A/N: My sincerest apologies for the last chapter – and this one. I swear to God I'll try and chase the plot along, but I can only desperately cling onto my muses' tail for dear life while trying insert some actual filler… and most likely over-compensating! Also, considering how long it's been since I wrote the initial chapters describing many of my characters, I hope you can forgive any idiosyncrasies.
Erik hadn't known what to think when the men discussing over him had been politely interrupted and brought outside for a discussion. No doubt there were far more for the two monstrous men to take care of than merely Erik himself, but he found it amazing they'd been pulled away from what had clearly been a very intense discussion. Amazement had turned to trepidation as the minutes lapsed, only for them to end by at least seven men walking into his circle of red light. Fear forced his heart into an unendurable gallop, and he inwardly swore at the instinctual fear that plagued him so much as of late. He had only just decided the previous night that it wasn't worth being so afraid all the time… it was exhausting and pointless to constantly jump at each noise or valid threat. Still… being surrounded by eight very able men after all he'd suffered as of late… it was certainly more than just unsettling. The anger – an emotion he'd logically decided was so much more worthwhile than fear – he'd been planning to express was nowhere to be found as they all approached his cage from different angles, making it impossible to keep his eye on all of them at once.
They didn't even look at him, though. As he tried to stay in the dead center of his cage, the men simply spoke amongst themselves, crouched low, grabbed hold of his cage…
Erik caught himself hard on the bars as they moved it towards the back wall of the tent. There was enough space for people to pass between his cage and the canvas, but one would have to be uncomfortably close to him to choose such a vantage point. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone entering his tent for that days' viewing would do such a thing.
The extra men who'd moved his tent left without much more than a grunt and nod to his captors. They, in the meantime, resumed speaking over him in intense tones, eyeing him warily and bitterly. A coil of rope had been brought in by one of the men, and Erik was all too aware that it was meant to bind him to his cage once again. He wanted to be afraid of that rope… but he was much more intsensely afraid of the crowd coming in and staring at his face once again.
His mind began to run.
How was he supposed to avoid being tied to that cage, and keep from being exhibited like a monkey in a cage? Was it even possible? Was it possible to do it without being beaten to within an inch of his life once again?
His barely coordinated mind – fraught with all the possible outcomes of the new day and sluggish from exhaustion and near starvation since Arabella's previous visit – was interrupted from its' scheming when a younger gypsy man he vaguely recognized as one of his lesser captors entered the tent carrying a tray of steaming food. He could smell porridge, biscuits, and strong coffee… smells that made his stomach cramp painfully and his mouth salivate almost to the point of embarrassment.
The younger man spoke to his elders briefly, and then placed the tray in front of Erik's cage.
He stared at the man in mute disbelief. This was one of the men who had beaten him since his arrival… and had not shied away from his savagery when he did so. Why was he bringing Erik food? It was absolutely impossible to think he was another ambassador of his secret gypsy 'friend', Arabella. There weren't that many tolerant people in this camp! If there were… he wouldn't be locked away like an animal!
The man stared at Erik a long time, apparently waiting for some sign that the caged freak was ready to eat or cooperate.
"Good?" the man asked in hesitating French… clearly with an incredibly uninterested grasp of the language. Erik sat up straighter, staring at the man more intently but with no less trust. He pointed a hard olive-skinned finger at Erik, aiming right between his sunken eyes. "You… good?"
The man wasn't asking if he was all right. Erik was not idiot enough to believe that for a second. He was asking if Erik would be good.
Head again beginning to spin with plans, Erik nodded fervently
The man nodded, a touch of malicious glee in his eyes, and spread his hands over the tray of food in offering.
Erik reached through and seized the nearest hot biscuit, not caring that it was burnt black on the bottom and that it burned his hands. He didn't bother with the coffee, certain that he'd barely be able to choke down the black sludge. The porridge he might be able to manage… but the biscuit was the only solid thing on the plate and he wasn't about to miss out on the opportunity.
The man watched him eat, pulling away the rest of the tray before Erik could even consider more food. He stood up and looked down at Erik, who continued to eye him warily. He said something that was undoubtedly at an attempt at French, but it was a word that made no sense whatsoever to Erik. He lifted the tray slightly to acknowledge it, and then made a hand gesture that suggested something going away… or perhaps time passing.
Erik understood all too well, and nearly wanted to throw up the little food he was still eating.
He needed to behave… he needed to cooperate. If he didn't, things would return to how they'd been the day before. If he was a good boy… maybe the tray would be brought back to him later. The porridge and coffee would be icy cold by then… but it would be real food.
As the man turned away and began answering questions his elders threw at him in baffled curiosity and resentment, Erik turned partially away from the scene.
What had just happened… and why?
She was exhausted by the end of the day, but well satisfied with the results of her efforts. Arabella found herself smiling not-quite secretly to herself as she walked away from her father, leaving him to count out the (comparatively) immense earnings she'd brought in while dancing outside of Erik's prison the entire day. The people who had flocked to see the Living Corpse had been intrigued, delighted, disgusted, titillated, and ultimately pleased to see her both before and after their viewings of the unfortunate souls inside the Freak tent… paying more than usual out of sheer relief to be given a comparative sense of beauty compared to what they'd just walked through.
To be honest, she had never imagined posting herself so close to the boy she wished to try and protect would turn out to be so financially productive. Her father had been unable to complain – although he made a valiant effort – about her lack of earnings, and thus had no reasonable ploy with which to beat her or drag her into the tent for more villainous cruelties. It gave her plenty of time to make it to Tsifia's tent and help her with any errands or chores that needed doing.
To her surprise – and slight horror – Adnah was waiting… having apparently paid much more attentions to her habits than Arabella would have ever given him full credit for. Her heart fell into her stomach as he stood by the open tent of her grandmother's fortune telling tent, talking quietly and politely to the old woman inside as she collected her Tarot cards and other tools of the trade. There was a spiritual cleansing that was performed every evening, and Arabella could smell the pungent scent of Sage long before falling under the shadow of the small tent.
Adnah turned to her, watching her more reluctant approach with a broad smile.
"Good evening, Bella." He greeted simply, giving a slight nod of civility. "I noticed you had a very productive day…"
"Yes, thank you." Arabella replied, just as politely. She tried to keep the coolness out of her voice, reminding herself that Adnah was attempting to help her keep a protective eye on Erik – if he kept to his end of the bargain. "How is… the boy?"
She was actually a little afraid to give Adnah a name to use against her new 'friend', although she could hardly explain why even to herself. It just seemed too private a thing to hand out… as though it would be giving away her own secret gypsy name to a total stranger. Adnah might be proving useful to her and Erik, but that did not make him kind or sympathetic to Erik's actual plight. He had merely worked out an advantageous business arrangement.
"Oh, the Corpse is fine." Adnah replied, waving off her concern. "He hasn't needed any particular beating today – although he did fight a little… I'll give him some slack on your behalf, but not much… so he's in no need of new bandages. I gave him some food before the day started and just a few minutes ago."
Arabella stepped past him into her grandmothers' tent, although she didn't mean it as any form of dismissal. She was just afraid that if she continued to stand there staring at Adnah, he might get the wrong impression. She was also worried that she might reach out and land a resounding slap across his face for the terrible nickname that had been given to Erik.
"Bunica?" she called softly, scanning the dim interior for the slight form of her still surprisingly strong grandmother. She found the woman quickly, sitting quietly with her hands folded on the table surface where she told all her fortunes, a brilliant yellow scarf covering her head of still long and reasonably dark hair. Tsifia had her eyes closed, and seemed to be in deep meditation.
Arabella froze, simply waiting.
When her grandmother opened her eyes, there was something… of… about them. Arabella wasn't entirely certain just what it is, but they were clearly out of focus, the pupils diallated until they almost blocked out her much paler irises.
"Bunica...?" she whispered, more uncertainly this time.
Tsifia did not reply for long moments, and when she did it was in such quiet whispers that rubella couldn't understand a word she said. Quickly realizing that her grandmother could only be one of two things – very ill or in a real trance for the first time in years – hurried over to crouch beside the old woman in concern. Now only inches away, she could hear the woman much more clearly… but still only caught snippets of the airy words.
"…The child is death… untouched by the flames but burned by the heat… the passion… death… all is death…"
Arabella couldn't bring herself to listen to anymore, and reached up to touch her grandmothers' shoulder in a gentle but firm grasp. Instantly, Tsifia closed her eyes and hunched over her folded hands gasping softly for breath as though she had been holding it for a long time.
"Bunica?" Arabella demanded again. "Bunica, can you hear me?"
The old woman slowly lifted her head, blinking at her granddaughter in obvious weariness and confusion.
"Of course I hear you, miri chavi. I haven't gone deaf yet."
Arabella laughed with nervous relief.
"You had another vision." She explained after Tsifia seemed to further gather herself.
"I know" the woman replied simply. "I don't normally forget my visions… but I certainly wish they would make more sense to me. Things were so much clearer when I was younger."
"So your inner sight has gone dim much faster than your physical sight." Adnah laughed, having peered in from the tent doorway. He was completely unmoved by the abrupt event, having not heard a word that had been spoken during Tsifia's trance. Arabella was surprised by his casual acceptance; fairly certain he'd never seen her grandmother go into trance before.
Tsifia looked up at him sharply, but managed to give a warm and amused smile.
"I suppose one is much better to lose than the other." She acknowledged. "Would you be so kind as to get an old woman some water, Adnah? My throat is parched."
"Of course."
With a little mock bow, he turned and strolled away without being in any real hurry.
Arabella watched him go, her brow furrowed with confusion over his recent behavior, before turning back to her grandmother and helping the old woan stand.
"Oh, I'm fine child." The woman scolded lightly. "I can very well stand on my own. Visions aren't maladies, after all."
"Bunica… you said something about a child… about death and passion. What did it all mean?"
Tsifia hesitated a long moment, staring at a half-distant point towards one corner of the tent. Arabella wished she knew her grandmother well enough to tell whether she was remembering or thinking of a lie. Finally, though, the woman grinned broadly at her granddaughter and shrugged.
"I don't know." She admitted. "It was nothing but bits and pieces. I have no way to connect anything I said with what little I saw. What I can say is that I had a vision of that boy you are so interested in helping."
"Erik?" Arabella's mouth dropped open. "What was it? Was he all right?"
"He seemed fine to me." Her grandmother chucled. "I wouldn't dare to interpret this vision, but he was in it, and seemed healthy enough."
As the woman bustled about her tent, keeping her hands busy with work that had already been done, Arabella contemplated the possibilities.
"He's known as the Living Corpse…" she mused softly. "Could that be the death you were speaking of?"
Tsifia chuckled once again.
"Anything's possible." She conceded. "I told you, my vision was incredibly vague. I saw lots of glimpses of people I knew in camp, but that's hardly anything new. They were completely disjointed, and probably all symbolic rather than literal."
"Here you are."
Adnah came striding into the tent as though he had every right to be there, holding out a wooden cup full of fresh water. Not far behind him, remaining in the door way, stood Sarima. Arabella and the girl smiled broadly at one another, and Sarima motioned for Arabella to join her outside.
"Um… Bunica… do you need me?" Arabella asked cautiously.
"No, no, go on child." Tsifia assured. "Im sure Adnah will help me in whatever way I need."
Adnah barely managed to repress a grimace, but instantly grinned from ear to ear once again.
"Of course, miri drabani."
Arabella nodded briefly, heading immediately towards her friend.
"Thank you, Adnah. Good night… good night, Bunica."
Tsifia waved her off impatiently, and she allowed herself to be taken by the arm and steered away by one of her only real friends.
"Casimir?" Arabella gasped after walking several minutes around the camp with her friend. "The Kings' son? How did you ever get so lucky?"
Her tone sounded jealous, but Arabella was truly excited for her friend. It wasn't every day a bride price was offered to a gypsy girls' family. Not only that, but the man had asked Sarima for her hand first, wanting to be sure the match would be agreeable to her as well. It was wonderful that the very king of the gypsies had a son who was interested in her best friend. It would mean so much associated prestige… maybe a high rank in her life as time went on, if Casimir became the next gypsy king. Arabella knew the man only slightly, but was well aware of his reputation. He would be a wonderful gypsy king, and an even greater husband to a girl who so richly deserved happiness.
"I know!" Sarima gushed in a sighing, singing tone. "I can't believe it! Oh, my father is going to make it so difficult for him, even if they agree on an actual bride price right away… but… oh!"
Arabella laughed at her friends' lack of handy vocabulary, and hugged her tight.
"It won't take long." She promised her friend. "We've both seen how quickly it can go… and he's been interested in you for so long… I'm surprised anyone waited so long."
Sarima blushed hotly, playing with her traditional braid, which most unmarried gypsy women kept their hair in.
"We confessed to thinking I was more interested in Ricardo." She explained. "Once Ricardo settled on a bride price for Neoma… well… he knew I was most likely willing enough to at least consider him."
"Oh, men are so blind!" Araella scoffed. "You've been eyeing him since you were eleven years old!"
They laughed again, but their celebrations were interrupted by Sarima's father calling for her as they came within sight of the tent her family resided in.
Sarima turned a brighter red and trembled slightly with a nervous glance and giggle at Arabella. Smiling, Arabella squeezed her shoulder.
"Go on!" she encouraged. "Very soon, I will see you with that necklace of coins about your neck!"
Sarima nodded, anxiously hurrying off to see what her broadly smiling father wanted from her. It certainly didn't take much guessing, considering Casimir and his father stood not far off, clearly a part of the company her fatSarima's father was keeping.
Arabella slowly lost her smile as her friend disappeared into the tent with the group. She knew she didn't really want to marry… considering her fear of men. But all gypsy women were expected to marry, and she was still a gypsy in spite of her half-breed status. Still… no man other than Adnah had yet to show any interest in her. She wondered what it was – other than perhaps her father – that kept the young men at bay. She couldn't allow herself to believe for a moment that Adnah had any true honorable intentions towards her… and that even if he did, she would be able to accept him as er husband. Still… it hurt just a little to be so easily overlooked, and wondered what her flaws were.
She was often outspoken when not in direct physical threat – or facing her father. Still, that hardly seemed like a fault. Many women spoke freely of their own thoughts without being looked down upon. Was she merely choosing the more obscure things to speak her mind on? Was it her compassion for the outsiders who came and went in their community?
The thought of her compassion for outsiders returned her mind to Erik, and her eyes drifted towards the dark red tent that peeked it's foreboding roof over so many of the others.
Miri: (fem) My
Chavi: Girl
Drabani: Fortune Tellera/Healer