Augh. Here we are with chapter three, when Erik makes his grand entrance. Woot. Enjoy.
Night had fallen, and the air was cold; November was no time to be traveling alone, especially when one's business did not allow him to use the roads. At least the freezing rain had stopped with the setting sun, even though leaves still turned themselves over sporadically, spilling ice water onto the ground below. However, he had managed to build a small fire that smoked sullenly against the wet logs – it gave off little enough heat, but he would have to make do. He had survived worse nights, in any case. Occasionally, restless, he would wander to where his horse was tethered, a stubborn but surprisingly silent Arabian he had liberated from the Shah's stables, to check on the scraps of cloth wound around the bit and to see if his one blanket was warm enough for its liking; however, the angry red glow of his ring sent him back to the fireside each time.
He was a man on the run, and he was known as Erik. Not because he had been baptized with that name, or had it given to him by his mother, but because he himself had searched for it those long years alone on the road, choosing and casting aside identities like old cloaks. It was the name he had decided upon in Persia the night he fled from the Forbidden, and for the moment it suited him well enough.
Had the issue been left to his childhood, Erik doubted he would have had a name at all. His earliest memories, full of worried women in black scuttling and clucking and sidestepping his path, held no real identification and later, living in seclusion in a monastery, he had been referred to as simply "you" or possibly "it." Not even "he," a distinction Erik had never really understood until he was older. At first, he had assumed that he was an orphan pledged to the Church and God's service like the other boys, but it quickly became obvious that he was no meant to take part in their education. The only book he was meant to read was the Bible, constantly atoning for sins he had no hope of comprehending, sins that he had no hand in. This, too, he did not understand until later.
Erik shook his head and stared into the flames, but there was nothing to be seen except the inane flickering of a fist closing around the logs and he dared not conjure anything else, for fear of attracting his pursuers. Once again, his relentless desire for knowledge had nearly gotten him killed. When he was younger, that same pursuit had driven him to disobey the priests and secretly make his way through their entire library, despite the threat of days of solitary confinement when he was caught. However, at an early age, locks had begun to mean nothing to him, when they would inexplicably open with the right flick of his wrist, and so he devoured the books without fear of consequence. When they ran out, he began to write his own on stolen scraps of paper, filling up entire epics of architecture, literature, natural sciences – everything and anything he had learned.
In those days, he had called himself Jean, after the kindly old priest who tended to ignore misplaced or borrowed books. He was a loner, even though most of the other boys would have ignored him anyways, and he spent most of his days alone in his rare solitary room, or in the chapel, praying and listening to the daily chants and hymns. Music, too, had ignited his passion in those early years, but other than the day's standard hymns, it had been equally denied by his elders. However, he was taught the basics of notation to follow the scores, and so he had made do with his own music, which at first was only meant only to fill the holes inside that hymns could not.
Even while living in a house of God, he had not found any alliance with Deity of any sort – resenting the alleged sins thrust upon him for no obvious reason, hating the unfair rules that prohibited his singing. He had been an aloof child, held apart by the cloth mask he was forced to wear at all times – this too, he had resented – uncommonly focused and quick to anger. He did not understand why languages, along with locks and walls, should mean nothing to him, but he cultivated those strange abilities as much as he could.
It was during his eleventh year that everything had fallen apart. His writings, hidden in his sleeping pallet – music and all – had been discovered and burned. Enraged, he had demanded why he should be so different from the other boys – why he should wear a mask and learn in secret, leaving his mind to curdle. It wasn't until years later that Erik realized his intellect – which hadn't seemed anything but ordinary to him at the time – frightened them just as much as his face. That afternoon, Brother Jean had pulled him in front of the well and bid him take off the mask.
He had left that night, Jean no more.
Erik frowned and prodded the sickly flames with a stick. That was not important anymore – he had never even set foot in a chapel since then, not by choice.
Silence, then, made him stiffen – too much silence, followed by an outburst of clattering hooves. Cesar shifted uneasily but was, mercifully, otherwise silent. Erik reached for the lasso in his cloak and jumped to his feet, ready to defend himself, only to realize the hunters were moving away from his position. Just as he was about to investigate what could have drawn them off, the undergrowth parted to reveal a tall man whose skin melted into the night.
"Daroga," Erik greeted with raised eyebrows, lowering himself to the ground once more. "How is it a man can sound like an entire troop of cavalry moving in the other direction?"
The man smiled in a sudden flash of white teeth, and seated himself across from Erik. "They were headed this way, but a figure of some sort drew them father into the trees. Strange bit of luck, that." His eyes flashed cat-like in a reflection of the light, belying his nonchalant tone.
Erik snorted, not fooled for a second. They had met in a Russian prison several years ago, when the man had introduced himself as simply "Daroga," even as the quirk of his lips and his current position had marked him as anything but. Erik had introduced himself as Sebastian in return, and they had spent the better part of five years traveling together, following a rather anticlimactic prison break. The Daroga had been with him that night in Persia, but he had stayed behind as a distraction while Erik had escaped with their prize. Out of common courtesy, they had never discussed each other's heightened abilities, but Erik knew enough to know that the Daroga was dangerous when trifled with.
"Do you have it?" the Persian asked, eyeing the small leather bag by Erik's feet that held his journals, several books, meager enough rations, and what they had both risked so much for. In response, Erik reached inside and pulled out a small wooden carving of a panther and a jackal with their necks intertwined so you could not tell whose head belonged to whom. His interest in the artifact was purely academic, but judging by the look on his friend's face, that feeling was not mutual.
"It's certainly well-made… the detail, Daroga… but it's strange how something so simple could be so powerful." And powerful it was: even the heavy weight of it in his hand radiated strength and majesty beyond what simple sight revealed, but it was a power Erik did not understand, that was locked off to him and his abilities. Shrugging, he tossed it over the flames before he lost his entire arm to the dangerous gleam in the Persian's eyes.
The man's eyes closed as his long, dark fingers curled around the cedar carvings, detailed down to the last hair on the last curve of motion. "I never thought…" he breathed quietly.
"And I never thought we could outdo the Americas," Erik shot back with a grin, twisting his finger so a gold ring glinted in the light. "Don't get ahead of yourself. We're not out of this yet, Daroga."
He shrugged. "Those fools will follow that shadow right back to Persia, and by then we shall be safe enough." A smile then, with none of the usual overtones, broke out. "Thank you, my friend. I am forever in your debt."
Rolling his eyes, Erik set more logs on the fire. "Don't get sentimental on me, Daroga," he said as he got up to check on Cesar once more. "You may regret it some day."
Soundtrack:
Zero 7 – In The Waiting Line
Massive Attack – Inertia Creeps