A/N:
Hey, sorry for the wait! Thank you to everyone who reviewed!
Philippe's POV:
"Clarie Mercier, is it?" the commissary—a man by the name of M. Clavell—asked in a casual tone, as if asking about the weather.
"Yes, yes," Philippe said impatiently, ceasing his constant pacing just a second, to run a hand through his damp hair. He sent an irritated glare at the man opposite him, which went unnoticed as the officer continued to leisurely write his report.
"And you say she just…vanished from the masquerade?" he confirmed, his slow speaking voice quickly angering the Comte.
"Yes!" he exclaimed. Again, the commissary seemed not to notice his growing frustration.
"Clarie…" he repeated, tasting each syllable as slowly as possible as they passed his tongue. "She was the singer, correct?" He glanced up to see the Comte give an impatient nod before continuing. "Had the pleasure of hearing her almost six months ago, Monsieur. Quite a mature voice for someone so young. She hasn't sung since, though, I've heard. Is there any reason why?"
Oh, now he's interested, Philippe thought, grinding his teeth to keep from shouting in rage.
"Well, she has been quite depressed since her—" he was just able to catch himself, sending a silent reminder to his brain, "—since her cousin died five months ago."
"Her cousin," the commissary repeated, and narrowed his eyes just the smallest bit, "They must have been…close, then?"
Perhaps it was only his paranoia, but Philippe could swear he heard suspicion in the man's voice. Trying his hardest to ignore it, he said, "Yes, they were." He could feel his palms begin to moisten.
Clavell took down a few notes before looking up at him again. "And how old is she, Monsieur?" Despite his relief at the change in subject, the question still made Philippe angry.
"She's only just seventeen, Monsieur," he said with a huff. "And why should that make any difference? She is still a child!"
"I am not degrading the importance of her disappearance in any way, Monsieur l'Comte," Clavell said defensively, raising his hands in self-defense. "All I am saying is, it might prove a challenge…wherever Miss Mercier is…she might not want to be found."
Philippe couldn't believe what he had just heard. Before, he was only mildly irritated with the man; now, he was furious.
"I am her guardian!" he exclaimed, "And if you aren't going to help find her, then I will."
"Monsieur l'Comte!" the commissary shouted as Philippe turned on his heels, but he ignored him. A newfound determination had filled him, and he wasn't going to pause for even a moment. He would find her, regardless of how she felt about his doing so.
He had made mistakes. He realized that now. He just hoped he could fix a few of them.
Clarie's POV:
It wasn't that Clarie wasn't satisfied with living in Erik's house beneath the Opera. No, she would have been satisfied anywhere. And he was good to her, always respecting her and making sure to give her all the privacy she needed. He had given her one of his rooms, and what looked like his only bed. Clarie had argued at first, but on seeing the state of the room, it looked like he was very rarely in there anyway.
It also wasn't that Clarie was not happy with Erik. No; it was definitely not that. She couldn't be happier with him. Every time she saw him, a smile found its way onto her face. It was becoming a habit with her, smiling. That and trying to memorize every little detail of his face.
It wasn't terrible to look at for her. Each time she did, it became easier and easier, until there were times that she found herself wanting to look at it. It wasn't a terrible sight at all, really, after knowing what was underneath. Especially when he sang to her.
Clarie took his voice for granted, selfishly asking him to sing to her time and time again. And he never denied her a song, never. Some nights he would sing to her until his voice cracked. She drank it all in, savoring each one with as much relish as the last. She was never happier than when he sang to her.
No, the reason she was frowning was something else entirely.
Erik had noticed her frown almost before it had reached her face, and had immediately worried over her.
"Are you alright, Clarie?" he had asked, his pale brow dipped with concern. "Is there something wrong?"
He really was trying his absolute hardest to make her happy. It made Clarie feel guilty to frown at all, but nevertheless, the expression remained on her face. Because it wasn't for her own sake that she was concerned; it was his.
"I have been wanting to ask you the same thing," she replied. His own mouth dipped into a frown on hearing this, a puzzled expression fixing itself onto his face.
"Me?" he said, "What do you mean?"
Clarie paused for a second, trying to decide whether to just come out with it or just drop a hint. In the end she decided to just be straightforward; he would know if she didn't tell him anyway.
"You're not happy here, Erik," she said plainly.
He was surprised by this, and the thin lids of his eyes widened.
"Of course I'm happy," he quickly said, taking her hand. Even now, five days after they had shared each other's first kiss, he was still hesitant in touching her at all. "You're here. That is all the happiness I could hope for." Then he frowned, as if with a sudden realization. "Unless you aren't happy?"
"I'm fine, Erik," Clarie sought to reassure him, squeezing at the hand clasping hers. "But…I see the way you look in this place. You have never been happy here." He stiffened a little, and Clarie could tell that she was spot on. She said nothing more, waiting for him to respond.
Eventually, he admitted, "I… I never chose this life for myself."
"Then don't live it!" Clarie exclaimed with a smile, standing up to her feet in a childish excitement. Erik gave her a look like he just remembered how very young she still is. She grinned in pure delight, something she had not done for a very long time. "We can leave this place. Go anywhere in France!"
Erik was surprised at this outburst. "You would really do that?" he asked slowly.
"Of course I would!" And as she said it, she knew she meant every word with all of her being.
For just a fraction of a second, his grayish face seemed to light up. But it was gone so fast that it left Clarie unsure, as quickly replaced by a frown as it was.
"They aren't exactly accepting of…my kind." He said the word they like it was a bitter poison on his tongue.
"Then we'll leave France," Clarie said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. It was strange, this rush of excitement inside her. She couldn't remember feeling anything like it since her parents had taken her to her first performance years ago. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but definitely a welcome one.
"Leave France…" Erik repeated in a mutter. He scrunched up his face, thinking about it, and his already paper thin skin pulled even tighter. Clarie wondered for a moment if he was going to say no, and he would be perfectly justified in doing so. After all, it was a fairly absurd plan.
But, surprisingly, soon there was a smile of his own, betraying his growing excitement. "The world is not quite accepting of me, Clarie," he clarified, trying to swallow down Clarie's contagious enthusiasm.
She grinned. "Then I guess it will have to learn."
She kissed him, and, after a moment, he kissed her back.
Erik's POV:
"Wales?" the daroga repeated, genuinely shocked by the statement.
"Yes," confirmed Erik. His voice was emotionless, detached. There was no reason to sound upset in any way in front of Daroga. He knew he would have to inform the man of his departure, after everything he had done; but that was all it was. It was almost as if he were ending a business relationship.
The Persian, on the other hand, looked a little more bothered. Erik was no longer surprised. He had long ago stopped trying to decipher the daroga's strange emotions.
"Wales…" the Persian repeated one last time, as if to fully grasp the concept. He looked up and, seeing the mutual expression Erik had on his face, tried to mimic it. But Daroga had never been as practiced as he in the art of masking one's emotions, and it was soon replaced by a frown.
"I never thought…" he trailed off. Then, suddenly grinning up at Erik—he had always been much shorter than him—he said, "She is a fine woman."
"Yes, she is," Erik agreed immediately.
The daroga stared at him for a long time, and for once Erik found that he could not read his emotions either. After a while of this contemplation, Daroga quietly excused himself for a moment. Erik cautiously watched him leave, not liking that he had no idea what the fool was up to.
It didn't take him long to return, and when he did, he carried an exquisitely designed jewelry box with him. Erik raised an eyebrow at this. He had seen the box many times before in the years he had known the Persian, but he had never seen the contents of it. Many times he tried, but it was locked, and no matter where he looked, he had never been able to find the key.
Now, the daroga removed a chain from around his neck, hidden beneath his clothes. On the end was a small, silver key. Erik sighed. How had he never suspected that to be its hiding spot?
Quietly, almost solemnly, the Persian inserted the key into its lock and turned it. An almost inaudible click was heard. The top of the box popped open. Daroga looked into it for a moment, a sad smile upon his face, before pulling out the items inside.
Two rings.
Erik was so shocked by this that he found himself mute.
The Persian paused for another second, smiled at the rings, and then walked toward Erik. He offered them to Erik, and when he saw that all he could do was stare at them, pressed them firmly into his hands.
"I want you to take them," he said.
Finally, Erik's voice returned. "No, Daroga," he said. He was trying to sound firm, but it came out softer and shakier than he intended.
"Don't argue," the Persian said, for the first time since he knew him sounding more commanding than Erik. He smiled again, but this time looking at Erik instead of the rings. "All I ask," he continued, "is… Put them to good use."
Erik swallowed, staring at the expensive jewelry in his hands, and then gave the tiniest of nods. Others might not have been able to see it, but he knew Daroga would.
"Thank you," he said at last, offering a small smile to the man he suddenly began to think of as his friend. He hesitated to say anything more than that, but he knew that he had come there for more than pleasantries. "Daroga," he said, then hesitated again. He had already taken so much from the man already.
"Yes?" Daroga said gently.
"Um…" Erik said. "I… I am not asking you to leave the country. But…" he trailed off, letting the unsaid words float in the air. But it would be easier with you.
It was true. It would be much easier. With a face like his, getting about and just living among the world in general proved a challenge. Even with money—and money was not something he was lacking in, thanks to the previous manager. Even so, Erik would never ask for help, especially from the Persian. But now he had two people to think about now. He hardly counted himself as one, but Clarie was something different entirely.
Of course the Persian understood. He smiled, and said, "I will gather my things." On that note, he turned to leave, probably expecting Erik to do the same. But, still, Erik had one last thing.
"Daroga," he said, and the Persian turned around. Without a word, Erik pulled out two letters from his jacket, written neatly and just pressed shut with wax. Two names and addresses were written in cursive letters on the front. Daroga took it, confused.
"What are these?" he said as he read the respective names.
"They are from Clarie," was all Erik said.
Daroga's eyes brightened a little, suddenly recognizing the names. He looked at Erik, and gave a firm nod.
A/N:
So, we're getting closer and closer to the end! Just 4 or 5 chapters left. On that note, I will be doing another OC fic. It's a little different, but I'm pretty excited for it! Unfortunately, not so excited for the end of this… :(
Ah, well, all things have to end eventually. Thanks as always for reading!
