Author's notes: Enter Nadir! Let the investigation begin!

Mina – (takes award for Best Story) I'd like to thank my phantasy, for my crazy ideas, my mind, for the obsession with PotO, my muse, Erik, for existing and my computer, for making it all possible.

Mominator – Kay's Erik just isn't fluffy. Read on! Oh, and I edited it!

Sandra – (cheers)

Enrinye – you try typing when you are forbidden to be on the net and your parents are on the couch behind you, Z! Here you go, let's see what you think. Anyway, I think I might do a fic about the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, what do you think?

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Chapter XV

X X X

Days dragged on in an endless sea of heat and pompous parties. It seemed that ever since the Chagnys and Christine had arrived, there was not a day without a feast, no evening without a celebration dinner. The whole palace had gone mad in an effort to impress the wealthy and influential aristocrats in every possible way, but, in Erik's opinion, succeeded only in making utter and complete idiots out of themselves.

That was the only positive and at least a bit humorous thing about the entire situation.

Bright and awed at the beginning, Christine had changed into a timid introvert within a few hours, talking scarcely, often locked in her chambers, doing things no one knew about. It reminded him, with mortifying authenticity, of the final week in Rome and there were times when he could have sworn that he heard the soft sound of singing echo through the halls. Or perhaps it was merely in his mind. After all, her voice had been in his head for the past five years, why would it disappear now?

After his initial fury had faded, day after day, self-hatred took its place more and more as Erik watched her inner light fade. Such torture was unbearable, even for him, but whenever the more empathic side of him took over or was close to doing so, the image of the boy rushing to comfort her, be it real or imaginary, appeared. Eventually, however, when he saw her in the gardens one day in what bore a much too realistic semblance of a mourning gown, the remnants of his anger turned to despair and whatever remained of the former was now aimed, along with seething hatred, at Raoul de Chagny.

All could have been solved, perhaps, if he chose to approach Christine again. But the instinctive awareness that after leaving her alone and yelling such cruel things at her, whatever childish affection or even pity she had perhaps held for him was gone, replaced by fear and realization that maybe he wasn't too far off when he called himself a monster.

Like years ago, his protective shield became his devotion to work. It seemed a lifetime since he had written music, he realized, and he wasn't pleased the least with the discovery of neglecting something so close to his heart for so long. As a result, he proceeded to write down some of his favorite arias. His incomprehensively vivid and accurate memory of every event that had transpired in the years of his life allowed him to remember every opera and musical composition he had ever read, heard or seen, be it the melody, the notes, the orchestra or instrument playing it or the vocals singing it.

Nadir had found him like that three days after Erik began writing, little more a week after the Chagnys and Christine had arrived. He had returned to the palace, creating no commotion, not even having the briefest reception before returning to "work". The image of a furiously working Erik was not one he was unfamiliar with, thus he immediately knew that the situation urged caution. Though by no means an introvert, Erik had one habit that was often associated with introverts – he was very unpleasant when someone interrupted his work, especially work he was passionate about.

When Nadir thought about it for a moment, he found he couldn't really name a type of work Erik wasn't passionate about, if it was done according to his instructions and with his supervision.

The scribbling of a pen on paper stopped and Erik looked at what he had written with a frown that was hidden from the Persian's view. It was close, very close… in a moment, he crushed the paper into a ball and threw it to the nearest rubbish bin. Close wasn't enough. The first half was decent, but it wasn't it. Then, recognizing a sound behind him, he turned around briefly, the frown disappearing for a moment at the sight of the Persian.

"Oh, you're back." Erik noted, slightly tonelessly. He immediately took out a new sheet of paper, examined it for a moment, then placed it on the table and began writing again. "How is Reza? He seemed better when I saw him, psychologically. Happier."

The Persian wanted to ask what in the name of Allah was he trying to do now, but decided he didn't like the nervous edge to Erik's voice. Apparently, something wasn't going well. "Reza is better… or was, until you left." Nadir replied with a hint of an accusation.

Naturally, the boy, who was, like mostly everyone else, amazed by Erik's skills, was nearly heartbroken when his father had announced that Erik couldn't stay for long. Reza, his sight failing bit by bit, grew almost overly attached to the masked magician, who felt the same about the boy. It was a strange friendship they had, but it was one of the things that kept the sick boy alive and happy for a very long time.

"The rushed departure wasn't to my liking, you know that well." Erik noted, turning back to the policeman from his desk. "I shall have to visit more often, then. When is the boy's birthday?" Then, without waiting an answer, he waved a hand impatiently. "It doesn't matter. I shall bring him some nice presents when I come visit next time and see if he had learned that new trick."

"What are you working on this time?" Nadir finally chose to ask it, not least of all because he saw the pile of torn sheets and paper balls.

"Writing down a few music pieces." It sounded almost nonchalant, but the daroga could see the impatience of the statement. "I have denied music for too long, far too long…" he trailed off for a moment, shaking his head. "Between the two so-called monarchs, their demands, the palace and everything else, I have little time for myself. I wanted to start composing my own pieces, but then I decided to write down some of my favorites first."

"What happened after you returned?" Catching the light frown behind the mask, Nadir's first suspicions were confirmed. So something has happened and this wasn't just a wild goose chase. If there was one thing he didn't believe about the whole speech he had just listened to, it was the part about Erik's liking of the departure.

After a moment of silence, Erik softly replied: "Look for crimes and plots in different parts of the palace, daroga. Clues to conspiracies and evidence of betrayal is not what I keep in these chambers. You should try the true politicians´ apartments."

"This isn't about state affairs, Erik." the Persian noted sternly, "It's about you. Something has happened the night the delegacy had arrived and I would be very intrigued if you would humor me and tell me why you abandoned me in the middle of the courtyard and then reappeared near the diplomatic chambers."

"What grand tale that would satisfy your curiosity am I supposed to invent, daroga?" The hint of a hiss behind those words caused Nadir to take a subconscious step back. "What revelation do you expect to hear? My affairs are my own and when something angers me, even I cannot restrain myself. Prying into my past is one of the things that angers me, you know. And you are quite close to doing that, close indeed."

Erik, who had risen from his chair, sunk back into it, glaring daggers at the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be the couch. Though Nadir couldn't tell, in his mind, the couch was a wooden table to which the Vicomte de Chagny was tied and a large axe on a rope, swinging, was slowly descending. It was an attempt to redirect his anger from the Persian to someone who really deserved it, not aim it at a friend.

Meanwhile, Nadir crouched and picked up a sheet of paper that was seemingly untouched, merely misplaced and currently on the ground in the middle of a mess of papers. Knowing Erik, the mess would be gone within the hour, but he decided to see why this paper didn't suffer the fate of the rest of the unsuccessful attempts at creating something beautiful.

At first glance, it was a normal paper, without anything special. Then he saw that the fingers of his hand were now slightly gray, as if they had brushed against a thick layer of pencil lines. As Nadir turned the paper around to get a look of the other side, he immediately realized why. It wasn't, like the other papers, a composition.

It was a sketch.

And it wasn't just an ordinary design of the palace, for that wouldn't strike him as suspicious at the least. This was a detailed drawing, so realistic and beautiful that he simply had to stare at it for a few moments in awe until he even began looking at the picture closely, examining every line and every layer, still unable to comprehend how something like that could be created.

It was a portrait.

A portrait of a young woman, to be exact. Though black and white, since it was done in pencil only, it made anything else he had seen pale in comparison. Nadir didn't know the face, but could easily imagine it in real life. In a moment, however, the picture had been snatched from his hands and returned to the desk with almost an air of worshipping.

Nadir watched Erik, completely bewildered by this change of behavior, then glanced at the picture on top of the desk, curious about a great many things. Who was that? Certainly not just an imaginary model. The emotional response was too strong to confirm that hypothesis. Someone close to him, perhaps. Someone…

"Who is she?" the Persian asked quietly.

"An angel." Was the only reply he got before Erik sat back down once more and began writing, pointedly ignoring him in every aspect. After a few minutes, Nadir saw that for today, he had caused enough complications. It would be wisest to leave Erik to cool down for some time before asking that again.

X X X

Nadir Khan wasn't an easily surprised person. As a policeman, he had encountered a great many strange things over the years, seen quite a bit of the world and done a fair share of deeds for his part. Wandering aimlessly around the palace wasn't his idea of a good afternoon, especially since that meant thinking about what had happened. But if there was one thing he knew well, it was that with Erik, nothing was as it seemed. And he wasn't even counting the magic tricks into that group of things.

A desire to get away from the building brought him to the gardens, where he again wandered aimlessly, but at least could see the sun and breathe fresh air. The palace itself was more like a ruin to skilled eyes, but the gardens were well preserved, certainly worthy of notice at least because of their size. For someone like him, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Even if he would be truly paying attention, it would be anything out of the ordinary. He himself was a prince, though as the wretched proverb Erik favored said, the princes outnumbered the camels and fleas in Persia. The sunlit gardens could have impressed people who had never visited them, but not him. The sights and sounds were not impressive.

Then, he suddenly changed his opinion about the sounds. In the middle of nowhere, he heard a soft whisper of a song that was completely foreign to him, yet somehow strangely familiar, as if he had heard a similar tune before, but… no. No, he didn't recognize the words of the song, partially because he truly hadn't heard them before, partially because his French wasn't completely perfect. The phrases repeated themselves, however, so after hearing them a few times, he understood most of the lyrics. The meaning still remained a mystery.

In sleep he sang to me

In dreams he came…

That voice which calls to me

And speaks my name…

And do I dream again?
For now I find…

His music is forever there

Inside my mind…

Following the whisper of a shaking voice and the quiet sobs that followed, the Persian reached the source of the singing in less than a minute. It was a woman, he could tell that before she came into view. But it wasn't her tears or her French song or her dark dress and pale skin that bewildered him. It was the meaning of the song itself, which seemed to flee from his grasp the harder he tried to comprehend the words.

Her face was hidden in her hands when he saw her, she was trying to stop herself from an emotional breakdown. Nadir had never seen her before. When she revealed her face, he understood just how wrong he was. Even from afar, even though the heartbroken expression was far different from the gentle smile he saw before, it was clearly the woman from the portrait.

Suddenly, seeing her dark dress, Nadir remembered and realized why the song seemed familiar. He had heard one voice sing a similar one months ago, a voice equally breathtaking, but far from anguished. After all, Erik never sounded anguished.

But he also remembered something else.

Regaining his posture, the Persian decided to approach the strange woman. The dress made her seem older than she really was – he saw that she couldn't have been over twenty. At the sound of someone approaching her, she jumped and quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. Nadir watched with fascination as she went from anguished to sad, from sad to calm and from calm to controlled in expression.

"Mademoiselle," he began, in his best French, "are you alright? I thought I heard someone crying."

She shook her head fervently, though she was obviously surprised that he spoke her language. "I am quite alright, Monsieur, thank you for your concern."

"Then why the mourning dress?"

Looking down at her dark skirt, the woman sighed. "Please do not ask, Monsieur. The reasons are plenty, but the wound is still too fresh. And explaining my troubles to a stranger, no matter how polite and kind he may be, is not my habit."

Nadir bowed hastily. "Forgive my manners, my name is Nadir Khan, I am the resident daroga, the chief…"

"…of police, yes, the shah has mentioned you." she finished for him, smiling very slightly, "I have heard of you."

The Persian returned the expression. "Not any bad things, I hope."

"Far from it, Monsieur."

"That is pleasing, Mademoiselle Christine."

The woman frowned, "How do you know my name, Monsieur?" she asked, making no sign that she was offended with him addressing her that way.

Nadir, however, sighed deeply. So, everything fit into place after all.