A/N: Thank you so much to all the lovely people who submitted reviews, and for being so encouraging! Do keep them coming, your feedback means a lot to me :) (oh, and phantomsangelofmusic – I'm very flattered you want me to teach you how to write, lol.)

4. If You Can't Beat Them …

Erik was on a train to Marseille. He had taken pains to find an empty compartment, and now sat, eyes closed, soothed by the rhythmic rocking of the carriage. Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk. In his mind, he briefly imagined the green fields and houses streaking past outside, like an ever-changing, wind-whipped painting. Too much out there. At least with his eyes closed, he could control it and make everything … the whole world … still.

He had slept restlessly the previous night – there had been dreams, but the details had deserted him and he had simply awoken that morning with sweat on his brow and a lingering sense of terror. Now, as he hovered between sleeping and waking, images from his past once again invaded his consciousness, overpowering his will. He was back in the darkness.

It was night, and like a shadow he made his way down the narrow alleys to the tavern that the dealer frequented, a place he knew well. A rough wooden plank hung above the doorframe, and out of habit he paused for a moment to read the name of the establishment. The Siren's Song. Beneath the cloud of his despair, a part of him always chuckled at the bitter aptness of the title. Unfortunately, they hadn't managed to get the illustration right – the corner of the board was decorated with a mermaid, clumsily painted onto the worn, grooved surface. He looked up at the now-familiar image. The unevenness of the wood and exposure to the elements had distorted the sea-girl, so that her wavering outline and mottled colours seemed to mirror his own deformity. A fine pair we make, he thought, as he crossed the threshold.

The space inside was dim, with very few lanterns lit … probably for the comfort of its patrons, many of whom were sprawled across tables or floors, dead drunk. Dust lay placidly on furniture and people alike. In the grainy amber light, an oily-faced bartender leaned back on a stool, his feet on the counter, smoking a cigar and languidly flipping through a racy magazine. Quietly, Erik swept past it all. His soft cloak rippled about him, affording him some protection from the dirt and unpleasant odours that floated unabashedly throughout the room.

He found the man – Jacques was his name – at the usual place, seated near the back at a smoky table with four other ruffians. When he saw his customer arrive, Jacques rose with a grin and beckoned him to a corner.

"Pleasure to see you again, Monsieur," the thug intoned.

The strange man in the black cloak always made the dealer vaguely nervous, though he had never been outwardly threatening. The customer had never allowed anything more than the very tip of his chin to be seen beyond the depths of the hood, but Jacques thought he had once caught a glimpse of a black cloth mask. Perhaps in order to prove to himself that there was nothing to fear, he always acted in a slightly condescending way towards the stranger. Erik accepted this, never rising to the veiled challenge – the dealer was useful to him, and besides, their meeting-places were always public and he did not want to draw attention.

"Here," breathed Erik, holding out the last of his money. "That is all I can spare for the time being."

Jacques took the small bundle of notes and flipped through them. "Ah, I understand. But I am afraid it is not enough." He handed them back.

"You will give me something, Jacques," Erik hissed. "Do not try my patience."

"I would like to, Monsieur, I really would, since we are such good friends. But forgive me, it is impossible."

Erik's jaw tightened. "You are trying to twist something more out of me. I assure you, Jacques, this is all there is to be had tonight. You will get no more. It is this or nothing." He growled, leaning in slightly so that he could look down at the barrel-chested brute.

Jacques merely shifted his position and adjusted his coat with a haughty air. "Well then it appears we will both be leaving with nothing tonight, Monsieur." He moved to step away.

Suddenly, Erik's arm shot out and his powerful hand pinned the man's throat to the wall. Jacques made a gurgling sound, his arms flailing. The strong grip slowly tightened, the man's face becoming redder every second … deep within his hood, Erik's teeth were bared, exposed by a lip that was curled in exertion. He breathed hard.

Abruptly, a cry from across the room pierced his concentration. Jacques' friends had realized what was going on, and were thundering towards the corner. In a second, they had Erik by the arms, and the dealer was doubled over, hands on his knees, spluttering and wheezing. Jacques' men began cursing, and two held Erik's arms apart as a third repeatedly punched him in the stomach. Once or twice the men almost lost their grip on him as he struggled, but Erik was tired and weak from a lack of food, and the adrenalin brought on by his anger only lasted so long. He soon began to go limp. The other patrons of the tavern glanced over, but knew better than to interfere in private matters … they continued with their drinks, and the bartender snorted.

Eventually Jacques, still bent over, could be heard muttering something. The puncher stopped and turned to his leader.

"What was that, boss?"

Jacques coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and unsteadily returned to a standing position.

"I said … stop."

There was an awkward silence.

"Let him go."

The men released Erik's arms, and he swayed dangerously before regaining his balance and standing. Although it felt as if his stomach had caved in, he resolutely kept his hands in fists by his sides, resisting the urge to cover his abdomen with his forearms and curl up. He waited. There was no point running – he was surrounded by the five of them, with no visible means of egress. Jacques eyed his captive for a long moment … the face was still obscured by the heavy hood. Slowly, the dealer's gaze travelled to the floor, and his dirty finger pointed at something there. It was a piece of parchment which had lain unnoticed by all except Jacques during the scuffle. Slightly crumpled and folded over, only someone in his bent position could have seen what was on it.

"Pick it up." The order was obviously directed at Erik, at whom the leader was once again staring. However, the cloaked figure made no movement.

"Pick it up," he repeated, louder.

Erik was stone.

Finally, still pointing, and without taking his eyes off Erik, Jacques softened his voice: "Gaspard, pick it up."

The fourth man … only a boy, really, who had done very little until now … came forward and picked up the parchment, handing it to Jacques. Despite themselves, all the members of his gang craned their necks curiously to see what was written on it.

But it wasn't writing. It was a sketch. Before them, was a beautiful, mellow drawing of the Opera Populaire's exterior. Although it was an inanimate building, the artist had infused its lines with such gentle affection and elegance that it was more moving than any sentimental image of children or animals. The sketch was accurate in every detail, and the shading so complex and realistic it looked as if the sun was peering down at the building now and then, between shifting clouds. Truly, the observers would not have been surprised if the tiny people and horses in the street started moving of their own accord.

Erik cursed under his breath – it must have fallen out of his pocket. It was an old drawing he had put there the other day, with a vague notion of selling it for a few coins at a book stall, or some such place. However, he had not yet been able to steel himself enough to go outside during daylight.

Jacques looked up first. "Did you make this, Monsieur?"

Erik was silent.

"Speak, for we shall not leave until I know."

There was a pause. "I did," Erik spat. He was breathing heavily again, the anger in his voice barely controlled.

"Well, it is very fine," said Jacques, looking at it again with a tilt of his head and the air of a connoisseur. He was apparently oblivious to the tone of the captive's reply. "You are an artist, then?"

"I am nothing."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. "Just as you please." He handed the paper to one of his men and strode over to Erik, heels clicking on the wooden floorboards. "But tell me: are you as good with paint as you are with charcoal?"

Erik kept his head bent and his voice low. "I have used paint, on occasion."

"And what of other media? Have you any talent for, say, sculpting, and things like that?"

"I have turned my hand that way before."

"Excellent." Jacques looked pleased. He shot his gang a significant glance. "In that case, Monsieur, I have a proposition for you."

Erik was awoken with a jolt as the train passed over a particularly bumpy patch of track. He looked around at the still-empty compartment, glad that no-one had caught him sleeping.

He sighed, and pulled himself up into a more alert position. He hated sleep, just as he hated the act of travelling – both resulted in the surrender of one's control in some way. When travelling, all he could do was sit still and wait patiently for the driver to deliver him to his destination. He had little command over how that time was spent – he was a prisoner of his surroundings, and prey to any unpleasant features thereof. In this carriage, such 'unpleasant features' included the hideous green and red carpet under his feet, the constant rattling of the window pane and the musty scent of the passengers who had preceded him. He experienced all these things with distaste, but would not escape them until he reached his station.

Ah … but sleep … sleep was even worse. In addition to surrendering control over his body – which in itself was alarming – he had to surrender control over his thoughts. In that state, he became a prisoner of his own mind … and that had many more unpleasant features than this ridiculous train compartment.

He checked his watch. Another two hours, at least.