Work Text:
3 miles outside Sezelyan, Russia
The sky was a windless dark blue, the night still and damp and entirely too quiet for Erik’s liking. His fingers played nervously on his thighs, tapping out chords and desperately wishing for his violin or a piano, though he was loathe to break the silence that laid over the sleeping campground. It seemed he was the only one still awake. He retreated into his tent.
The small wispy sounds of the candle flame filled up the room, throwing its feeble light over his personal effects and casting long shadows into the dark edges of the tent. The darkness seemed to dance, taunting him with the infernal quiet of night-time, shadows writhing and forming shapes that flitted across the fabric of the walls, the roof, plaguing the edges of his vision and teasing from the corner of his eye.
He tried to remember the last time he had spoken to someone. Oh, he saw people nearly every day- played for them, amazed them, horrified them- but he hadn’t spoken to anyone but himself for... Weeks? Months?
The tent flap brushed open with a whisper and Erik turned to face the intruder. His hand delved into his pocket where his lasso was coiled, but stilled when he sees the man with his hands raised plaintively, head slightly bowed.
“Pardon me for intruding at this late hour,” the man says in thickly accented Russian.
“How many are with you?” Erik responded quickly, demanding an answer.
“I do not understand.”
“You are not from here. You must have traveled. How many are with you?” He restated it slightly slower for the benefit of the other man, who clearly was not fluent.
“A... small complement of men. I come with greetings from the Great Shah of Persia, who desires your presence in his court as an... entertainer.”
“How auspicious,” Erik remarked drily. A royal invitation instead of a robber. He withdrew his hand from his pocket tentatively to offer a handshake.
“I am Erik.”
The man accepted his hand.
“I am called the Daroga.”
_______________________________
Mazandaran province, Persia
The white stones of the courtyard baked as they reflected the warm afternoon sun, which is why Erik places himself under the blessed shade of the juniper tree by the southern wall, near a small fountain cheerfully burbling water from the mouth of a carved stone lion. The stone bench he sits on is cool, and the contemplative hiss of the leaves stirring in the slight wind allows him to think.
The nearing sound of shoes tapping on the tiles, however, does not.
He does not look up. The feet stop in front of the bench, waiting.
“What is it you want, Daroga?”
“You seem troubled, Erik,” the Persian replies. “Is there anything that I can do?”
Erik scowls up at him. “Perhaps it is your presence that troubles me.”
The Persian says nothing. Erik sighs.
“Your most benevolent and wise ruler has given me an interesting conundrum.”
“A puzzle?”
Erik chuckles darkly. “Of a sort.”
The Persian’s green eyes narrow with concern.
“If there is anything I can do, Erik...”
Erik scoffs. “A very nice sentiment. But considering that you are just as... connected to the Shah as I am, I doubt that you could do much in this situation.”
He gets up to leave but a hand on his arm arrests his exit.
“What exactly are you trying to decide?”
“You are aware there is to be a private execution tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.” The Daroga’s eyes were cast downward.
“The Shah has requested that I attend.”
“As a witness?”
“As the executioner.”
The Persian balked, frowning. “And if you refuse?”
“Then I shall attend as the victim.”
_____________________
Many years later, in a still night much like the one they first met, they say hasty goodbyes as Erik bundles his few belongings onto a stolen horse. The Punjab lasso, still dark with blood, falls onto the ground and Erik stoops to get it but the daroga reaches it first. He picks it up gingerly, pressing it into Erik’s palm, curling his fingers gently closed over it.
“Promise me,” he pleads. “No more murders. Do what you must- but no more murders.” His green eyes are searching and cut Erik deep.
“Oaths are for catching fools,” Erik rasps.
“You have always called me a fool, Erik.” The daroga tries to laugh, but his eyes shine with unshed tears. “I only ask that you do not waste this second chance... and you do not forget kindness, though the world may not give it to you.”
“You have given me kindness enough, Daroga. I will not forget that.”
“I am glad.”
The Daroga reluctantly steps back.
“Goodbye, my friend,” he said.
Those words slice like a knife into Erik’s heart.
“Amir...” he begins. It feels like something has become lodged in his throat. “Do you think we might meet again someday?”
The Daroga smiled sadly. “I pray that we do.”
Erik nodded. “Then farewell, my friend.” He turned quickly and mounted the horse so he didn’t have to look at the Daroga any longer.
“Au revoir, Mon Amour,” the Daroga said quietly.
And Erik spurred the horse into the mad silence of the long night, never looking back.