Watching the musical live again reminded me of all the reasons I'm in love with this timeless story. So, there you go, a new chapter! Can't wait to read your thoughts about it!


"Erik, I beg of you, go lay down," Nadir whispered, having almost given up on any attempt to heal his friend.

The spectral creature stalked the living room slowly, pensively, occasionally leaning against a piece of furniture to support what little was left of his emaciated body.

"Daroga...I need to talk with you," his throat, the fine instrument that had never once betrayed him, now scratched him from inside, making speech painful enough.

Nadir refused to answer for an instant, trying to convince himself that if he ignored the elephant in the room long enough, it would disappear.

"Daroga," he persisted, now leaning wearily against the bookshelf and lifting the mask ever so slightly, only to allow some air through it.

The Persian insisted on his childish game and stood, presenting a feigned interest to a trinket by the piano; a small, delicately carved swan, made from simple wood, yet more beautiful than if it were of diamonds.

"Nadir...please."

The whimper behind his back almost knocked him on his knees like an iron baton. He reluctantly turned and took off his hat of astrakhan, setting it on the piano next to him.

"Don't ask me, Erik. Anything but this," he ran a hand through his grey hair, averting his eyes from the corpse.

"There is...You are the only one I have. It won't take long,"his sharp shoulders dropped and he carefully made his way to his armchair.

The daroga of Mazandaran joined him around the small table. "I suppose there will be nothing to write down," he simply said, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

"No," he shook his head, a few inky strands swaying gently with the tight movement.

"Good," Nadir nodded, "good...well?"

Erik swallowed-his phlegm, his pain, his pride-and started with a deep breath. "There is an account at the Banque de France under the name Charles Devaux. It's yours. It has been since the day I found out you set foot in this country."

"Erik, I can't possibly-"

"You will accept it. Think of it as a refund for the mess in Tehran. Also, in the second draw-" His coughs seized him and Nadir could do nothing but stare blankly at the image. "Excuse me. As I was saying, in the second drawer of my desk you'll find a few items of personal significance I would like you to have. The Shah's ruby amongst them."

At the mention of their old miscief, Nadir's eyes lit up, as he was reminded of the witty boy swaying his legs off the side of the imperial throne. "You kept it? Why not sell it?"

He tried to smile. "I like to keep beauty to myself. Money was of no consequence."

Nadir's mood was painstakingly trying to climb his tall mountain of sorrow. "You shouldn't have done any of this."

He leaned back, momentarily enjoying the support the wall provided against his head. "Forget politeness, at last, daroga. It's a gift for a friend." At his uneasy silence, he continued. "As for Christine..."

The change of interest was refreshing and Nadir sat back up. "Yes?"

Erik eyed him, rolling his golden irises tiredly, and continued. "She is, of course, allowed to do whatever she wishes with any of her belongings. There is money in my desk for her as well, enough to get by comfortably for the next ten years. I only have one request; she is to return, whenever and if ever, she feels ready, to bury me, with the ring I gave her."

The daroga's face twisted in horror. "Bury you? First of all, Erik, if the worse happens-"

"When it happens, Nadir," he corrected sternly.

"If it happens, don't you think it's cruel to have her bury the man she loves?"

Erik looked at his thin palms sadly. "On the contrary, it will be quite relieving."

Nadir rose his hands in exasperation. "You really-? Allah, why are you doing this to me? I won't even bother to argue with you about it. Second; it will be quite impossible. Physically, I mean."

Erik's gaze returned to him. "Then, you could, perhaps, help with the practical part."

The door cracked open and an unruly mane of blond curls shyly creeped inside, too afraid to disturb the presumed silence.

Erik's eyes watered at the thought that death would be so cruel as to never allow him to see those curls again. "Christine," he muttered, as if the previous conversation had never happened.

She gave a startled exclaim. "I'm sorry I'm late. How did you like the performace?"

He stood, and Nadir noticed his jaw tighten, yet his moves remain smooth. "Manrico was lovely, the far left first violinist is tone deaf, and you were, naturally, outstanding."

Christine laughed at the comments and blushed at the praise. "Do you think the third meter of my last piece needs work? I felt it a little weak."

He rubbed his palm anxiously. "I did not hear your last aria, my lo-" His coughs returned, shaking him to the floor, as soprano and daroga run to his aid.

"Erik!" She souted, kneeling next to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. "My god, his heart's racing!"

Nadir's fingers circled his wrist, counting the fleeting pulse of life underneath the fragile skin. "You're right," he noted.

As she moved him, his jack fell to the side, revealing a bloodied shirt underneath the vest, which she swiftly unbuttoned. "Again? Erik, when did this happen?"

He struggled to free himself from her grasp and stand. "Sometime this evening. Don't be afraid."

Her too intrusive hands reached out to him once again. "Don't be afraid? I'm terrified, Erik! The mere thought that you might-" she choked on her sob, but quickly regained her composure. "Here, let me help."

Gentlier this time, she wrapped is arm around her shoulders and lead him to her bedroom, a repetition he didn't have the power to refuse.

She tucked him underneath the covers, lowered the lights, for she knew how painful bright light was for him, changed his shirt and moved in to take off the mask. He drew his head back, as far into the pillow as it would go.

"It's alright, my love," she lulled, "we're too far past this." Her slender fingers sliped into his hair to untie the strings, a move she had learned to be much less triggering than grabbing it off his face all at once.

His fists clutched the sheets as she pressed her angelic mouth to his distorted forehead.

"Your fever has gone up again," she sighed. "Let me get a cold towel. Do we still have the soothing syrup?"

"Above the glasses," he whispered, his eyes already closed.

Even though he couldn't see, his hearing remained sharp and, when he heard muffled whispers coming from the kitchen, stretched his ears.

"He will refuse a doctor," Nadir was explaining, a statement which had Erik's agreement.

"I'll take him sedated if I have to!" She shouted in a whisper. "He can't die, monsieur Khan, he cannot."

His heart squeezed at her insistence.

"My child," Nadir continued, "Erik is my brother. I'd give my life to him if I could. But you must see the truth; all these symptoms that haven't been going away for so many weeks are septic. No one survives this."

"He will!" She cried out, loud enough to be heard clearly now. "You! You told me he had been poisoned and survived! This time will be no different!"

"Fine," Nadir said, earning a grin from Erik. "Propose a doctor and I will support you. But do not be too hopeful."

Before Christine had time to return with her supplies, he had fallen asleep. She sweetly lifted his head onto her lap and pressed the cool compress to his forehead, making sure the covers never slid past his shoulders.

Observing him as he slept, she lowered herself to face him. His features remained the same, thin flesh, stretched like a tambourine, over sharp bone, yet seemed now smoother, relaxed. Too carefully, afraid of breaking the sacred moment, she pressed her forehead to his and cupped his sunken cheek with her small hand. She closed her eyes.

"We'll do this together, my love."