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 the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".
Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement!
A Nightingale Sings
"Rumeli Hisari," said Fahri. Their Turkish companion nodded to the ancient walls towering above them. "Home of the Sultan's ancestors, bane of Christendom.
"Bane to most anybody, save the Turks, I would think," murmured Norry. He glanced at his mistress. "Madame, somethin's not right about this—I can feel it. This place is full of evil."
"Of course it is, it's a prison," Christine said absently. She gazed up at the crumbling stone fortress, the guardless battlements and portcullis filling her with a chilling unease. It was difficult to believe that an actual prison existed somewhere within the structure which, for all purposes, appeared to be entirely abandoned. If not for Fahri and Zeki's steadfast assurances that the fortress was indeed very much in use, she would have laughed at the idea of anything at all living within such a decrepit building. And yet she found her feet moving forward upon the winding graveled path, her fingers clenching and unclenching the cotton folds of her skirt with all the nervousness she felt on that long-ago afternoon, when she first descended into the depths of Jerusalem to reclaim her fallen angel.
It was not until they reached the top of the hill that she realized there were indeed two Turkish gendarmes standing guard at the Hisari entrance, the navy of their dark uniforms fading into the fortress' shadow, augmented by the strong summer sun. Christine put a hand to her forehead to see them better. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped forward.
"I am here to see my husband," she exclaimed with a confidence she certainly did not feel. "I have been informed that he is a prisoner here. A Frenchman, with black hair and a—and a mask. Please."
The gendarmes stared at her, and she couldn't tell if they had not understood or simply pretended not to. She opened her mouth to repeat her words, but Fahri placed a warning hand upon her shoulder and pulled her back, speaking to the guards in a flood of incoherent Turkish. He nodded his head as he and the guards conversed, gesturing to the woman at his side. One of the guards leered at her and Norry, his black eyes glancing over her person, coming to rest upon the small purse she clutched to her chest. She shifted uncomfortably and gazed beyond the guards' faces, into the darkness behind the portcullis. Somewhere in the shadows, in the darkness, was Erik.
Fahri grasped her elbow. "I have told them you are a French noblewoman, and will be missed by important people if anything should happen to you. The gendarmes have assured you safe passage if you pay them the contents of your purse. I suggest you do so, Hanim."
Christine's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Tell them I will pay half now, and half when I return." Pulling open the pouch's drawstrings with trembling fingers, she poured half of the liras into her palm, their gold reliefs all but winking at the swinish guards. She divided the coins between the two and walked towards the portcullis, hesitating when it did not open.
"Stop!" commanded the first guard. The man enthusiastically ran his hands up and down Christine's bustled and bodiced form, searching for concealed weapons. A little too enthusiastically, she thought angrily, longing for her Turkish male's costume and watching as they moved on to Fahri and Norry with much less dedication. If only Fahri had not insisted she come dressed as the Frenchwoman she was. She could see his point of view—women, in his country, garnered little respect. However, a woman dressed as a man would cause much more of a stir at the prison than she could afford. So pretense was left behind at the inn, and instead she had donned a loosely laced market dress and hat that had been at the height of Paris fashion four years ago. She prayed and at the same time feared Erik might notice the somewhat conspicuous curving of her form beneath the folds of peach fabric.
"What do you mean, I'm not allowed?" barked Norry.
Christine's attention was immediately drawn to the reddening face of her caretaker.
"I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here an' twiddle my thumbs while Mme. Reinard goes into this dung heap with you Turks!"
"Sir," Fahri said in exasperation, "only two people are allowed to enter! I can ensure her safety much better than you can—"
"You an' your gendarmes are taking her for every lira she's got—"
"—if you want something in this country, it comes with a price!"
Christine sighed impatiently and placed a calming hand on Norry's arm. "M. Nitot, I truly appreciate the sentiment, but if you would be so kind as to wait here, I will return shortly. At the first sign of trouble, I promise to scream as loudly and hysterically as possible, kicking and biting with such fervor that they will throw me out of the fortress before I inflict too much damage on their persons."
Norry held up his hands in resignation, shaking his head and huffing indignantly, but ultimately said no more upon the matter and stepped aside, his worried old eyes following his two companions until they vanished into the darkness of the Rumeli Hisari.
Although Christine had known the fortress prison would not be a garden party, nothing had prepared her for the overwhelming despair and depravity she found within its walls. Stark rooms lit only by the orange flicker of torchlight revealed prisoner after nameless prisoner, chained to the stones and filthy in their scraps of clothing and matted hair. Many of them cried out to her with moans so inhuman, it was all she could do to keep from stopping her ears with her fingers. And the smell. She was grateful for the bit of scent she had dabbed at her wrists and handkerchief; at the time, she had thought only to create a pleasant appearance for Erik, but now, as the putrid smell of death filled her head, a handkerchief touched to her nose was all that kept her sane.
So it wasn't until she heard the Turkish guards announce her presence and the quiet, melodious sound of Erik's voice acquiesce to their command, that she truly believed her immaculate husband could possibly reside in such a place. Yet there he was, just as the rest of the prisoners, squalid and shackled, bruised and bandaged, her proud angel.
And maskless.
An unfathomable look passed over Erik's twisted features. Was it shock, perhaps? Fear? For a moment, his golden eyes burned with whatever it was, before coolly narrowing to glance over her person. Whoever he had been expecting, it had not been her.
"Allah, Allah! Beterin beteri var," Fahri murmured, his eyes fixed in awed horror upon the prisoner's face. "You are married to this person?"
The nervous woman unconsciously put a hand over her growing midsection, tears pricking her eyes, threatening to spill over. She watched as the man slowly unfolded his long frame from his mat and rose, his burning eyes never leaving her face; she waited, frozen in place, for some sign—a crook of the finger, a ghost of a smile, anything at all—to tell her she was still wanted by him. Yet for all of her bravery, she could only stare at him as he stared at her. Once more, she was the quaking chorus girl who gazed in awe at the form of her teacher beyond a mirror, who, until then, had been nothing more that a ghost; nothing tangible, nothing real.
She needed to feel him…to know that he was real.
Overwhelmed, she gasped and launched herself at the man, flinging her arms about his neck and burying her face in his bony shoulder. Choking back her sobs, she lost herself in the sensation of his painfully thin body, cold against her own warm frame. His hands hovered just over her and rested upon her waist for a moment, as if deciding whether to pull her small form against him or fling her aside. Then slowly, deliberately, they grasped her shoulders and pushed her away from him. Shocked, Christine glanced up just in time to see him wince in pain as he clutched his bandaged hand, before once more dropping his cold, stoic mask into place.
"Why are you here?" he murmured.
"Erik. Why would I not be here?" She reached out for his face, her palms pressing his cheeks. Before she knew what had happened, his left hand whipped her fingers away and grasped her tiny wrists, cruelly tightening until she gasped in pain. And then he pushed her from him again, irons rattling, eyes mocking her as she stumbled into Fahri. Sneering, he turned to the guards and uttered something Turkish, pointing to the baffled woman.
"What did he say, Fahri?" Christine quickly asked the man as she found her footing.
He looked at her strangely. "He says that you are not his wife, and you should be taken out of the Hisari immediately."
"But…but that isn't true! Erik—" she stammered to her husband, pleading—"tell them that isn't true!"
"I haven't the slightest idea why you are here."
"Do not lie!"
"That, Madame, is the truth!"
One of the gendarmes stepped forward and pointed his cane at Erik in warning, muttering something incoherent. Christine glanced at Fahri for explanation.
"He says you must speak in Turkish, Hanim."
The woman's lower lip began to tremble and she caught it between her teeth, shaking her head. "I cannot speak Turkish, though. Fahri, tell them I will pay!" She held up her small purse and pulled out a fistful of coins, holding them out to the guards. The men began to laugh and pocketed the liras, pointing to the distraught woman as they spoke. She looked again to Fahri.
"They said you may continue with your, ah, conversation."
She nodded. "Erik, please, what has happened?"
Erik sighed. "Madame," he said calmly, steadily, "I cannot pretend to understand why you would believe I am married to you, a man as hideous as I. I can assure you, however, that I have no intention of claiming you are my wife when indeed, you are not."
"Why are you saying such horrible things?" Christine cried.
"I have no wish to discuss this further. Go away."
She shook her head, tears now spilling forth unheeded as she searched for some explanation to Erik's denial of her. Anger…betrayal…maybe resentment? Grasping, looking for something to explain…
"Erik!" she exclaimed suddenly. "About Raoul—if that is what has caused this change of heart, please believe me—I went to Prague, and—"
"Enough!" Erik bellowed, his voice echoing through the prison. All turned in stunned silence towards the fuming man; only the choked sobbing of the strange woman offered any evidence that time had not simply stopped. And then the man spoke, his words low and acerbic. "Tell me, Madame, have you enjoyed your stay in this exciting city?"
Christine frowned in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"I asked if you like Constantinople. Surely you have seen some of its wonders! Why, the Rumeli Hisari is of little interest, when compared to the Topkapi Palace or the Hagia Sophia." He took a step forward, his eyes gleaming menacingly. "And the markets! Do you like to shop, Madame?"
"Ye-yes, or rather, I do not know. Erik, please, I must tell you—"
"—The bazaars are a wonder, full of life and color. Where are you staying?"
"We are at the Yesil Ev, just across from the Blue Mosque," Christine murmured, now certain that her husband was quite mad.
"We?"
"Norris Nitot."
"Ah, that is good! No doubt you have seen much of the city from your inn room. Well then, adieu."
"Please—"
"Goodbye, Madame!" Crossing his arms across his chest, he turned his back to her in mute dismissal.
"Goodbye," she murmured. It was useless; to fight him in such a state was madness in and of itself. This was not the man who had loved her. Not the man who had sacrificed happiness to save her life, who had struggled to overcome his failures, all for her. She bowed her head sadly and turned to go. And then a thought struck her—a memory, lacquered with time but real, nonetheless—of a spring morning, the golden light of Jerusalem spilling into a sparse room…
Was this the same man who had saved her, as she him?
"Erik," she said quietly, "I once told you something: For hope to exist, something good must come from the bad." Christine gazed over her shoulder at her husband, his back stiffening at her words. "You replied that hope is a blessed thing, for those who have it. For those who do not, life is a curse." For an endless minute, the unspoken question hung in the air between them, a thick fog that obscured all it encompassed, blurring understanding and twisting perception. And then his quiet response, brushing away the fog with a deft hand…
"I have it yet, Madame Reinard."
She smiled gently and curtsied, peace sweeping through her heart. "I shall enjoy the bazaars as you suggest, Monsieur." And without another word, she swiftly took her leave.
ooOOoo
"Now—if we reach the gate and the guards discover the knife at my ankle, what are you to do?"
"Run for the nearest cypress grove, then move through the cover of the trees to where Father Jakob is waiting with the horses."
"And?"
"I am not to wait for you. Instead, we are to begin planning how to help both M. Reinard and you escape." The woman grinned.
Nadir snorted. "I would rather see you planning your return trip to France than waiting in Istanbul while I languish away in prison."
"Never! I have sworn to protect you, oh Great One, and I shall do so at all costs." The woman laughed softly. "Really M. Khan, we have been over the plan again and again. Let us simply relax and enjoy our last evening in Constantinople."
Nadir Khan was inclined to do just as Papillon Nitot requested. The quiet outdoor tables upon the inn's blue tiled courtyard were empty, save for the two of them, which allowed them to enjoy the perfumed evening in peace. The night was warm and serene; the lights of the city mingling gently with the lights of the sky cast a silvery aura over his companion, and Nadir felt as if he would burst for the beauty around him. He leaned back in his chair and puffed his fragrant narghile, careful to not be caught staring.
Papi breathed deeply, then exhaled. "It was clear nights like this that we servants at the Chagny estate enjoyed the most. So lovely, so alive…almost pagan in its intensity. We would all go out to the edge of my father's gardens with lanterns, near the little stream that passed through the grounds, take off our shoes, and wade through the water. Sometimes we would sing—badly, of course, but no one minded—and Jérôme would accompany us …" A shadow crossed the woman's face.
"Who is Jérôme?" Nadir asked quietly, a trace of jealousy tingeing his voice.
"Perri's father. He was going to marry me, but…" the woman sighed. "Apparently the idea of being a papa was not as agreeable as simply having a young, foolish girl to be in love with. And oh, how foolish I was! If it had not been for Papa and Raoul, I would now be living in squalor on the streets of Paris."
The Persian nodded thoughtfully. "I think you would have found your way into better fortunes than that, Mademoiselle. You are not a foolish woman. Rash perhaps, and stubborn; but not foolish."
"Thank you."
"I am sincere in my words." Nadir held her eyes for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Have you ever thought of marrying?"
Papi shook her head. "Not when Perri was alive. Perhaps I toyed with the idea once or twice, but I did not see it as a necessity. After all, we had Papa and Raoul; I think I was a bit in love with Raoul de Chagny…" She laughed as the Persian's eyebrows shot up. "Very well, I was quite a bit in love with Raoul de Chagny."
"Was?"
A blush crept up the pale neck of the woman and she cast her eyes upon the ground, daring not to reply.
"If you won't answer me, will you at least sing one of the songs you profess to sing so badly?" asked the Persian.
"If you wish." She peered thoughtfully across the courtyard, then began an old French melody, so soft that he could hardly hear her. As she sang on, however, her voice grew stronger, surer; though not perfect or even pretty, her words were heartfelt.
"…Come, love, through the woods of spring,
Come walk with me;
Listen, the sweet birds jargoning
From tree to tree.
List and listen, over all,
Nightingale most musical
That ceases never;
Grief begone, and let us be
For a space, as glad as he;
Time's flitting ever..."
The Turkish courtyard fell silent as the song ended. Nadir gazed at the woman, smiling at her sad, wistful expression. He reached across the table and placed a hand upon hers. "You will be home soon, Mademoiselle."
She did not pull her hand away.
ooOOoo
Merde, where is that damned Persian?
Erik wadded up the bit of dirty bandage that had unraveled from his hand and chucked it into the corner. It had been three days since Nadir had promised to return and free him; two, since Christine had caught him unawares and nearly caused him a convulsive fit. And still, he had had no promised visit, no sign that anyone was coming to assist him. If, by tomorrow, no one came, he would just have to break out of the fortress himself.
Seeing Christine again, holding Christine again, smelling Christine again—her scent still faintly lingered upon him—had nearly driven him to desperate measures. Every time a smug Turkish guard passed on his rounds, Erik clutched his chains and gritted his teeth, barely restraining his hand from whipping his irons about the man and snapping his neck. What would be the point? He would be shot dead before he even had a chance to unlock his shackles.
But oh, the thought of Christine, just beyond those blackened stones…
He leapt up from his pallet and paced back and forth, as much as his chains would allow. Waiting was driving him mad. Madder than he already was. Madder than the entire scheme they were about to embark upon. And now there was the issue of finding Christine in the city. Erik hissed in annoyance—how the devil could he possibly hope to collect her from that inn without those damned nuisances of gendarmes tracking him down?
Christine. His well-meaning, foolish girl. How his heart pounded with love for her. Had he not told her to go to Prague? And she had; however, he hadn't told her to stay in Prague, never thinking it possible that she might care enough to try to track him down after his arrest in Jerusalem. Raoul would have been there to pick up the pieces after her messy mistake of a marriage, after all. She also had Jean-Paul to think about. And just maybe…even another child?
It had been hard to tell, and he dared not ask for fear of finding out that there was or wasn't, or it might or mightn't be his; but underneath Christine's horrid peach confection of a dress, he had been sure, when he held her…
Erik pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. He had to get out of this dark place and into the light—her light. He had to know for certain if there was a child, so he could decide what in God's name to do. The next guard who entered the room would be a dead shortly, and he would try to make for the roof—
"Ayip!"
Erik looked up at the fat, foolhardy gendarme, and a sneer spread across his face. Not even a readied rifle; this would be an easy kill. "Yes?"
"Your wife is here to visit you. A yellow-haired thing this time, just as pretty as the first," the guard smirked, "although not as well-endowed—with liras." The man cackled at his jest, his belly shaking.
"I am beginning to believe that one need only buy their way out of the Rumeli Hisari, Effendi," Erik quipped, his grip upon the chains loosening. "Really, your love for gold is most frightening at times."
"A man takes what he can, when he is in a place to do so."
"How very true." Erik held the man's gaze, then waved his hand. "Please show my wife in."
The gendarme chuckled again and motioned for the visitors to enter.
It wasn't until his "wife", her priestly companion, and two more guards were well into the room that Erik realized his mistake. He had been entirely caught up in assessing the extra gendarmes—the one to the right's relaxed stance, the ring of keys dangling from the second's sash, the fat one's rifle slung over his shoulder—that he failed to notice the most obvious obstacle:
Papillon Nitot had never before seen his face.
For the first time in his calamitous life, it had not even occurred to him to cover his face; he had lived without the aid of a mask for three months in the presence of prisoners whose own wounds were nearly as frightful as his. So when the woman began to tremble from head to toe, her face becoming as sallow as a specter's, it actually took him a moment to realize the cause of her distress. He watched as her eyes filled with horror; she blinked once, twice, then took a step back, and another, as if she would turn on her heels and fly from the room. The daroga caught her arm. "No," she murmured, trying to shake away his hands, but he held her firmly in place, whispering some word of comfort into her ears.
Erik thought quickly. "My dear wife, does the sight of your poor beaten husband trouble you?" he asked, his gold eyes searching hers.
The woman shook her head, struggling to break away from his powerful hold. "Sir…did they do this to you? Your—your face…"
"Surely I cannot look more loathsome than I did before!"
"I…I am so sorry. I cannot do this!" Papi looked back to the Persian, mutely asking for some sort of assistance.
"Will you not embrace your husband?" Nadir quietly asked and nodded to the man in irons.
The maid closed her eyes and swallowed, slowly pulling away from the safety of the daroga's arm. She moved towards Erik, one foot in front of the other as if each step required the greatest deliberation, a prayer upon her lips, until at last she stood before him.
"I see that time has softened your memory of me," Erik snapped, then grabbed her rigid arm before she could bolt. Lowering his face towards hers, he dared a glance over her shoulder at the attentive guards, now alert to the slightest of movements. The gendarme carrying the rifle stepped closer to listen. Cursing under his breath, he placed a light kiss upon the maid's cheek, holding her elbows in iron grips so she would not flinch.
"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked lowly, his breath warm upon her ear.
"Because you came back for us," was her simple reply.
He tried to meet her face again. This time, she kept her eyes carefully averted to the floor. "What would you have me do now?"
"Ask your guards if they will allow your chains to be removed so you might properly embrace your wife."
Erik froze. "You cannot be serious."
"Please!" she hissed.
The man sighed and planted another kiss upon her forehead, then turned to his vigilant observers. "Effendi," he called in Turkish, "might I have my liberty—just for a moment—to, ah, claim my wife's affections?"
The guards erupted in peels of hearty laughter, their shoulders shaking at the absurdity of the thought.
"Ayip," gasped the fat one as he wiped tears from his eyes, "from your ugly face, to your mockery, to the pretty girls that visit you, you have become a great source of delight for us here at the Rumeli Hisari. After your several failed attempts to leave us, do you really believe we would simply unchain you?" The man burst into laughter again.
Erik sneered at his jailers, then turned back to Papi. "Very well, we shall simply accomplish this with the irons. Madame, I believe now would be as good a time as any."
"Untie my sash," she whispered hurriedly.
Erik's fingers flew to the strip of silk at the woman's waist and fumbled with the knot at the back. "Merde." He sucked in his breath as pain radiated through the bones of broken hand.
"Your hand!" Papi gasped. "Can you do this with a broken—"
"Shhh—of course!" And just as he said it, the knot loosened beneath his fingertips. He felt beneath the strip of cloth—another band of something was looped around the woman's waist, concealed by the silk. A soft strip of hide, leathery and thin. His lips curled into a nefarious smile.
It was a punjab lasso.
"Really, my dear: the items ladies will wear to tease a man," he murmured into Papi's hair. Lowering his face to her neck, he scanned the room behind her; the prisoners, trying not to watch the intimate gestures between husband and wife; the guards, now huddled together, ribbing one another in raucous laughter; Nadir, positioned just behind them, bending over as if to rub his ankle, eyes trained on Erik. It was now or never. With deft fingers, he grasped the loop of the lasso and spun the woman away, throwing her to the ground. He whipped the rope above his head and loosed a cry of fury, yellow eyes blazing, chains clanking, and hurled the lasso towards his prey. The rope fell effortlessly around the fat gendarme's throat then was pulled taut, abruptly silencing the man's chuckles and cleanly snapping his neck.
Erik's eyes flew to his Persian friend; the daroga had already felled the rifled jailer with the dagger he had concealed at his ankle, and was dancing around the second, priestly garments whirling about his ankles, prepared to slit his throat. Nadir was maneuvering him closer. If the gendarme would just take a few more steps to the right, he would be within the punjab lasso's reach…
Erik grabbed Papi's arm and pointed to the dead gendarme at his feet. "The keys!" he cried.
The woman's eyes widened and she dove for the corpse's ring of keys, fumbling them in her short fingers. Wild shouts rose up at once, each of the prisoners holding out his hands to the frantic woman and crying for help. She shook her head sadly at them and knelt next to Erik's shackled feet, struggling to fit the first key into the lock.
"Be still!" she commanded and pounded her little fist upon the man's foot.
Erik hissed and frowned down upon her, then turned back to the daroga's fight.
The first key did not work.
"God help me!" Papi sobbed and tried the next. It was not good, either. Her trembling fingers ran over the keys, searching for one that might fit the lock. The metal loop fell from her hands and clattered upon the cold stone. She scooped them up again and tried a third, and a fourth.
"They aren't working!" she wailed and stared up at Erik, just in time to see the lasso go flying from his person and cinch tightly about the third guard's throat. This time, his prey's neck did not snap as nicely as the previous kill's. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Papi watching in horror as the man struggled against the rope like a carp hooked by a line, the monster at the other end dragging him forward with a power altogether unreal for such a haggard, spindly body. And then Erik threw the man to the floor and pulled the rope…pulled and pulled, choking the breath from the fallen guard and with it, his life. Choking…
Papi opened her mouth and screamed, but no sound came from it; her breath had gone with the man's. Then Erik loosed the lasso from the dead man's throat, and she saw that it was broken and ruddy, angrily streaked with the brand of death that would be forever burned into her memory. She covered her face with her hands, not wanting to witness the hideous site.
"Papillon!" Someone was clutching her shoulders and shaking her. She lowered her hands and found Nadir before her, eyes burning, face creased with worry. She blinked and turned to the grisly scene again, only to see that Erik was now finished with the man and was hunched over his shackles, unlocking them with her abandoned keys.
"Get up, both of you!" he ordered, his irons falling away. Leaping to his feet, he reached down and lifted the maid to hers, then sprinted into the dark path to the right.
"But Monsieur, the exit is to the left!" the woman cried, knowing that her words fell upon deaf ears. "We do not know where that path leads!"
"The other way leads only to death, Mam'selle. Can you not already hear the guards' cries?" She listened and sure enough, the shouts of "Karsilastirmak e daire!" echoed through the Hisari, alerting all to the occurrences in the prison chambers. The Persian took her hand and pulled her along, stumbling, in pursuit of Erik.
On and on they ran through the nearly black hallway, winding through a blur of stones and doorways, circling up, up through the Hisari fortress. Guards turned their heads in astonishment, barely having time to react before their throats were mercilessly slit or necks snapped by the lethal punjab lasso.
"Well now, I am free, daroga!" the assassin called over his shoulder. "What are your plans?"
"We need to find a way outside!" answered the Persian, fast on his heels.
Erik snorted. "I had deduced as much. I assume you know a way out of Istanbul? I have not had much of a chance to explore the city these past months."
"Father Jakob Haar is waiting with horses in the line of trees, just beyond the walls."
"That old priest from Jerusalem?"
"Yes, he was called to help. From there, we ride southeast along the coast until we reach the place where the Bosphorus empties into the sea. The Kairos, a fishing vessel, will be waiting to sail us across the Sea of Marmara to Greece—"
"—How many?"
"What?"
Another turn to the right. "How many horses, daroga? It is a simple question!"
"Three!"
"Good, good—just enough. I will need to make a detour; Christine is here, by the way."
The Persian halted dead in his tracks, nearly causing Papi to crash into him. He stared at Erik's retreating back, thoroughly agog.
Erik spun around. "For God's sake, Nadir! I would like to leave this accursed place—preferably sooner than later!" He started down the hallway again. "Christine is in Constantinople. So is that caretaker of hers. Someone must go find them before we leave."
"Papa!" yelped the maid, grabbing the daroga's sleeve. "Papa is here? M. Khan, we must go back for them, please! I will—"
The faint shouts of Turkish soldiers met their ears, coming from both ends of the twisting path. Soon, they would be trapped in the hallway, fighting back to back if they did not move with haste. Erik turned another corner and sprinted further, then stopped to stare up at the ceiling. It was a trap door of sorts—an ancient one with thick hinges and an iron latch—presumably in place to serve as an escape route should the outer parapet fall under attack. He stretched his long frame up and reached for the handle. It would not open. Pushing at the door, he jiggled the rusted latch to no effect. The door was locked.
"Hoist me up, Nadir," he ordered.
The Persian laced his fingers and stooped over, allowing his friend to step into his hands. Erik flew against the door, throwing his shoulder into it several times until, finally, the old stone began to crumble out from under the latch and hinges. He flung open the door and pulled himself through the roof, into the warm evening air. Breathing deeply, he reached down for Papi and then Nadir, wincing as the man grasped his broken hand.
"I am glad to have you on the other side of danger this time, du stæm," the daroga exclaimed as they let the heavy door fall shut. "Now you may put your brief career in heroism behind you."
Erik shook his head and pointed behind his friend, at the far bastion. "I hardly think we are out of danger yet. There are at least two gendarmes at every tower, daroga." His finger traced down the parapet. "Our best chance is to dispense of those guards at the tower next to the water's edge, at the bottom of the hill. Come!"
The three swiftly ran along the roof towards the gate tower, just as the first rifle shots whizzed past their heads and struck the stones to the left. Down, down they raced, towards the Bosphorus, ducking between merlons and crenels to escape bullets, pausing only in their mad escape to rid themselves of one, then two gendarmes who stood in their way.
Several more shots ricocheted against the battlement, shattering the rock across the path. With a cry of pain, Papi tumbled to the ground as fire suddenly engulfed her entire body, radiating up and down her limbs. She hurriedly tried to right herself, but fell back again, clutching at her middle in agony. "Dieu du ciel!" she breathed, hissing even at the slight intake of air. The pain…so much pain, all over… sweeping… burning… She knew what had happened, knew what had hit her not just once, but twice…understood the gravity of her injuries. Even now, in the waning light, she could see the inky stain rapidly spreading through the black cloth of her robes, clinging to her leg and to her side, just below her ribs…
"Papillon!"
She hurriedly covered her midsection, shielding her wound from her dear friend's eyes.
Nadir Khan grasped the woman under her arms and pulled her to the side, out of the treacherous path. He fell to his knees next to her, his frightened jade eyes sweeping up and down her body, finally coming to rest upon her contorted face.
"Where?" he asked softly.
"My leg, just below my knee," she answered through clenched teeth.
The Persian gently pulled away the sticky black cloth to inspect the damage to her shattered shinbone, placing a soothing hand upon her forehead when she gasped in pain.
"What is it?" Erik shouted from the next tower.
"Mlle. Nitot has been shot!" the daroga answered.
Erik sprinted back up the parapet. Breathing heavily, he swiftly took in the situation. Without so much as a request for pardon, the man pushed back the woman's skirt, hissing at the deep injury. Ripping a strip of material from Papi's black skirting, he bound it tightly below her knee to stop the blood from flowing.
Another shot burrowed into the stones behind them. Two more gendarmes were racing towards them, halting to reload their weapons before firing again. With a fierce growl, the daroga sprung forward and barreled into the Turks, bringing one of them down as he tumbled to ground in a flurry of black cloth and glinting blades.
Papi screamed as she saw the fallen guard fling his fist into the Persian's jaw; Nadir fell back, momentarily stunned by the hit before swinging around to plunge his dagger in to the man's side. He rolled away from the guard just as the other raised the butt of his rifle high above his head to bring it down with such a force, Papi was certain her friend would see only black in an instant. She closed her eyes.
The rifle did not make contact with his head, however; when she opened her eyes again, she saw only a flailing man tumbling to the ground, a rope snug around his neck. She breathed a sigh of relief, then winced again as waves of pain flooded through her body.
Soon, however, the pain began to recede. It faded from her limbs, her ribs, insides, leaving only a blessed numbness in its wake. By the time Nadir finished the second guard, returned, and carefully lifted her into his arms, she could barely feel anything at all.
"We are going to have to jump," Erik said, peering down over the wall.
"You are insane!" the Persian cried. "We have no idea how shallow the water is. For all we know, it could be knee-deep. And Papillon is in no condition to leap off of a wall—"
"Use your head, daroga! This entire fort was built as a gateway onto the strait—its going to be deep enough for boats to sail into and dock. And Papi is going to have to go over the edge, or remain here! There is no other way…"
The maid opened her eyes to glance down into the black, watery abyss that was the Bosphorus. Nadir was right—in this darkness, there was no way to know how deep the water was. To stay here, though, and face certain death…
And then before either could stop him, Erik leapt off of the wall and into the waters three stories below, with a resounding splash. They stared into the darkness for what seemed to be ages, waiting for him to re-emerge. At last, his resurfaced and waved his hands in the air, motioning for them to follow suit.
Nadir hesitated.
"I can do it, M. Khan," Papi said, her voice trembling. "If you would only help me a little."
The Persian sighed and eased the woman to her feet, then wrapped an arm firmly around her waist. She linked her hands behind the man's neck and braced herself.
"I will kick for the both of us. Try not to hurt yourself," he murmured. "On the count of three. One…two…"
Papi took a deep breath and struggled not to scream as they went flying through the air, wind rushing past her face and stinging her limbs, before they crashed into the Bosphorus'cold waters. Down they plunged…down…deep into the murky blackness. Instinct told her to kick; she tried to move her legs, but to her horror, her muscles revolted, and she felt herself sinking even further. Weak and aching, she had nearly resigned herself to her fate when Nadir's arms came around her and pulled her up with him, kicking towards the surface. They broke into the air once more and gasped, coughing up water.
Erik was there next to them, guiding them towards the shore. Papi let her head fall back in exhaustion as she was lifted from the waters and carried along the shore towards the trees. Somewhere behind her, she could faintly hear the pinging of bullets as they hit the water, the guards still waiting for the escapee and his accomplices to surface. They had not been spotted, then; that was good. Everything was fine…just fine…
Her eyelids fluttered shut as the Persian jostled her slightly, shifting her weight in his arms. Her weight…she felt as if she were an object outside of herself, her body completely numb and lifeless….so heavy…
"Monsieur," said a voice somewhere in front of her. "It is good to see you again, my son….alive, considering the circumstances…had nearly given you up for dead…"
She could barely make out the snatches of conversation.
"…very well, Father. Thank you for coming...we must ride for the old city, for Christine and M. Nitot…then to the ship…..Nadir will go ahead to the ship…..attend to her wound…"
"…forgive me, but, your face…"
Everything fell silent. Only the rustle of the cypress leaves, the quiet whinnying of the horses…the squeak of leather as their saddles were adjusted, and the pounding of hooves as Erik and Father Jakob departed for the old city.
And then she was being lifted up and settled in front of Nadir, cradled gently in his arms. He was telling her that they were riding for the Kairos, which was waiting for them on the Sea of Marmara, and from there, to Greece. Greece was a magical place, he explained, covered with ruins of the ancients. She would like traveling through Greece, on their way to France. And then, home to Chagny.
Home…
Nadir was still speaking to her quietly, something about almost being to the boat, and the clouds covering the moon so there was nearly no light at all; but soon the storm would pass, and the moon would wax full and bright, like a pagan night. Like those nights at home, in the stream…singing…
List and listen, over all,
Nightingale most musical
That ceases never;
Grief begone, and let us be
For a space, as glad as he;
Time's flitting ever...
Flitting…
Flitting away, like a butterfly…
Papillon sighed, the corners of her mouth turning up in a faint smile as the warmth of his arms enfolded her. Soon she would see her father again, and Christine and Jean-Paul.
Raoul…and her little boy.
"Perri," she murmured.
ooOOoo
Nadir scanned the dark coast, searching for any sign of the Kairos. It was somewhere among the fishers that were docked for the night along the strait, if he could only spot the bold blue letters painted across her bow. He studied one boat after the other, dismissing them until his eyes fell upon a white and blue ship, gently rocking in the still waters of the Bosphorus. He chuckled. Of course! The "Kairos" was written in Greek letters.
"Papillon, I have found the boat!" he whispered into the woman's ear. No reply. Unconscious, mercifully, he thought. Swinging a leg over the saddle, he tucked her closer and slid down from the animal, then lowered her to the ground with the greatest of care.
She did not stir.
Nadir frowned as he peered down at the young maid's face through the darkness; not even the slightest flutter of an eyelash. "Mlle. Nitot," he whispered, and shook her gently. Nothing. He shook her again more forcefully this time, suddenly panicking at her lack of response.
It was then that the moon, whose silvery glow had been shrouded behind thick clouds through the night's early hours, broke through the darkness and chased away its covers, bathing Constantinople in its brilliance. Light fell across Papi's still face, revealing to Nadir the secret that she had silently carried with her. The man moaned, struggling fiercely to deny what he already knew to be true; the tell-tale streaks of blood across her face and neck; his own hands, arms, clothing, covered in red. It had not been her wounded limb that had bled so greatly.
Nadir frantically ran his hands over her midsection, searching for an answer. And he found it in the form of a second wound just under her ribs, massive and angry, intentionally concealed from his eyes by her layers of Turkish robes.
Papillon Nitot was dead.
It had been a mortal wound from the moment the bullet entered her. And it still bled between his fingers, though life had already slipped from her lovely body. He watched as her warm lifeblood spread over his hand; beautiful, even now. Slowly, he lowered his lips to her ashen brow and gently kissed it.
"Beyn el-yasmin wer-rehani ya eni beyn…" he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. Tears began to stream down his face. He fiercely brushed them away, absently streaking his cheek with red. He swallowed and continued, his words broken.
"The nightingale sang on the stem of the double jasmine, O anemones, O anemones…I intend to find my beloved, Between the jasmine and the basil."
A/N – Papi's French folk song is an excerpt from "Love In May" by Jean Passerat, 1580.
Definition of Kairos: Kairos is an ancient greek word meaning the "right or opportune moment". It is now used in theology to describe the qualitative form of time. In rhetoric kairos is "a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved." (E. C. White, Kaironomia p. 13) courtesy of wikipedia . org
Story recommendation: Conversations with Vacant Chairs by BalletRat
This is how much I trust my beta, Le Chat Noir. I have not yet read this story. In fact, I'm going to start it once I post this chapter. But it is finished, and she is gushing about it, so I simply have to recommend it!
Chat says, "Conversations with Vacant Chairs by BalletRat features my darling petit rats of the Opera's corps de ballet making mischief with a certain Opera Ghost. Its got a distinct Leroux bent, but it is ripe with humor in the early chapters. The overall tone is one of dark humor, and the authoress has a nice prose style that is clever and descriptive."
Read along with me! Enjoy!