Chapter 7- Scars

She swallowed hard, her hand pinned to the bars of the window, aching against the cold steel. He was pressing hard and she was stuck there, if she jumped from the crate she would surely hurt herself and if she screamed then she would be caught. She tried to tug her arm away and the man grinned, she choked on bile as she saw the gaps in his teeth, the blackness of the remaining ones. She tugged again and he let out a quiet giggle, amused, and for a moment the cruelty made her think that perhaps this was Erik and her memory was distorted.

She snapped herself out of it and glanced down at the dirty hand, black with mud, gripping her fingers. As she stared she noticed that under the mud the hand was disfigured too, as was the wrist. She forced her eyes up to the face and realised that almost the entire face was rough and the neck was just as bad. She looked at his hair, which although clumped in filth, was a light brown, not the jet black of Erik's. His eyes were a gold colour but they certainly were not Erik's, they were neither cold and angry nor blue and beautiful. As she looked at him she began to recognise him.

'He said you would come,' the man whispered with a wry smile. She stared at him, no longer repulsed but intrigued. 'Do you recognise me, Mademoiselle Daee?'

'Persian…' she said nodding.

'It is still Mademoiselle Daee, oui?' he asked. 'It would trouble me to offend you.'

Again she nodded.

'Are you surprised?' he asked, his eyes fixed up on hers.

'I…' she said but no other words came out, she was not surprised she was shocked. She glanced down at her hand, which was still under his, and gave it another gentle tug. This time the man let go and wiped it on her cape.

'Did you really think they had caught him, dear?' he asked with a chuckle.

'But… Persian…'

'Nadir,' he said, with a cough. Christine grimaced at the sound of his chest rumbled, it made her feel ill.

'What happened to you?' she asked, still staring at his face, almost wanting to touch it to see if it were some illusion Erik had conjured.

'The fire.' He said simply. 'I went back to rescue some trapped guests. Was caught in it myself.'

'I'm sorry…' she began but he shushed her quickly and shook his head slowly.

'Erik pulled me out,' he said with a smile. 'Saved my life, though he shouldn't have bothered.'

She frowned in confusion and he grinned at her bewilderment as he took his hand from the window and folded his arms across his body. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the guards station, when he was satisfied he turned back to Christine who was still watching him carefully.

'They're going to hang you…' she said. 'I shall have to tell them that you aren't their Phantom.'

'Don't be foolish,' he said with a giggle. 'Do you think I would be here if I didn't want to be?'

Again her answer was to frown, wrinkling up her pretty features.

'I am dying,' he stated and waited for her response, when none came he continued. 'Some sort of disease…'

'Is it…' she began and he shook his head.

'No,' he said and smiled. 'Not catching.'

'Oh…' she let out a relieved sigh.

'I would rather the quick and relatively painless death of the hangman's noose than the slow and painful death I am suffering now.'

'Where is Erik then?' she asked and he shrugged with another harsh cough. She looked at him. 'But he knows you're here… he told you I would come…'

'Yes,' he answered. 'He knows. He also knows I am dying. This is a blessing for me.'

'In return for saving your life, you are to save his?'

'It was my decision,' He said, turning his back to her and leaning against the wall at the side of the window. 'You should go.'

'Where is he?' she asked but was greeted with an delighted chortle.

'Nowhere.' He said, laughing loudly and crawling back to corner of his cell, into the shadows as a guard stood up and checked on him. She ducked down and stepped off the crate, back to the wall.

She would be back here in the morning, she would look this man in the face for the second time in less then twelve hours. He would look forlorn, he would look broken. The world's newspapers would be lapping it up like a cat at milk. Christine would stare at him, she would look at his grotesque face, his ugly arms and she would turn to the officer, looking solemn and sure. And she would say, 'Yes, this is the Phantom of the Opera'.

She would do it to save Erik.

She would do it to save herself.