"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

- Friedrich Nietzsche

…

The Devil's Pit

Erik released her hand as they approached the side pavilion of the cottage, where his horse stood patiently tethered to a wooden post. He walked up to the immense beast impassively, and it stood with muscles glistening against vines that draped from the edges of the roof. The bronze, almost golden coat of the horse shone brilliantly as to emit its own light; a lamp blazing in the corner of a dark room. Although the daylight was dying in the west, the horse seemed to glow in place of the sun; an iridescent medallion uncovered from the depths of the sea.

Christine's mouth fell open at the sight of Erik's immense beast; it was unlike any horse she had ever seen. Had she stepped into a dream, holding onto his bandaged hand? Had he led her down a path that would lift magic into the air with every footstep, brushing up dust that transformed death into life; a lamp that drew light to the corners of her mind that had been darkened, fixated upon demons that prowled endlessly?

"Christine," Erik spoke softly, his eyes gleaming in the dimness of the setting sun, tearing her from her thoughts. She followed him as he led her toward the horse whose coat appeared to be metallic in nature; shining so fiercely it seemed to stand as a new sun in the dark of the oncoming night. Within every muscle that rippled, a creamy golden sheen flashed circuits of light; seeming almost unnatural to the human eye.

"This is Evangeline, one of my finest steeds," he announced quietly, motioning to the horse grandly with a bandaged hand.

The horse swished a velvety tail at the mention of her name, bowing her head as if to curtsy. Christine had imagined his horse to perhaps resemble something like Viktor; darker than the night and shadowed like a spilled well of ink. But this horse, Evangeline…stood resplendent and garish as the golden trident of Poseidon.

"She's…she's so angelic," Christine whispered, approaching the horse carefully. "Where ever did you find a horse like this? I have never seen a horse of this color, Erik…how did you…?"

Erik chuckled; a simpering growl in his throat. "She is an Akhal-Teke, a Turkmen horse breed. She was a gift from a friend…a mercenary's welcome, I suppose you could say. They are well known for their great speed and intelligence…perfection for, well the lifestyle that I…well, used to live." The last of his words faded into a murmur, spoken in a meeker tone than before; an open wound within his chest that was poorly bandaged, for she could see the blood that spilled out with every faded sentence…with every clench of his jawline.

Christine ambled up closely to the golden beast, feeling as if she were dreaming. She ran a hand over the flaxen coat of the mare, turning her palm upward to see if the sheen had spurted stardust upon the pale tips of her fingers.

A horse made of the sun. Made of the stars, of the moon…and everything in-between.

She felt Erik's hand press softly on the small of her back, and she turned into him, inches away from his face. "Shall we?" he asked in almost a whisper; a mischievous glint flickering in his blue eyes. Christine was silent, laying a hand upon his chest. Her other hand gradually made its way down his arm and curled around his left hand that lay freshly bandaged.

"You've brought me a golden mare," she whispered, brushing his nose with her nose, standing delicately on the ends of her toes; a ballerina, once more.

"How is it that you make every moment filled with such wonder? With such power and magnificence? I have never known anyone who possesses such a touch," she murmured to him, stroking a finger against his chest where the white scar was kept hidden. "And yet, you've hidden one of my favorite scars…something shall have to be done about that."

His chest rose and fell violently, as if he panted from her touch; as if each stroke upon his flesh drove him mad with pleasure; with hungry and insatiable desire. His eyes burned fiercely into hers, and he parted his lips softly. "What ever can I do to make up for it? Do you wish to see it?"

She stepped back, pulling her power back into her when she lifted her hand from his chest. "I shan't move until you unbutton your shirt; that I may see it for the entirety of our time together, this evening."

He reached up carefully with eyes that never left hers, unfastening the top of his shirt. Three buttons undone, he pulled the fabric open, staring intensely into her eyes as she looked upon the scar. The silver chain hung against it loosely; adorning its pallid and torn looking edges.

"You have so many," she noted smoothly, raking her eyes across his chest and down his forearms. "I want to know all of them…all of you."

Erik sighed raggedly, lost in her eyes for a moment. Every scar held a wrath-filled story; a defecation of the past that he had tried to wash away. Each scar told of a night where he scrubbed at his face, where the sink water turned dark red as he wiped away screams that had been drowned out by his very hands.

Would she soothe those wounds with her fingertips; with the soft touch of her hands, her lips? Could she pacify his racing heart; could she strangle the lurching memories that stirred within his subconscious…would she drive them out with her tranquility; her ardent loved that radiated from her delicate chin, her soft figure, and those wondering, prepossessing eyes?

Erik lurched forward suddenly, seizing her by the waist as if to throw her into the sky. She shivered at the touch of his hands upon her waist as he lifted her up into the saddle; the strength of his arms as he thrust her into the sky once more. And then, she was a vision, perching high upon his golden horse, with stars forming a halo behind her pinned up curls.

Erik pulled himself up quickly, sliding nimbly into the saddle. Christine was behind him now, pressed against the heat of his body; the coiled muscles of his back. She slipped her hands around his torso, pulling at his shirt playfully with her fingers.

"Mmm," was his response; a growl. She giggled in return, pressing closer to him, merging herself into him. He turned his head back slightly, and she glimpsed the dimple of a smile upon his face. "You tease me," he replied, reaching back to stroke one of her thighs with a finger. She gasped aloud at his touch, clenching her fingers into his shirt…grazing the sweat of his skin through the fabric.

"If you continue teasing me, we will never get to our destination, Christine," Erik chuckled, tracing his finger up and down the exposed skin of her thigh. The white of the dress was bunched up, leaving the bare skin of her legs vulnerable to him. Her fingers dug through his shirt and into his skin, and she breathed into his back, warmth growing in the tips of her breasts and between her thighs. "Erik," she breathed, "I don't want you to stop."

He turned his head forward, drawing his hand from her leg to the reins of Evangeline. One abrupt kick of his leather boot sent them flying; and the world around Christine became a blur. There had been no simple canter, no polite trotting from the golden steed; she had went from standing still to riding upon the wings of the wind.

The night sky now flooded overhead, a painting that moved and whispered with blurry stars and flashes of darkness. They fled through the forest, and although it was almost too dark to see, Christine was not afraid. She gripped Erik tightly, leaning into his body that also leaned forward; as if racing the two of them through meadows, fields and forests. Villages could have came and went, for she did not see. She was blinded by the pounding of his heart beneath her fingertips; the feeling of holding him; her protection from the demons that might have crept beneath the surface of the earth.

With a seamless burst of sound and light, they emerged from the forest and into the edge of the town where the marketplace had been; yet there were no merchant's stands or men leading packs of sheep. Instead, the streets were filled with people, and the world was no longer a blur, for Erik had pulled Evangeline into a light canter. The village seemed alive; breathing, as its own separate entity entirely…with every lantern lit, and the smells of spilt spirits fresh in warmth of the air. Christine glanced around in awe; there were groups of people that gathered on every corner, and music could be heard; the sweetness of violins humming, sending vibrations in the air to match the crickets of the forest.

Erik slowed Evangeline to a steady halt to a small closed in area; the same secret place that Claudia had left the horses the morning of the marketplace; though now at night, it was dimly lit with a single lantern that swung from the side of a beige building. Only one other horse was tethered near the trough; a speckled grey beast with a braided white mane.

Before her heart could even begin to ponder or question him; if his touch would grow infinitely across her cheeks, her pale bitten lips, or merely just to brush her hand…Erik dismounted smoothly, lifting Christine from the saddle just as swiftly. He took her hand gently in his, running his lips over the top of her knuckles. "Come, my beauty," he spoke, lifting her hand up with his own. "We shall enter the night."

And holding his bandaged hand, the night seemed to swallow them whole as she followed his steps eagerly. The streets were bursting with music, and the lamplights lit the night like a thousand suns held up high upon rods of iron. Groups of women glanced casually in their direction, raking their eyes upon the sturdy body of the man who led her. Christine's heart spiked with jealousy for an instant, and she gripped his hand a little tighter. She noticed that he seemed indifferent to the looks; in fact, he did not even seem to notice, for he was so focused on the path before them. Each crowd that they entered seemed to open up to his presence; a déjà vu of the marketplace once again. Could the crowds feel his power, or was it simply the way that he strode, with such confidence that one might even mistake it for arrogance?

He led her to a large tavern that was roaring from the inside, and a wooden sign hung over the doorway; scrawled in black swirls of calligraphy; Le Déviant. Erik turned and faced her then, in the threshold of the doorway. She still gripped his hand quite tightly; for she hadn't been to such an establishment in years, and seemingly, she felt out of place.

"There are men here who will wilt at the sight of you," Erik drawled, reaching up to brush a curl from her face. "Remember that, mein Fräulein," he smiled widely at her, tugging insistently upon her hand. And he pulled her into the tavern, into the building that seemed to quake the ground beneath her with its bursting music and laughter of men.

The tavern was vast, with wooden tables lined up neatly along the walls, seeming to border a large wooden dance arena. There was a small band upon a stage in the very back, covered in sweat and playing their fiddles passionately; a song so lively that the couples on the floor seemed to blur as they spun around and around.

"Gin, for the woman that loves a bite to her throat?" Erik asked her, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight of the tavern. Her face broke into a smile, remembering the first night they had talked out in the garden. "How ever did you know?" she replied, reluctantly letting go of his hand. "Sit at that far table my dear, I shall join you shortly." His voice was smooth amongst the clutters of noise, cutting through it with the brilliance and perfection of his tenor; resounding deep from within his chest.

My dear. It had sounded so lovely, dripping from his lips like sweet wine. Her heart begged for more of his simpering, his delicately placed compliments that prickled her spine with a heat like no other. Christine made her way over to the far table as he had directed, sitting down tenderly, watching as Erik waited at the bar.

She then glimpsed something that caused her heart to seize, perhaps simply out of intuition, curiosity, or fear. A woman sat in the furthest corner, clad in a dark, revealing gown that unleashed the curves of her pale breasts. She wore a necklace that glinted of ruby, and had long raven coils of hair that fell far past her shoulders in shimmering waves. Christine's heart lurched in fear as she noticed that the woman wore a mesh veil over her face, but two glowing eyes of amber could be seen through the lace; and they were looking directly at her.

Erik returned to the table, a smile drawn wide across his face. He sat down across from Christine, his back facing the woman in the corner. Christine grabbed the drink quickly from his hand and sipped its clear venom; she had a strange feeling she might need its pernicious power.

He raised both of his eyebrows at her hasty movement for the drink. "Am I that poor of company that you immediately must sip upon your poison?" he chuckled, raising his own glass to his lips. Christine smiled at him, trying to hide the nerves that slithered up the back of her neck. "Perhaps I am simply nervous, Erik, for all the women seem to have eyes for you."

Erik threw back his head and laughed. Oh, how she would die to hear him laugh once more. The smoothness of its sound could be compared to soft lovemaking; to the fevered brushes of his lips upon her knuckles. Christine took another deep sip of her drink, and the numbness soon spread to the edges of her fingertips. She reached back carefully, beginning to undo the pins in her hair. Her tresses fell wildly down her shoulders; an unfurling storm, and Erik watched her intently…his eyes hungrily gnawing at her pale beauty.

Christine glanced above his shoulder, looking for the woman in black. To her horror, the woman had risen from her seat and was elegantly making her way across the dance floor, directly to Erik who was facing away; who did not know…and without a doubt, and another sip of the drink that bit holes into her throat, she knew who this woman was. She felt it, horrified, within her very being.

The Duchess. It was, undoubtedly, her.

Erik raised his eyebrows at Christine's face, for her eyes had betrayed her. "Christine, is something wrong?" He reached across the table and laid a large hand over hers. She hadn't realized that her hands had been shaking. Erik frowned, interlacing his fingers with her own. "If you are not comfortable, we can leave…I just thought you might love the music…and, perhaps, would dance with me." His teeth shined brightly as he pulled his lips back, just as the woman in black drew closer. She was almost to the table, now. Christine's eyes were wide, and she took another deep drink again, squeezing Erik's hand tightly. "Erik…there's…"

"Someone behind him, I'm sure he has already sensed it," the woman, now standing behind Erik, spoke curtly. She crossed behind him gracefully, and pulled out a chair between the two of them. Erik's head whipped around as he heard the sound of the woman's voice, yet he did not let go of Christine's hand. To this, she felt slight relief, but her anxiety continued to surge; for the woman had seated herself at their table.

The woman lifted the black veil from her face, revealing smoothly crafted amber eyes, accented by dark makeup. Her lips were full, pouty, and blood red; perfectly crafted, as if she were a living painting. Her cheekbones were smooth and white like stone, and her eyes settled pleasantly upon Christine. "You're wearing my dress, my dear," she cooed, her voice tender, yet filled with undertones of disdain.

Erik was silent; Christine saw a storm of fury brewing behind his eyes. She held onto his hand tightly, cocking her head at the woman. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure," she responded coldly. "Do I…know you, Madame?"

The woman returned the cold smile, her red lips curving around bright white teeth; fangs that seemed to drip with blood. "Duchess Estienne, my dear. Oh, and do not get up to curtsy, for I do not wish to draw attention to myself."

"I did not plan on curtsying," Christine retorted, taking another swig of her drink. "And this lovely dress was unclaimed, my dear…so I am confused as to why you might think it yours. Or do all Duchesses think they own whatever they lay eyes upon?"

The Duchess's eyes were icy, and her jawline drew tight at Christine's response. "Perhaps you have been poorly misinformed, darling. And I did not come to speak with the likes of you, whoever you are…for I know a man's pained heart causes him to desperately search for any harlot that might cross his path."

"Enough." Erik said in a low voice, through gritted teeth. He turned to look at the woman, his eyes seething with a detestation and resentment that Christine had never seen before.

"You," he spat, releasing Christine's hand. "Use your sickening rank on anyone else, but not upon me, or this Lady that sits in front of me." He stared so coldly at the Duchess, Christine thought he may very well turn to stone.

The Duchess laughed haughtily. "Oh Erik, you continue to be ever so witty. Just as when you would almost strangle my husband to death for beating me…your comments, oh, I simply lived for them! Or have you forgotten?"

Erik's bandaged hands were balled into fists on the surface of the table; clenching, and unclenching. His jaw was locked in a silent snarl, and his eyes were wild and menacing. This woman was a monster. She still controlled his emotions like a puppet-master, using the past as a mirage to shroud him from his future; to keep him in imminent pain. Christine took another swig of her drink, clearing the glass to the very bottom. She turned sharply toward the Duchess who was staring intently at Erik.

"Dredging up the past? So these are the actions you must resort to, in order to get a reaction out of him? Is it because he wants nothing to do with you? That must pain you, Duchess Estienne…truly, I do not envy your predicament. For he is an honorable man."

Christine found herself speaking quite loudly, as if the Duchess's control over Erik could be overcome with the projection and sharpness of her tone.

"Honorable? Oh, my dear, have you mistaken him for someone else? You clearly have just met the man," The woman tittered, batting her dark lashes at Christine. "But of course, there are things that he's done that he'd never utter to such low hanging fruit – "

Erik stood up suddenly. "ENOUGH!" he bellowed, smashing a bandaged fist on the surface of the table. The tavern seemed to grow quiet upon the projection of his voice; women began to whisper, and men sipped from their drinks, watching carefully.

"You will never speak to her in such a manner again! Nor will you speak to me. For I have nothing left to say, to the likes of you. You manipulate so you can get your way Anias…but you will not speak to Christine as one of your pawns." Erik was snarling now; his German accent becoming heavier and sharpening his words, adding an acidity and bite to his towering figure.

"Oh, so the harlot has a name?" Came Anias's cool response, although she seemed slightly unhinged by his rising temper. Christine could see it gleaming in her eyes; fear.

Erik thrust himself into her face, his teeth bared in a bleeding snarl. His eyes were wide, animalistic; all sense of his humanity had been drained from his once peaceful demeanor. "If my dog were with me, I would ensure he put a nice little scar on your stone face," he growled, his face inches away from Anias's now-shocked features.

"Alas, he is not here…so listen closely," Erik reached down to his side, pulling a small curved blade seemingly out of nowhere. "Come near me again, or my Lady again…and I will leave a scar alongside your pretty little face. Something you can never take off."

Christine sat numbed by the drink, frozen at the man who brandished the blade in his hand. The Duchess leaned away from him, but he inched forward, pressing the blade into the soft of her cheek. "Erik!" Christine called out desperately, but he did not seem to hear. He was drunk upon his power, upon the brand that seemed to burn a hole through his shirt, underneath his left pectoral.

"Now," he growled, pulling the blade away from her skin. "Leave us. And remember the feeling of my blade against your cheek every time you even think about speaking my name."

The Duchess pushed back the chair forcefully, pulling the veil over her frightened eyes as she stood up. She turned to leave, but looked over at Christine one last time.

"Now, you finally get to see what a monster he is."

And then she was gone, lost in the crowds of the tavern, disappearing into the throngs of drunken men. The noise began to rise again; men went back to their drinks, women continued their gossiping and flaunting…and Erik still stood, clutching the blade, staring off into somewhere that Christine could not see.

…

Author's Note: Thank you, once again, to all my lovely readers. Thoughts, feedback, and comments are always much appreciated!