"My liege!" one of his guards called from outside his tent.

"Yes?" he said warily, exiting the canvas structure.

"We have new arrivals," the guard replied, "It's the tribe that travels with Javert."

Javert, just the sound of his name made him want to allow the shiver that was about to go down his spine. Javert was a gajo that was allowed to travel with this particular group for his skills as a showman, but truth be told he gave Clopin the creeps. Though he did not allow his unease to show at the sound of that name, he could not stop the roll of his eyes as he heaved a sigh. It was autumn, that time of year when various smaller tribes came to Paris to wait out the winter months in the safety of the Court of Miracles. Every year, he hoped this particular tribe would show up without that bloated showman and every year, those hopes were dashed. Javert had a certain reputation among the denizens of the Court, one based on the fact that no woman was ever seen leaving his tent and those leering glances he gave Clopin. Those roving eyes were why Clopin distrusted him and felt such unease around him, he knew that look well and he'd never liked it. The man never bothered to hide that look despite the fact that he was directing it toward the lanky King of the Gypsies, leader of the Court the man took shelter in.

Clopin strode towards the entrance of the large main chamber they all congregated in, greeting the leader of the tribe, black eyes taking note that Javert was still among them. As the pair spoke, Clopin took note of something new among them: a cage in a wagon and in the cage a child that couldn't have been more than 10. He stepped aside to direct the group to an area where they could settle themselves, eyeing the child in the cage as it was wheeled past, pitch black eyes meeting ice blue as the child, a boy, gazed back. As an entertainer of children and a storyteller, Clopin hated to see such innocence suffer and no child would volunteer to be in a cage, never mind that this boy was skin and bones. He returned to his tent before he did anything rash and stupid like kill whatever bastard was keeping the boy behind those bars. He occupied himself restlessly with his books, unable to keep his mind occupied and focused, but before long, he was up and pacing the length of his tent. Unable to busy himself, Clopin emerged from his tent and opted for watching the tribe Javert traveled with settle themselves in, seeing the boy from the cage out and about, helping to set up tents, Javert keeping a sharp eye on him with a whip in his hand. So, it was Javert that had imprisoned the boy, Clopin really shouldn't have been surprised, but he was disappointed that the tribe would allow it.

Night fell far too slowly for Clopin's liking, he had a plan and he was anxious to put it into action. The opposite was true for the boy in the cage, night had come too soon for his taste and he'd been returned to this dehumanizing cage, desperate but unable to sleep. The only sounds were the distant scurry of rats and Javert's snoring as he slept off whatever liquor he'd consumed. A soft whisper of cloth alerted him to another presence and his eyes darted toward the tent flaps to see a form slinking toward his cage. A lifetime of petty theft and picking pockets had made Clopin skilled at stealth and moving silently through the shadows, Javert being in a deep slumber didn't hurt. For a brief few moments, he rummaged quietly through the man's belongings for the keys to the cage without success, though he did find a small, child-sized mask which he shoved into a pocket. He made his way on silent feet to the cage, pulling out a leather wallet that contained his lock picks and went to work on the lock, opening it as silently as he could once it unlocked. Trying not to frighten this rail-thin child who already seemed scared out of his wits, Clopin held out a long, thin hand and offered the boy an encouraging smile.

The boy eyed the black-gloved hand dubiously, wondering what this Rom's motives were in freeing him from his cold prison. He desperately wanted out, but what if this man only wanted him for his own means? Gypsies had already proven they couldn't be trusted. Yet, if this man only wanted to use him himself, surely he would simply have taken him by force and wouldn't be patiently and silently coaxing him out like a wounded animal. Hesitantly, he put his own small, thin hand in that of the Gypsy and allowed himself to be pulled from the cage and silently ushered out of the tent.

"Come," Clopin waved for the boy to follow him when he stopped.

The boy stood still a moment longer before continuing to follow the lanky man across the dark Court to another tent, this one larger than Javert's and constructed of purple canvas. He pulled aside the tent flap and ushered the boy into the softly lit interior, the boy hesitantly entering as Clopin walked in behind him and headed to the back of the tent. The boy sat down on an old wooden chair at an equally worn table, arms wrapped around himself as Clopin bustled about with a ceramic plate and gathered a few things to feed the poor boy. He set the plate down in front of him, the boy eying the bread, cheese, and small bunch of red grapes on it hungrily before casting his gaze on the Gypsy.

"Eat," was all he said, "Go on."

Clopin sat across from the boy, pulling out his violin as the child began slowly eating, mindful of his manners even though he was ravenous. Reaching into a pocket, Clopin pulled out a match and cigarette, lighting up before he poured himself some wine and some water for the boy.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Why?" the boy eyed him warily.

"Well, I can't very well keep calling you boy," Clopin shrugged, "So what do I call you?"

"What Javert calls me, Living Corpse," he muttered, before letting out a breath, "Erik. My name's Erik."

"Erik then," the Gypsy nodded, blowing the smoke out of his mouth, "I'm Clopin."

Once he'd eaten, Clopin ushered Erik to his own simple bed of pillows and blankets before crossing the tent and climbing into a hammock he had set up for nights when someone else needed his bed. Erik soon fell into an exhausted sleep, feeling safe and warm for the first time in months, though it was disrupted by nightmares of what he'd endured since falling into Javert's hands. Clopin was always there when the boy would open his eyes, expecting to be back in his cage, to reassure him that he was safe and sound, his soft tenor singing a Romani lullaby to soothe him. The next morning, Erik woke from the first truly restful sleep he'd had since finding himself in that cage to the soft sound of a violin, a sweet, sad melody that Erik found himself mentally adding some piano accompaniment to as his fingers tapped out the tune. He sat up and spotted Clopin at the back of the tent with a violin tucked to his chin and against his shoulder rather than the more traditional position Gypsies tended to hold the instrument in. He watched him, knees to his chest and his arms around his legs, as the lanky Gypsy played until he played the final chords and lowered the violin.

"I hope I didn't wake you," came that nasally, accented voice without turning to look at Erik.

"No," Erik mumbled, "You play well."

"Merci," Clopin said as he approached the boy with a bowl of warm porridge, "Here, eat."

"I haven't heard music in months," Erik muttered as he took the proffered bowl and spoon.

"Surely the tribe plays their own music," Clopin returned, sitting on the edge of the bed facing the boy, "Music is a part of every culture, my people are no different."

"I can't hear it very well from my cage," he said, "We're not a part of the tribe, so Javert's tent and the one I'm kept in are on the outskirts of camp."

"I'm sorry," the Gypsy said as he lit a cigarette, "I always expect better of my people, but we're a superstitious lot and at times we're no better than anyone else."

"You're different. From other Gypsies, I mean."

"I'm the leader of my people here in Paris, I must rise above the others and be an example."

"What is this place anyhow?"

"It's the old catacombs of Paris, most call it the Court of Miracles. We call it home. Where's home for you?"

Erik's head lowered and he looked away glowering, "Nowhere."

"Come now, Erik. Everyone comes from somewhere."

"St. Martin-de-Boscherville."

"What of your parents? They must be looking for you."

The boy scoffed and gave a snort of derision, "It was just me and Mother. Father died before I was born and Mother hates me. She's likely glad to be rid of me."

Clopin reached out a hand to softly rest on the boy's shoulder to comfort him only for Erik to flinch away at the light touch, a feral scowl on his face as he slapped the Gypsy's hand away.

Clopin sighed, "You poor boy, what have they done to you?"

"I don't need your pity!" Erik spat, turning back to his food.

"'Tis compassion, boy, and you'll watch your tone with me," Clopin said sternly.

"Or what?" the boy snapped, "You'll send me back to Javert? Go ahead, I'm used to it."

"No," Clopin glared at the boy, crossing his arms, "But I will beat that smart ass raw."

"Try it," he challenged, but Clopin could see the fear in his eyes.

"I don't tolerate such behavior from my people, I sure as hell won't tolerate it from you. I'm trying to help you. I didn't have to. Let me help you."

"CLOPIN!" a shout came from outside the tent.

"Stay put," Clopin warned Erik, "I'll handle this."

Clopin rose to his feet and pushed aside the tent flaps, striding out into the Court with an authoritative and commanding air despite his wiry stature.

There, outside the large purple tent that housed the Gypsy King, stood Javert, hands on his hips and a coiled whip in his hand, his large face almost purple with rage.

"Can I help you, Javert?" Clopin asked, arms crossed and his black eyes narrowed.

"You took something from me!" the larger man roared.

"And what, pray tell, do you think I took?" the King questioned.

"You know full well what it is!"

"And what makes you think I took it?" Clopin quirked a curving black brow.

"Only you would have the audacity to take it!" Javert gave Clopin's chest a sharp poke.

Clopin looked at the offending finger and glanced around, seeing that a crowd had gathered around the two, and batted Javert's hand away, dropping all friendly pretenses.

"It is a he!" Clopin exclaimed, hands now balled into fists at his sides, a fierce glare on his face, "And he does not belong to you!"

"He does now and you stole him!" Javert returned, "I found him, I fed him, and I kept a roof over the boy's head!"

"You keep him in a cage!"

"Keeps the little monster from running. Can't have my little prize slipping through my fingers."

"He's a child, Javert!"

"You've seen that face of his, dintcha? Ain't what I'd call no child!"

"So you'd take his misfortune and profit off it, would you?"

"Boy's gotta earn his keep."

"Not this way, Javert, not in my Court!"

"You'll give him back, now, or I'll-"

"Or. You'll. What? I am King here, you have no power over me. You'll leave the boy alone or I'll gladly slit your fat throat!"

"This ain't over, your Highness!"

As Javert angrily stomped away, Clopin called for everyone to go back to their business before spinning on his heel and striding back into his tent. His eyes widened when he didn't see Erik in his bed and the bowl of porridge spilled on the floor. Glancing around in a slight panic, his sharp eyes landed on the curled up form of the boy under the wooden table towards the back of the tent.

"Erik?" Clopin said, kneeling down so he was eye-level with him.

"Is he gone?" Erik whispered.

"He's gone," the King sighed, "And he won't bother you anymore."

"I wouldn't be so sure," he returned, crawling out from under the table.

Clopin sighed again and retrieved the bowl from where it had dropped to the floor in Erik's haste to hide, cleaning up the remainder of the bowl's contents as well as the forgotten cigarette butt he himself had dropped. He couldn't help wondering what had happened to this boy in his short life that he was so guarded, trusted no one, and never expected a gentle touch. Then again, just looking at his face, he could only guess at what Javert and possibly his own mother had done to him. People feared what they didn't understand and the right side of Erik's face strongly resembled a rotting skull, the skin like yellow parchment stretched tight over the skull beneath, his right eye sunken in its socket, and black hole where his nose should be. He reached into his pocket, drawing out the small mask he'd nicked from Javert the night before, and wondered if the boy would be more comfortable with it.

"Here, Erik," he said, holding out the mask, "I took this from Javert's tent last night and only just remembered it."

"Thank you," Erik muttered, taking it and tying it around his face.