"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
And in a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this weighting up of truth
An eye for an eye
A tooth for a tooth
And anyway, I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die"

-'Mercy Seat', Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

A Summer Night

He had thought often of the Daroga the past several years, and as he lay on the makeshift bed early one summer evening, staring blankly at the peeling paint of the ceiling of his empty, squat of an apartment, he thought of the Persian now. The words that insufferable man had said to him the day they parted ways on that rocky, salt-ladden shore of the Caspian Sea had clattered around in his head more often these days.

"You may no longer seek pleasure from death.", he had said in so many words. It was the bargain Erik was to make in exchange for the Daroga's selfless sacrifice.

The man had saved his life, swooping in like some unwelcome savior at the last moment when the execution order had been issued and Erik's head was to be served on a platter for the Persian court. His death would have been just. He had, after all, become far too tainted and vile, his soul corrupted by the power and the fear he had garnered. Nights were hardly his friend in those days, when his dreams were soaked with the blood which he had willingly spilled to secure his threatening presence in the courts. At any moment, he could have chosen to stop, to change, to pack his bags in the dead of night and create a new life elsewhere, yet he chose otherwise. His hand had never been forced, each and every sinister act from his spidery fingers had been his decision alone…despite the denial he had long held that it had been otherwise, that he had not been fully autonomous in his actions.

Nadir had given him a second chance and he had squandered it in spectacular form. Addiction, violence, and a fierce anger towards humanity rode on his coattails all throughout the rest of his miserable life. The half-hearted vow he had made his one and only friend on that distant shore was quickly forgotten, sinking in the muck and mire of his own insanity and depraved living.

Closing his eyes, he pictured the soft, kind gaze of his former companion, so full of skeptical hope as he had watched Erik take leave that day. He did not see Nadir again for over two decades when the Persian suddenly appeared on the Parisian street which Erik resided. Erik had observed with horror the sudden appearance of the man who ought to have saved his soul through the act of mercy those many years ago and vowed to ensure they never crossed paths again.

He could not allow the Persian to see him now, could never allow those all-knowing dark eyes to meet his, those eyes which had gathered and documented so many of Erik's vicious deeds.

How could he possibly allow it? He had never changed his ways. By the time Nadir had exited that cab on the Rue Scribe, Erik had been living like a mole underground, reduced to a shell of human being through isolation and the siren which lived in the tip of a needle. He had killed many men since last they spoke, often motivated by drug fueled rage…the victims merely men who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fury was the only emotion which Erik had become well versed, he had encased himself within it so tightly that the loneliness failed to penetrate. So long as he carried his carapace of hate, nothing could harm him again.

It was not until the night he lay in his bed, a coffin, which was so terribly gothic now that he thought of it, that the fangs of those lonely feelings finally penetrated his heart. He had laid there, broken from the years of bodily neglect and abuse, from the countless vials of opiates and bottles of wine, the years of malnutrition and sleepless nights. He had welcomed death then, for surely oblivion was a preferable end to a life without gentleness and love.

Then Lucius appeared and the rest was history.

He often wished he knew what Nadir's fate had been, those were memories he did not possess, for Nadir would have never fallen under the jurisdiction of a soul eater. Erik only hoped the man had lived a long life, dying peacefully with a handful of loved ones to mourn his passing. He deserved a good and gentle death.

With the years passing by like leaves falling gracefully from the brittle stems of a dying tree, the cocoon of vitriol he had imprisoned himself within had weakened and thinned. He was no longer capable of drowning within the blissful, euphoric waves of narcotics, nor dull and numb his senses with drink. He did not even possess the need to consume food for survival but could only do so to "keep appearances" among mortals…not that he, of all the reapers, could possibly walk among them freely, not with a face like his.

As a result of this waning hatred towards humanity, he found moments like this, laying in solitude, where he thought of his past life and felt the sharp teeth of regret…just as he did now.

Sighing, he closed his eyes to block out the dimly lit room, illuminated from a single yellow bulb of an LED camping lantern.

That was when the sounds of car door outside and the effervescent, yet shy voice of a young woman floated through his ajar window and penetrated his thoughts. His hearing had always been pristine, almost inhuman, even before he had been transformed into the being that he was now. It had kept him alive in some of the most harrowing situations. Hearing conversations from across the street was an easy feat for him.

"You shouldn't carry that, Papa." The woman insisted in Swedish with a gentle sternness in her pretty voice. "It's too heavy for your back."

A raspy, jovial laugh followed.

"It's one box, Christine. Allow an old man his dignity," the man replied in the same language.

Erik broke away from his contemplative thoughts, pushing them towards the back of his mind where he typically stored them. He made his way to the window, choosing to watch this interaction between father and daughter instead. The two individuals did not sound like the sort of tenants who typically inhabited this neighborhood, which was known for having been in the plummeting decline for years. All the buildings in this area were either abandoned, or home to disreputable sorts. Homelessness had grown rampant in the city and the run-down buildings had quickly become invaded by squatters, ideal for Erik who did not enjoy working for a living these days and did not have the luxury of extortion as he once had in his previous life. Those who had not been lucky to find a building to invade had assembled encampments along the sidewalks, lining them with tents and makeshift forts assembled from a hodge-podge of items scavenged from dumpsters and street corners.

The two people were unloading a few boxes and suitcases from the trunk of a dented, twenty something year old Honda. Erik wondered if they intended to park the vehicle nearby, for surely it was only a matter of time before it disappeared, stolen for parts or scrap metal by some low-down chop shop. They had better chances of parking it several blocks, in the nicer part of downtown and walking…but even that came with its own risks.

It was clear they were preparing to move into the building across the street, a slum of an apartment complex which could often be seen with abandoned, bed-bug infested mattresses left out front from previous tenants who moved out. Those mattresses were often carted away within a few days by a member of the homeless, desperate for a more comfortable sleep than the hard, concrete sidewalks. For many, a soft bed was a fair trade off to blood sucking creatures.

The woman was not some grand beauty, perhaps cute, yet not overly so, but Erik was struck by her gentle demeanor. Her hair was pale, like spun moonlight, which she had brushed up hurriedly and bound into a sloppy bun. She dressed her petite form in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of black leggings, a fashion choice that Erik had reluctantly come to accept as the new modern norm.

Her father, a man who must have been in his early seventies, had a head of thinning grey hair and a rough shag of a beard. He wore a flimsy cheap suit but wore it like a proud man who was determined to dress as nice as he could despite his meager means. This was a man who was accustomed to presenting himself well but had rapidly fallen on hard times.

This was clearly a pair that did not belong here but had somehow managed to find themselves in a position where this was the only affordable housing. He found himself curious about their story but being unable to interface with their souls as he could with those he was summoned to claim, he would never be fully privy to their entire life experiences. It was possible to get bits and pieces of a person, but he needed to be in closer proximity.

"Stay here with the car and I'll carry these first things up. It shouldn't take too many trips," said the woman who her father had called Christine.

Her father rubbed his face with slight agitation, the sign of a man who was frustrated by his own limitations.

The girl disappeared into the ugly, stucco building for several minutes while her father anxiously looked around, clearly nervous about their location as a homeless couple observed him curiously several feet away.

When she re-emerged, she had a deep frown on her face.

"There's a really nasty fight happening in the apartment next door. I don't want you to be surprised when we go up," she said. "It sounds like a domestic thing…I'm so sorry, Papa. I feel like this is all my fault."

He shook his head as he gathered a suitcase and an instrument case, which Erik immediately recognized as a violin and replied, "You had no power over this, sweetheart. If I had lived a less bohemian lifestyle…maybe I would have provided better for our future."

She gave a soft, sad smile. "You did what you loved. I wouldn't have asked for more." Glancing over her shoulder she saw the couple who had been watching them from the door of their bent and torn tent. "Let's get inside, I need to inflate these air mattresses so we can get something to sleep on."

The young woman locked up the car, which Erik now felt obligated to watch all night long and disappeared into the building with her father. A few moments later a light flickered on in the uncovered window of one of the small studio apartments across the street and at the same level as his own. Christine soon began to struggle to open that same window. With the stuffy late summer air, she no doubt was trying to get some ventilation into an unairconditioned apartment. Eventually the cumbersome pane of glass gave way, miraculously opening despite the dozens of layers of paint which had probably sealed it shut. Soon, her silhouette could be seen in the open window, unrolling a plastic air mattress. He watched as she inflated it by manually blowing into it for nearly an hour, her face strained with the effort.

He was nearly ready to turn away, to collect his worn-out copy of Paradise Lost, before settling back by the window to take up watch of this vehicle which had been foolishly parked on this block, when the piercing song of a violin rang into the evening air. It was a folk song, one he had not yet heard, which flittered playfully from the window and played with such masterful skill. A voice joined with it, sweet as honey and full of hope, pure like the first breath of spring…her voice. He watched, with supreme interest as she sat, cross legged upon the fully inflated air mattress and poured her heart into the song her father now played.

Erik felt as though he were watching something terribly intimate and private but could not look away from the serene expression on the girl's face, to allow her untrained, yet perfect voice to wrap around his bones in a comforting embrace. He could not understand why but felt a fierce duty to keep an eye on this tiny family, to protect them from the dangers around them.

He felt like he suddenly had a new purpose.