Friends and Nemeses, Ch. 2
by AngelCeleste85
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Disclaimer: Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I don't own it, please don't sue me.
Author's Note: Coming back from a busy hiatus (moving to a new area, trying frantically to find work, learning to live with two new roomies), I don't have too much to offer y'all. I know, you guys have got to be wondering what's up with "Lachesis" – all I can say is two words: writer's block. So, I've started on another good one to get writer's block on later – great, something else to leave y'all hanging on. Oh, well. I do know where this one's going and how it'll end. Getting there might be a pain, but I trust Nadir'll come up with something...
// Erik's thoughts //
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Ch. 2 – Winds of Change
The sun was warm this morning and though the brisk breeze plucking at Erik's cloak told of winter's touch still hanging on, cumulus clouds over the sky promised a lovely spring day for any Parisians interested in it. Which Erik was, for once, perched atop Apollo's lyre.
He smiled a little, reveling silently in the sensation of flight that the breeze gave him as it tugged gently at his clothing. This was exactly the sort of morning he loved – fair, with clouds to hide the sun's full brilliance and provide some shadows to hide in, and warm enough to take the chill of the cellars out of his bones. It was still too early in the season for the Conservatory boys to come out and splash around in the catch basin up here and nobody else cared to take the fly's path to the door in the roof of the backstage area, so Erik had the roof to himself. Not that he would have stayed otherwise.
Today the wind tugged also at a portfolio that he had brought with him, fastened and lying on the rooftop where he had laid it carefully. It contained only a few pages of a new composition, something light and lilting that Christine could likely sing soon.
// It would be better if a coloratura took the role, but those are rare and far-between. Besides, her voice has not yet reached full maturity. // Erik smiled again, wondering at the back of his mind is Christine had everything it took to become one of those incredibly rare, flexible soprano- sopranos. // I would almost prefer the range of a contralto to work with, but coloraturas are simply too much talent to waste. //
Beneath him, the plaza was, as ever, nine-tenths empty. Except for the few people at the fringes who seemed too afraid to approach the massive building, or those on other business who seemed not to care where their path took them so long as it was not *through* the opera house. Or the street rats, with nothing better to do than beg and pick pockets – Erik's keen eyes watched one particularly skilful youth slip a woman's purse out from under her arm as she haggled with the keeper of the flower stand: the scamp escaped long before the theft was noticed, and Erik applauded silently even as he shook his head. // Children should not have to resort to that – but if one is to do something, one may as well be good at it, // he thought, remembering the harder days, before the gypsies... // One has to eat. //
And, as ever, there were the tourists come to gawk for a few minutes at the Palais Garnier and say they had seen Paris. By horseback they came sometimes, by carriage more often, but most, unaware of the dangers posed by the innocent-seeming urchins even now, came by foot.
One such tourist in particular caught his intense gaze, dressed in garb that he had not seen in over fifteen years...
// It can't be! //
Eyes narrowed, Erik threw himself down from Apollo's upraised arm in a flash and pressed as close to the masonry border as possible, tucking the cloak in around him. The suit – and the cloak – would need brushing later, but for now he ignored it. The figure far below him, examining the façade of his home, had his full attention.
A white caftan – linen, by the way it draped – stood out clearly against the dark, weathered cobblestones that made the floor of the great plaza, and a dark beard hung below the deep brown face. As if the turban was not enough identification enough...
// There could be any number of Persians in the world, and any given number of them could be in Paris at this moment for any reason. The odds are greatly against it being the one I actually know. //
But that one that he knew would have a very good reason for coming to Paris now.
Then the figure turned – most certainly it was male – and the first step he took revealed the limp that Erik remembered so well. Erik himself had dressed the accompanying scar – if it was indeed the Daroga of Mazanderan come to call.
// Do not be foolish, Erik, any given number of male Persians in Paris could be favoring their right leg for any given reason! //
But the odds were disappearing fast.
"And Nadir would want me under his eye at all times, curse that pig-kissing busybody to the sands," Erik muttered under his breath, thoroughly annoyed. // Who died and appointed you my conscience, thank you very much? Or should have died before making that unfortunate decision? //
The Persian man below was circumnavigating the building now, and Erik stood and followed him. Nadir would know that Erik was there and would also know that Erik knew of his presence also: hiding was of no use. If it was not, well, no accidents would have to be arranged for the aging policeman...
Erik chuckled suddenly and tipped an imaginary hat in return to the Persian's off-target gesture. "Well met again, you arrogant son of a three- headed goat. Although, if I know you as well as I think I do I'm already at least a step behind." His strange eyes narrowed. "A problem I intend to rectify." He whirled, and a moment later the rooftop was deserted.
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To Be Continued...
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~*~*~*~*~*~
Disclaimer: Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I don't own it, please don't sue me.
Author's Note: Coming back from a busy hiatus (moving to a new area, trying frantically to find work, learning to live with two new roomies), I don't have too much to offer y'all. I know, you guys have got to be wondering what's up with "Lachesis" – all I can say is two words: writer's block. So, I've started on another good one to get writer's block on later – great, something else to leave y'all hanging on. Oh, well. I do know where this one's going and how it'll end. Getting there might be a pain, but I trust Nadir'll come up with something...
// Erik's thoughts //
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ch. 2 – Winds of Change
The sun was warm this morning and though the brisk breeze plucking at Erik's cloak told of winter's touch still hanging on, cumulus clouds over the sky promised a lovely spring day for any Parisians interested in it. Which Erik was, for once, perched atop Apollo's lyre.
He smiled a little, reveling silently in the sensation of flight that the breeze gave him as it tugged gently at his clothing. This was exactly the sort of morning he loved – fair, with clouds to hide the sun's full brilliance and provide some shadows to hide in, and warm enough to take the chill of the cellars out of his bones. It was still too early in the season for the Conservatory boys to come out and splash around in the catch basin up here and nobody else cared to take the fly's path to the door in the roof of the backstage area, so Erik had the roof to himself. Not that he would have stayed otherwise.
Today the wind tugged also at a portfolio that he had brought with him, fastened and lying on the rooftop where he had laid it carefully. It contained only a few pages of a new composition, something light and lilting that Christine could likely sing soon.
// It would be better if a coloratura took the role, but those are rare and far-between. Besides, her voice has not yet reached full maturity. // Erik smiled again, wondering at the back of his mind is Christine had everything it took to become one of those incredibly rare, flexible soprano- sopranos. // I would almost prefer the range of a contralto to work with, but coloraturas are simply too much talent to waste. //
Beneath him, the plaza was, as ever, nine-tenths empty. Except for the few people at the fringes who seemed too afraid to approach the massive building, or those on other business who seemed not to care where their path took them so long as it was not *through* the opera house. Or the street rats, with nothing better to do than beg and pick pockets – Erik's keen eyes watched one particularly skilful youth slip a woman's purse out from under her arm as she haggled with the keeper of the flower stand: the scamp escaped long before the theft was noticed, and Erik applauded silently even as he shook his head. // Children should not have to resort to that – but if one is to do something, one may as well be good at it, // he thought, remembering the harder days, before the gypsies... // One has to eat. //
And, as ever, there were the tourists come to gawk for a few minutes at the Palais Garnier and say they had seen Paris. By horseback they came sometimes, by carriage more often, but most, unaware of the dangers posed by the innocent-seeming urchins even now, came by foot.
One such tourist in particular caught his intense gaze, dressed in garb that he had not seen in over fifteen years...
// It can't be! //
Eyes narrowed, Erik threw himself down from Apollo's upraised arm in a flash and pressed as close to the masonry border as possible, tucking the cloak in around him. The suit – and the cloak – would need brushing later, but for now he ignored it. The figure far below him, examining the façade of his home, had his full attention.
A white caftan – linen, by the way it draped – stood out clearly against the dark, weathered cobblestones that made the floor of the great plaza, and a dark beard hung below the deep brown face. As if the turban was not enough identification enough...
// There could be any number of Persians in the world, and any given number of them could be in Paris at this moment for any reason. The odds are greatly against it being the one I actually know. //
But that one that he knew would have a very good reason for coming to Paris now.
Then the figure turned – most certainly it was male – and the first step he took revealed the limp that Erik remembered so well. Erik himself had dressed the accompanying scar – if it was indeed the Daroga of Mazanderan come to call.
// Do not be foolish, Erik, any given number of male Persians in Paris could be favoring their right leg for any given reason! //
But the odds were disappearing fast.
"And Nadir would want me under his eye at all times, curse that pig-kissing busybody to the sands," Erik muttered under his breath, thoroughly annoyed. // Who died and appointed you my conscience, thank you very much? Or should have died before making that unfortunate decision? //
The Persian man below was circumnavigating the building now, and Erik stood and followed him. Nadir would know that Erik was there and would also know that Erik knew of his presence also: hiding was of no use. If it was not, well, no accidents would have to be arranged for the aging policeman...
Erik chuckled suddenly and tipped an imaginary hat in return to the Persian's off-target gesture. "Well met again, you arrogant son of a three- headed goat. Although, if I know you as well as I think I do I'm already at least a step behind." His strange eyes narrowed. "A problem I intend to rectify." He whirled, and a moment later the rooftop was deserted.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
To Be Continued...
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