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. Well, I guess I own M. Henri David, but who wants to own Raoul's foppish friend? Any takers? Thought not…

Side Notes:
Readers and reviewers – This chapter is one of the first big reveals of the story. I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please do not give anything away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers!

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…my wonderful muse! I saw in an Aria review that someone offered you chocolate and fifty bucks for a few hints. Thanks for not caving :)

In Which M. David has the Audacity to Plead his Case, and the Frightful Event that Followed Thereupon

Monsieur Henri David was a handsome young man with lush brown hair that curled golden about his ears. His mustache was neat and trim, and his frame was lithe and always impeccably dressed. He had a sunny disposition, an excellent demeanor, and was a connoisseur of all the finer things in life; subsequently, he was extremely well-liked by all of Paris, especially the ladies.

The man was also an old friend of Raoul de Chagny's, and was able to boast intimacy with that family. They had grown up in the same circles, played together as boys, and attended the best boarding school. But unlike his friend, M. David had been the youngest of seven older brothers, was given no title, and received only a small portion of the family estate; therefore, he was forced to lower himself to earn a living.

From an early age, young Henri had impressed all those around him with his eloquent grasp of language and vivid descriptions. And while his mother had dearly hoped that he would choose the church as his profession, he had decided to become an avocat, as he found that he could just as easily apply his skill with words to the courtroom as to a pulpit. He also greatly preferred the lifestyle of a lawyer to a priest; he was able to retain a rather large bank account and a long list of dazzling Parisian clientele. Because of this, he managed to keep his standing in society, and was invited to all of the best parties.

It was at one such dinner that he was first introduced to the new Comtesse de Chagny, his old chum's bride. She had been seated next to him at the table as his conversation partner for the evening; however, she had proven to be anything but sociable. Try as he might, it was extremely difficult to engage her in any discussion whatsoever. He spoke of the aristocracy, the latest scandals, even the most recent fashion trends, hoping to spark some sort of interest in her pretty blue eyes. And yet the young lady remained aloof, her eyes turned gracefully down, hooded by long dark lashes. She would smile politely at his inquiries and answer his questions in short, clipped sentences, never touching his hand in delight at his stories, or giggling daintily at his witticisms as other women of their circle were prone to do.

This tendency of hers greatly unsettled and even angered him, and he took it as an affront to his person. Who was she, an opera singer, to look down her nose upon him!

But when he was given the chance to observe her at length, the avocat saw that his first impressions of the young Comtesse were, indeed, incorrect. As she moved about from party to party, she maintained a sort of shy aloofness with all she spoke to, never truly engaging herself in their gaiety. Her lovely awkwardness tugged at something inside of M. David, and he felt true pity for the girl that had been thrust into an entirely different world.

For all the Comte's gallantry, he seemed to be oblivious to his young wife's predicament. Truly, he believed that the sun rose and set in her, and was so besotted with his Christine that in his eyes, she was the jewel of Paris. Surely everyone else would be just as enamored with her, as well!

So M. David took it upon himself to introduce the Comtesse into their society, since the Comte did not. He whispered words of the girl's loveliness and impeccable taste into the ears of the matrons, and embellishments of her glamorous former life as a diva to the young things of Paris. Thus, the little bride was insured invitations to dine at the most elite of tables and take tea in the best of parlors.

The young lawyer soon grew to personally appreciate the Comtesse's friendship, especially since she had no other true friends, save for a handful of servants. Happy was the day when, at last, her musical laughter floated to his ears after he had made some frivolous joke about the new hard bustle giving women silhouettes like the hind legs of a horse.

When Raoul was not away on business, the three would often ride about the estate in the warm summer evenings, taking picnic dinners with them, or playing a game of cards when the weather did not permit a venture out-of-doors. And for the first time, Henri David found he preferred the intimate company to the lavish parties of Paris.

It was not until after the Comte died that the avocat came to realize just how much he valued the widow's companionship. Granted, they did not often visit after her husband's passing, as it was not proper for a woman in full mourning to keep company with a man—Raoul's sister had made that very clear to him on several occasions. But at the few dinners Christine attended, he was always at her side, filling her glass, asking after her warmth, or checking to see if she was tired and needed to be taken home. She would smile up at him in her polite, quiet way, and thank him for his kindness; and, oh, how his heart would flutter at such a small gesture!

More recently, however, he had seen something in her eyes—a sadness or fear, even—that troubled him. While he greatly desired to grow closer and perhaps more dear to the young lady, she seemed to pull away from him, once again isolating herself from society. Ever a patient man, M. David waited in the wings for her grief over the loss of her husband to pass.

And then, the greatest shock of all—her letter requesting his assistance, the meeting with Norry, and the delivery of the notes to his person. His head was still reeling from the events of October and her subsequent departure to London. At least I am the only person who knows where she is. I can go to her, if need be…he reasoned.

So lost was he in his thoughts, that as he left his office on that blustery November night, he did not even pause to question why a brougham would be waiting outside his office when no one else was about in the street.

As soon as he boarded the cab, he realized the grave folly he had committed. The driver of the carriage deftly swung down from his perch, bolted the door from the outside, and then leapt back up, spurring the horses on. M. David's eyes flew about in fright, coming to rest on the passenger in the corner, shrouded in the shadows of the night.

The man sat across from him, his back erect against the red cushioned back of the bench, a dignified air about his person. He was well dressed in the finest of black wool, the superior workmanship of the clothing evident in the tailored cut and brocade of his vest. Everything about this man bespoke wealth, intelligence, taste…and the mask! Surely there was no need for a mask, if he were an 'unknown'. M. David slowly began to wonder if he could possibly be an acquaintance—one of Paris' more elite set—and thus the need for disguise.

"M-Monsieur," the anxious avocat stuttered, "Do I have the pleasure of knowing you? I am a little puzzled as to the purpose of this meeting…"

The man in the corner forced a smile, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness. "Do not be alarmed, M. David –ah yes, I know your name. I am here on behalf of Madame the Comtesse de Chagny. We have some business to discuss regarding her welfare—that is the purpose of this meeting."

It was then that the young lawyer became aware of the circle of rope the man was toying with in his hands, the rough fibers weaving restlessly between his fingers. Mon Dieu… in despair, the man suddenly realized what the object was… a noose! This man shall murder me—that is why he wears a mask…

Trembling in fear, the avocat sank back further into the red cushion of the cab…blood red… "Please, I beg of you!" cried the shaking man, springing up again. "Do not harm me! I know it was you that apprehended the Comtesse in the brougham last month, but I don't know where she is, I swear to you!"

"No more, Monsieur!" hissed Erik, irritated by the man's pathetic blubbering. "As I have just told you, I seek to help Christine, not harm her. But believe me, if I do not have your cooperation, you shall be the worse for it." To emphasize his point, he slowly lifted the lasso, pulling it taut about his wrist. Loosening it again, he watched the young man's eyes widen in fear as he repeated the gesture to drive his threat home.

M. David was now trembling so horribly, he no longer tried to hide the terror exuding from every pore of his body. Erik waited patiently for the man to regain control of his person before he continued.

"I believe you are in possession of some notes that I would like to examine. Christine has told me of the threats to her life. Am I correct in the assumption that you have them?" The avocat said nothing at first, not daring to open his mouth for fear of betraying his dear friend. Finally, swallowing back the lump in his throat, he pressed his luck.

"Monsieur, I do not know you, nor understand how you claim to know the Comtesse. I have never seen you in our circles, and I can assure you that I have been by her side at every social occasion. Not once has she ever spoken of you to me. I would have remembered if she had…"

"You mean my mask, I suppose," the shadowed man spat, jealousy and anger at the man's implications suddenly welling up inside of him. "Yes, she would not have mentioned me. The Comte and I were not…the best of friends," he smiled sardonically, his golden eyes piercing through the darkness. "So tell me, M. David, just how good of a friend have you been to Madame de Chagny?"

"Enough!" came the Persian's cry through the rooftop, startling both of the passengers. "Erik, really, I do not believe that threatening the man's life shall achieve the desired outcome. We want to work with him, not kill him. What good is he to us dead?"

"Very well, Daroga, your point is taken," Erik sighed and turned back to the cowering man across from him. He slowly rolled up the lasso, tucked it under his cloak, and tugged at his gloves. The corners of his sensitive mouth turned up in a smirk. "Well Monsieur, my friend seems to think that I should not strangle you, as you would not be able to tell us what we need to know." He saw the young man exhale in relief. "Perhaps a few broken fingers would do the trick?"

"Erik! Do not torture the boy so," cried the Persian once again, the anger now evident in his voice. The passengers felt the cab slow to a crawl as the driver pulled into a dark side street, halted the horses, and climbed down from his perch. Unbolting the side door, he climbed in next to M. David, seated himself, and looked pointedly at his friend.

"He risks his life for the girl, just as you do. You must earn his trust; perhaps if you told him what you already know regarding Madame de Chagny, he might be more willing to assist us. Somehow I do not think breaking his hand will accomplish anything."

The quaking young lawyer turned grateful eyes upon his rescuer, wagging his head in agreement, silently saying prayers of thanks to the Persian.

Erik sighed, raising elegant fingers to press against his temple, closing his eyes in vexation.

"As you wish, Nadir, although I still believe my way to be a much more efficient method for extracting information…" He looked to the Persian, who still held him under a steely gaze. Erik turned back to the shrinking man in the corner and smirked again, holding out his palm in truce. "M. David, my sincerest apologies. Where shall I begin then?"

The avocat sat a little straighter, forcing the fear in his voice back into his throat. "Tell me how you know Christine," he managed to choke out in a rather squeaky voice.

The masked man acquiesced, and cleared his throat. "I suppose you could call me a friend from her days at the opera. I assume she has not spoken of that time period to you?" The young man shook his head in response. "Raoul de Chagny and I…disagreed on several issues, and thus I fell from their favor," he said, choosing to gloss over the sordid events of the past. "Last month, she came to me at the opera for assistance. I was present when she received your letter, directed to Mme. Giry. Now, what other questions can I answer for you, Monsieur?"

The lawyer had managed to still his shaking hands, as he became a bit more at ease with the situation. "Tell me what you know of the man that is after her," he requested after finally finding his voice.

Erik paused in thought, deciding how much he should tell the man. After all, if they chose to come after the lawyer, it would not take much for them to withdraw the desired information. "First of all," he began, "I should tell you that it is not only the man from the brougham attack that follows her. There are too many in Paris searching for her whereabouts to assume that one man is behind the threats. They seem to be well organized in the city, but outside of Paris, I cannot say. Thus far, they have not traced her to London."

He saw the surprise that swept over the young man's face, then a sense of fear at his failure to keep the Comtesse's location secret.

"Do not worry, M. David, she informed me of that herself—you have betrayed nothing," Erik succinctly replied, bitterly noting that the young lawyer indeed was motivated to help Christine by something more than friendship.

"Do you know who they are?" whispered the astonished man.

"No, Monsieur, and according to my friend," he inclined his head to the daroga, "the Sûreté does not, either. I do have my suspicions, however, and if you are in possession of the notes, then we may be able to determine the answer to your question."

The young avocat studied his hands for a while, his face downcast. He didn't desire to make this decision, with so much at stake. What if this man proves to be false? To do as he asks may simply mean that I hand Christine and Jean-Paul over to him…and yet, what choice do I have? He already knows they are in London…

Taking a deep breath, the man dove in. "She left the notes with me, yes. If you would like to read through them, they are tucked away safely in my home. I rather think my office is not the best place for them—too many prying eyes."

Erik nodded, appreciating the man's foresight. "Very well, then. Nadir?" The Persian leapt from the cab and, following M. David's quiet directions, once again drove through the dark snow-covered streets of Paris to the lawyer's lavish, tree-lined neighborhood. Silence ruled the cab for the duration of the trip; the young man gazed out the window, his eyes carefully following the familiar route to his residence, while his companion's eyes slit in concentration as he intently studying the man.

As the brougham pulled into the drive, M. David leapt down, directing several waiting stablehands to tend to the carriage. The door of the avocat's home flew open and a round, rosy woman stood silhouetted in the light pouring from the open doorway. She cried out as the men alighted from the carriage.

"Oh Monsieur, you did not tell me that you were to have guests tonight – I have nothing prepared!" The man walked up the stairs to his housekeeper and patted her cheek.

"Marie, ma chère, I apologize for the lack of forewarning; please do not trouble yourself at all."

M. David strode into the ornately furnished foyer, stepping aside to allow the two gentlemen into his home. The nervous maid started when she saw that one of the men was masked, but made no mention of it as her employer shuffled them to his library, away from sight. She did not even have a chance to ask for their cloaks, so quick was he to remove his guests from her curious eyes.

Turning back to her, the young man whispered carefully, "Marie, I think it best that you retire for the evening. I shall be up rather late with the gentlemen, so any further service this evening will not be necessary." He smiled warmly at the woman, lightly brushed her arm, and sent her on her way. The maid cast one last concerned look over her shoulder as she made her way up the stairs to her rooms.

Erik glanced about the home, taking in the dark, rich surroundings. The library was a comfortable, stylish affair – more for entertaining that actual reading, he supposed.

While hundreds of books lined his shelves, most had not even been opened once. It was not that M. David was a dim-witted man—far from it. But between the demands of his clientele and the endless social events dotting his calendar, reading for pleasure simply did not fit into his busy lifestyle.

A set of French doors opened onto an adjoining parlor, and a large, lovely piano could just be seen gracing the center of that room. Perhaps Christine has stood next to that piano, singing for M. David's guests…With a sigh, Erik realized how little he really knew of her life these past four years. While he had had plenty of thoughts about the girl and her fool of a husband enjoying each other's company, it had never crossed his mind that she would have other friends, as well…gentlemen friends.

The lawyer, ever the good host, offered cigars and brandy to his guests, but they shook their heads in refusal. Anxious to move on to the task ahead, the masked man strode over to the mantle where the avocat stood.

"M. David, the notes, s'il vous plait." The lawyer nodded in response and stiffly left the room. Several moments passed, and the man had not returned; Erik ran a hand along the mantle, paced back and forth across the expensive Oriental rug, and finally came to face the Persian.

"What do you think is keeping—" the man began impatiently, but halted in mid-sentence as the daroga's face before him turned several shades paler. A clicking noise caught Erik's attention, and he swung around to see what his friend saw. There stood M. David in the doorway, a cocked pistol in his shaking hand, slowly advancing towards his guests. His lawyer's eyes were bright with intensity, his mouth set in grim determination. He swung the weapon from one man to the next, warily observing every flinch.

"Monsieur," whispered the Persian calmly, "what is the meaning of this?" The avocat turned at the daroga's words.

"I don't know who you are or what you truly want, but I shall not allow you anywhere close to Christine," he whispered, his eyes darting wildly about in his edginess.

This gave Erik all the incentive he needed to pull his lasso from under his cloak and bring the lawyer to heel. He hesitated briefly, conflict welling up, then in one deft movement he whipped the noose about the young man's wrist, pulling back swiftly to tighten the rope. He swung his powerful shoulder back, literally jerking his captive off of his feet and sent him sprawling to the ground, knocking the wind clean from his lungs. He dove to the man's side and grasped at his throat, efficiently pinning him to the ground, causing the lawyer to clasp at anything he could, his hands flailing about.

The pistol clattered across the floor to Nadir's feet and he stooped to retrieve it, training it on the fighting men. "Both of you now, this is absurd. Why struggle with each other when we have the same interest in sight?"

The avocat struggled a bit, then stilled, wheezing out in pain from the grip on his windpipe. "Please, Monsieur, I am a friend of the Comtesse," the man sputtered. "If you kill me, she will never forgive you."

Erik pulled back a bit in bewilderment, then growled as he released his hold on the lawyer's neck and rocked back on his ankles. He jumped to his feet and vehemently extended a hand to help the winded man up.

"Mon Dieu, what reflexes you have!" the lawyer gasped. "Quite a show, Monsieur."

"What ever possessed you to try such a stunt as that?" Erik raged. "The idea that I would ever harm her… Damned foolish boy, I could have just as easily snapped your neck!" He reached over to the man's wrist and roughly removed the rope circling it, eyes taking in the burns swelling to a bright red with satisfaction.

M. David gently felt his wrist and determined that the pain was not caused by a broken bone, but only a slight sprain. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced over to the wary Persian.

"You may lower that Monsieur, I promise not to attack. I could not discern for certain if you were trustworthy. How was I to know that you wouldn't kill me the moment the notes were in your hand? One can never be too careful. However, I was not quite expecting that magnificent throw to the ground. Really, where did you learn to do that, Monsieur?" He turned to the masked man brooding in the shadows, all incredulity draining from his face as he shrunk under his threatening glare.

"Next time, Monsieur, I will kill you" the shrouded man hissed, arms folding dangerously across his chest. "You can be certain of that without testing the waters. Maintenant, the notes."

M. David walked swiftly into the adjacent study, calling into the library as he left.

"You must understand my suspicions, Messieurs. These past few days have been rather trying—someone has broken into my office several times now, looking for something—I assume the Comtesse's location."

He returned with a bundle of white letters, tied with a thin piece of twine. Sliding the binding away, he spread twenty or so messages across his desk for the men's perusal. As they unfolded and read through the menacing words scrawled in black ink across each sheet, their faces grew dark and severe. Phrases leapt out here and there, all with common messages:

…must return it as soon as possible…

…someone shall die, Madame, if you are not careful…

…be assured that we will do as promised…

…silence is key…

…shall join your husband tonight. Now or Never…

…are encouraged not to socialize more than necessary…

…remember what happens when tongues wag…

"I have not been able to make any sense of them," said M. David, frustrated. "Each letter contains similar veiled threats, but some are nothing more than warnings about holding your tongue, and others are outright death threats. They seem to want something from her, or for her to remain silent about some issue, but I haven't the slightest clue…"

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched smugly, knowing that Christine had chosen to confide in him, rather than in the dandy of a lawyer.

"After she was attacked," he explained, "Madame de Chagny imparted that the man in fact did want something from her, but she was uncertain as to what. I assume whatever it was he sought is what is referred to in these letters."

As he read through them more thoroughly, however, the satisfaction from the small victory over the avocat rapidly faded. The writing on each note confirmed his suspicions of the previous night, because the words cried by the dying man were, in effect, written on each note in some form or another, as plain as day.

…NorN

…N N

…nOn

…now or never…

Mon Dieu, how he wished it weren't so. Turning away from the notes, Erik walked over to the dull fire, glaring into the orange glow. He bent closer to the heat of the flames as all energy left his body, leaving him cold and spent. Once again, the weariness of the past month's illness entered his bones.

The man in the brougham was correct…he thought bitterly. She and her boy won't survive this, not without assistance in London. In fact, she should not even stay there. Somewhere far away…

He jammed his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around the gold band still resting there, now carried on his person every day. He leaned his head heavily against the fist braced on the mantle, his knuckles turning white from the weight. Behind him, he could hear the men still piecing together the notes, trying to find some sort of order to them.

"…see, they are numbered. So if you place them in sequence…"

"Yes, but that makes no sense when they are ordered like so. Why would the delivered messages become less threatening if they were written in this order…"

"…if you flip them around, though…perhaps the numbers are some sort of countdown, 20 to one?"

"There is no number one…only a couple of twos…"

"But as the numbers decrease, the threats become more prominent. And then this one—it says that she would join her husband—this is the other 'number two'. It must be the last…what do you think 'Now or Never' means?"

The Persian turned to his friend, and only then saw that he was not observing their progress over their shoulders, but was lost in thought across the room, his eyes closed in what could only be construed as anguish.

"The Narodnaya Volya, Daroga," Erik murmured, his eyes still closed. "Or perhaps you have heard them called the People's Will? 'Now or Never' is a favorite slogan of theirs."

The two at the desk started, incredulous at the man's conclusion. "The group that assassinated the Russian tsar three years ago?" the young lawyer croaked in disbelief. "Monsieur, are you certain—"

"Of course it is them! Despite my reclusive tendencies, M. David, I do still follow the events of other countries," Erik spat in exasperation. "I just choose to avoid the Paris gossip columns. Christine's description of her attacker, the network in Paris looking for her, the man who came into my home…and now the notes…it all points to the Narodnaya Volya. They are well-known for this kind of work, am I correct, Daroga?"

Nadir looked dismally at his friend, nodding in confirmation. "Their methods of terror do seem to reflect the ones used here, yes."

"You are familiar with the events that have occurred in Russia over the past several months, Monsieur?" said Erik, slowly striding over to the desk to study the notes once more. He softly ran his long, thin fingers delicately over the words, as if persuading them to divulge their secrets.

The young man flushed red, his hand once again toying with the burn at his wrist. "My w-work tends more towards the civil disputes of the aristocracy, Monsieur," the man stuttered nervously. He vaguely remembered Russian names and cities popping up here and there in conversations, but remembered no details of the occurrences. Politics held no interest for him, so when the discussion turned towards certain topics, his eyes would take on a glazed expression, and he would instead think on much more agreeable subjects.

"Yes," the Persian picked up, saving the man from further embarrassment. "The last of the trials ended not even two months ago. Just before—"

Both men stiffened in realization, bending to examine the notes again. Studying the numbers and words, they shuffled them around, pointing out certain phrases. "Of course..." Nadir mumbled, seeing the numbers in a new light. M. David, the meaning completely lost to him, peered over their hunched shoulders.

"Messieurs, please continue. Just before what?" the poor avocat cried, now wishing he had paid closer attention to the political conversations of his gentlemen friends when they puffed cigars and sipped brandy at his dinner parties.

"Nadir, I believe you were correct in your earlier assumption," Erik continued, failing to hear the lawyer's plea. "The notes are a countdown of sorts. And if Christine received the last one—the second note numbered 'two'—right before she came to me, then that means the event of the countdown had already occurred."

"The Trial of the Fourteen took place in early October…" the Persian murmured. "The notes…perhaps they were warnings for her to keep something to herself at least until the trial was over, and then probably indefinitely? Some type of information that troubled them so much, they would kill to make sure it never came out."

The avocat stuttered again, reeling from the discovery he had so carelessly overlooked. "I don't understand, Messieurs? How could Christine possibly be caught up in such events?"

"Perhaps the correct question to ask, Monsieur," replied the masked man, "is why the Comte de Chagny was involved with the organization to begin with." Erik's face darkened, his fury at the carelessness of Christine's husband suddenly swimming to the surface.

The boy, that stupid boy never told her…After I had left her to his care…He had to have known they would come after her when he was gone. With a great snarl, he swept his arm across the desk, scattering the notes about the floor.

"Her husband, in his foolish bravery, was so protective of his little wife that when he died, he took the answers with him to his grave! So instead of defending her, he passed on all of this terror, without even leaving her a means to fight back. Damn the man to hell—"

"Erik!" the Persian cried, interrupting the man's tirade. "He did give her a way to fight her battle."

The daroga bent to pick up several of the scattered papers, allowing for a few moments to pass and his friend's temper to cool. Seeing that he held the rapt attention of the startled lawyer, he quickly shuffled over to the young man, took him by the arm, and gently pulled him to the adjoining parlor.

"Forgive me, sir, but I wish to speak with my friend in private." And with a quick nod, he closed the ornate French doors to the open-mouthed gape of the avocat. Turning back to Erik, he found him tolerantly waiting for his next words.

The Persian exhaled, his voice calm as he spoke. "The Comte, in his fear, may not have bequeathed Christine with the knowledge he possessed about these men, but he certainly provided a way to fight back. Raoul left her to your care, my friend." Nadir placed a hand solidly on the man's shoulder, trying to quiet the rage still burning in the gold eyes.

"He left her to you."

The words rang in the air, the strain so thick that a single spark would engulf the room in flames. So many pieces of the great puzzle had fallen into place simultaneously; it was all Erik could do to digest what had been revealed by the simple white pieces of paper.

His mind reeled in these new revelations. Raoul de Chagny,my bitter rival, trusted me—a monster—to protect his precious wife and child. That in death, the boy was not losing the prize he had fought for and won, but willingly leaving her to his enemy's care?

But if we fight for the same cause, does that mean he is no longer my rival?

It was just too hard to grasp; so many of his preconceived notions were laid bare by this novel thought.

Why would he send Christine to me for help, knowing what I am capable of? The boy had to understand that by doing so, he was condemning her to the darkness once more…

…And yet, she is already engulfed in darkness. Her future shall be years of hiding; running from her pursuers, drifting from place to place until they end their hunt, or she is dead. No way to turn away from fate, to return to the light.

And so she shall slowly drown in the black waters until someone shows her how to fight her way back to the surface…

Or teaches her to swim…

"Dear God, why must I be the one to do it?" he cried, covering his face as understanding washed over him.

"Because you have been there, Erik," the Persian whispered zealously. "You know what it is to stand at the gates of Hell and struggle in the devil's grasp. And now she stands there as well, unaware that the fire is even licking at her heels. Show her the path out of Hades, my friend. Be the one to lead her back to world of the living. And if that is not possible, show her how to thrive in the darkness."

And with those words, the pedestal the Angel had so painstakingly built to raise his beloved up to heaven, high above his black abyss, crumbled to the ground, crushing his soul under its ruins.

Erik nodded in acceptance, raising his grief-stricken face to meet his friend's. "I don't know how to begin," he murmured, his voice breaking with the fervor of his emotions.

The daroga's gaze bore down on the man, this time meeting his eyes. "You already have, du stæm."

Note:

Well, join me in wishing Erik bon voyage! If you would rather not have to dig out your European history book, wait for the next chapter, and Prof. Gondolier will give you a brief lesson weaved into a lovely story.