A/N: When it's not computer issues, it's complete writers' block. I was not looking forward to this scene, and I am not looking forward to the next chapter or two, either. But our story will be coming to a close. HOpefully this year. Don't forget to review!
And not that Phantom fans will care, but I have my own YouTube Channel now called LeadingBlind. Check me out if you'd like. It's mostly me answering genre based questions thus far. I'm still having computer issues, and that's all the worse for trying to make videos.
And here ... we ... go!
Erik turned from Arabella, removing his formal coat and tossing it over the side of the wagon as he knelt. It wouldn't have mattered, but he was glad the ground under his knees was dry as he knelt down and reached beneath the wagon for the cutlasses he kept hidden there at all times. Normally they were a last resort sort of weapon. If he was somehow disarmed, he always planned to roll beneath the wagon and retrieve the short swords. But now he would need them as a first line of defense.
He'd bought these shortly after escaping Persia – selling off one of his honestly stolen jewels in order to afford the weapons. Since that time in his life, Erik had kept all his weapons in good condition … but he had not used these blades in all that time. It had been over twenty years...
He backed away from the wagon, rising to his feet and glancing towards Arabella just to be certain she wasn't close enough to sustain injury. She probably hadn't known he was keeping the swords there. Her shocked and frightened face certainly seemed to confirm this suspicion.
"Bella … stay here." he pleaded, although his voice was growing distant and cold. He reached under the seat of the wagon where he'd been perched and drew out a _ before shoving it into her shocked hands. He had to hold it there a long moment before he could trust it wouldn't tumble from her unprepared fingers.
"Unhook the horses. We may need to flee after … we need all the speed we can get. If anyone comes within spitting distance – shoot them!""
"No!" Arabella shook her head, squaring her shoulders in determination. "You're not going alone!"
"Unless you want me to kill you myself, then I suggest you stay here." Erik said icily, already beginning to stride purposefully away. "If you're foolish enough to follow me; at least have the brains to give me fighting room – and stay back! Back and quiet! You have no idea what I do in order to fight!"
He would normally have been gentler with her. He'd have been explained why he wanted her to stay so far away from him. But he could already feel Azrael awakening in the darkest parts of his soul … desperately thirsty for the taste of blood.
My prey lies ahead... and none shall live...
He immediately forgot – at least in the front of his mind – about Arabella. He removed his mask and threw it over his shoulder towards the wagon, hunching down low towards the ground to lope in the direction of the screams. There was light coming across the ground. A fire was burning out of control somewhere – and he almost had a second to wonder if the house he and Bella had been planning to sleep in that night would survive this assault.
He was low to the ground, his weapons at the ready, and his unblinking eyes focused strictly ahead of him. His gait was like that of an animal rushing towards the sounds of wounded prey. Anyone that looked in his direction would see a demon coming at them … a werewolf.
Yes … a werewolf. These back-country fools would still believe in such things! Azrael hissed in his mind. Use it!
The smell of blood, smoke, and even urine reached him almost the moment the destroyed campsite came into view. He could see a woman running in his general direction. She was already half-naked and being pursuit by a despicable gaje who was laughing. That was how these things went. The townspeople would maim, rape, and yes … even kill.
Well … if these men thought they knew something about torment … they had never met Azrael.
The woman saw Erik as he took the first truly running steps forward, and she shrieked in terror. Her arms and hands went up to cover her face as she darted aside and out of his way. Erik lifted one of his swords and prepared to slay her pursuer. The look of pure unholy terror on his face made Erik feel a rush of pure power flood his blood. He could imagined what the man saw – his eyes seeming to burn like coals in the light of the unchecked fire. What little he had for lips were drawn back into a snarl like that of a wolf going for the throat. Then, of course, there was his general hideousness.
It was the last thing the man saw as Erik used the two cutlasses simultaneously like an enormous pair of shears – and left his victim nearly decapitated on the ground before striding forward into the melee.
To Erik, the motions felt unhurried, calm, and calculated. But he knew from the past that time was truly racing along. He was moving through the encampment with what would seem like superhuman speed on such an adrenaline-drenched field of war, giving off howls of bloodthirsty eagerness and giving into the idea Azrael had given him. He had the theorized lope of a werewolf, and he used the face he normally kept so meticulously covered to shock those that might still dare come at him.
The Angel of Death did not chase after prey. He let his prey come to him. And as victims fell to his blade and blood flew into the air – often splashing him in the face – Erik would sigh in satisfaction. Gasps and groans escaped him like the noises of a man experiencing the ultimate of pleasures. Each death brought a fresh rush of endorphins.
The best was out of its' cage...
A child screamed somewhere over his shoulder, and Azrael paused in his hunt. Somewhere deep inside, Erik's consciousness stirred … his conscience grabbed Azrael by the wrists and tried to hold him back..
Had he maimed a child without seeing?
The world and reality came back to Erik in a abrupt rush of noise, scent, and color. He suddenly felt thrown back into his body from a great distance; and the impact was jarring. His chest was heaving painfully with the effort to breathe. His arms ached with fatigue and strain. Sweat stung his eyes. His fine wedding clothes were wet with blood – torn by the weapons that the villagers and even a few Romany had attempted to use against him. His body stayed upright with such effort that he knew he would have to rest soon or simply die of exertion.
He tried to remember the details of the fight. Tried to think straight at all. What had brought him back to reality? Had he simply pushed himself too far? He could vaguely remember half a dozen idiots who'd crossed his path … But had there been more? How many innocents?
Innocents...? his conscience whispered – as if coming out from a daze. There was something about innocents.
He remembered the sound of a child's cry.
Did we hurt a child? His boggled mind demanded. It didn't even occur to him for many hours that he was thinking of Azrael as a completely separate entity instead of as a part of him. The natural chemicals coursing through his system were disorienting and caused brief elation – not unlike the injection of morphine. But as he came to himself, the thing he considered Azrael snarled a protest – not wanting to be chained up again. It was so dangerous in times like these … Trying to control the urge to continue in the slaughter took up too much of his attention. Thinking beyond it was almost impossible. But he forced his eyes to focus on the world as something other than his natural enemy.
He took a bare glance over his shoulder – expecting a child would more likely be crying over its' mother or father … someone the mob had injured or killed before Erik could intervene. He wasn't entirely wrong. There were children behind him – a whole cluster of them. But in the middle of the group of children stood a swaying female gypsy with blood in her hair and a glazed expression of shock and horror in her eyes.
The snarling Azrael grew abruptly silent within, and Erik nearly dropped the cutlasses in his hands as he lurched towards the group staring at him and sobbing. The cacophony of children's' sobs was something Erik had never been able to endure – but he forced his way towards the center of the noise even as their weeping turned to shrieking. Several scattered away from his path in desperation; but Erik ignored them entirely. He was aware that it was his unmasked face they feared – but for the moment he didn't even care.
It was strange not to care as he grabbed his wife's sagging shoulders – even though she was carrying two small children that could barely walk. He could only assume she'd taken them from one or more of the elder children to help them huddle together and stay safe.
"Bella!" he gasped, staring into her stunned expression. "Bella, are you hurt? Where is the gun! Who hurt you?"
"He's dead."
There was a boy of about fourteen standing behind Arabella with his back to her – watching for other incoming enemies. The boy's posture made Erik glance over his own shoulders – remembering the tenuous situation they were still all in. The Romany child was carrying the gun he'd given his wife to protect herself and the horses. There was blood on the boy's hands – suggesting that maybe it had been used as a bludgeon rather than a firearm.
"She was trying to help my brother." the boy stated without looking over his shoulder at Erik – which is probably how he remained so cal next to such a vicious killer. "Fumbled with it. I picked it up and got him good right here."
The boy touched the spot right at the base of his head. If Erik hadn't just done far worse to at least a dozen other souls, he might have winced in sympathy pain.
Erik peered into the eyes of his bride, and realized she was shrinking away from him. Not violently … not with any real conviction. But she leaned away from him in obvious wariness, and he released her as if she'd suddenly turned into red-hot iron.
"Ma Belle..." he tried desperately to make her look directly at him – but she still seemed stunned. "Bella! Look at me!"
"Monstrous..." Arabella whimpered – clinging so tightly to the babes in her arms that they squirmed uncomfortably – still screaming and straining away from Erik.
"Damn it – someone take the babies!" he snapped at the children who hadn't run off entirely.
In very little time it was obvious Arabella – with her Romany features – had earned their trust and they thought she was protecting them. A girl of about eleven came forward to take one of the children – but then rushed off again so fast that Erik almost wondered if she was going to survive the night after nearly tripping on three dead bodies and a lot of debris. But when Erik tried to snatch the remaining child and place it on the ground out of his way, Arabella whimpered and hugged it closer to her. She didn't seem to notice that the baby was trying to get away from her – and Erik.
"Arabella!" he tried again. He was in so much pain, and fighting still to entirely catch his breath. But his wife stood in clothes that rightly belonged on the floor of their little shack – discarded but in perfectly good condition. Instead, they were tattered and filthy at the hem – and her sleeve had been torn in a struggle. Someone had grabbed at the laces of her bodice at some point, for they sagged due to damage. Her hair was a mess, and it was getting tacky from the blood coming out of some unseen injury.
Erik snapped his fingers in front of her eyes, and she stared at him with abrupt intensity.
"It's horrible..." she whimpered.
She sounds like the child I found by the river! He thought in horror.
"Monsters... all monsters..."
Erik fell away from her, his mouth open and slack with shock. He didn't understand. He … was a monster? She'd told him to stand up for these poor idiots, and he was now a monster?
My gypsy princess … my wife … I … I did what she said! His mind exclaimed. I did this for her! And she calls me a monster!
"Take the children to the shack." he commanded, his voice becoming cool and obstinate. He reached out to touch the fourteen or so year old boys' shoulder. The young man flinched but didn't move otherwise. "Take my wife and these children to that little house just there." he ordered – pointing to what ought to have been his honeymoon suite. "Keep anyone out that you don't trust. Take in as many as you want. Use whatever you need for the injured... I'll be right back."
He had to retrieve his mask … the wagon and horses. He had to search for any wounded stragglers that might have escaped this fight and could contact authorities. He had to cover his tracks. Bella would not appreciate being chased by the law.
Whatever she thought of him; he was not about to leave her in the company of untrustworthy strangers. People that had once willfully ignored the traumas of her childhood. Surely this tribe was no better than hers had been. He would not leave her under the scrutiny of police that would want to pluck her mind clean of all information about how he worked and where he might flee – although surely Arabella didn't know him quite well enough to ever guess that.
She had called him a monster … and why shouldn't she?
As he numbly picked his way across the bloody meadow towards the road, he could see the damage he'd inflicted. Not all of it had been caused by him – no. But still … he'd done a majority of it. And it had been brutal and gruesome.
I am a monster.
He began trembling as he all but stumbled onto the dirt road leading back to the wagon. He felt cold and clammy. Covered in a cold sweat. His stomach started swirling uncomfortably, and he knew that in only a minute or two he was going to be sick. He'd enjoyed several alcoholic drinks after the wedding ceremonies, and now the champagne and wine combination was going to -
He lurched to the far side of the road – not wanting to step in his own disgusting vomit on the way back from the hiding place of his wagon. He was sobbing … sobbing hard as the cold sick fear overwhelmed him.
Ma belle … ma belle … you begged me! You begged me to do this! I don't understand!