Erik stirred. He ached all over, and there was a sharp pain in his
side. Standing gingerly, he was sure that his broken rib was pressing into
his lung. It was hard for him to breathe. There was a scream from another
room, and Erik knew that he had to see about it. The Baron had a wild look
in him. There was no real, conscious feeling in his eyes; he wasn't like
Alonso or any of the others who'd ever beaten him before. The others had
hated him, despised his appearance. But the Baron, he beat him simply
because he could, and he got enjoyment out of it.
Erik crept lightly from the room, the whip in hand. He decided it
would be best to defend himself. The screams were getting louder as he
moved slowly down the hall. He came to a room, the door was closed, and the
screams seemed to be coming from it. He knew what was behind the door; knew
that the Baron had sought vengeance on more than one.
He thought, "I could leave. I could run now." All the while, his hand was turning the gilded brass knob. Inside, he heard a gasp. The room was dark, but he could see Montegue, shirtfront-unbuttoned, clothes and hair in disarray, that same maniacal expression on his face. And there was a girl, a young lady, her dress torn, her face bruised, tears streaming down her cheeks. The Baron, angered that Erik had had the will to get up from the floor after such a brutal beating, charged in his direction. Before he knew what he was doing, he struck him with the whip, sending the Baron stumbling backwards. Shaking it off, he came again, only to be sent back by another blow. Blood gushed from his lip, yet again he charged. This time, Erik took control. He raised the whip, and let it fall with as much force as he could muster. The Baron fell, sobbing, to the carpet. Erik continued to beat him, continued to raise gashes across the handsome young man's perfect face. He wanted to make him pay. Wanted to make everyone pay. All of those that had been disgusted by his face, everyone who had ever beaten him; the Baron was suffering for it. And the whip kept coming down, again and again, and Erik thought he heard laughter. What he didn't realize was that it was his own. There was also another sound, but he barely heard it. It was. . . Someone crying. It wasn't the Baron, for his cries had ceased long before. He turned toward the sound, never once halting the whip from its course. The girl, the victim, stood crying loudly, begging him to stop. Her pleas were nearly unrecognizable, but as he heard them, a shiver went through his body. The whip stopped in mid-air as he realized what he'd been doing. That look, it surely had been written all over him; one of pure, bloody passion for hurting someone. For all the times he'd ever been hurt. It sickened him, and he dropped the apparatus, wiping a hand across the blood on his face. The girl, trying to control herself, thanked him. He turned to her, and as she saw his uncovered face, she screamed. She fell to her knees, afraid of him. The Baron, shivering, lay silent on the floor, blood surrounding him. Erik narrowed his eyes. She'd stopped Erik from killing him. He left the room just as quickly as he'd entered, whispering gratitude over his shoulder. He was grateful. And, as his cloak fluttered behind him, he left the court of Kienburg. He knew; she had saved him from becoming the monster everyone had always thought he was. And he would never be the same.
He thought, "I could leave. I could run now." All the while, his hand was turning the gilded brass knob. Inside, he heard a gasp. The room was dark, but he could see Montegue, shirtfront-unbuttoned, clothes and hair in disarray, that same maniacal expression on his face. And there was a girl, a young lady, her dress torn, her face bruised, tears streaming down her cheeks. The Baron, angered that Erik had had the will to get up from the floor after such a brutal beating, charged in his direction. Before he knew what he was doing, he struck him with the whip, sending the Baron stumbling backwards. Shaking it off, he came again, only to be sent back by another blow. Blood gushed from his lip, yet again he charged. This time, Erik took control. He raised the whip, and let it fall with as much force as he could muster. The Baron fell, sobbing, to the carpet. Erik continued to beat him, continued to raise gashes across the handsome young man's perfect face. He wanted to make him pay. Wanted to make everyone pay. All of those that had been disgusted by his face, everyone who had ever beaten him; the Baron was suffering for it. And the whip kept coming down, again and again, and Erik thought he heard laughter. What he didn't realize was that it was his own. There was also another sound, but he barely heard it. It was. . . Someone crying. It wasn't the Baron, for his cries had ceased long before. He turned toward the sound, never once halting the whip from its course. The girl, the victim, stood crying loudly, begging him to stop. Her pleas were nearly unrecognizable, but as he heard them, a shiver went through his body. The whip stopped in mid-air as he realized what he'd been doing. That look, it surely had been written all over him; one of pure, bloody passion for hurting someone. For all the times he'd ever been hurt. It sickened him, and he dropped the apparatus, wiping a hand across the blood on his face. The girl, trying to control herself, thanked him. He turned to her, and as she saw his uncovered face, she screamed. She fell to her knees, afraid of him. The Baron, shivering, lay silent on the floor, blood surrounding him. Erik narrowed his eyes. She'd stopped Erik from killing him. He left the room just as quickly as he'd entered, whispering gratitude over his shoulder. He was grateful. And, as his cloak fluttered behind him, he left the court of Kienburg. He knew; she had saved him from becoming the monster everyone had always thought he was. And he would never be the same.