His emergence into consciousness was like bodily crawling through thick sludge, slowly becoming more aware of the pain that had been a dull companion at the edges of his attention, now a sharp spike in his skull, twin fires at his shoulders and arms.
Experience has taught him to push away such things like pain and discomfort, taught him not to show any signs of being awake, sounds, movements, etc... And oh how wonderful a student he was in these lessons.
His arms were strained over his head, his wrists bound together by rope that rubbed his skin raw and bloody from taking the weight of his body as he dangled in the air. His neck would no doubt scream of agony if he tried to lift his head, which he wouldn't be doing for as long as he could put it off.
"I know you're awake," a horribly familiar voice said in Farsi.
That voice, spoken in that language. Straight out of his nightmares. That same voice that's kept him up countless nights, trying to block out that insidious echo with drugs. The Khanum of Persia. The crazed, psychotic woman of the middle east.
He abandoned all pretense of unconsciousness with a tiny sigh, lifted his face up and opened his eyes, ignored the twinge in his neck as it worked to support his much too heavy head. The Khanum was sat in a rickety wooden chair with the same grace as she would her throne, one leg stacked over the other, her hands linked placidly on her lap, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she watched him from a few feet away.
They were alone, Erik quickly ascertained with a dart of his eyes over the barren room. They were holed up in an abandoned house, judging by the thick layers of dust that coated the floor and the empty cobwebs that dotted the corners. Even the insects had scurried away in the presence of this wretched woman.
He craned his neck upwards, saw that his ropes hung from a rafter on the ceiling. The chill of the room bit into the skin of his bare chest and his mask-less face, but Erik was more than used to the cold, and was more than used to having this woman examining his deformity, so that was nothing of importance.
At least she'd allowed him to keep his pants, if not his shoes, which was unusual, considering all she'd done to him in the past.
Small mercies.
"Like old times, isn't it, my lovely?" she asked, the damn endearment's irony certainly not lost on a deformed monster like Erik.
He mustered up a smile - more a sneer than a smile - and responded in Farsi, "Did you receive my resignation letter?" He wiggled his blood-deprived fingers to indicate the bound wrists. "Maybe not."
Erik had forgotten, in the time he'd been away from Persia, just how fast the Khanum could move. And just how hard she could hit too. She sprung up with an agility that would make even a cobra envious, impacted the back of her hand against Erik's cheek hard enough to snap his head to the side, tasting blood instantly. And, oh, how could Erik have forgotten the rings?
The sadistic bi - woman - wore the largest of jewels that her country produced, and the sharp edges of the metal settings lanced three gashes along the side of Erik's unmarred cheek. She wouldn't dare touch his deformity, unwilling to destroy a fine work of art such as that. But his left side, she always had her share of fun with.
"Your tongue has always been loose, magician," she hissed into his face. Her blood-speckled hand gripped his jaw to focus his attention on her again. "I wonder sometimes whether you should still be in possession of it."
A threat Erik had no doubt she'd follow through on. If people had thought the Phantom was psychotic and depraved, they've never met the devil that chased at his heels.
"We have much to discuss, you and I," she said, shook his jaw a bit to get his to swing in the air, the pain in his shoulders increasing to the point where he felt as if they'd pop out of their sockets soon.
She released him to return to her chair, but not before running a hand down his bare chest for good measure. Oh yes, just like old times.
"Buquet sent for you, didn't he?" Erik asked through clenched teeth, biting through the pain.
"As smart as ever, my angel," she said with a pleased smile, and Erik had to fight not to react to the name. Angel of Death. Angel of Music. Two extremes, one just as destructive as the other.
"He told me what you've been doing in Paris," she said, held her hand up to pick at the blood on her rings. "You've been a busy boy."
That bastard! Erik should have gotten rid of him ages ago, but he'd promised Nadir. DAMN THAT PERSIAN AND HIS DAMNABLY HIGH MORALS! Look where it's gotten Erik now! With his life literally hanging in the balance.
"What did he tell you?" Erik spat along with the blood from his cut lip.
She looked up from her nails, a malicious glint in her eyes. "Everything."