Erik cringed at the thought of the crowds surrounding him, as outside the tent he began to hear the growing babble of prospective visitors. It took every ounce of will to remain where he was, and no attempt to escape through the two men now standing on either side of the room guarding him. They had conceded to allowing him out of the cage during their business hours, and to allow him a bit of dignity in pertaining to some of his more personal needs… but did not trust him enough to be left alone for even moments at a tie.

They were right not to trust him. He wasn't sure, himself, whether he could resist the intense urge to run. Still… where was he to go if he escaped? It was something he hadn't really considered the first evening he met Arabella. He'd been frantically thinking he would get away and go home to his mother… but what would that really have done? She certainly wouldn't have welcomed him back, his presence would have encumbered every aspect of her life once again, and he'd be driven away a second time in less than a month. Going home was not an option.

He glanced down at the long dark brown coat one of the gypsies had loaned him for the performance. He'd made it adamantly clear that if he was going to sing for them, and continue to be forced to reveal his face, he would do it in as dignified a manner as possible. That meant a few things. He needed to be clean, without the restraints of ropes or a cage, and they needed to provide him with some sort of clothing that didn't look like mere scraps of rags.

They were extremely reasonable conditions; even if they didn't want to admit it to a boy they could easily beat to death for his insolence.

The noise outside was getting louder, and the third gypsy who'd begun taking an interest in him as of late – the youngest one who'd been bringing him reasonable food – could be heard beginning to cry out the Freak Show attractions… particularly the Living Corpse with his voice of an Angel. Erik was anticipating the crowd – if not precisely the way they would stare at him and shriek in horror. His gypsy captors had no inkling of what his voice was capable of… and if he must be seen by all these people, he knew his voice alone could make them deeply regret it. He would flog their souls with music for the desire to see his face…

And he would make them pay monetarily, as well. Of course… that part he had no intention of letting his captors know about. They were still clueless about his gift for sleight-of-hand. They would not be watching his hands as he deftly glided through the crowd, taking what he desired and stowing it in the coat he'd been leant. Honestly, he wasn't certain exactly how he'd keep his treasure concealed, for surely they would demand the coat back each night… but it was a challenge and he felt more than up to the task.

He chuckled darkly to himself – at his audacity. The previous day he woke up simply afraid of what would happen to him. Now, standing free and presumably able to escape if he played his cards just right for long enough… he was contemplating thievery when the price of getting caught was probably far worse than anything he'd suffered so far!

He turned his back to the room as the crowd began to pour in.

She couldn't believe Yaakov had actually pulled her away from dancing that afternoon. She wasn't certain what had provoked his anger … but clearly he'd desperately needed someone to take it out on. His wife – her mother – had long ago lost his interest in any fashion, and Arabella wasn't even entirely certain how she spent the days. All she knew was, at the end of the day, she brought home often meager amounts of money to cross her husbands' palm. Whatever she did, Arabella's mother was nowhere to be seen as Yaakov angrily and silently dragged his daughter into their tent.

Hours later, he snored loudly as his daughter began to drag herself to her knees.

It was far worse than any brutality he'd ever committed before. She was in agony from throat to ankle… and it was very unlikely she'd be able to dance for the entire following week. It would only be more reason to make him angry, if she couldn't perform… and it would lead to further brutality.

How was she ever supposed to survive it?

Arabella tried not to whimper through her pain as she began to gather the same exact ingredients she'd once pulled together for Erik. They had been intended, in fact, for Erik himself… but he had not seemed to need them in the days since he'd gained his semblance of liberty. The glimpses she'd caught of him had showed a very tall man with an erect stature, with no sign of ailment or injury…

Well… now they would be needed for someone else… although she knew she would have to bring them to the same person.

She managed to drag a shawl over herself before rising to her feet with the little basket in hand. She was always surprised that her father never seemed wise enough to go through their tent searching for things of hers to destroy. Hell… maybe there was some miniscule part of him that loved her enough to at least live her material things alone.

She shook her head in weary misery as she left the tent on limping ankles. She had to be hurt more than she thought, perhaps even ill with some fever, to actually be wondering over her fathers' behaviors. There was no making sense out of such a monster, and it was best just to thank her very lucky stars that the medicine was still available. She wasn't sure what she'd have done if it had been necessary to face her grandmother with these wounds. It wasn't worth the drama it would cause in the camp… and she was still convinced that if her father was banished, then she'd be forced to go with him.

The sky overhead was the deep blue-purple of twilight, suggesting that the sun hadn't been down nearly as long as she felt it ought to have. In fact… there were still five or six small groups of gaje wandering around, apparently enjoying their day in the gypsy camp too much to draw it to a close. Arabella did her best to stick to the shadows, not wanting either the gaje or the gypsies to see what condition she was in. She was actually sticky with blood… a sensation she hadn't felt in years… since her fathers' first brutal attack on a then very innocent child.

No one took much notice of her at all. It was easy to slip to the farther side of the camp and towards the Freak Show tent. As she'd expected – considering the straggling revelers from the city – it was still fairly well lit up. Even Erik's back room, which had always been so dark, could be seen to have plenty of brilliant light in it now from lanterns hung well over the heads of any inhabitants. She wanted to make her way around and crawl through the canvas as she had at times before… but groaned right out loud just thinking of how her body would react to such treatment.

She felt almost lucky for a change when Adnah came stepping out of the tent, escorting what had to be the last of the gaje away from the Freaks. He said goodbye in a tongue she only dimly recognized as Erik's native French, and then paused before he could reenter because he saw her stumbling towards him. He didn't rush to help her, apparently more curious and vaguely concerned tan actually worried. With her bloody wounds under the shawl – where she'd also hidden her basket – it would be nearly impossible for him to see how badly hurt she was. No doubt he thought her sore from dancing so much that day, as she normally did… although rarely was she so sore that she couldn't walk upright.

"Bella?" he asked simply. His eyes glanced down to the odd way she held the shawl slightly away from her body. "You aren't bringing him food, are you? I've already brought him some supper… a bit of chicken."

She didn't have the energy or frame of mind to be gladdened. It was clear he to impress how well he was holding up his end of their bargain.

"I want to see him." She stated simply. "I want to see him alone, Adnah… before you lock him away again. …Please…"

"Why?" Adnah demanded.

"It doesn't matter why." She sighed, shaking her head wearily. "Please… it's just… just something between him and me."

Adnah looked skeptical.

"How sweet; you have something secret between you. My Uncle will not want to leave him alone."

"Your Uncle can go to Hell." Arabella snapped impatiently. "The whole of your Freak Show can pace the perimeter of the tent! I don't care! Please… just… let me in…"

She was getting tired… so tired… and the last thing she wanted was to fall unconscious in front of Adnah. The world around her was draining of all color, and rocking like a ship in a terrible squall.

Sighing, and grumbling, Adnah disappeared into the tent.

Arabella sank into the deep shadow of the façade of the tent, closing her eyes and trying to take long deep breaths through her mouth. A slight whisper of noise came from the tent flap, but she barely registered it.

"You look like Hell."

She cracked her eyes open just enough to see Gloria standing beside her, a lit pipe in one hand. The smell of it wrinkled Arabella's nose. The miniature Frenchwoman was staring at her with jaded eyes, barely seeming so much as curious – never mind concerned. But Arabella was someone she'd been able to count on for favors and kindnesses, more so than others. It was impossible for her to show zero concern at all.

"I feel like Hell." Arabella admitted with a sour smile that twisted into a grimace.

"You here to see him again?" Gloria asked. "He's been doing a good job of taking care of himself as of late. You should try it sometime."

"Shut up, Gloria." Arabella whispered weakly, unable to insert her dry humor. "I recall a woman who wasn't so good at looking after herself for a time without a bit of help."

Gloria obeyed, but continued standing beside her until Adnah returned… with Sven and Vlad. The two older men immediately brushed past the two women standing virtually in their way, and went round to different side of the tent. No doubt they were following the suggestion Arabella had given Adnah in her moment of utter impatience.

"Go on." Adnah told her. "Whatever you're up to, they won't give you long."

Arabella nodded, murmuring a nearly inaudible word of thanks before stumbling into the front section of the great red tent. It was much dimmer inside than she'd expected, so she supposed they must have been dousing lights while she stood waiting for entrance. Several of them glanced at her as she passed by, but none seemed inclined to be worried for her. None even spoke a tiny greeting to her.

It felt like ages before she made it to the back room, she was nearly blinded by the brilliance of nearly a dozen large lanterns. They dangled just over Erik's height all around the perimeter of the airy room. No one would be able to see the shadows of the two inhabitants of the room from outside. The bright light was somehow diffused slightly into a warm and cozy hue from the deep tone of the red canvas; a stark contrast to the cold iron cage shoved against the back wall. As she peered around, she saw Erik leaning against it from the side, the coat he must have been wearing all day slung on top as though he'd just come back from town and casually discarded it.

He was so much taller than she'd have ever imagined, having only really seen him crouched in that tent so far. The past days had been busy, and she'd barely caught more than a few brief glimpses of him through the throng in that time. His eyes, collecting the light and reflecting them as brightly as a cats' would in the night, were even more intent as they locked on her pathetic entrance. All she could do was stand in the cloth doorway, clinging to the canvas and trying not to fall or drop her basket.

"Mademoiselle Arabella…" he greeted with a bow of his head. The stark power and confidence in his voice took her totally by surprise, as did the warm welcome in it. Her eyes widened for the briefest moments at his greeting, which seemed to envelope her as a homecoming – which was so ridiculous! Her attempt to stand erect and return the greeting made her wince and double over once more. Instantly Erik was striding towards her, both hands extended in concern. "What's the matter?"

She sucked a deep breath in through her nostrils, determined not to cry out loud.

"You're… speaking … better…" she noted in greeting.

Erik made a scoffing noise, waving away her observation.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, taking one shoulder in his long-fingered hand. Arabella flinched more out of habit than pain, but it made his fingers brush over one of the many wounds she'd received through the afternoon. Even through the shawl it stung like having lemon juice poured into her eyes.

The basket slipped from her determined hand, spilling the bandages and jar of medicine to the ground. Erik took an instinctive step back, watching as the items rolled about for a moment, and then shot his gaze back to her again. His eyes scanned the room almost frantically, but realized quickly that he had nowhere to seat her.

"Come." He ordered, taking her elbow and pulling her towards one lantern. "Let me look."

She managed a frail smile as he stooped to pick up her necessities.

"I was going to … change yours…" she lied. "I'm just… just… not well…"

Having apparently reached the limits of his grasp on her language so far, Erik said something in French, his tone acidic with sarcasm as he returned to her with the basket under one arm. His free hand ordered her with a twirl of one finger to face the wall of the tent, which she reluctantly did. Slowly, at his incomprehensible French, she dropped the shawl from her shoulders to reveal the torn bodice she wore, soaked with her blood worse than Erik's rags had ever been soaked in his.

Not well…

Erik stared a long moment at the wounds covering his friends' back and shoulder. She'd been scratched deeply by nails, bitten, and even beaten with a wide belt… if he could be correct about the shapes of her wounds. Her grip on the shawl slipped totally as he tried to examine her, and he realized with horror that although her lower body wasn't badly damaged, she was still covered in blood that trickled right down her ankles. He nearly dropped the basket as she had; only his brief weakness was from emotional shock rather than physical trauma.

Not well… was putting it mildly.

As he lifted her shawl to begin wiping carefully at the blood, her whimper and gasp of pain broke his heart. He couldn't imagine why anyone would do such a thing to a girl who was so kind… From what he had managed to learn about her since their last encounter, he guessed she was very careful to make the people in her life happy. Why would anyone want to hurt her so badly? He was fairly certain he couldn't even find the source for some of the blood dripping down her calves, even without looking, but he wasn't sure where that instinctive conjecture even came from. All he knew was that something was terribly wrong.

He didn't know how he could help her without causing further agony than she was already in. Even if he worked as fast as he possibly could – which would almost certainly mean he'd make mistakes - he would probably only make her feel even more pain than necessary, even if it lasted a shorter duration. If he went slowly, they would surely be interrupted and Arabella had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure no one else caught onto how bad off she was. He didn't understand why, but he didn't want her seemingly extreme efforts to go to waste.

As he began to work – swiftly but meticulously – he finally thought of at least one form of comfort that he knew for a fact was plausible. It wouldn't be half as effective as the other uses his voice had served in the past, considering he couldn't possibly remove her from her damaged body, but at least it was something…

He began to croon a soft lullaby that he'd written years earlier, putting all the power his voice was capable of behind the tune. Although it took a few minutes, Arabella seemed to finally slowly react, her shoulders slumping in relief as his audible balm seeped into her. She wasn't insensible to the pain, given the constant flinching and whimpering that continued… but they seemed much weaker.

Erik only hoped her reactions weren't weaker because she was weaker. He hoped it had much more to do with what he was deliberately trying to cause with his voice.

He had no idea what he was really soothing…

Eventually he'd looked over every wound she would willingly bare to him, and most of her upper body was wrapped in bandages. He turned her enough to look into her face and see how well she was holding onto consciousness, and was unsurprised at the glazed, far away stare she gave him. He continued singing quietly, with no intention of releasing her until the physical medication had begun working its' magic thoroughly. He didn't even care if they were interrupted now, as he rewrapped her shoulders with the shawl that now looked as though it had been dragged through a puddle of mud rather than blood. He always found it remarkable how blood looked as it dried… Most people could barely discern it from other stains.

She swayed slightly, though from exhaustion or for self-comfort he couldn't be sure.

"It's all right." He whispered, taking a very brief moment to stop singing. Arabella's eyes drifted up to meet his, and immediately he could see the pain that rose towards the surface of her awareness.

He couldn't handle seeing her in that much pain and he renewed his music in a stronger effort to control her. He deplored himself for it, but at least he wasn't trying to manipulate her into helping him – or just allowing his – escape. His fresh efforts had her eyes slowly fluttering shut, and her body leaned towards him as his silent musical cures tried to convince her to sleep. It really wouldn't be his power, but more her exhaustion and pain, but he didn't care what caused her to sleep. If he had the right tonic, he'd have forced it down her throat to help her get away from the physical agony.

He was only surprised that she was melting towards him instead of the ground, and in less than two minutes he found himself stiffly supporting her with his own body. She'd dropped her head to his shoulder, the rest of her nearly draped on his lap. She would have probably fallen sideways in her increasingly unconscious state, but he carefully – uncertainly – wrapped one arm around her so that she couldn't slip off and be jarred awake by further but slighter harm.

It… was certainly an unexpected ending to his assistance.

Closing his eyes, Erik allowed himself to slip his thoughts away from Arabella's injuries, or how she might have received them. He could worry about that later, when she was awake and not in so much pain. While she lay limp and insensible against him, he could bring himself to enjoy the warmth of her body, and the trust she'd given him – of all people. There were dozens of gypsies outside the tent who would undoubtedly have helped her…

His eyes opened again as he unwillingly considered that. As much as he wanted to embrace this precious moment that would undoubtedly end all too soon and – even more undoubtedly – never be repeated again; but it was difficult when her reason for being there was so clearly tragic and violent.

Who had hurt his little savior?

He didn't know the people around him anywhere near well enough to hazard a guess…