A/N: *hangs head in shame* Oh gosh guys, I'm so sorry. I just have had NO inspiration and I've been SUPER busy this summer. It's been completely insane.

It was quite late when a knock at the door brought Erik to his living room, but not so late he was in his pajamas. He was wearing a button down shirt and a pair of black pants, but his customary waistcoat and jacket had retired to his closet for the night.

"May—" A blunt object cracked across his face as soon as he opened the door, causing a starburst of pain to explode in his head. Clutching at it with a moan of pain, he dropped to his knees and felt his vision go blurry, slowly fading to black. Right before he was lost in a floating sea of blackness, he looked up to see who was responsible. It hardly seemed possible, but there they were. His blood ran ice cold.

"Did you miss us, Devil's Child? You knew you wouldn't be able to escape us forever," hissed a voice he knew all too well. It sounded older and more gravelly, but he could never forget any of the voices of the people that had once made his life a living hell. How could he, when they haunted his nightmares with alarming frequency. The gypsies were back.

After an undeterminably long amount of time, Erik slowly came to. His eyes fluttered open and he gave a grunt of pain. There was definitely a lump on the left side of his head. He could feel it throbbing.

Suddenly, he became horribly aware of something. His mask was gone. And he was in a tent. In a cage. He sat bolt upright, scrabbling back against the bars. Memories of his childhood popped up left and right, making his heart race and his breathing quicken. "Mon dieu," he whispered, covering his face with his hands.

"They got you. I thought you might've been able to fight them off." A quiet voice echoed from the opposite corner of the cage. Erik started, nearly hitting his head on the top of the cage. He looked over to see a tiny blonde girl crouched down, her arms wrapped around her legs. A piece of black cloth was wrapped around her arm. Meg Giry, he realized.

"Mademoiselle Giry?" he inquired quietly, hands still over his face.

"You don't have to hide your face from me, I saw it when you were brought in," she said, holding the bandaged arm to her chest tightly. It appeared to be causing her a lot of pain. "Oh God, Erik, I'm so sorry. I should have been more careful. This is all my fault." She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking in sobs. He sat where he was, unsure of how to respond.

"Meg," he said, lowering his hands. "It was nothing you could avoid. Gaston would have gotten the information one way or another. It's not singularly you."

She looked up, eyes rimmed in red. "I know that, but Juliet is my best friend. And now she's all alone at the mercy of that monster."

Erik's heart sank low in his chest. He'd nearly forgotten about Juliet. "You know, mademoiselle, I really wish you hadn't said that."

She looked at him keenly. "You really love her, don't you." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

He gave her a questioning look. "Of course. She means the world to me, more than the world."

"I'm really terrified then, because I know she loves you with her whole heart and she won't hesitate to sacrifice herself for you."

Erik stared at Meg sharply. "What do you mean?" She looked at him like he was being thick, but didn't get the chance to respond. Two tall, muscular gypsies strode into the tent, unlocking the cage and taking Erik by the arms before he had the chance to move.

"Up you get, Devil's Child," they said shortly. "Lots planned for you today."

A pang of fear made his knees go loose. "Excuse me?" They didn't have to answer, they just pointed to an item that still haunted his nightmares to that day.

The whipping post.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Juliet hummed quietly to herself as she walked toward the Normandy Opera. This was the day she would find out if she could take her place in the ranks of the singers. Her heart pattered with nerves. She wasn't worried about whether she'd get the part or not, that didn't fuss her. What she was concerned about was the looming problem of getting Meg back.

A hand suddenly tugged at her skirt, making her jump with surprise. It was a small, fragile looking boy with vibrant blue-green eyes and a shock of wild, curly black hair. He had a tiny violin case clutched in his hand. "Are you Mademoiselle Leroux?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, I am," she said kindly, bending down to him with a warm smile. "May I help you with something?"

"My name is Corbett," he said. "I'm one of Monsieur Destler's students and he hasn't shown up today." Juliet's brow wrinkled. "It's just, the last time he was gone, there was a substitute teacher. There wasn't one today."

Her heart took a little leap in her chest. "He wasn't there at all?" That was truly unusual.

Corbett shook his head, curls swinging back and forth. "Have you seen him?"

She tried not to show her rising panic. "No, not today. How about you go find your mama, and I'll go look for Monsieur Destler. When I find him, we'll come back to the Opera and you can have your lesson. If I'm not back in an hour, he'll compensate you for your missed lesson. All right?" He nodded, running off. The frozen smile melted and ran off her face like butter hitting a hot pan.

She quickly made her way to Erik's flat, her feet racing each other to his front door. Her shaking fist knocked briskly at the door, tamping down the fear which had begun to freeze her thought process. He's probably fine, she told herself firmly. There's no reason to get so worked up just yet. No answer except for the faint meowing of Ayesha.

A cream colored piece of paper caught her eye. It was caught in the hinge of the door. With shaking fingers, she pulled it free. She read it, feeling slightly faint.

My dear mademoiselle,

I take it you've discovered your precious Phantom is nowhere to be seen. Don't worry; he's quite safe. For now. He and Meg are in the same place.

I would tell you what you should do, but I think you know it already, so I shall not waste ink and paper.

You'll know where to find us. Just look for the tents on the edge of town.

Yours,

Gaston

Juliet combed her hand through her hair, deep, panicked breaths making her chest heave up and down. The gypsies. They had Erik and Meg. She had to get home and get her head together. Then she would go after them.

Back at her house, she nearly ran over her papa. He firmly took her by by the shoulders, stopping her and trying to calm her down. "Cheri, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Erik," she panted, wriggling free of his grasp, "Erik's vanished, I have to find him."

He butted in. "Julie, I knew something like this would happen sooner or later. Why waste your time looking for a lost cause? He decided it was time to move on and that he did—"

Juliet couldn't stand it a moment longer. She stamped her foot to accentuate her point, only later realizing how childish it was. "Papa, why do you never listen to me? You never take the time to hear my full story! Erik's been taken somewhere, one of the people responsible for it left me a note. His name is Gaston and he wants to kill Erik, and me as well if he can."

He snatched the paper from her hands, reading it quickly. "All the more reason for you not to go after him," he stated firmly. "I'll not let you go and do something foolish in the name of that man. I will not lose you."

"Papa, please," Juliet begged, the beginnings of tears starting in her eyes, "they'll kill him if I don't find him. And Meg as well. She's one of my dearest friends."

"Juliet, you are the only thing I have left in the world," his voice raised a few notches, "I can't let you be taken away from me. Losing your mother nearly killed me. Losing you will."

She suddenly understood why her father was so protective of her. All of her childhood had been spent resenting his hovering and worrying, she never once stopped to consider the fact that she was the last living reminder he had of her mother. A tear traced the length of her face, dropping into the neckline of her dress. "Papa," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He stepped forward, hugging her tightly against his chest, as though that alone would keep her safe. "Go upstairs, please," he murmured brokenly. "I shall be up in a moment."

Recognizing a losing fight when she saw one, Juliet ran up the stairs, undoing her hair from the intricate hairstyle she had learned in her years as a chorus girl. It tumbled free, down around her shoulders. She hadn't given up. Not quite yet. Running to her armoire, she flung the doors open and searched for a different outfit, something she could move in. Her hands sifted through the various materials, finally coming up with the right item. Her riding breeches and shirt. I hope I haven't grown too much, she prayed, as the last time she'd worn them, she was sixteen or seventeen.

She shed the tan dress she'd been wearing and tossed it aside, yanking the trousers up and pulling the shirt over her head, tucking it in. The shoulders were just a bit tighter than she'd remembered them and the trousers were just a wee bit shorter and tighter, but nothing unbearable. The boots, which were under her bed, were dusty but otherwise unharmed. Next was her hair, something needed to be done about that. Down, it was a hazard in many more ways than she cared to think of. She divided it into three pieces and braided it tightly down her back.

With a silent apology, she snuck into her father's study. He was still composing himself downstairs and she estimated she had about five more uninterrupted minutes. Easing the cabinet above the desk open, Juliet cautiously removed the gleaming sharp knife, keeping a firm grip on the gold filigree-inlaid handle. The knife had been a present to her father from someone he'd made a particularly good deal with in his trading business. His intention had been to hang it someplace notable, but Juliet had been a toddler at the time he received it and that plan had been forgone in favor of the curious young girl's safety.

Juliet also took the casing and sheathed the knife, tucking it into the belt around her waist. Did she know how to use a knife? In the kitchen, yes. As far as combat went, she had next to no idea, she only knew it hurt like hell when you were on the receiving end of a weapon like that. Still, she felt it would be at least a little helpful to have it at hand, should the need for it arise.

Quietly, she tiptoed to the edge of the stairwell. Her father was nowhere to be seen. As she had done many times as a child, she slid down the banister to avoid noise on her part, leapt down, and peered around the corner. He was still in the kitchen, sitting in a chair with his head propped in his hands.

Ever so gently, she eased the door open and slid out into the street. She wondered how all the people walking past her in the street could go on living their lives so normally. Didn't they know the man she loved with her entire being was in danger? Drawing her hood up over her face, she made her way purposefully toward the stables in the center of town. There was no sane carriage driver who would take her straight to the gypsies, and they would probably recognize who she was. She was left with only one option.

While the stable master's back was turned, Juliet entered the building quickly, eyes scanning the many horses who were sticking their noses out of their stalls curiously. Who was this new person and what was she doing there? But at that moment, she had her sight set on only one of the horses. Caesar.

She let herself into the stall hastily, extending a hand for the horse the color of midnight to examine. His velvety nose snuffled at her palm searchingly, looking for a treat. Not finding one, he snorted in disappointment, but nudged at her arm in such a way that she felt safe getting closer. Slowly, she ran a hand along his neck, feeling the raw, muscular power beneath her fingertips. Caesar whickered, pressing the side of his face gently to hers. Juliet looked up to see an intelligent brown eye staring acutely at her. For an instant, she was reminded of Erik's eyes.

"Erik's been taken by some gypsies," she breathed to the horse, ever so quietly getting his saddle down and fastening it on properly. It had been ages since she'd ridden a horse, but it was one of those things one never truly forgets. Talking to animals again, she told herself with a silent groan. When you question your sanity at times, this would be one of the reasons why. Perhaps, though, it was easier to work a problem out or keep calm when one knows the receiving end of their conversation will not say anything in return. "Can you take me to him?"

The gentle, yet spirited horse lipped at the braid in her hair by way of response. Taking it as a favorable thing, Juliet stuck a foot in one of the stirrups and swung herself into the saddle as softly as possible, trying not to spook Caesar. The pair exited the stall and trotted out the back door of the large city stable.

She made it to the edge of town before anything of significance happened. Caesar began to toss his head and snort in agitation, nearly yanking the reins out of her unprepared hands. "Whoa, boy," she whispered, stroking his neck softly. "There's nothing—" The horse gave a whinny of distress and jerked his head forward, pulling the reins free from her hands. Juliet's heart leapt into her throat in surprise.

Abruptly, the panic stopped. There was a man standing in front of Caesar, holding the dropped reins. Her hand flew to the handle of the knife, her breath coming in sharp gasps. "You seek the man known as the Opera Ghost," the man stated simply, his voice muffled by the high collars of his coat and the hat pulled low over his face.

Juliet was sure there was an expression of dumbfounded shock. Seemingly of its' own accord, she felt her body dismount and come to stand in front of the mysterious man. "How did you come by this knowledge?" she inquired, hand still gripping the concealed weapon.

"It is not important," he replied, and she detected a small amount of urgency in his tone.

"It is to me," she whispered. "You have no idea who I am and you know of something which is most definitely not common knowledge. How do you know this and why?"

He shifted his weight, becoming more and more uncomfortable by the second. "I committed a grievous error in judgment... I assisted Monsieur Rosseau in getting the mademoiselle Giry to—" He wasn't able to finish his sentence. Juliet whipped the knife free and held it beneath his chin, realizing too late that she did not know what to do if she had to proceed from that point on. The man was not aware of this and swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"I do not know what happened to her, but I feel quite safe in my ability to call you a monster," she hissed, holding the bright length of steel level.

"You would not be far off in that assumption, mademoiselle," he murmured. "I am truly and deeply sorry for what I've done. I come to you in warning to be very careful in approaching the camp. Not for the protection surrounding it, but for what you may see. All edges to the camp have a clear view of the center."

A frown creased her brow as she lowered the knife. He seemed truly repentant for causing any harm to her friend. "Pardon?" she queried, inviting him to elaborate.

He shook his head. "Just keep that in mind, I beg of you," he pleaded. "I must go. Please tell mademoiselle Giry how truly sorry I am, will you? I wish you luck."

"Thank you," said Juliet, swinging back up onto Caesar's back. Then she remembered something. "What's your name?"

"... Brishan," his voice was quiet, as he had already begun to disappear into the shadows once more. "Be careful."

The sound of many running feet caught Juliet's attention. Looking behind her in the direction of the noise, she saw her father, Tristan, and two figures she could not make out. With a muttered curse of irritation, she tapped the horse's sides with her heels. She was not going to be dragged back home by them, and that was that.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Why, oh why must Juliet be as stubborn as her mother was? André wondered silently, rising slowly from his chair as though the weight of the world had recently been deposited on his shoulders. His hands pressed heavily against the light, polished wood and, not for the first time, he noticed how aged his hands looked. A quiet, subtle reminder that time waited for no one and catered to no needs.

Blinking a few more times to clear his eyes, he exited the kitchen and made his way over to the staircase, climbing them slowly up to Juliet's room. As he reached the top, at a much slower pace than he would've liked, he noticed her door was closed. Not unusual, he supposed. Juliet tended to keep very much to herself when a disagreement occurred in or out of the house.

"Juliet?" he called through her bedroom door. There was no answer. Now, that was odd. No matter how upset she was, she always managed to answer the door when called upon. She had an incredible ability to compose herself in hardly any time at all. While André marveled at the skill, he wished she would allow herself to display her emotions a bit more freely than she did. "Juliet, would you please open the door?" he repeated his earlier plea, a frown knotting his brows together when he still received no response.

His eyes slid down the length of the door, the frown deepening when he realized the door was slightly ajar. It looked as though it had been shut hastily as a person left the room it belonged to, not as a person entered it. A pang of cold fright resounded in his chest as he eased the door open gently. "Juliet?" he repeated once more.

The room came into full view and André's jaw made a desperate bid for the floor.

Juliet was gone.

"No," he whispered, one shaking hand coming up to rest on the top of his head, a reminder to stay grounded. "Please, no." He strode quickly around the room, growing more and more dismayed with each step. Her closet door was swung carelessly open, revealing her riding clothing to be gone. The boots, which were always a constant presence peeking out from underneath her bed were also missing. It didn't take André too long to piece together what had transpired while he was in the kitchen.

She'd gone to find that blasted masked man.

"Why do you do things like this, mon cheri?" he murmured under his breath, shoving his arms into his jacket as he clattered down the stairs. Finding his boots, he yanked them on faster than he ever had in his life, even faster than when he'd gone to get the doctor when Anamaría's water had broken before she gave birth to Juliet.

As was always the way with such things, the doorbell chose that most inopportune moment to ring. A few rather colorful curses rolled off his tongue as he yanked the door open, only just managing to be civil to the people standing on his doorstep. One man and one woman stood before him. "May I help you?" he inquired in a strained voice.

The woman in the pair stepped forward, twisting her hands together fretfully. She appeared to be roughly his own age. "You are Monsieur Leroux, yes?"

He shifted uneasily, hating every second that went by without him looking for his daughter. "Yes, I am. If you two would kindly excuse me, however, this is not a good time. I have a very pressing problem I must attend to."

She reached out to catch his arm. "Monsieur, I am Antoinette Giry. My daughter is a dear friend of your daughter. She's been taken and all signs point to her being taken here because she—" André came upon a sudden realization and it made his eyes pop open with surprise.

"Then we may be able to assist each other," he broke in. "For I believe if we find one, we shall find the other."

The man chose this moment to insert himself into the conversation. "Mademoiselle Juliet is missing as well?"

"Yes, and I believe she is attempting to locate Meg Giry," he affirmed.

"The gypsy camp is on the very edge of town," the man said. "I saw it briefly as we arrived by train." When he received strange looks, he added, "it's a shot in the dark, but I could swear I saw Gaston in close conversation with a gypsy in Paris at least once recently. And right now, it is our best and only hope."

"We must not waste any more time, then," Madame Giry said quickly, turning on her heel and running after the man who accompanied her. With his heart seemingly intent on beating its' way out of his chest, André sprinted along after them.

They had gone for perhaps a block when a familiar face approached them. "What is going on?" It was Tristan. As it looked like the trio had no intentions of stopping, he ran along with them.

"Juliet may be in danger," André responded, panting a little and cursing his out of shape state. "She as well as a friend."

"What?" the young man cried, keeping pace with them. "Who would want to hurt her?"

"A seriously mentally unbalanced man she knew in Paris," Madame Giry responded. "He has a grudge against Monsieur Erik and is using her to her to him. Join us if you are able to prove yourself useful. We've no idea what sort of situation we may be placing ourselves in and another person is always helpful."

A stony, determined look crossed Tristan's face and he stayed with them as they neared the edge of the city. The lights began to grow more faint and the distance grew longer between them. It wasn't noticeable if one was not looking for it all the time, but the housing gradually got more shabby as they went, garbage littering the streets more heavily.

"There, is that her?" the man with the astrakhan hat pointed to a slim figure mounting a horse the color of total darkness. At that distance it was too far to see much detail, but it was undoubtedly Juliet.

"Yes, I think so," he replied, doubling his speed like a man possessed and yelling, "Juliet, Juliet! Stop, cheri!" He was not at all surprised when she paid him no heed and instead urged the unknown horse into a fast trot.

Right as she reached the edge of camp and they were nearly catching up to her, she stopped the horse abruptly and slid off, stumbling forward a few steps. Something had shocked and frightened her, but André didn't know what had caused such a reaction until her choked scream reached his ears.

"Erik!"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Crack!

The terrible sound of a whip hitting flesh was audible. Erik's hands clenched tightly around the rough lengths of rope binding his arms in place, fingernails digging into his palms sharply enough to draw blood. A pained grunt forced itself from him as he arched his back.

How long he'd been there, he had no idea. He'd lost count of how many lashes had cut into his flesh after fifteen. All he knew now was that the world was beginning to take on an ethereal, blurry glow and all sounds seemed like he was underwater and they were far above the surface. Maybe he'd pass out soon and they'd stop. He could only hope.

The jeers of the crowd surrounding him were still strong in his ears, but Erik couldn't tell if they were current or memories of when it had happened before. The lines between the past, present, reality, and fantasy were blurring into one muddled perception.

The one thing he was sure of was that Meg was being forced to watch his whipping. He, through his pain-bleared eyes, could see her sitting in front of him, held in place by two ornery looking women. Tear tracks traced the contours of her face and she stared down at her lap, unwilling to look up. The black binding on her arm—he still did not know what lay beneath, a wound of some sort—stood out starkly against her pale skin.

Crack!

The last strike was undeniably the worst one yet. Hot rivulets of blood trickled down his lower back where the skin was not quite so marred by lacerations. Some of the gashes must have been nearing bone by then, he thought. It would be utterly shocking if they weren't. He sucked in air between his teeth, reminding himself to keep breathing. Losing consciousness would only mean a repeat performance when he came to.

Later, though how much later he knew not, a strangled cry of horror echoed through the camp. It was female in timbre, but Meg had not screamed. He'd been staring at her at the moment it sounded and her lips had not moved. Her eyes had gone wide with shock and recognition; the glance she gave him in that moment made a cold feeling settle heavily in the pit of his stomach.

The scream had come from Juliet.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Moments previously, Juliet had wondered why the mysterious Brishan was so insistent in warning her of what lay within the camp. Now, staring in utter horror, she knew.

Erik was stood in the very middle of the camp, mostly hidden by the eager spectators. The thought of finding enjoyment in a flogging made her stomach turn itself in knots of nausea. His arms were tied with lengths of rope to a wooden pole lashed to a slat of wood stuck in the ground. Mask gone, his head hung low between his shoulders in an expression of total defeat. The worst part of it all though, was the fact that the skin of his back was no longer the color of flesh. Instead, it was a mottled shade of crimson which dripped and ran in small streams; staining his trousers and dropping into the dust at his feet. They were whipping him and while Juliet felt there was never a good reason, there was no reason at all for this particular instance of cruelty.

She tumbled out of Caesar's saddle and nearly fell flat on her face. "You loathsome, evil people!" she cried, struggling to maintain her footing. "He's done nothing to deserve this! Nothing!"

In her peripheral vision, a shadow materialized into being. "Good of you to finally show up, mademoiselle," a sibilant whisper crept up behind her on silent feet. Juliet whirled on her heel to come face to face with none other than the man who held the ability to make her heart burn with hatred and her blood freeze with fear: Gaston Rosseau.

"You!" the words expelled from her with force. Her hand rested tautly once again on the knife beneath her coat.

"Me," he replied, hands spread wide at his sides. A cold smirk twisted the corners of his mouth. Amusement radiated from him in sickening waves, causing all the more fury to brighten Juliet's eyes.

She took a long step forward, fingers tightening around the hilt subtly. "You are sick, Gaston. Tell me, does any likeness of a heart yet beat in your chest, or has a shard of ice replaced any such thing?" she growled.

He appeared to only become more entertained; his stance remained loose and relaxed, a black chuckle issuing from deep within his chest. "Brave words, Juliet. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"I do not know," she said, her own heart making a serious threat to beat its' way out of her chest, "but I do know you are the tangible, living redefinition of the latter." For a fleeting instant, she was proud of her ability to think on her feet.

A brief snarl momentarily contorted his features, but it soon smoothed back to the former cool, measured countenance. "Such stinging words. Perhaps if you'd be so kind as to take your hand off that knife, we could move this discussion forward a bit more rapidly."

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word out her father, followed by Madame Giry, Nadir, and Tristan, came running into the camp. "Juliet, what on God's green Earth are you doing?" her father cried, grasping her arm and attempting to pull her back. On either side of her, Madame Giry and Nadir took protective stances. A terrible, furious look burned in her eyes.

"Where. Is. My. Daughter," she ground the words out from between her tightly clenched teeth. "What've you done with her?"

With a note of satisfaction, Juliet watched Gaston take a cautious step backward. He pointed to his left. "She is alive and well," he said, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Give her back to me," the ballet mistress demanded. "Prove to me you have not harmed her." To her right, she watched Nadir's hand inch toward the handle of his rapier.

"All in good time," Gaston replied easily, gesturing at a woman to come forward. With her she roughly dragged a small, limp form with dull blonde hair. It was Meg, but only just recognizably so. They came to rest beside the madman. Meg's face was alarmingly pale and drawn, her eyes cast in the direction of the ground.

"Meg!" cried Juliet and Madame Giry at the same time. A knot of unease made itself at home in Juliet's stomach. What had they done to her?

"I think now would be an excellent time to begin negotiations, don't you?" Gaston inquired, clapping his hands together briskly.

"What negotiations?" asked Nadir, a deep frown creasing his brow.

"Monsieur Khan, you are a smart man. Surely you've realized I hold two things you dearly want... I am not sure whether or not you know you have something I want," he mused, trailing off.

"What could we possibly have that you desire?"

Gaston seemed to pretend not to hear the question posed to him by the darkly scowling Persian man. "As you can see, I have in my care mademoiselle Meg Giry and I suppose you know the other?" They followed his gaze to where Erik still stood, bound to the whipping post. He had not moved at all; Juliet suspected he was unconscious. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

"Make your point," her father spoke up, still clinging tightly to her arm.

He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Yes, fine. I would be perfectly willing to hand over both the Opera Ghost and Meg, if..."

"If what?" Mme. Giry cut off his dramatic pause.

His deadly, charismatic gaze came to rest on Juliet. "If the lovely Juliet Leroux would consent to remain with me, you may take them both without fuss or hassle."

"Not even if hell froze over," her father spat, pulling her back protectively.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," the madman replied casually, pacing slowly back and forth in front of them. "But I am willing to make you one final deal. I am many things, I think you will find fair is among them. I shall allow Meg to go free, but the Opera Ghost remains here and you may not come back for him."

A long, painful silence ensued. She could practically hear all the brains in the group whirring with activity, trying to make a decision. Well, almost all of them. What she sensed from Tristan was more confusion than actual thought. Should they take what they could get out of the current situation? Or should they risk it and attempt to rescue both Meg and Erik?

At last, Madame Giry spoke. There were tears in her eyes and a heavy, deep sadness. "We accept your second set of terms," she said quietly, her voice little more than a breath.

Before Gaston could speak and seal the deal, Juliet broke free from her father's grasp. "No!" she cried. "Let them both go free, I'll stay. Just let them go!"

Her father grasped her arms once more. "Absolutely not, Juliet! I'll not leave you here with him! You will not sacrifice yourself for him."

A low, croaky voice that had not previously spoken echoed through the group of people. "No, Juliet." It was Erik. "I'm not worth it. Don't let this pitiful excuse of a man threaten you into this." He earned a hard lash for his comment; the whip cracked through the air and a strangled shout of pain issued from him.

"No, no!" Juliet screamed, thrashing against her father's restricting arms. "I can't leave you, let me go!" It amounted to little; he was still far stronger than her. "Erik!"

"I'll be fine," he murmured weakly, though both of them knew it was not true.

"No, Erik!" Tears poured down her face, hysterical sobs interfering with the functioning of her voice. "Please, let me go! Let me go to him."

Her father paid no heed to her screaming pleas, taking her firmly in his arms and passing her into the first pair of free arms that presented themselves. They belonged to Tristan. She continued to struggle, calling Erik's name, until he managed to turn her around and capture her in a strong embrace, holding her steady. The urge to fight drained out of her all at once and she slumped against his shoulder, crying so hard her shoulders shook with the force of it. He gently swayed back and forth, holding her tightly. For a moment, she let herself pretend it was Erik.

Erik might be gone forever, in a situation worse than death, and she was powerless to prevent it.

A/N: To quote George Takei, (I know, I know. I'm a geek.) "Oh myyy..."

I am so, so sorry it took so long to post this. I promise the next chapter should be up at least a tiny bit sooner than this one was.

By the way, there's a reference to a British television show in this chapter somewhere. Did anyone catch it?