The One Where Erik is a stubborn bastard, the Persian gets his say, and Christine sleeps it off. I will confess to being crazy-fond of the Persian and a certain OC, but this was necessary to save a lot of he-said-he-said later on. Everybody loves the Persian, right? I apologise to all the Nadir fans out there, but Kay and I have never been on the best of terms. Hope you enjoy, please review if you liked it or if you didn't, constructive criticism is definitely encouraged!
As for names: when you're around for a few millennia, you tend to pick up different aliases. Different people may think of the same character with a different name, but I'll try to keep it obvious who everybody is :)
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The Daroga helped the old Gypsy lay out the girl on the makeshift bed, clearing away patchouli-scented pillows and holding back her hair so it would not get caught under he shoulders. Surprisingly small, pale and blonde with fine bones, she was most definitely not a gypsy an he couldn't help wondering at the story behind her apprenticeship in the usually carefully-guarded folk arts. His inherent curiosity, one last vice he put up with, made him consider asking Madame Semele, but one look at her stern, worried face dissuaded that line of thought.
"Too much," she was murmuring, hovering fretfully over the child's prone form. "Too much, too soon, I should have known..." she reached for a small bag stashed into her skirts and turned her glare onto the Daroga – it took true effort not to back away at the sharp honesty of her stare. "You! Go! She will be fine, no thanks to your friend out there..." she broke off, muttering to herself in Romanian, and the Daroga, who did have a sense for self-preservation, bid a hasty retreat and emerged into the bright sun-glare of early afternoon just in time to see Erik leading Cesar back into the trees. He had known of his companion's origins – as he had learned his lesson on blind trust early on, but in all this time he had never seen it thrown back at him so blatantly. Judging by the heavy, marching stride of Erik's boots, it was a sore subject after all.
"Erik," he called, in an attempt to at least slow the man down. No such luck; if anything, Erik began to walk faster.
"Leave me be, Daroga," it was a simple whisper designed to carry, as his dark cloak faded into the trees. The Daroga made as if to follow – a squirrel, perhaps, could make good time against an annoyingly maudlin half-blood – when a heavy hand on his shoulder kept him in place.
"Well old man," it was a young voice, with an odd cadence to the Romanian accent that made the Daroga turn, nearly laughing in surprise, "I was wondering when you would show yourself around here. Finally bored of chasing sandstorms down south?"
He had the shape of a young man, to go with the voice, but the Daroga would have known those ageless eyes anywhere. And so he grinned, relaxing into old habits and old languages like a worn glove. "I was beginning to think that you had disappeared altogether," he responded, holding his palms out in the traditional greeting. The young man pressed his own against the Daroga's hands, and the sharp thrill of shifting into each other nearly made him cry out. It had been far, far too long. The young man – Pan, here of all places, looked equally as dazed; apparently the others were still scattered after the hell that was the Inquisition. Not that anybody could blame them; the Daroga himself had spent years running from those damned memories.
"It's been a while," Pan said, echoing his thoughts in a characteristic understatement, as he pulled his hands back; the Daroga dropped his own reluctantly. "What brings you to our humble backwater? The wonderful weather? The rustic charm? Or did you just miss me?"
"Nothing but chance," the Daroga sniffed; he remembered the small carving in his pocket and grinned – he should have known. Enjoying the anticipation, he pulled out the artwork and tossed it towards Pan without letting him see what it was – the giddy shock on his old friend's face made the entire debacle worth it, half-bloods, Forbidden, and all. "Good chance, you might say." He thought of the young girl inside and winced; Pan did not notice, as he was too busy examining the woodwork in his hands.
"You didn't," he murmured, thumbs following the curve of the jackal's arched back reverently, eyes glittering dangerously.
"Oh, I assure you, I did. It was about time, too." They shared a conspiratorial smile and suddenly he was a thousand years ago and a thousand miles away, staring at the joining of two stars as the moon sank into the sea – but no, no it was late fall and it was midday and he had seen so much – too much – since then. "Do you have somewhere safe to keep it?" the responsibility he had learned since then made him ask. Pan nodded.
"It's not as if I'm wandering freely these days," he said tucking the carving into a small bag hanging from his shoulder. "All things considered, you see."
As a matter of fact, the Daroga did not, and he said so. "I never thought to find you in the middle of nowhere, masquerading as a Gypsy." A thought occurred to him, and he had to roll his eyes at the probability. "It's not another woman, is it? You know that never turns out well."
Pan only smiled, infuriatingly enigmatic. "You might be right, old friend. Let's just say that I made a promise to a lady, one I intend to keep." His eyes flashed towards Madame Semele's tent, then, and his smile turned soft and oddly vulnerable. It was an expression that the Daroga had only seen once before on his friend's face, and its reappearance made something inside him constrict. "Had you told me a century ago that I would be perfectly content playing the guardian to a young girl..." he broke off, laughing ruefully. The Daroga thought once again of the child inside – gifted, yes, but to warrant such protection...?
"It is a bit out of character," was all he said out loud; Pan raised an eyebrow. "And yet you seem as sharp as ever." Right down to the pores on the young Gypsy's face, which the Daroga knew from experience took considerable effort to keep up. In these Christian lands, where his current dark-skinned appearance made most people uneasy enough not to look too closely, he had grown a bit sloppy.
"After thirteen years of keeping that little hellion out of trouble, I damned well should be." The fond affection in his voice triggered something in the Daroga's memory – "although when you think of Evangeline as a child, this is a near-cakewalk; after all, it took both of us to keep that little brat in line..."
Oh,
oh, dear.
Suddenly it all fell into place: the timing, the girl, the premonition, the only Lady that could ever warrant one of Pan's elusive promises, the damned shifter himself lounging in the sun as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Everyone knew of the Lady's half-blood child with a mortal man, but on the other hand no one seemed to know exactly who it was or where they were kept hidden. He had to admit, she could hardly be safer; or, at least, she couldn't have been. He hazarded a glance to where Erik had disappeared into the shadows: odd things tended to happen when mixed-bloods met. "Damn," he muttered, frowning. The last thing they needed was trouble, especially with the girl unconscious
"What?" Pan asked, eyes narrowing.
"The girl is inside sleeping off an unbidden premonition – no, don't run off, that's not all. She read the cards for me, but the premonition was for the man I was travelling with, the wraith's convent son." The grim recognition in Pan's eyes mirrored his own. We will meet again... "You know, if I had only known of the girl's background..."
"Then others would have known and descended upon us like wolves. No, no, one lone wolf is more than enough." Although he had calmed down, he still had a strange energy that made the Daroga shift from foot too foot in unconscious empathy. "Are you sure she is alright?"
"Quite sure, at least for now." Sighing, the Daroga stilled and met the old shifter's eyes. "I should go and make sure he stays away – although it's unlikely return unless he was somehow bound and gagged and dragged back with several oxen." No easy feat for his stubborn partner, but it did nothing to reassure Pan. "He is not an evil man. He is not completely good – who is? – but there is true honour there, along with pride to rival your own. It was his pride she attacked; he will not return." Finally appeased, Pan nodded.
"I hope you're right, old man." He sighed, some of the fine detail to his form fading away momentarily.
Knowing they would both be around to catch up another time, the Daroga waved his hand towards the tent housing the girl who had inspired such devotion in the one being he had thought had forgotten how to care about others. However, even from that short encounter, he could see how she could have managed it so easily: so like and yet so unlike her mother. "Go," he said, "take care of your girl. She needs you."
Pan smiled softly, held out a hand; the Daroga clasped it. "Take care of yourself, Kai." The shock of hearing his true name for the first time in years made the Daroga's fingers clench harder.
"The same to you, Pan," he responded. As the young Gypsy pulled back and turned away, the Daroga shifted into the form of a bird and took off with a clatter of wings; he had a lot of lost ground to make up.
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