Night had truly fallen now, so Erik was cloaked in darkness as he carefully peered through the door, pushing it a few centimetres ajar. A small bonfire had recently been lit in the centre - hardly the safest idea- and Erik's eyes were instantly drawn to the small figure trussed up beside it. Celeste's eyes were closed, and as his heart lurched, he had to remind himself that they would be unlikely to hang onto her if she were anything more than unconscious. He hoped.

She was bound by several more ropes than the men he had left behind, thick ones knotted together and pulled tight enough that he knew it would leave bruises. Her dress, tangled up around her body and in the bindings, was dirtied and torn in places. Mud was visible in her hair too, and there was a large, purple bruise developing on one cheek.

White-hot fury swelled in him, and it was a battle to suppress it - one he almost didn't win. His hand clenched in a pocket around the handle of one of his knives. They were only small and light, made for throwing rather than stabbing, but that didn't matter. If anything, a slow and messy death was more fitting for what these villains had done to a true angel. He could stab and slice, covering him and everything around in blood like a second skin. And if not the knives, he could turn to the lasso; strangle the men until their eyes bulged and their bodies writhed. Or he could resort to his bare hands; strike and break and throttle until all lay dead around him. It had been a long time since he had killed someone, let alone with just his hands, but he remembered the sickening thrill, the exhilarating power, the satisfaction of revenge. He could stride in now without pretence, leaving nothing but carnage and death in his wake.

Erik closed his eyes, willing the thoughts away. He had no guarantee Celeste was unconscious, or that she would remain so, and watching him unleash the beast within him would break her heart. Seeing the horror of the aftermath would hardly be better, and he couldn't bear for her to turn away from him.

And what if just one of the kidnappers was a good fighter, or a quick enough thinker to take his own revenge before meeting his doom? Erik was not worried about his own safety, but it would only take one well-placed strike or stab to take Celeste's life even as he fought so hard to save it.

Besides, he was a different man now. He would not maim, would not kill, but he would get his wife back.

He opened his eyes again, this time looking around at the gathered men. He had already scouted around the barn and the edges of the forest to confirm there were no more guards to surprise him. Inside, he counted seven in all, and was fairly certain there were no hiding places concealing others from view. They were all distracted, either by the money, each other, or the drinks many held in their hands, and none even cast a glance towards the doorway.

Silent as a shadow, Erik slipped inside and into one of the corners, thankful the ring of light from the bonfire was still only small. He stowed the lasso in a pocket again - it was all very well and good as a weapon, but it was also slow and somewhat cumbersome. Half of the reason he had used it at the Opera House was simple theatrics.

Instead, he drew out an ordinary cloth along with one of the vials, marked with just a Z, meaning sleep: chloroform. He dripped the liquid onto the fabric and sealed the bottle again, pocketing it before beginning to stealth towards one man sitting apart from the others. He was clearly already well into his drink, mumbling slightly to himself and peering blurrily down into his lap. He didn't make a single noise as Erik pressed the cloth over his mouth and nose, sending him into an induced sleep.

Four.

Two more fell swiftly to the drug, a pair also on the edges of the light.

Five. Six.

Erik was aware the thinning numbers would likely be noticed soon, so retreated into the darkness again. The remaining men were all closer to the fire and chatting raucously together, so he couldn't slowly pick them off as he had been doing. He would have to rely on surprise and skill.

The second vial was cool in his hand, and he was careful when opening it and dripping it onto the blades of his knives. The label bore nothing but a horizontal line, and he was grateful for his good memory after all these years, or he might have been in trouble.

Erik straightened up slowly from his crouched position on the straw-littered floor, stretching as he hefted one dagger in his hand. Once he felt safely reminded of its weight and balance, he stole towards the gathered men and threw the knife at his first target.

It lodged in his shoulder and, before anyone could react, he had gone perfectly still, his muscles locked in place. The poison Erik had coated on the blades was potent, causing rapid paralysis and even death at high concentrations. These men were lucky he had brought his diluted stock.

Seven.

Another man fell before the others could locate Erik as he darted through shadows, but one of the remaining three men gave a shout and pointed in his direction.

Eight.

Erik abandoned stealth, speeding towards the closest man and catching him with the tip of a blade, all the while trying to stay out of the reach of fists and feet. The man dropped to the ground, rigid like the others.

Nine.

Erik spun to the last man, only to see a pistol pointed at him. His heart skipped a beat, but then he breathed again as he slowly stood straight again. The man's hand was visibly trembling as he held the weapon - clearly he had never shot it before, and it seemed none of them had begun this prepared to kill anyone.

He gave the man a slow grin, predatory and mocking. "I don't think you're going to shoot me. If you were going to, you would done it have already." His breaths were rapid, his heart racing in his chest, but his mind was calm. There was no need for anger or fear anymore, and he hadn't played a game like this in decades. There was a certain exhilaration to the violence, to the danger, to the hunt. He had already won; toying with his prey was just entertaining.

The man gripped the pistol tighter, his trembling increasing. "D-drop your knife," he demanded in a quavering voice devoid of any authority.

Nevertheless, Erik shrugged and obliged. Up close and personal it was, then. The man's eyes darted around to his fallen comrades - his final mistake.

Erik stepped swiftly forwards, knocking the pistol arm away and striking the man solidly under the chin. There was a bang as the man's hand twitched on the trigger, too late to save himself, and the bullet shot harmlessly into an upper corner of the barn. Erik could have done much more, but it was all unnecessary as the last captor crumpled at his feet, unconscious.

He turned immediately to Celeste, relieved to see that her eyes were open, and she was watching him with relief rather than horror. He dropped to his knees and retrieved the dropped knife, first sliding her gag off with gentle fingers before beginning on the ropes. He methodically cut through each binding, careful not to catch her skin with the drugged blade, as she explained in a hoarse and trembling voice how she had been attacked on her way to the shops that morning.

She had done her best to fight them off, evidenced by the bruise he had spotted on her face and the other small marks and cuts he could see now he was close. He noted with pride that several of the kidnappers bore bruises and scratches too; marks showing that his little angel would not be taken quietly. There were too many, though, and she had eventually been knocked unconscious and woken here, bound and gagged.

"It's alright now," Erik murmured soothingly. "I've got you; you're safe." The last rope was cut, and as it fell away, Celeste threw her trembling arms around his neck, placing grateful kisses to his cheek. He reciprocated with arms wrapped around her small form, kisses pressed into her hair and a stream of soft reassurances.

There were tears in her eyes when he looked at her face again, but she was clearly refusing to let them fall. With a last kiss to her lips, Erik pulled away and set to tying up the kidnappers with the instruction that she should rest and wake her body up again.

He kept an eye on her as he moved first to the men he had paralysed, knowing that was likely to wear off first. As he bound the men, he checked each for wads of his money, as many of them had stuffed some into their pockets or had been thumbing through it when he interrupted. Behind him, Celeste began stretching her limbs out, massaging sore muscles and rubbing at bruises.

Adrenaline fading and rage dissipating, Erik began to consider what he would have done if he had lost her. She really was the light of his life, the salvation keeping him from descending back into the monster he had once been. And these criminals, these bastards had almost taken her. He had planned to call in an anonymous tip to the police once they were near a phone again, but the longing to punish these men himself surged again.

The fresh wave of anger was interrupted by a shuffling sound behind him. He was taking care of the last drugged captors, fully absorbed in his task and his thoughts, and was suddenly snapped back to reality with a new rush of fear for Celeste.

As he spun around, he saw the final kidnapper he had faced standing on wobbly legs, his pistol long gone but fry replacing the fear that had been in his eyes. Before Erik could reach for a weapon, however, Celeste rose behind the man and gave a swift, sharp kick between the legs. The man mewled in pain and crumpled once more, leaving her grinning triumphantly behind him.

Erik blinked, surprise and worry flashing then fading again. "Madame Giry would be horrified to see you acting so unladylike," he managed after a moment.

She turned her beaming smile to him. "I'm not just a damsel in distress, you know," she said with a wink, sinking to sit on the ground again as the look in her eyes softened. "But you are my hero."