Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.
For Leroux purists, I apologize for the slight alteration of the Persian's storyline. I dearly wanted to give him a role, but in using the musical's ending instead of the book's, I had to change a few things to incorporate him.
Side Notes:
Readers and reviewers – I have sprinkled clues here and there throughout my story thus far. If you think you have an inkling as to what is going on, please do not give anything away in reviews or posts. Don't want to ruin any surprises!
Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they are!
Persia Resurrected
Not an entire day had passed since the Comtesse de Chagny had fled for London when Mme. Giry found her chambers entirely void of guests. For when she rose that morning, she saw that the bed in the sick room had been tidily made up, and all the medicines were missing from the table. Two notes were propped up next to the oil lamp on the nightstand, her name scrawled across the front of one in rather clumsy, shaky handwriting. Observing that it had been written upon her stationary, she tore open the message and read:
Dear Madame,
I am sorry to have troubled you these past several days with my illness, intruding upon your home and person, and thus disrupting your daily activities. Upon returning to my home, I shall continue my convalescence in peace and solitude. I request that you NOT venture into my cellars, as there are many unforeseen dangers of which you are unaware.
Ma cher madam, I must beg one more favor of you and your service to me shall be complete. If you would, please arrange for the following letter to be hand delivered to the resident at the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries palace, as written. It is urgent.
Believe me to be,
Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, O.G.
"The stubbornness of that man," muttered the woman. "He shall kill himself trying to return to his cellar."
And so it was that Mme. Giry, several days after the departure of the Comtesse de Chagny, found herself miraculously recovered from her deathly bout with pneumonia. She was so much improved, in fact, that the ballet corps was inflicted with an extra two-hour rehearsal session each day to make up for the time lost during the mistress' absence.
During the course of her illness, rumors of the Opera Ghost had flown throughout the corps, the chorus, and the stagehands, since there was no Madame there to warn of their impending doom should the Phantom hear their tales. Chilling stories flourished of how his voice had been heard echoing through the hallways upon the Comtesse's return, crying out from the grave in the deepest agony, screaming of the horrors of hell. The ballet rats would shiver in fright as little Jammes spoke in hushed whispers of her trip down the dark hallway past Mme. Giry's rooms one night, and how she had most definitely heard the Comtesse scream, "My child, my child! Leave my son, you monster!"
Rumors also abounded about the sudden improvement in the ballet mistress' health; La Carlotta was beside herself, shrieking to anyone who would listen of how she had known all along that Mme. Giry had not been sick, and that the Opera Ghost had returned to torment the prima donna once again. Messieurs Firmin and André had their suspicions as well, but did not dare to bring them up, neither act upon them, for fear of losing the esteemed de Chagny patronage. But as time passed, no more strange cries came floating down the hallways and all continued as before, thus the rampant chatter about the return of the Phantom became a mere trickle of gossip; a missing ballet slipper here, a tilted wall hanging there. Thus, everyday life continued in the aboveground world of the Opéra Populaire.
"Erik!...Erik, release me at once!" The bellowing voice echoed through his home, startling the man from his sleep, the throw resting over his shoulders tumbling to the ground. A pain in the sick man's lungs welled up at the sudden movement and another coughing fit seized him, forcing him to his knees. Through glazed eyes, Erik glanced around in confusion to find his bearing. Ah yes, I have returned home…
"Open the door, you fool, or I shall die in here!" came the cry again.
"Damn," he muttered, painfully pushing himself up from the ground and stumbling over to the mantel to trigger the mirror. Clutching at his throat, the Persian collapsed into the room, heat pouring in behind him. His jade eyes shot daggers at the man who struggled to rein in his cough.
Taking several shaky breaths, Erik pulled himself up into his chair once more, calmly composing his features.
"Daroga," he said raggedly, "my apologies. I returned to my home in a rather feverish state, and thoughtlessly forgot to disable the chamber before your arrival. There is water available in the decanter over there."
The Persian staggered to the table, poured out a generous glass and tipped it to his parched lips, downing the cool liquid in seconds. He turned back to the table and filled another for himself, and one for Erik. The fire in his throat at last quenched, he stalked over to the pale man seated before him.
"You assured me the first time I found myself in your little play room that you would dismantle the thing!" cried the Persian, his French overly accented in his rage. "I almost died in there, simply because you have this mad fascination with death!"
Erik closed his eyes wearily, resting his head on the stiff back of the chair, remembering the first time Nadir Khan had found his way through the labyrinth, down to his home and straight into the torture chamber. Erik had not even realized that it was the daroga of Mazanderan until the man was half-dead. What a shock it had been to find that his old friend lived in Paris, and had, in fact, been there for some time…
"If you had found me several weeks earlier, Daroga, you could have attended the first performance of my opera—"
The Persian chose his words carefully, testing to see how far his friend had slipped into madness, knowing full well what he was capable of. "Yes, Don Juan Triumphant. I have read its 'reviews' in every newspaper. Erik, you gave me your word that you would stop the killing when you left Persia—"
"I do not speak of Persia anymore!" snapped Erik, striding across the room, heedless of the broken objects and torn music littering the floor. "This is my life now – this ruined palace I have so carefully built over the years, destroyed by a foolish band of marauders within minutes." He gestured grandly about the room, flinching almost imperceptibly at the sight of his beloved organ, now smashed to pieces.
"They left one room intact – it was never found…Her room…" Erik choked on the words, his wound caused by the loss of his beautiful angel still raw and bleeding.
"The singer you took – Miss Daaé? Or I suppose she is now the Comtesse de Chagny…" The Persian's words died away as he saw the dark look that clouded the features of the man before him, something he had never thought to see in his lifetime.
"She has married him, then," the man whispered in utter hopelessness. "She was my salvation, you know…that is why I had to let her go." The corners of his mouth turned up grimly in a half-smirk, the expression devoid of the intended sarcasm. "I now know what it is to love. So I shall wait here to die then, with only myself and this useless love for company…"
Nadir shook his head in amazement, wishing he could have found his friend several weeks earlier, and perhaps prevented the whole disastrous affair. But then again, any intervention on his part would not have changed a thing. Who was he to stand in the way of plans made by the great magician, lover of trapdoors, personal advisor to the Shah of Persia and favorite of the khanum?
"Come, my friend," he said quietly, grasping the man's shoulder. "We shall take tea, and then begin to put your home back together…"
The torture chamber—Nadir had inquired about it. Erik returned his thoughts to the present, and to the fuming daroga before him. "I restored it after that boy and his servants wandered down here and straight into my house, looking for my body. It was all I could do to clean up the few signs of life and slip into the shadows. He was this close, Nadir—so close I could have whipped the lasso around his neck and be done with him forever."
The Persian sighed, reluctantly releasing his anger. "Why did you not do it? You would not have hesitated in Persia; you have killed many people you despised far less."
"Yes, I have," said Erik quietly, loath to delve once again into the past. "But as to why I chose to let the boy live—I think that is a story for another day. We have work to do."
"Work, my friend?" replied Nadir, grunting as if the man had told a great joke. "You are far too ill to accomplish anything. Oh yes, you conveniently did not mention your sickness in your letter. But the woman who sent for me included a note of her own, explaining how you simply left in the night after suffering from a raging fever that almost killed you. She half expected you to be lying dead in your own labyrinth. No, I think that we should wait until you have recovered."
Erik's golden eyes flashed in impatient irritation at his friend's denseness. "Of course I am too damned ill to do anything worthwhile, Daroga. Why do you think I sent for you?" Then seeing the look of resentment that crossed his friend's face, he forced his voice back into a persuasive smoothness. "Nadir, I must admit I need your assistance in this matter; the fact that I am ill has no consequence. You still have your connections in the Sûreté, and their network throughout Europe?"
The man nodded in affirmation.
"Good," he continued, his quick mind now racing with his plans. "Then we will need to be in contact with their informants in London – that is where Christine has gone. I want to know if she is easy to locate; if they have no difficulty in finding her, then whoever is after her will have no trouble, either. We will also need to be informed if there is any discussion in the underground about someone searching for a young woman and her child, and perhaps two or three servants, both in London and in Paris. Are you following me thus far?"
The Persian again nodded, wondering suspiciously at the man's carefully laid plans.
Erik paused a moment before continuing, sputtering out a few coughs, his limbs once again trembling from the fatigue he was so desperately trying to push back. Swallowing a bit of water from his glass, he cleared his throat and began again.
"Then, of course, there are the other things that must be watched: bank ledgers, receipts of money transactions, the use of her real name, letters to her Avocat—any slip-up could give away her location to them...why do you look at me that way, Nadir?"
The Persian had narrowed his eyes, silently studying the man before him. "What game do you play, Erik?
"Game? Perhaps you could elaborate, my friend," hissed the man, growing impatient with his implications.
"The Comtesse handed you everything that you have ever desired! You can still go to London, be her champion, and have her love and gratitude. I don't understand—"
Nadir's words were cut short as another great fit of raking coughs seized Erik. He flew to the man's assistance, locking strong arms underneath his friend's shoulders before he slid from his chair to the ground. Swinging his neck under the man's arm, the daroga dragged his ill friend to the Louis-Philippe room to lie down. He refused to place him in that morbid coffin—not when he had been so close to death only days ago.
Erik leaned heavily against the mahogany armoire as his friend turned back the bedding for him. Pulling open the door, he beheld Christine's lovely dresses again, the ones he had so carefully chosen for her; a few had been worn only once and the rest, not at all. He traced a finger lightly along an elaborately beaded neckline…everything that I have ever desired…Erik grimly clasped the soft material in his hand, squeezed it, then let it fall back into the dark closet.
"Of course I want all of that, Nadir," he whispered. "Turning her away when she pleaded for my protection was the most difficult thing I have ever done…"
The Persian assisted his quaking friend to the bed, then returned to the sitting room to gather up the medicine bottles, basin, and other sick items. Taking up the bottles one at a time, he found one labeled "quinine," and poured a bit into the man's half-empty water glass. Filling it again, he then stirred the liquid to effectively dilute the substance. It was not difficult to see that Erik's fever was returning; his limbs were trembling and shaking, and heat radiated from his person.
Erik accepted the glass from his friend, and as he put it to his lips, he made no mention of the bitter taste of the water. Nadir sighed in relief, glad that there would be no confrontation about the sleep agent.
"Don't you see, Daroga?" the man said, returning to the conversation. "Going to London would accomplish nothing. That man—or men, I believe, for there must be more than one—they are here in Paris. Christine is safe in England for now, but soon they will flush her out. Then she will have to flee again, and so goes the vicious cycle until they get what they want, or she is killed. No, my friend; that shall not happen…"
The man paused to harness his seething rage, his eyes shining in their intensity. His voice was barely above a raspy whisper.
"I refuse to wait in London twiddling my thumbs as Christine would have me do, until they knock upon the door. I know how killers stalk their prey, Nadir—I used to be one myself…" Erik slowly raised his eyes to his friend's, a silent understanding passing between the two.
"Persia…" the daroga murmured.
The pale man nodded in affirmation, his mouth set in grave lines. "The only way to put an end to this is to hunt them down and end their miserable lives before they can act. And that is exactly what I intend to do."
Memories of the shah's ruthless political assassin rushed upon both of them, times they had just assume forget: the lasso, scorpions, poisons, midnight meetings, stealthy trips, and finally, a broken Erik weeping at the murderer he had become. And now he proposed to become that person again, all for a young singer who would never know of his sacrifice. The Persian could only shake his head at the injustice of it—on this subject, he would not remain silent.
"My friend, why do you not tell the young lady of your plans? I don't see how all of this secrecy with her is necessary. Yes, you informed me about letting her fight her own battles," Nadir rushed on before the man could open his mouth to protest. "But surely she can accomplish that and still rest with ease, knowing that you are assisting her here in Paris. You give her too little credit, Erik."
Erik paused to carefully weigh his words. His eyes roamed about the room, over her possessions, as if the answer to the Persian's question lay hidden among hairpins and perfumes. He kept his eyes locked on the items as he spoke, not daring to meet his friend's eyes.
"I won't drag Christine back into my dark world, Nadir. She feared it before, and she would again; it is best not to repeat the mistakes of the past." Erik's thoughts turned to the plain gold ring still resting in his pocket, and then to the night she had first accepted it. Tears streaming down her face, her cries of hate at the torture he was putting her through…
"And now that she has a child…" he murmured, shaking his head. "It is unthinkable…all the men I murdered in Persia…I was a killer, beyond the pale of humanity. At first, she might appreciate the shelter I bring, but the first time I must tighten the lasso around one of those worthless animals' necks…she is too innocent to understand the necessity of it, Daroga."
The Persian rose from his chair and strode to the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes bore down upon his friend's, trying to make eye contact, but failed. "Forgive me, Erik, but I must ask this. Do you not believe that this is a rather hypocritical theory? You reason that she must be left to fight her battles, and yet you take this decision out of her hands. Perhaps you should have faith that the girl can look beyond your past in Persia. Or has it not yet occurred to you that both you and Christine are the source of the other's redemption?"
Nadir paused to wait for a response from the man, but none came.
"I have a feeling there is more to this, friend," he continued. "I believe you are afraid. But Erik, I warn you, if you let the violent tempests of your past control you, you shall have no hope for the quiet water you so desperately seek."
"One of your proverbs, Nadir?" the man whispered grimly. "I can assure you, I lost all hope for happiness in this lifetime years ago."
The Persian made no reply.
Sighing, Erik turned sad eyes to his friend. "You have things to do, Daroga. Perhaps you should let me be." And with that, the man turned his face to the wall, all discussion at an end.
The streets were empty, save for the flurry of snow that whipped about in the frigid November air, swirled up from the ground and then scattered across the road like little flecks of glass. A few dried leaves joined in the dance, rustling about in harmony with the moaning wind, their edges glistening from frost. Not even a sliver of the moon graced the sky this evening, leaving Paris blanketed in a velvety blackness. Only the soft glow of the street lamps breached the dense, blustery night, beacons cutting through the darkness to guide weary travelers home.
The Opéra Populaire loomed like a giant beast over the Rue Scribe, sleeping as soundly as the rest of the city. So it was that no one noticed the tall ghost of a man emerge from a carefully hidden side door and vanish just as quickly into the shadows. He slipped along the side of the great stone wall with the stealth and grace of a cat stalking his prey, weaving back and forth between the ornamental pillars and coming to a halt in the shadow of the last. He pulled the collar of his cloak up to block the sting of the wind, once again adjusted his black mask, and waited…
A lone brougham in the distance slowly made its way through the deserted city, rumbling over the cobblestones of the street. The driver perched atop the carriage on a bench, shrouded in blankets to keep out the cold night. He leaned towards the lantern hanging at his side, peering through the darkness, until he spotted the tall man waiting patiently at the pillar.
"Greetings, Monsieur," he called out into the night, the wind all but swallowing the sound of his voice as soon as it left his throat. "It is a bad evening to be about. Where can I take you?"
The man at the pillar paused for a moment, tilted his hat down to further shadow his face, and made his way into the cold fury of the night. He strode into the street like a dark angel raised from hell, his black wings whipping and snapping about his ankles in the wind. The brougham pulled to a stop as the man twisted his cape over his elbow and climbed into the cab, and then it lurched into motion, continuing down the road once he had settled into the bench.
The passenger rapped on the roof to get the driver's attention. "Really, Nadir, you have immersed yourself into your role impressively. As there is no one about on the streets tonight, it was not necessary to call out, you understand."
"One cannot be too careful," the Persian driver grumbled, touching the edge of his whip to the rump of the horse, urging him on into the cold. Erik caught the slight edge in the voice.
"Are you able to stay warm up there, my friend? I could drive the carriage and you could take the cab, if you like."
A distinct "ha!" floated down to the passenger, followed by a low chuckling. "Erik, you have not even ventured out of the opera for four weeks, and you think that you can sit here in the cold wind after a long and dangerous bout with pneumonia? No, I shall continue to drive. It is not that far of a trip to the Place du Lépine."
"Let us hope that the esteemed Avocat, M. David, makes this venture worth our while," he said quietly.
"What was that?" called the voice through the roof.
Erik cleared his throat and called in his clear, fine voice, "I said, let us hope that M. David is in possession of the notes. I cannot think of anywhere else they could be, unless they were destroyed or she took them with her. Somehow, I do not think it likely that Christine would do that."
The Persian grunted in agreement, and several minutes of anxious silence followed as he thought through the rather alarming information he had received just moments before leaving. Grunting again, he rapped on the roof to get his friend's attention.
"Erik, I have had word from several of my informants this evening," he called out, listening for a response.
"And?…" replied the barely audible voice.
"No one has been asking questions in London, so that is a good thing. However, the word in Paris is that several men have been inquiring into the Comtesse's personal bank accounts, looking for bank note receipts, addresses, anything that could possibly lead them to her. And several people have been frequenting country taverns close to de Chagny estates, wondering about the family's current whereabouts."
A silence descended upon the conversation, and Nadir could only wonder at his passenger's thoughts.
"Anything else?" came the voice at last, the concern in it unmasked.
"No, my friend," replied the Persian. "But I think it is now rather evident that those who are searching for her have an extensive network."
"Yes," murmured the passenger, "I have discovered that, as well. Nadir, someone came into my cellar last night—one of them, most certainly."
The Persian started. "Are you sure?"
"Quite," he responded sardonically. "Found his way in through the Rue Scribe entrance, the same as you did. The man was already witless from fright by the time he entered the torture chamber."
"What information could you get from him?"
"Nothing much; some babble about seeing you exit here several days ago, and that he was to search the cellars to ascertain whether the Comtesse was stowed away under the opera house. I promised him a quick and painless death if he would tell me what he knew, but…"
"Merciful Allah," breathed Nadir. "You left him there in the chamber, then?"
"Of course," Erik replied nonchalantly. "What was I to do? I could not release him—he knew too much."
Nadir sighed in frustration at his friend's lack of pity. So Persia's lover of trapdoors has returned—the man that Erik had hoped to shut away forever. And yet, this is what must happen, if she is to live, he thought sadly.
"There is something else, Nadir, which greatly troubles me – something the man cried as he was dying." Erik paused, lost in thought. "What do the words 'now or never' mean to you?
"Nothing," answered the puzzled daroga.
"I have heard it before, my friend," he murmured grimly. "And if it means what I think it does, then I shall be taking a house in London very soon."