Hello, readers. I'd like to thank you for reading this story! Translated to English, the title means "After rain comes good weather." Analyze it as you wish, haha. I hope you enjoy it!

P.S. Just for fun, I've placed some lyrics/references of musicals throughout the text. This chapter has one too!

Erik

Southwestern Russia

March 1887

That memory to Erik, abandoning his family the dark of night did not seem years ago, it was years ago. He was nearing the outskirts of Moscow now. He knew he had lost the Shah's men in his roundabout journey home, most likely somewhere in the Caucasus. Still, he would not take any chances. He talked to few, mostly traveled at night, and slept in his tent. A tall man with a mask was likely to garner plenty of suspicion, a sight locals would remember. Having slept in various positions nowhere near the realm of comfort, he did not expect to miss the warm softness of the mattress, her curled beside him, but he did. Now, he longed for that peace, but he would do with the assurance of their safety alone. He had had an 'and', but now he was back to 'or'. It made the 'or' mean more than it did before.

The sun was nearly rising over the wild flora. Stretching far above Oberon's saddle, the wild barley plant obscured both his and his mounts' legs, creating the illusion of floating. Golden grasses contrasted against his black -although fading-tailcoat, their tips lightly brushing against calloused hands. Oberon sneezed. The morning dew would cool the tired horse. In these brief moments of beauty, his mind would wander back to her. He wanted to bring her here, show her the glorious sights before him and feel her against his chest. The experience felt false, in some abstract manner, without Christine.

It was then that a thought struck his very core, ricocheting its course through the tips of his skeleton-like appendages. What if she was not there, waiting for him? He could hardly blame her. After all, it had been almost a decade, and he had been hardly a father. Upon parting with Nadir, nearly a year prior, he had told the Daroga to tell Christine that he was still alive. Surely he had found her by now, lest she moved. She loved the sea, though. Had she remarried? He had told her to move on with her life should he not come home, and Christine had never received word of him since his departure. If she had married another, was sending Nadir only stirring up what was best left alone? Last he had heard, De Chagny was sailing to the ends of the earth. Erik narrowed his eyes. Good. But the fop surely could have returned in time. The thought stung. He wanted her happiness though. Erik hated the thought of her spending the remaining days of her youth waiting. But he also hated the possibility of another man, especially the boy, enjoying the priceless moments he had spent with Christine, raising his son. Yet still he knew he did not deserve them.

Regardless, Alexandre deserved a father, didn't he? He would not deny his son what had been denied to his younger self. Giovanni was an irreplaceable figure in his life, despite what had occured on the rooftop with Luciana. He briefly entertained the idea of the scenario had he not studied the trade of masonry under the Italian. Definitely, he would not be in such a mess. Perhaps he was going insane, with just Oberon for company, but he was used to it, wasn't he? He chuckled at the memory of Nadir, much younger, the grey yet to lay claim over his black hair, genuinely nervous at their first meeting.

Years ago, the Shah had heard talk of the young Erik's superior skills designing various commissions in Rome, under a certain Giovanni. He had also heard of Erik's mysterious visage. The then young ruler enjoyed such spectacle, and so, he sent his Daroga to retrieve a new architect, with ample monetary reward.

The Shah was lucky in that his prize was looking for an excuse to leave Italy's capital. Evidently, Giovanni had thrown him out, reasons for which the daroga was unaware, if not suspicious. Drawing upon the keen detective work Mazandaran required in his tenure there, Nadir eventually found what, or rather whom he was searching for. Sleeping in the hayloft of a barn on the outskirts of the ancient city, the said subject immediately awoke as he heard footsteps approaching. This was certainly not a place that a prized architect should live. This man must be strange indeed.

"Bonjour" The daroga muttered in accented French. Erik merely looked at him, coiled tight as if awaiting attack.

He did not respond. Now, the daroga had only a few languages up his sleeve. If this Erik was French, as he was informed, he could most likely carry on conversation, hopefully convincing the masked man to come along. This task seemed more and more unlikely, however, as the yellow eyes turned from a neutral inspection to a harsh glare.

He was not to return empty handed.

"Monsieur", he began, swallowing his nervousness. "The Shah of Persia has heard of your great projects in Rome. He would like you to build him a palace."

And Nadir had thought the glare was harsh before. Underneath his eyes lay a curiosity, however.

"I do not wish for games, Monsieur." It was a low warning. Nadir pressed on.

"Monsieur Erik-" He ventured to call him by name. Erik's surprise grew into displeasure.

"-His Majesty has taken quite an interest in your work. Of course, you would be sufficiently compensated."

"Of course."

The young Frenchman sat, more relaxed than before, up above in the hayloft, looking down upon Nadir. The Daroga was reminded of the Shah thinking over one of his grand parties, he thought humorously.

The tension sat in the musty old barn. Nadir waited for the man to break it.

"Very well. I am looking for a change of scenery."

Three months later Erik started laying plans for the palace he would never complete.

He had been in a constant state of motion for almost three years. Once he had fled Persia, only a year following his arrival, his sole task had been wandering through various parts of Western Asia, hoping to lose the pack of men after his hide. Going so far as the Punjab region of India, he even learned of the true namesake of his most trusted weapon.

Although tiresome and draining, the incessant travel was not without its spectacle. Erik would regularly look upon sights foreign to most men, taking in the everything from the rolling red sands of Rubʿ al Khali, to the ancient cerulean waters of Grecian deities. He even collected a few things for his wife and son, despite not being able to carry much with him. Sighting a stream up ahead, he decided it was time to water Oberon. The horse had done well that night, covering nearly fifty miles. Sliding off his back, he took note of Oberon's torn noseband. He must fashion something to replace it soon. The effects of travel were wearing upon his own state as well; the ragged clothing was truly contemptible. Eyeing the saddle bag, Erik took out the photograph yet again. This was why they were riding so fast. To return to them. He had to see Alexandre. By God, the child was eight by now! Would the boy even remember him? And Christine, even if she wanted nothing to do with him, he needed to see her one last time. Nevertheless, Erik knew it was not wise to push the horse so far. He would do better to take care of his mount.

But he was stupid for another reason as well. He had taken the precious photograph before he left, loving Christine all the more that she had forced them to get the daguerreotype done for such an occasion as their wedding. He had never known such an image could hold such power over his being. This small portrait became his single comfort upon arriving in Persia. Preferring to fold the side of the photograph that displayed his hideous form backwards, admiring his wife's pure features, it served as a humble refuge during bitter cold desert nights, hoveled in his tent as the fire outside cracked and heated. The light would poke through his cow-skin tent, poorly illuminating the face of the woman he loved. It was these moments in which he thanked God for his unusually sharp eyesight.

Day to day work proved to be just as difficult as it was some fifteen odd years ago, though Erik never showed it. Especially with the sweltering Persian summers, the men marveled at, and yet were frightened by, his inhuman composure. The only concession from his apparent state of inhumanity were his rolled up sleeves at the elbow- and maybe an occasional wipe of the left brow. Other than that, no signs of weakness were displayed. Erik presumed the character of his foreboding reputation, with a buttoned up shirt and waistcoat-at the very least, if not, a tailcoat- neatly tied cravat, and black trousers, fitting of a french gentleman. The uniform was merely another mask to wear, another role to befit. This additional mask aided in the protection of his family and himself. To have no loved ones is to have no weakness, no one's death to be threatened with. Nadir had almost died because of him, and he would carry himself properly. They must never know, not even the daroga, lest his wife and son be threatened. He would assume nothing less from the Shah.

Keeping order at the site, the Shah's architect garnered strict obedience among the staff, as well as executing their ruler's various whims and fantastical delusions as to what practical-or even possible, design meant. Erik was no longer the Shah's dog, however. He had agreed to serve as the Master Architect, nothing more.

It would turn out that his selfish need to see her had put them all in danger, and how he hated himself for it. With one hand on the reins, and the other pressed to his chest, where his wedding ring once hung around his neck, he cursed himself yet again.

It had been about a year since he had begun the project. He remembered it because it was Christine's birthday. She would be 23, he mused.

"Erik." The Shah had summoned him to the throne room. The North facing side had been delayed.

Erik had never bothered with assanine pleasantries, nor royal monikers. It was something the fop would do. He merely glanced back at his superior, head cocked to one side in question.

"Yes?" He said only with a slight hint of sarcasm.

The Shah brushed his magician's facetious unpleasantness aside. "I should like to know why there is delay on the North Entrance."

He was irritated now. "Your Eminence," exaggerating the last syllable, "you have demanded marble facing. Your men so foolishly allowed it to be stolen during its journey from America."

The shah returned the angered expression. "And so they shall be punished. It is your project, I wish for you to carry out the sentence."

Erik's expression was stock-still. Readjusting golden cufflinks he met the Shah's gaze. "I am tired of such pursuits. I have come here to build, nothing more."

There was a brief moment of silence. The Shah was surprised. He had expected a more positive response, this was a reward to his architect for his good work. What had changed in his former bloodthirsty assassin?

Something was different in the Angel of Doom, the Shah noticed as he eyed him up and down. "Very well. You may go." And with that Erik turned on a polished heel and left.

That stupid, pathetic child! Erik could already name several halts to the project. He could understand why previous architects gave up implementing his design, which was so difficult because of the Shah's numerous requests. As workmen were comprised of Jews, Muslims, and Christians, he was short of men three days a week, each group honoring their respective sabbath. Due to incompetent staff and petty bureaucracy, he was compelled to oversee nearly everything personally. Several men were injured, as the Shah wanted solid marble ceilings, a painstaking challenge indeed. Some men even died. It was as if the site was cursed. All of these reasons made it longer to return to them. He grew more irritable every day.

It was that night, crouched in his tent following another day of expected errors. He was short three men. One had severed his fingers off whilst sawing lumber, two more had died as a faulty column the previous firm had failed to secure collapsed. This would lengthen the project even more. Both the men and Erik were discontented.

Erik took comfort in his nightly ritual. It gave him something to look forward to, a goal he was working towards. It gave purpose to the meaningless tasks he faced. He afforded this one transgression that compromised the secrecy of his family daily, there in his tent. With the pull of the small photograph from his coat pocket, he disproved his once held conviction that he was not a sentimental man.

Christine stood proudly, a light smile reaching out of the black and white display. Her dress hung elegantly, they had argued over its pricing; Christine had complained of its expense, while Erik insisted it was necessary for his perfect bride. Now he longed for those little arguments. How he wished to spoil his bride! The fashionable lace fabric dissolved off into various displays of rich pattern, interwoven with crystals and silk at the skirt. Her dark hair contrasted with the light of the dress, creating an illuminating effect. He folded the picture at the edge of her hand, resting on his shoulder as he sat in a simple wooden stool. Even then, he was still almost her height. Despite his wanting to, he refrained from tearing the photograph. She would be very angry indeed.

It was in these moments when he would allow himself to think about Alexandre, surely he was speaking in full sentences now! He seemed a very bright child. When he is to return, would his son remember him? The boy was so very young. Erik knew he was a pathetic excuse for a father, but even that was better than an absent one. He longed to be a part of his life, teach him music and horseback riding like a normal father. And she was doing it all alone. He had left her to raise him all alone. For this he carried with him a profound sense of guilt.

Running his dirt caked fingers over his lovely wife's image, he was dismayed at the growing decay of the photograph. Since he kept the treasured item on his person, (he would not have anyone going through his things and finding it) the picture showed signs of wear. Sweat and rain had faded the daguerreotype, and his constant bad habit of touching it proved to be of no help. He yearned to return to her before she faded completely.

Suddenly, Erik registered what sounded like a quarrel growing near the fire. Sighing, he hastily pocketed the image in his jacket, exiting the tent deftly.

The two men, Omar and Kassim, were actually some of Erik's best workers at the site. However, low morale and constant setbacks bred discontentment among the men, as it would with any group. Currently, those nearby were crawling out of their tents to gather towards the commotion. A welcome distraction indeed.

Erik let out a roaring demand. He never shouted with the men, preferring to garner respect- and fear, through controlled instruction.

"Cease, at once!"

This caused the two men in the middle to falter, confusion and fear spreading across their faces. The rest of the group merely gaped at their leader. Despite this, the smaller one of the two, Kassim, stumbled back to his target, fisting his opponents shirt and driving his opposite set of knuckles into his jaw. So, they were drunk, turning to spirits to distract themselves from the palatial disaster. Erik could not blame them.

Still, he would not be shortened another worker, and certainly not two, making his time of return to La Rochelle driven back even farther. Erik pushed past the quickly gathering horde, stepping between the sluggish, grunting men.

They were stronger than he had anticipated, despite being so drunk. But then again, lifting heavy stone and wood did not make one weak. Stunned for a brief second, Erik shoved the larger, much drunker Omar off his feet. Reaching into his coat pocket, he moving the so-feared Punjab Lasso into view. The surrounding men murmured whispers of warning, backing up, adding diameter to the circle so as to keep their necks clean of such a weapon. The rope enclosed the base of Kassim's neck, the men closest could see thick veins pushing outwards against skin.

Erik leaned in. He would have control over his men, like it or not.

"You will stop. Now." It was a growl.

Kassim, slowly realizing the danger of his present situation, swiftly nodded. Erik tightened the rope further. For a brief moment, he wanted to kill the man. Serves him right for being so foolish. But he thought of Christine, and Alexandre; he was a father. Besides, losing a man would mean a longer construction period.

The crowd was frozen in fear and anticipation. Erik released the sorry man, brushing aside the others and briskly walking to his tent. He heard low murmurs. One man mounted his horse and galloped off. He accepted it, hoping tomorrow would lead to a productive day's work.

But it did not. Erik had been summoned to court, yet again. He rolled his eyes in indignation. Tired of enduring endless questionings and demands for add-ons to the blueprints, the visit could only lead to more grunt work for him. Trekking the days journey once more, he arrived before the Shah.

"I thank you, for coming so soon." Had he just thanked Erik? The aging ruler had a loose smile plastered across his features. Erik was annoyed, to say the least. He noticed the Daroga was standing against a wall. What now, he thought.

"Further additions to the blueprints will only lead to further delays. Unrest is growing among the men. It is not wise t-"

The Shah dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "I do not wish to change the blueprints."

Then what did he want? Erik waited.

"Since you have arrived, I have often wondered as to why you were no longer... yourself." It was a slither.

Something was wrong. Erik looked at Nadir. His expression was unreadable.

"But then, shall I say, the strangest thing happened, last night. And I might venture to say that I have completed the puzzle, Erik.

What was he getting at? Confusion rapidly morphed into anxiety.

"You see, my Angel of Doom, I not only need your genius for my palace, but for my contraptions, entertainment, and the enforcement of my laws. Why did you return a different man than before, I wondered. But we can blame that on Mademoiselle Daae, can we not?

Erik froze. Yes, the Shah knew of what had occured at the Garnier, the disaster. But he knew nothing of its outcome.

"You believe a woman could hold sway over a man such as I." He responded cooly, his expression indistinguishable.

"That is where you are wrong, Erik, for I do not believe it. I know it." And with that, the Shah pulled out the fragile portrait of him and Christine, the moment of their joyous wedding day.

"I believe I said 'Mademoiselle' earlier. The correct term for a married Frenchwoman is Madame, is it not?"

He stood, in a state of lifelessness. The fight. In leaving his tent, it must have fallen from his coat pocket. The man that left must have informed the royal court. In all his care to remain secretive, he had failed. He had failed them and himself. Erik hadn't exactly lied to him, now had he? There was no crime in withholding information.

"Yes. What of it?" He finally answered.

The Shah let out a great bellow of a laugh. It did not lighten the room at all.

"And I thought you were an intellectual! Allow me to explain. I need you for my purposes, and this woman-" He said, pointing to the photograph, much to Erik's dislike, "is obviously a distraction."

Erik knew his meaning. Subconsciously, he knew that this would happen all along.

"Seize him."

Within seconds, the room descended into chaos. A small storm of guards charged Erik. Elbowing the one to his right, knocking him several feet backwards, another grabbed his arms from behind. Erik struggled, kneeing the tall man, almost his height, in the groin. Still, it was no use. With many other men, Erik could not hold his own. The Shah watched in fascination as the all-powerful being was finally being conquered.

As several hands strained to withhold him, Erik was approached by what looked like the guard in command. He was ferocious looking and muscular, paying no heed to gentleness as he roughly searched Erik. The man's thick hands ripped through the fabric of its victim's shirt, dismantling the supernatural facade of the Great Angel of Doom with one pull. Erik's yellow eyes snarled at him, if such a thing were possible. The man found what he was looking for.

Tearing it from his neck, the guard casually viewed the simple golden ring, pocketing it in his greed. This was a criminal, after all. He had lied to the Shah himself, denied and disrespected their great leader. In his triumph over the once feared magician, the champion peeled off his opponent's mask.

He truly was hideous. The guard believed the term 'demon' more fitting than 'angel'. The shouting and motion died down, a reaction to the sight before them. Even the Shah stared in disbelief. How could the beautiful woman in the photograph marry that monster? The nose, collapsed in structure, looked worn down to the very bone. Attached to it were emaciated cheekbones, tendons and joints poking out. Discoloration was abundant, resembling the face of a man beaten to death more so than one breathing before them. The forehead displayed an asymmetrical crater, skipping over the faint eyebrow and continuing onto a gaunt eye socket.

Erik let out a string of curses, damning the guard to hell, cursing the very ground they stood upon, vowing to murder the man himself. Everyone in the room, then proud, stood disgusted and petrified. The monster had awoken, and control was out of the question. In all his life, Erik had never felt such all-consuming anger. He couldn't think, he could only act.

It was then, seemingly out of no where, that a knife reached around the guard facing Erik, and sliced through the skin, ear to ear. The man stumbled backwards, the perpetrator out of his path, and dropped to the cold marble.

The Daroga had just killed his own countryman. It was the ultimate betrayal.

Wasting no time, Erik sprang into action. With the men restraining him distracted, he twisted from their grasp, plucking one of their swords from their belts and driving it hard into the individual's abdomen. Nadir, grabbing his own sword, ran it through another perplexed guard, falling to his knees in anguish. Now free of restriction, Erik flicked out the dreaded Punjab Lasso, sucking the life out a yet another guard.

It was then that Erik turned to his main intention.

Climbing up sacred steps, covered in finely woven rugs, the Angel of Doom tainted the space, giving a demonic grin to his target. His cursed face only added to the horror. The rope, clutched in his right hand, hung loosely as it prepared to do its work.

Erik approached the ruler, yanking the photograph back. The Shah let out a series of pitiable pleas as the cord began to tighten. Erik's laugh was delirious. All that he was led to become because of this man finally being put to an end. Every life Nadir had taken because of this coward's orders, put to rest. Nadir merely watched in shock. Despite his hatred for the tyrannical theocratic, he did not expect it to come to this. With a simple snap, the Shah of the Persian Empire slumped into his throne.

Before more guards could enter the throne room, the pair left; soaked in blood with no where to go but far away.