over and over again.

The nightmare that had woken him, the pain that ripped through his chest at the distant flashback, vivid and blinding behind closed lids. Unwinding the tap with shaking hands, ragged breaths clogging up his throat. Frantically tearing his shirt and bandage off, gripped by the fear that he was suffocating. And then Christine staring at him, cowering before him as he screamed at her, blue eyes clouded with fear and revulsion and unsteady nausea.

He had never felt as dismayed, furious, humiliated, heartbroken than he did at that moment.

She saw, she knows, she reacted just as you thought she would: with revulsion.

And yet, even when she had destroyed every pathetic piece of his heart, a tiny part of him still held onto hope. Hope that she would look past his face, that she would remember the man who loved her. The man who desperately craved the comfort she had to offer, even when it seemed he was doing everything he could to push her away.

But all thoughts about the previous night disappeared at the scream that ripped down the hall. Erik tore through the corridor that led to their bedroom, adrenaline forcing him forwards. Suddenly, the fact that Christine's disgust had ripped a hole through his chest didn't matter. There was no thought in his mind, nothing to distract him other than the fact that she was in danger, he needed to reach her, needed to protect her.

He burst through the bedroom door, prepared to find a threat looming at the window or hurting his Christine. He thought she would be on the floor in pain, perhaps struggling against someone.

Instead he found her on the bed, tangled within the blankets as she thrashed around blindly, eyes still shut, trapped within her dreams. Her head tossed around wildly in her sleep, loose curls spread across the pillow, strands hooking by her nose and in her mouth. And her face—forehead creasing worriedly, eyes tightly shut, mouth twisting in fear.

Nightmare, he thought blankly to himself, then immediately sprung into action.

Striding over to the bed, Erik reached out to pin her down, unwilling to let her hurt herself. She was surprisingly difficult to restrain; he had to firmly grab at her wrists in order to keep her from thrashing about. "Christine!" he shouted, willing to break through her sleep-induced fear. She was frightened, and he frightened because of it—how could his Christine know such horror within her sweet, innocent mind?

The sound of his voice must have startled her even more, however, because she pushed at him with a strength he didn't expect. Taken by surprise, Erik fell backwards onto the floor but not without bringing Christine with him; he still had a tight hold on her wrists. It was difficult to shield her from the fall with her continuous thrashing, but Erik was nothing but determined.

Shaking himself to focus, he swung a leg over her hips, trapping her legs to keep them from kicking blindly. She was letting out little whimpers now, sobs that pierced him deeply and only served to resolve his determination to wake her. With a strong grip, he pinned her wrists above her head, firmly holding them to the floor. "Christine," he repeated forcefully, using his other hand to tap at her cheek none too gently. "Christine, it's just a dream. Wake up, Christine—wake up!"

His commands seemed to have worked; her body froze as she blinked awake, confusedly looking around. The air around him seemed to freeze; memories of the previous night came flooding back as each second passed. He wondered how she would react to seeing him atop her in this inappropriate position: straddling her hips, pinning her wrists above her head, their faces so close together that he could feel her wispy breaths upon his lips—though in the back of his mind, he wryly remembered engaging in positions much more risqué than the one they were in at the moment.

Would she push him away? Yell at him? Cower in fear?

He watched carefully as she seemed to regain control of her senses, cobalt eyes clearing as she slowly readjusted to consciousness. With dismay, he noticed her all too pale skin, her eye bags drooping past little lashes, her lips that seemed to have lost its colour. Eventually her gaze settled on him, staring up as she caught her breath, seeming to calm herself before his eyes.

Warily, he released his hold on her wrists, straightening up and instantly missing her proximity. God, what he wouldn't do to kiss her again—to feel her soft, full lips against his own, deep and wet and—

Christine let out a strangled cry, lashing out at him with grabbing hands. Her eyes were wild and wide, seeming almost desperate as she reached for the strips of his bandages, intending to rip them off his face.

Automatically, he whacked her arms away with his forearm, his defences rising once more as she continued to struggle against him. With a dexterity only achieved by his years as a spy, Erik trapped her arms against her chest, sliding his hips to the ground as he swung one strong thigh against her lower body, effectively imprisoning her against him. Christine was openly crying now, cheeks wet with tears, blue eyes still looking up at him, pleading and desperate.

"Please," she sobbed, shaking her head even as she stared up at him. "Please."

He could feel his face twist into a deep frown as he looked back down at her, confused and distressed. What? he wanted to scream. What are you asking for? What do you want from me?

She would not be able to see his forehead creasing, would catch only a glimpse of his furrowed brows. All she would see was his downturned mouth, and suddenly he had his answer.

Understanding struck him swiftly, the blow knocking the air out of his lungs. Her nightmare, her eye bags, her frantic reaction to him. Her wild hands, reaching and trying to grasp at his bandages, trying to pull them away from his face.

Desperation suddenly seized him as it had seized her, and he despairingly stared at her, golden orbs now wide and entreating. "You had a nightmare about me, didn't you?" he breathed, his hold on her tightening. She struggled against him but he firmly held her down. "Tell me!" he shouted, velvet voice rising and breaking as she looked back up at him with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes. "You dreamt about my face—had a nightmare about my face."

She swallowed and shook beneath him, refusing to utter a word, but the pleading look she gave him was enough confirmation.

He ripped away himself away from her as if she had electrocuted him, feet instinctively walking him backwards, away from her. So it was true—last night had not been a terrible dream. She had seen his face, had seen his horror and was appalled. She was recoiling in fright as anyone else would. If she—his Christine—the one woman he thought would not reject him, would not shun him could not look upon his face, how could he expect anyone else to?

The realisation that he would no longer feel her lips against his skin, her arms around his waist, was sharp and piercing. She might as well have struck an icy dagger into his throat and leave him to burn in scorching fire, for that was how he felt—breath hot and heavy, veins freezing within his skin, heart slowly stopping as he painfully suffocated. He thought he had known pain when they had left this upon his flesh, had branded him as one of theirs. He thought he had suffered after that, believing that there was no torture worse than the one he had caused himself.

But this—this was agony.

Christine looked at him with tears in her eyes instead of her heart, pleading with words that never made it past her throat, apologising for something she had no control over. Her lips formed silent I'm sorrys but never said them out loud, could never voice them.

He did not realise that he was still walking backwards when he bumped into the wall, something uncomfortably digging into his back. The door! And suddenly, he remembered that he could leave—that he should leave, he should leave right now.

Without another glance backwards, Erik turned and twisted at the doorknob, almost throwing himself in his haste to leave the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that rung through the entire flat.


August 1980

Two months.

Two months since he had begun spying on the mujahideen, since he had left the comfort of his shared tents and noisy soldiers. There was some hilarity in him considering his previous sleeping quarters comfortable—after all, he'd had to share with bloodied men who stupidly got themselves injured nearly everyday. That tent stunk.—but compared to his current sleeping arrangements, the unhygienic tents were a blessing. Now, he was subjected to little rocks digging into his back as he slept with nothing but a single sheet to lay beneath his body. He hadn't packed much, expecting to find the enemy's base, discover as much information as he could about their bases in the other cities and covertly leave. He would then return to the Red Army's camp, relay the locations of the other bases and, if he was lucky, stay behind while the other soldiers infiltrated the enemy's refuge.

His blueprints had, surprisingly, been entirely accurate. The mujahideen's retreat had been in the general location amidst the mountains, where he had predicted it to be. But mapping the base out and navigating through the grounds had caught him by surprise. Of course, Erik had known that reaching the location would take a while, but had never expected it to take an entire month. And worse yet—it had been July, the hottest month of the year. He often found himself sweating endlessly as he trudged through, unused to the sweltering heat. The USSR, after all, had generally cooler summers.

He had lived and grown in the back alleys of cities, stealing and taking what wasn't his, collecting and hoarding precious items even if he could not keep them. And then, when he had settled in the USSR, he navigated through cities for an entirely different reason: to locate his target and kill. Cities, he was familiar with; cities were not difficult to maneuver. Every urban area had its own central, its outskirts, its neighourhood where the elite resided. And of course, its dark alleys and back roads—the areas he was most familiar with out of them all.

Yes, Erik was a master of navigating through cities. They had convenient transport, clear roads.

Comfortable beds, he thought with a grumble.

Afghanistan was the opposite of this. There were no road signs on the paths he had to trek, no motels to reside in after a long day. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had already known how difficult navigating through the mountains would be, yet Erik was weary all the same, irritated and frustrated at his lack of knowledge over the region. He had always adapted quickly, always prided himself at his ability to keep from getting lost.

And yet, many times throughout his journey, lost was where he found himself.

Erik had thought he had never truly experienced relief until he found the base. It was almost inconspicuous—hidden between the valley, camouflaged brilliantly by the trees. He would not have spotted it if he hadn't glanced back for that one fleeting moment. The tents were a clever shade of forest green and burnt chestnut, blending in well with the branches and barks. The grounds were not flat, either—something he had not expected. The Red Army always made certain to choose campsites with the smoothest terrain, seeking comfort after long days of fighting. Perhaps that was why they were so easily discovered.

The river he had followed was not far; the faint sounds of water rushing downstream could still be heard by an acute ear. It was not bright, here—in fact, it was conveniently shaded, allowing relief from the sun's unforgiving rays. It was the perfect base: not easily discovered or navigated, hidden between the rise of large hills, entirely unexpected for where a campsite should be.

If Erik had not been so exhausted, he would have been impressed.

And so, he had spent weeks camping by the edges of the base, taking every opportunity he could to listen in on the soldiers. They were all different: some burly and muscular, some thin and wiry. Many had curly, uncontrolled beards covering their chins; some were clean-shaven and chiseled, with startling green eyes and sharp features that lent them a unique, handsome look. The men of the mujahideen spoke in rough tones, their strange language weaving expertly through clever tongues. He had studied Farsi extensively in the months before he left for Afghanistan, but soon grew frustrated with every conversation. The soldiers revealed nothing whilst sitting around the fire, nor did they while chatting amongst the trees. They prayed together often, bowing to the ground and keeping their eyes hooded, reciting passages from the Quran under their breaths. Some chose to extend these religious sessions after the others left, silent as the chosen imam for the night read aloud from the holy book, repeating the occasional, "Ameen."

And when they weren't praying, they were talking about fighting a jihad, about their religious righteousness and fervent belief. Those who weren't as religious remained silent during these talks, navigating through each day with a respectful ignorance, never choosing to outwardly discriminate against those who kept their faith. Erik had been perplexed at their adamant belief—after all, he had never had cause to believe in a God, and communism rejected religion, so how could they worship so confidently? And yet, as each day passed, he became used to the announcement of prayer five times a day, was familiar with the movements as he silently watched from the shadows.

If he was not here to spy, he would have been gripped by the difference in culture, the variation in tradition. It was fascinating.

Christine would have found it fascinating.

She had always had a deep appreciation for culture, for tradition. When they had visited Greece, she had been enthralled by the brilliant architecture, but the legends of the gods had been the one to catch her attention. He remembered as they visited the Temple of Adelphi, remembered musing at her wide eyes, her breathless stupor. Of course, he had lived in Greece for a while when he had been scouring through Ed urope, so he was all too familiar with the gods, the heroes, the mythical monsters. But Christine—she had been absolutely captivated, asking him every question she could think of, eager to learn more about the country rich with mythology.

He had asked her, once, why Greek mythology had intrigued her so. When she answered, curled upon his lap, arm resting around her neck as she played with his hair, her voice was soft—contemplative.

"It's just incredible," she had said quietly on the couch of their rented bedroom, "how different we all are. We all believe in different things—some of which sound plausible, some of which sound absolutely ridiculous. And yet, there will always be someone who believes in something everyone else doesn't, someone who thinks differently from the rest." And then she had laughed softly, shaking her head. "In this case, it's held by an entire civilisation."

"But it's not real," he had argued, pushing her hands away from his face to look at her without obstruction. "They don't believe in it anymore. How could they? It's all preposterous. Gods and monsters, all possessing different powers, sleeping around and breeding half-human heroes?" He had scoffed, shaking his head. "Ridiculous."

And she had laughed, looking at him with fond affection. "You're so cynical, Erik," she reprimanded lightly, cupping his cheek with a smooth palm. He remembered gazing at her, remembered how her cobalt eyes had cleared into a brilliant blue; bright, untroubled.

Happy.

Thinking about her was the only reason he pushed through this preposterous 'mission'. Every night, he closed his eyes and imagined waking up to her body against his, her head beneath his chin, her sleepy, confused smile when he asked if she was truly there. Held onto the hope that perhaps, this was a long, drawn-out dream that prevented him from seeing her, feeling her touch.

And when he woke everyday to scorching heat and no Christine, he forced himself to carry through, knowing that every effort he made to discover information about the enemy would bring him one step closer to where he belonged. She was always on his mind, in his every thought. He mused to himself that perhaps distance had made his heart grow fonder, for he felt his love for her swell more than ever.

Christine—his wife.

Erik had known cruelty. He had been brought up in the roughest of environments, stealing to eat, stealing to live. There were men who influenced his young mind, encouraged him to disrupt order, to kill for the sake of killing. The world wasn't fair, so why should he be fair in return?

And yet he thought there was nothing more cruel than separating him with his wife so shortly after they had married. Barely a year had passed in their wedded bliss—a year of uninterrupted happiness, of constant fulfillment, of everything finally being enough. All he had gone through, all they had fought for—it was all worth it when he could listen to her voice singing him to sleep every night, could hold her body to his while they slept.

None of it was fair, but nothing could be done to change the past. And so he threw himself into his work, trying in vain everyday to understand information he could never truly grasp.

But despite this, Erik learnt nothing. The generals remained tight-lipped in the open, the soldiers either naively oblivious or faithfully secret. Not once did he catch word of their bases in the other cities, the progress of their army in Kabul. As weeks rolled by he grew more and more frustrated, waking each day with a sore back and forcing himself to sleep with the disappointment of an unproductive day.

It was frustrating—and when he admitted it—a blow to his pride. He, the most skilled assassin in the Soviet Union, could not do something as simple as spy on the enemy. It was embarrassing.

It was then that he realised he must venture into their tents. It was a risky move; the camp was never truly empty, with always a few soldiers keeping watch. Some stayed up throughout the nights, scanning the trees for any strange movements. If Erik had not already been skilled at disguises, he would have worried for his safety.

He had lost track of the date when he finally decided to risk creeping into the general's tent. He had been tracking the man's movements closely, committing his daily routine to memory, remembering when he would leave and return to his tent. He was a surly-looking, large-boned man, one who was both feared and respected by his men. His demeanor seemed harmless, but some refused to even look at him when he came near. It was how Erik had come to know that he needed to regard the man with caution.

Slipping into the tent was not as difficult as he thought it would be. Luck had been on his side that day: the soldiers had gone to investigate an area, perhaps plot out a new tunnel system or cut through a new route. What had been a busy camp was now silent, with only a few men guarding the borders—and they were hardly observing their surroundings, dozing off whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Stealthily, he brushed through the thick trees that had sheltered him, venturing out into open space for the first time in weeks. It was odd to stand without seeing a bark in front of him, odd to not feel enclosed by stems and branches.

Erik avoided the guarding men easily, keeping low and as quiet as possible. The general's tent was close to the edge of the camp, making it easy for him to reach. Silently, he disappeared within the flaps of the canvas shelter, never leaving any suspicion that it had been breached.

The inside of it was small, with only a single bunk and stool. There was nothing to act as a desk; a pile of paper was arranged by the side of the bed, neatly put away. Finally! Excitement clouded him, the exhilaration of knowing that he had found something at last. Eagerly, he made a grab for folders, rolled-up blueprints—anything he could find. He would have to scan them quickly to avoid detection, since taking the documents with him would arouse suspicion and possibly cause them to relocate. His entire mission would prove fruitless if that were to happen.

Carefully, he knelt by the side of the bed, unrolling the first sheet of paper and spreading it out on the sheets. It was a map of the terrain, marking every large rock, every towering tree. An outline of the river was sketched, running long and narrow through the forest. The mountains were named, though he could not decipher the handwriting.

It was useful, but didn't reveal anything he hadn't already known. Letting out a short breath, Erik rolled the paper back up and replaced it carefully.

A bundle of notes revealed the weather forecasts of the next few months. The next few were a list of names of the soldiers in their section, omitting any lieutenants, generals or army leaders. Another was a sketch of their camouflaged uniform. Another showed him a neatly copied passage from the Quran.

Every uncovered document was the same, and as Erik flipped through increasingly impatiently, he discovered that there was nothing. They did not hold any notes on tactics, or the tunnels and routes they had mapped out. There were no names of anyone with a remotely important ranking. He could find nothing on the locations of their allies' bases.

With a strangled hiss, Erik threw the sheets aside. Inside, he seethed. How could they hold nothing on their allies, their comrades, their tactics? All of the information they held would have been useful to him in the four months he had wasted studying their ways, but they were useless to him now. He had traveled so far, risked so much—and all for nothing!

Red hot fury sliced through him, boiling and vicious. He had spent weeks frustrated over learning nothing, only to have his hope taken away from him yet again. For one fleeting moment, he had thought that this was it—he would find the information the Red Army wanted, relay it to them and coldly state that he would no longer provide them his services. He would force his way home, trekking through the border if he had to. There was nothing—nothing—that could stand between him and Christine.

How was he to declare his withdrawal from the war if he had nothing to give them? How could he return to her if he did not give them what he had promised?

Accepting that he would not find anything else, Erik cleared the area, rolling the sheets of paper back, tucking each note back into their respective folders. He would try again tomorrow, he told himself firmly. Tomorrow he would look through the lieutenant's tent. If what he sought for was not there, he would raid the military leader's tent. And if he still found nothing, he would turn the entire campsite over until he did.

That night, Erik laid his thin coverlet on the ground with jerky movements, still irritated at the failure of the day. He drifted off to sleep with his mouth down-turned, ugly and bitter.

He woke to a pistol pressing against his crown.


They were burly.

That was all he had registered as they dragged him through the camp, handling his arms roughly. Two scowling soldiers, tight-lipped and stony, shoving him forwards as they moved through the camp. Erik forcefully tried to shake the men off, snapping that he could walk, thanks very much, but they were either dumb or ignorant, since he had spoken in clear, fluent Farsi.

There were onlookers, of course. Soldiers who emerged from their tents in the night to observe the commotion going on outside, clad in nothing but light sweats and undershirts. Some were familiar, some were not. They stared at him as he walked past, still struggling in the grasp of the two men who forced him along. Erik looked up, seething, catching a glimpse of one of the soldiers' faces.

He was taken aback, his grey eyes wide and brow furrowed. He observed Erik with scrutiny, scanning his frame, curious—but not surprised at the scene. A shorter man standing by the side leaned towards him, murmuring, "Phantom," so softly that had Erik's hearing been less acute, he would not have caught it.

The utterance seemed to have begun a chain reaction; others now followed the man, mumbling and gasping and muttering his persona over and over again until it was the only word distinguishable amongst the hushed whispers.

"The Phantomthey've caught him!"

"It's him, the Soviet ghost."

"They've got the Phantom!"

And despite the unfortunate situation he found himself in, Erik could not suppress his smirk. So they knew of him—of the Phantom. They had heard of his kills, been told of the unsettling Soviet legend, knew that he was dangerous.

Good.

The whispers followed as his guards walked him forwards, wafting through the air like thick mist. His name permeated the camp, tossed back and forth between wary soldiers. It was oddly satisfying, the fear that came with his title.

Let them remember the man he was in the battlefield: a cold, ruthless killer.

One of the guards barked out something rough—perhaps in another language, for Erik could not understand what was being said. He fought the urge to catch a glimpse of his captors; their grip on his arms were tight and unforgiving. If he was to try and look, his shoulders would twist uncomfortably—and would probably draw a pained wince from him.

And he refused to let them see him shaken.

So he allowed them to drag him along, making their task as difficult as possible. They were strong, but he was quick. If the opportunity presented itself, he would break free from their grasp and run as fast and far as he could manage. He would not stop for anyone, and if they tried to follow him he would end them.

It didn't matter anymore if the Soviets did not get what he had promised; he was not going to let himself be killed. Death would not seize him tonight—he refused to let it.

Damn anyone or anything that threatened to come between him and Christine.

But despite everything, Erik knew that he had been careless that night. Every army kept records of their plans, and the mujahideen were no different. It had all been a trap, set up to draw him out of the shadows, to frustrate him by keeping their information from him. And he, the impatient, overconfident idiot that he was, had stupidly fallen for it.

Though why they needed to draw him out if they were already aware of his presence, he did not know.

The soldiers handling him routed through a familiar path, past the central area of the camp and down to a tall tent standing on its own, isolated from the others. As they approached, Erik realised that it was the general's tent; he had always seen it from the back, hadn't known it stood out in such a way. The flaps were open, his quarters bare for everyone to see. It was just as well—Erik couldn't imagine the two burly guards squeezing with him into the confining space. Not more than two people could possibly fit inside.

Several men stood by the tent, their backs straight and solemn, expressions stern and unreadable. They turned as he was brought forward, brows furrowed with frowns, all observing him warily—all except for one.

The man in the middle was not tall, but not short, either. He was bulky, shoulders and arms built out of nothing but muscle even if his stomach showed the slightest hint of a bulge. Sharp, slitting eyes watched him, black and unwavering, menacing without question.

Erik recognised him immediately; his weeks spent observing this man and his routines, his methods, his habits were not lost on him. Hours had been wasted memorising his schedule, plotting the perfect moment to infiltrate his quarters, uncover his secrets.

The General's lips curled into a thin smile.

But his eyes did not crease with amusement, the corners of his lips still unpleasantly downturned. His laugh did not boom with mirth; it sliced through the air, thin and high. The other men visibly grimaced beside him, clearly uncomfortable in the man's presence.

"So this is the infamous Phantom," he observed, raising a dubious eyebrow. Bulky arms folded across his chest and he straightened to his full height—which was, admittedly, not particularly impressive. Erik easily towered over him, even in his restrained state.

He must have noticed Erik's unimpressed expression, however, because his grin merely widened. "Ah, brothers," he addressed the guards grasping at the Soviet's arms genially, "there is no need to hold him so tightly. Loosen your grip, but do not let him go. After all, we do not want him to lose his balance."

"I'm capable of standing without support," Erik growled, glaring coldly at the man.

The General merely laughed once more, shaking his head. "Oh, my friend, you do amuse me," he chortled, waving an idle hand. He began to turn away to face his tent once more.

And then, the man swiftly spun around to deliver a powerful blow to Erik's ribs, driving knuckles into grating bone. A pained hiss escaped his lips, golden eyes careful to shield the flicker of surprise. The hit had been too quick for him despite his sharp vision, too sudden for him to catch.

A strange, unnerving feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he fought against the slicing ache. It was unfamiliar; unwelcome. Unpleasant.

The man merely regarded him bemusedly, lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Are you quite sure of that, my friend?" he mocked. Erik gritted his teeth as the General stepped forwards, pushing his dark-skinned face close enough that he could smell foul breath. Pitch black eyes bored into his golden ones, vast and without feeling. And then the cutting burn of fingers digging into aching bone, relentless and unforgiving.

Erik managed to suppress his sharp exhale this time, struggling to control his breaths. The man only raised a thick, shaggy brow, twisting his thumb into flesh.

"Jalil," came a voice from behind him, this one flat and tight. Erik let out the breath he had been holding as the General—Jalil— turned, fingers falling to the side. He took the opportunity to close his eyes for a brief moment, unwilling to allow the General the privilege of seeing him discomposed. A deep, shaky inhale shook his lungs, vibrating uncomfortably against bruised ribs.

Golden eyes opened once more, flickering once to observe the surroundings of canvas tent, observing soldiers, stiff men standing by the General's quarters. They eventually settled on the man who had spoken, taking in his brown, coffee-coloured skin, his clouded, hazel eyes. He was taller than Jalil, but not as tall as Erik. Disproportionate lips, short nose, a full head of hair. Thick brows frowned deeply, disapprovingly.

"That is unnecessary, Jalil," he said stiffly. "No need to torture the man. Kill him and be done with it."

While Erik could grudgingly agree with the other man's statement, he could not help but tense at the mention of killing. For so long, he had taken the lives of others, had made money out of their grieving relatives. Countless years of training himself not to care, of disregarding the fear in their eyes as he pressed a knife to their throat, a gun to their temple.

A lasso around their neck.

Yet the thought of his own death seemed unfamiliar and wrong. He could not die, not now—he had finally found love, had rediscovered the value of his pitiful life.

Would they even give him the chance to defend himself? To fight for his survival, as was his right?

The thought that they might shoot him as he had shot so many others, without a second thought and without regrets, brought a cold, uncomfortable stab to his chest. He would not be just another body thrown into the river, forgotten and never retrieved.

Christine would not read of his death from a sheet of paper, outlining that his body had not been found, that the Soviet Army sent their most heartfelt condolences.

He had been so immersed in his own internal fury that he did not notice Jalil watching carefully, disproportionate lips slowly curled into a knowing smirk. "Don't want to die, do you?" he drawled, dark eyes taunting.

Erik pressed his lips firmly together.

With a chuckle, Jalil turned to face the man who had spoken once more. "You see?" he questioned, gesturing towards the still firmly held Erik, glaring between the two soldiers. The General threw his hands into the air. "He doesn't want to die, Khan! Why, look at him! Still has a lot of fight in him yet, but unwilling to lose his life for his country. No, this is the face of a man who wants to live. Why should we not grant him this? He is young, after all—he has many years ahead of him."

For a moment, Erik's tensed muscles loosened in surprise. Once again, he had not expected Jalil's admission. Was this man truly that much of an idiot to consider letting him go?

Or did he have something more sinister planned?

One look at the General, however, dismissed his fleeting thoughts of being let go. He stared at Erik with a pleased mirth within soulless, dark eyes. The smirk he wore promised many things to come—things Erik did not know of yet, but would soon.

Jalil would definitely not let him go free, but apparently refused to kill him, either.

But what use would he be if they kept him here?

Short fingers wiped at a bearded chin, brushing gleaming, grinning teeth. Gesturing vaguely towards the guards that held Erik, Jalil let out another chuckle. "Bind his wrists."

The men holding him roughly jerked at his arms. Erik stiffened as they pulled and tugged, intending to be as difficult as possible as they struggled to circle his arms with rope. He was not as built as they were, but was still stealthy, and possessed a strength that often took others by surprise. He would not succumb so easily, no matter what they planned to do to him. He would fight against the thought that he might heave his last breath at their hands, might never see his wife again.

"You see, Phantom," Jalil continued conversationally as the guards worked at restraining Erik, their quickening movements betraying their surprise at his quiet strength, "we have been watching you since you had come. It was rude not to pay us a visit, you know—very rude. After all, you and your Soviets entered our soil uninvited and expect us to welcome you while you do so!"

A few men pursed their lips behind Jalil, grudgingly agreeing even as they watched the scene uncomfortably. The General gave a chilly smile. "The most distinguished spy in the Soviet Union, a feared legend, and we discovered you on your first day! Imagine our joy, imagine our pride! And yet, you did not visit. So we decided to wait.

"Drawing you out was simple enough. It was amusing to watch you struggle to look for these," he held up a folded document retrieved from his pocket, and Erik's eyes flashed with anger as he recognised the maps he had been searching for, "in my tent. Shame—if you had found them, you would have surely defeated us."

"It doesn't matter," Erik interrupted, directing the most vicious glare he could manage at the General. His voice twisted into a deep snarl, eerie and hypnotising. "We will defeat you regardless."

Jalil clucked his tongue, but did not manage to hide the flicker of uncertainty within his eyes at Erik's unwavering statement. "Such fire," he observed with extra force, shaking his head. "Oh, you are young yet, my friend. You do not see that hope is futile, that you will all die for stepping foot onto our soil. But, no matter—I will show you the error of your ways. Soon, you will see how wrong you are."

"The only thing I wish to see is your head on a spike," Erik hissed.

Jalil rolled his eyes, huffing. "Come now, my friend," he bemoaned, almost in disappointment. "You can do better than that!"

"Jalil," the other man interrupted sharply, once more bringing himself to attention. Jalil sighed wearily, then turned back to Erik.

"Khan is getting impatient, so I will have to skip my speech," Jalil said dejectedly. "It is a shame—such a shame. I am sure you would have been quite impressed by it."

Erik watched him distastefully, feeling his hatred for the man grow by the second. He was clearly disheveled, as if bordering on insanity.

Perhaps that was what lent to his unpredictability.

He watched as Jalil gave a shrug in his direction, seeming almost apologetic in his movements. The General held up a finger, as if requesting that he wait.

Then, closing his eyes, the General took a breath. The air around them seemed to thin with an icy bite, chilly and suffocating as the man composed himself, inhaling deeply, with control. It had been silent before, but now it seemed that every observer was holding his breath, waiting in suspense for the General to take action once more. Erik shifted uncertainly by his captors, watching as the man pressed his hands to his skin, measuring the rise and fall of his chest.

Black eyes suddenly flickered open, and Erik heard the observing soldiers behind him let out unsettled gasps. Thick jaw clenched as Jalil stared unwavering at his captive, expression returned to the one he had donned before: gaze cold and menacing, the humour and playfulness wiped away.

It was the face of a man who acted without mercy, of a man who knew no bounds.

And, for a moment, Erik felt his throat drop into his stomach, foreign emotion clasping uncontrollably within him.

He might have thought it could have been fear.

"You think you can call yourself a phantom within our land," Jalil said softly, expressionlessly. "You think you can master our terrain, navigate through our mountains—the mountains whom have only ever been our shelter, our home."

His voice was thin, cold—devoid of emotion yet still somehow hypnotising. Christine had once told Erik his voice had mystical qualities, and, hearing this man's voice at the moment, Erik could not help but think that she was severely mistaken.

For if Erik could manipulate his voice to his will, Jalil was capable of transforming his completely, distorting and convulsing it into something unrecognisable.

"We own this country, Soviet," Jalil's slippery voice continued. An ugly smirk played at his lips. "We are the true ghosts that will haunt this soil long after you are dead."

With abrupt movements, he turned towards the two guards still holding Erik, Jalil snapped his fingers. "Tie him to our dear Nadir's tent pole. Since he was so defensive of our guest's condition, he would surely be more than happy to see to his comfort for the night."

With that, the General swiftly spun around and disappeared into his tent, the flaps aggressively snapping the entry shut as he let them down. The men around him—lieutenants, probably—jumped uncomfortably, taken by surprise at his sudden change in mood, the sharp exit.

Rustling behind him signified that the soldiers were now dispersing, realising that the scene was over. Faint sounds of tents flapping filled the air, the echo of voices chattering seemingly distant to his ears.

For Erik did not spare a glance towards them—his gaze was fixed on the man with the hazel eyes, the man who would sleep through the night with him tied outside his tent. The man who stared straight back at him, never breaking his gaze.

Nadir Khan, Erik recalled, grimacing. The man who would sleep with a Soviet leaning against his tent.

He had almond-shaped eyes that creased by the edges.


A/N: Remember a mention from our early days about a certain special guest making an appearance?

Review. You know you want to.