A/N: WARNING: Erik has a very dark fantasy in this chapter. Bloody imagry and graphic violence ahead – although for this chapter it's all in our Phantom-to-be's head.

Erik veered away from the camp, his frantically running steps leading him back toward the town. He had to get away from the tribe before he did something lethal. He'd been simmering deep down ever since Arabella's parents had been banished. The very fact that no one had even attempted to make Yaakov accountable for his actions against his daughter had infuriated him; but he'd made a sort of peace with the fact that the man was gone and could no longer hurt Arabella.

What a fool he'd been to think the solution –however unsatisfactory – to their Yaakov problem had been dealt with. Of course the bastard had managed another horrible blow. Even in another country, he'd managed to hurt Arabella worse than ever before, leaving her with a physical legacy that would haunt her for the rest of her days. It made Erik want to return to France, pay any amount of money necessary – however he needed to gain said fortunes – and hunt the gypsy dog down.

Once you'd killed before, it was apparently all too simple to have no qualms about doing it again.

The instantaneous rage and desire to kill had urged him away from Arabella and Tsifia. He didn't want his gypsy princess under more strain than she already was. He had to escape, taking his black mood and hatred elsewhere before she once more witnessed him murder. If he had stayed within reach of any human being, it would have been all too easy to attack a generally innocent bystander. He was spoiling for a fight, and he needed to at least attempt to keep himself under control. Even while running through the camp, he'd felt that control trying to slip further and further from his hands.

Close to the town – close enough where he could hear the continued festivities as midnight passed and dawn crept closer – he found what seemed to be a park. There were benches, small ponds and gardens that had been manicured for public enjoyment, and giant trees that had to have been growing for two centuries or more. It was the trunk of one of these trees where he finally found an outlet for his enraged energy.

He took from his pocket a folding knife he'd stolen from a shop back in France and kept with him at all times. He slashed violently out at the tree, stabbing right up to the hilt at least twenty times, imagining Yaakov's abhorrent and hated face. He dreamed about jabbing out the bastards' eyes, and pulling out his intestines, castrating him and waving the removed member in front of his empty eye sockets.

He stabbed and slashed until his arm and shoulder hurt.

It was probably the most violent fantasy of his life… and if he'd been thinking more clearly he would have been repulsed not only by how dark his mind could be but also his bodies' general reaction to it… considering he never had been – nor ever would be – a sadist. He supposed it was probably the simple fact that he couldn't imagine any greater pleasure than eradicating his beloved's mortal enemy from the universe. He couldn't imagine feeling the same way if he actually committed the act.

As the anger slowly drained from him, he put the knife away. He didn't feel even remotely satisfied, but at least the bulk of his murderous tendencies had been circumvented. At least if he came across a human being, the worst he was likely to do would be to pick a fight that ended in blood and bruising – but no death, unless it was his own. But he knew even that much anger was too much to walk back into the camp with. His rationality returning in increments, he leaped up to the lowest available branch of his tall stabbing victim and began to climb until the branches threatened to break under his weight.

He needed more time. If he went back too soon, he probably would pick a fight. It was still too much stress to compile onto Arabella. She had more than enough to deal with, and picking a fight that might end in his death… he wasn't sure how she would react to something like that. She told him that she loved him… and he knew she believed it. He was so hungry for love that he wasn't even sure he cared whether she really did love him; or whether she only thought she did. He was someone she thought it safe to love – although based on his already guilty, murderous hands, that seemed debatable to him. Still, he needed to remain that for as long as possible. He needed to remain safe in her eyes. He didn't press her for anything… not for dancing, not for an arm over her shoulder (although they both seemed well beyond being nervous about that particular display of affection). He often found himself touching her hair, shoulder, or arm… but he was careful to keep the touch feather-light. The only regular and firm touching they ever interacted with was the touch of their hands.

When they had been dancing in the town he had touched her more deliberately, but he'd been making his hands firm so that he could properly lead her and keep her from falling – not just for the sake of touching her.

But she did fall, you idiot. A voice in his head noted derisively; indicating that at last his humor was making an appearance again and that his temper was under firm control.

She'd fallen, but not because his grip on her hadn't been secure. She'd fallen because she was not used to wearing corsets and hadn't been able to breathe properly during such joyous exercise. She'd fainted because she was with child and had over exerted herself.

A child…

As long as he didn't think about how or by whom Arabella had come by her predicament, Erik found himself sighing and smiling just slightly. Arabella would make a wonderful mother… He could easily imagine her in front of a tsera, smiling down at a barely-walking toddler as she waved a translucent scarf around its head of dark curls… curls like hers – although her hair was so long it really could only be called a wave due to its weight. He could see her cradling a tiny child to her breast and soothing away pain as it sucked on its thumb and stared in that dull way children had after a fright or when particularly tired. He could picture her hurrying the child inside to protect it from outside harm… or charging away from the child to throw herself into the face of whatever threat dared present itself before her.

She was fiercely protective of people she cared about. It was only herself she seemed unable to fight for.

The ghost of a smile vanished suddenly as he considered her problem more seriously. He couldn't go fantasizing about her future life with a beautiful son or daughter. He needed to think about what Tsifia had said before he stormed out of the tent. The gypsy tribe was not forgiving of fallen women. True, Arabella had been purified… but he had the feeling her pregnancy would strongly negate the ritual. She would be more than a half-breed. She was a half-breed that had lost her virginity… a half-breed bearing a child out of wedlock… a child of incest.

If they refused to consider Arabella's baby Yaakov's, then Tsifia might be right, and the people might blame him. As much as their deliberate blindness infuriated him, he was beginning to understand how much more appealing it would be for them to take out their own fury on him. He was the worst kind of outsider they'd ever had among them… not just a gaje, but a gaje many of them thought was a devil or vampire.

His head jerked up, staring blindly out into the night.

They might blame him… they might gang up on him… and they might kill him.

Oddly enough, he didn't feel the impulse to never return to camp at the thought of a possibly impending demise. What he felt was that if he was murdered by a group of rabid gypsies, at least he might go in a way that would vaguely cleanse Arabella of her stigma…

But… did she have to be an unwed mother? What would be worse than being an unwed mother? Could being married – even to a freak outsider – possibly be better than that – or would they consider it to be far worse? It removed any stigma being unwed gave her after all… didn't it? Even if they hated him for having the audacity… they couldn't hate her. They couldn't take it out on her. True, they might still decide to take it out on the child when it was born… but eventually he might be able to convince Arabella to leave with him. Seeing how her child was being treated would make it easy to run with her, and live a more peaceful life with the child elsewhere. At least… that was his dearest hope.

She couldn't possibly let herself become as blind as her tribe – including her own grandmother – had been during her life of turmoil. It was how she'd become friends with him, after all… refusing to be blind or indifferent to his suffering. She would never do that to her own child.

She was very protective, after all. He could only imagine how much more protective she would be of her own offspring. Arabella wasn't capable of giving someone undeserved hatred. Dislike, maybe; wariness, definitely, but not hatred. An innocent baby didn't deserve hatred.

She knew he wanted to marry her. He'd told her that already. He'd hinted at it multiple times since, although without the same insistency as when he'd first brought up the subject. She had said that if he were to ask, the idea of refusing him was laughable. Surely that meant he was virtually guaranteed a yes; especially since he'd learned in that time just how to go about properly proposing to her and arranging a marriage.

Honestly, he didn't even care if she said yes because she simply thought she couldn't do any better. Beyond the physicality he had no control over, he'd do everything in his power to make certain she never regretted such a choice…

He had been raised a little gentleman by his mother. Impeccable manners and a sense of honor and responsibility had been grilled into him from the time he could walk. Oh, he'd abandoned those tendencies when he lived with her – with the usual mischief and resentments of a child. But he knew how to use those manners; and how to be honorable.

If they were going to blame him for being the father of Arabella's child, then no one would have to challenge him to a duel to clear her name (not that he'd seen any hint that gypsies did such things). He would take full responsibility, whatever the cost to himself if it meant protection for her. The people thought him a demon, so they would either kill him or be afraid to move against him. In less than a month many of them were already forgetting he'd recently been nothing but a scared, whipped boy in a cage.

He could build upon that…

Sighing in decisiveness, he began to climb from the tree and walk back towards the camp. He was still furious about Arabella's predicament… but now he could bury it for a time and deal with the rest later. He could make peace with the fact that if he was ever going to stand a chance to make this wretchedness 'right'… it was going to be a long way down the road. Yaakov was completely out of his reach…

For now, at least; there was nothing he could do.

He strode through the mostly sleeping camp, not too terribly surprised when he saw Tsifia sitting by a small campfire that he often shared with her outside their respective tents. She had her black shawl around her again, and her eyes kept scanning her surroundings anxiously as though she were looking for something.

Like him, she was probably searching for answers from the universe.

"Madam…" he greeted her softly, watching her eyes jerk up to him in surprise. He nodded to her briefly in apology, having almost forgotten just how quietly he could move. "I know the strain you are under… and what I'm about to say probably won't help – considering how you feel about me."

"I should never have treated you like I did." The woman interrupted softly, clearly thinking this was a reprimand for the way she'd acted in the town. "I'm ashamed of myself, Erik."

He waved off her apology, shaking his head.

"It needed to be said." He admitted. "Arabella has made it easy for me to forget that I am not truly a part of things here. But that doesn't matter or bother me. If I am going to be treated like an outsider, I would like to be treated like an outsider for the right and most offensive reason possible… although to me it would be the most honored hatred I'll ever earn."

The older woman's eyes narrowed at him suspiciously.

"What is it, Erik?" she challenged.

Slowly, he walked closer, his eyes glancing briefly over her shoulders towards her dark tsera. By now, he expected Arabella must be sleeping. Tsifia had probably even given the poor girl a draught to make her rest. Taking a deep and steadying breath, he crouched across the fire from her and met her eyes.

"I would like very much to have the honor of marrying your granddaughter."

To his utter surprise, Tsifia smiled. There was a slight wry bitterness to her smile, but it was genuine none-the-less.

"I think she would like that very much." She replied. "Honestly… there's no reason I can possibly think of to object anymore. You're the only one left who has given Arabella hope of the future to come. I can't see forcing her to live the life I wanted for her anymore. I can't become her new form of torture."

Erik's heart nearly floated out of the top of his head. But before he could thank her, or reply, she had glanced around him again and lost her smile.

"We can go over the details another time." She stated, slowly rising from the ground. Erik instinctively reached out to give her his arm, aiding her and earning a brief smile of gratitude. "Right now… I think we should go find Arabella."

Erik forgot he'd even been happy for a moment. His blood went almost cold.

"Find her?" he echoed. "Isn't she inside?"

"She ran out directly after you did." The woman sighed, again looking around, this time more worriedly. "I tried to stop her, but I don't stand a chance at keeping up when Arabella is running. She clearly needed some time alone… but she should have been back by now."

Erik nodded in understanding. Arabella wasn't dealing with the same fear of hurting people as he had been. She should have had her chance to cry all her horror, terror and rage out by now. She wasn't the type of girl who could easily hold on to such depressing feelings. He'd seen how quickly her despair had faded after the outburst by the river the day he murdered Adnah. Surely this couldn't have been much worse, considering it was only an extension of the same hurt.

Admittedly, he couldn't be certain of that. But without better insight, how was he supposed to be more than concerned? All he could think of was that she'd gone off alone to handle her grief. That was much more his style, hiding his feelings from even his most trusted companions. Arabella only hid herself from the people who…

… The people who hurt her.

So why had she left Tsifia?

"Did you see which way she ran?" he asked, refusing to let his mind be distracted with the hypothetical. "I can see better in the dark than you. I'll find her."

Tsifia lifted an arm and pointed toward the forest.

Erik's brow furrowed beneath the mask in confusion.

"The forest?" he asked. "Are you sure? She doesn't like going in alone anymore."

"You think I don't know that?" the woman demanded. "What if she fell and hurt herself, Erik? She wasn't even wearing shoes."

Nodding, Erik turned toward his tent.

"If she left without shoes, I'm guessing she also left without a cloak. It's getting cold. She'll need warm clothes. Get her best shoes… I'll get something warm to wrap her in."

He strode into his tent, hurriedly collecting his phoenix cloak; as it was the most available. Considering he had no idea how long it would take to find Arabella, he didn't know what else to take with him. Still, he grabbed the warm coat he'd recently purchased in the last town they'd passed and quickly shrugged into it. He wasn't particularly cold, but Arabella often seemed so much frailer to him. She might need more than his cloak… but he certainly wasn't going to carry both while looking for her.

He snatched up the lantern he normally used to light his tent and brought the wick inside to life. He turned it up just shy of smudging the glass with black smoke.

When he exited the tent, Tsifia was waiting for him with Arabella's sturdiest slippers dangling from the fingers of one hand.

"I'm coming along." She stated simply.

"I don't mean this offensively." Erik told her with a hint of impatience. "But can you keep up?"

He wasn't terrified for Arabella, because she could simply be sitting out in the woods mourning her situation much longer than he'd thought she would. But he wanted to find her before something terrible could happen. He had a bad feeling… It wasn't intense… but it was there. As a much hated creature that needed to constantly watch his back – even around his own mother – he'd learned to trust his instincts.

"Start walking." Tsifia ordered firmly, rolling her eyes at his foolishness. "She went this way…"

"Madam…" Erik began softly, a little anxiously, as they trudged through the forest and peered through the dark. He couldn't see any signs that could indicate which direction Arabella had gone in. Other gypsies must have tramped through to try and find water sources and places to relieve their bodies… because there were too many signs of passage to follow. "Why did Arabella run away? Isn't it more like her to stay with someone who can hold her together when she's falling apart?"

"Usually… when she isn't trying to make ridiculously light of injuries." Tsifia admitted.

"She seemed at least calm when I left." Erik persisted. "Upset, of course, but… calm."

"The situation is unprecedented." The older woman sighed. "I can't answer your question, Erik. Parts of Arabella will always be a mystery."

"She's not that difficult to figure out." Erik objected with a wry chuckle. "What happened before she left?"

"You left." Tsifia stated simply. "You were upset about how the tribe would respond, especially since we both know you haven't been particularly improper with her. You stormed out, and Arabella ran out only moments after. She was … visibly upset. I tried to call for her to come back, but she ignored me."

Erik thought back to his moments of growing rage, thinking desperately about what had transpired. If Arabella had been visibly upset – which he took to mean crying – then something must have pushed her beyond the dull uneasy despair he'd witnessed for himself. She'd looked like a dog that had been beaten and whipped so often that it no longer affected her…

But she and Tsifia had both tried to speak to him – to calm him down, perhaps – just before he stalked out.

Had she taken his flight as a personal rebuff?

He shivered at the thought, shaking his head in a denial he couldn't quite commit to.

She was in such a delicate place… on that line between hope and defeat. Of course his running off had affected her! He hadn't exactly stopped – even for a second – to explain he was running off for her safety and would be back.

He had to find Arabella… He had to find her…

He was no longer merely concerned or worried. He was close to panic. He couldn't think of why… Her will to survive had lasted this long already and he couldn't see her giving up now. But…

He stopped suddenly, holding an arm out to silence Tsifia as she briefly struggled with a thin branch that had snagged at her shawl.

Crying…

He sighed in relief.

"I hear her." He stated simply, slowly rotating his body to pinpoint what direction she was in. Wherever she was, Arabella had gone quite the distance because her voice was barely audible. Impatiently, he turned and shoved his lantern towards the older woman. "I'm going on ahead. I'll shout when I find her. Work your way through carefully. It looks like the ground is pitted up ahead… she might have twisted her ankle."

"So you're going to go running through a land mine of possible injuries?"

"No." Erik replied with a humorless grin. "I'm going to try my hand at flying."

Obviously, actual flight was well beyond even Erik's abilities… but he was limber and athletic now that he'd been regaining his strength from his stint in the cage. Leaping over obviously dangerous areas and hopping his way across stones was ridiculously easy with his virtual night vision. The faster he went, the louder Arabella's cries became. It badly frightened him to hear the note of absolute hysteria in her voice. It was worse than the cry of a child longing for love from a parent. It was the sound of a person whose heart had been torn out through its ribcage and shredded before its very eyes.

He didn't want to frighten her, but her sobs weren't those of someone in physical pain. He was worried that if he called out to her, she might not want to be found and would flee even further from him. He was careful to use every ounce of his ability to move across the ground soundlessly.

It became clear why she had stopped at all when he saw a rather large and steep cliff before he could even see her. Arabella had run as far as she physically could, and found herself trapped against an unclimbable wall. How much farther would she have gone if the cliff hadn't been in her way? She was already quite the fair distance from camp, and after a night of dancing and trauma, she couldn't have had much energy left. Would she have run until she dropped from exhaustion?
The trees seemed to part for him as he hurried closer, and he caught sight of Arabella collapsed on the ground with her legs out to one side and one hand holding her up. Her crimson blouse looking almost raspberry in the moonlight. Her back was to him, her usual braid pulled half free of its confinement and looking rather like a rats nest. He could see her shoulders shivering with the force of her all-consuming sobs as she held something he couldn't quite see in her hand.

Warily, he side-stepped until he could see what it was she held.

She was clutching a stick in her fist, a jagged end pointed vaguely in the direction of her torso as though she were contemplating thrusting it into herself. She was shaking from head to foot, even her bare soles jigging slightly on the ground as she stared bleakly down at her unused weapon. He wondered how long she'd been sitting there on the verge of possible self-mutilation. Clearly she wasn't thinking about hurting another person with the stick. It was too simple a tool that could be too easily stolen from her… and she was too far away from any other human targets.

"Bella?" he managed, his voice barely daring to be more than a breath in the night. His heart had utterly stopped and lodged in his throat as he grew entirely still. As much as he wanted to run right to her and yank the stick from her hand, he didn't dare. She clearly wasn't thinking clearly enough to realize how useless her weapon was… but she could still cause some damage with it. He'd rather take the risk of her trying to use it at the sound of his voice than the much riskier option of trying to take her only weapon from her and making her feel powerless.

He knew how much she hated that feeling.

She jerked violently, even at the softness of his voice; her head whipping round so that she could stare at him over her shoulder. He'd never seen her face so mutilated by tears and mucus. She hadn't even been in the presence of mind to so much as wipe the snot from under her nose. He would have been surprised if she could make him out clearly through her swollen and badly reddened eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He sucked in a sharp breath that ticked in his throat from the strain.

All right… perhaps she was capable of unreasonable hate…

…and she was aiming it at him.