A/N: I meant, yet again, to update this sooner. Real life has a knack of interrupting at exactly the wrong time. I should really stop promising these timely updates, but I always think I'll be able to meet them. Maybe I'll be able to make a more timely one next time.

Speaking of which, thank you all sooooo much for your reviews, I've got over eighty on this story now, which is the most I've ever had for a story. That's incredible and I'm so grateful to all of you for sticking with me. :)

"Juliet?" Erik rasped, his eyes opening a crack and revealing a pain-blurred expression. She bit back a choked sob at the sight of his discomfort.

"I'm here," she whispered, cupping his cheek with her free hand. Her thumb stroked along his cheekbone gently. He let out a sigh, eyes dropping closed again. "No, Erik. You've got to stay awake. Look at me," she said, abandoning holding his hand and holding his face between both of her hands. If he fell back into the void of unconsciousness, there was no guarantee he would come back. "Don't you dare go to sleep on me."

"My skin is on fire," he croaked, struggling to focus on her. She kissed his forehead delicately, holding her tears back for his sake. He was already in enough pain as it was; he didn't need to know about the emotional pain waging war in her head. "Oh God, it hurts."

"I know, I'm so sorry." She stroked her fingers across his cheeks to keep him anchored, how ever faintly, to reality. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brishan struggling to keep a hold on Gaston. The faint sounds of running footsteps echoed from up the street. Tristan had the doctor and the police. Finally, the end of this bizarre nightmare seemed in sight. Erik's eyes began to flutter shut again and she patted his left cheek to get his attention.

"Erik, stay with me."

"I'm trying, but it's difficult," he replied, and she knew there would be a touch of annoyance coloring his tone if he weren't so disoriented. "Everything keeps going fuzzy."

"Focus on me, then," she said, the sounds of running growing ever louder. "Just keep looking at me." Blurry eyes fought to keep themselves looking at her face and she felt a few tears slip down her cheeks. Come on, just a few more minutes, she prayed. Just a little while longer.

"What on Earth is going on here?" a police constable snapped irritably. She guessed he was not altogether thrilled to be hauled out of bed at such an hour.

"I think I can explain that," said Brishan, arms still locked around Gaston. The other man had recently given up on fighting and stood with a strange look in his eyes. It was almost like he was bored with the proceedings around him. "This man, along with the camp of gypsies just outside the border of this city, abducted the man you see on the horse over there and thrashed him repeatedly with a whip. Some sort of personal vendetta factored into it, I believe. You won't find the gypsies—they'll be long gone—but I would think you might be able lock this," he spat the word from his mouth like it was bitter poison, "up so he won't be able to cause any further harm to anyone."

"If what you're saying is true—" the constable began, but Brishan interrupted him.

"Look a the whip marks covering his torso and tell me whether or not I speak the truth." His voice was cool and flinty eyes accompanied the tone.

The policeman took a look and abruptly turned away. She could see him swallowing hard, a deep, shuddering breath following after. "What's his name?" he barked.

"Gaston Rosseau." Juliet spoke up, casting a loathing stare in the man's direction.

"Well, Gaston Rosseau, I am arresting you on counts of abduction and repeated physical assault." As the constable spoke, the other officers stepped forward and relieved Brishan of his burden. They wrestled his hands behind his back and clapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists with cold efficiency.

"I think a friend of yours is on his way back with a doctor," he said over his shoulder as he led his entourage, now plus one, in the direction of the city prison.

When they were alone once again, Juliet turned to Brishan. He seemed to be trying to make an escape. "Merci beaucoup, monsieur," she said, grateful beyond expression he had been there when he was. "I owe you my life. I don't know what would've happened to any of us if you hadn't appeared when you did."

"Think of it as small compensation for the many wrongs I've committed in my life, more specifically the most recent ones," he said softly, raising a hand in farewell.

"Please don't just vanish again," she pleaded. "You've saved both of us and I'm sure Erik would like to speak to you later."

He shook his head. "My place is not here, mademoiselle, and I need no thanks. I've gotten used to drifting between cities and settling down does not appeal to me yet. Who knows?" A faint smile was visible. "This may not be the last you see of me."

Tristan's voice was audible, coming closer at last. "Perhaps," she said, returning to Erik's side. He continued to gasp for breath unevenly, eyelids looking as though they weighed as much as a large sack of grain each. "Just a few minutes more, Erik," she whispered, feeling the fever that was starting. His forehead became warm beneath her hand. Too warm.

"Monsieur Durand, that's them over there, isn't it?" said the doctor. It was the same one who had tended to Meg.

"Yes, hurry please!" he panted, running over to Juliet and Erik. When he was just close enough, Juliet stepped in front of Erik. A questioning look crossed his face.

"Monsieur, I need to explain something before you see him," she said, nervous about what his reaction might be.

An impatient frown creased the doctor's forehead. "Well, all right then, but be quick about it. Monsieur Durand says he's been whipped. Those wounds will need special attention.

"Most of the time, Erik wears a half-mask," she stammered, the words coming forth in an uncertain burst, "but it was taken from him by the gypsies. On the right half of his face is a disfigurement. I wouldn't think to mention it, but it's a bit... surprising if you're not expecting it." A pained moan came from behind her, causing her heart to twist painfully.

"Mademoiselle, I'm a doctor," he assured her, "it's a rare thing if I'm surprised anymore." Reluctantly, knowing he was right, she stepped aside. For a long moment, the doctor stood stock-still. It could have been the poor lighting, but she could swear he turned a faint shade of green. Finally, he turned back to her.

"Yes... I see what you mean," he said quickly. Like the good doctor Juliet was beginning to realize he was, he began to examine Erik's wounds. "If I might be so bold as to ask, how did this happen?" She saw his fingers flutter delicately over the ugly wounds, taking stock of their severity.

"He told me he's had it since he was born," she replied, watching him chew his lip as he finished checking him over.

"That's very unfortunate, my sympathies go to him," said the doctor, turning to face her again, a grave expression etched into the lines of his face. "He needs the hospital. Some of the wounds are nasty at best and require more treatment than I could give in house visits."

"He will be all right, won't he?" she asked anxiously, suddenly fearful for him.

"He'll be in a lot of pain," he warned her, "for some time. But he should make a full recovery. There will be scarring, and quite a lot of it, I'm afraid."

"That's not a new thing to him, unfortunately," she murmured, more of an audible thought than an actual comment that was intended to be heard. They worked together to get Erik off of Caesar and in the direction of the carriage the doctor and Tristan had arrived in. He was still conscious enough to hold himself up a little. But he didn't seem to have the energy to listen to the talking around him or add to the conversation. Tristan, in an effort to keep Caesar with them, swung up into the saddle and prepared to follow the carriage.

"In what way?" Concern radiated from the doctor's tone as the carriage began the journey to the hospital after a few murmured instructions to the driver.

Juliet became aware of the fact that she shouldn't be saying so much. She'd given the doctor adequate information, giving more now without Erik's permission would be a breach of trust. "I don't believe it's at my discretion to say that," she said. "If you notice the scars, ask him. But the details aren't mine to give."

The doctor nodded, his foot tapping impatiently at the floor of the carriage. She might have piqued his interest unintentionally, but he was making it clear to her that his first priority was getting Erik as much care as was in his power to give. "I admire your morals, mademoiselle," he said, checking Erik's temperature with the back of his hand to his forehead.

"It's a sad state of affairs when common decency deserves special recognition," she replied, not intending to insult him. Erik had opened her eyes to the inhumanity to which man subjected others of their same race. Sometimes, like now, she wished she could close them again.

The journey to the hospital was the longest she could remember enduring. It wasn't so much about the length, but the tense silence that echoed obnoxiously in her ears. Juliet kept her gazed fixed unfailingly on Erik. It felt to her as though he might disappear if she did so much as blink. Her hands held his hand that was closest to her between them. A constant stream of prayer issued silently from her. Please, let him be all right. Keep the pain at bay; don't let him hurt too much. Please.

At the hospital, they helped Erik down from the carriage. Whatever was left of his consciousness was fading fast; he slumped between their bodies. Two attendants came running out the door, having noticed their arrival through the windows. Moving with silent efficiency, they took Erik from Juliet and the doctor, ushering him through the door.

"Wait!" she called, intending to follow them. She didn't want to be separated from Erik now; how was she to know if he'd be all right? What if something happened? The doctor grasped her arm to prevent her from doing so.

"Mademoiselle, the hospital doesn't allow for visitors to see the patients until they're resting comfortably," he explained. "I will call on you tomorrow with news of his condition, but for now you may not see him."

For the first time that night, Juliet was too exhausted to argue. With a limp nod, she indicated her understanding. "Thank you for your assistance, monsieur," she murmured.

"Let's go, Juliet," said Tristan from Caesar's back. "Can you get on yourself?"

She let out a halfhearted huff. "Of course I can. I'm not that tired yet." It was admittedly difficult for her to swing up on Caesar's back, but she did manage it after the second try. He's safe, he's in good hands, she repeated in a mental mantra, attempting to force the residual adrenaline in her veins to drain away.

The soft clopping of Caesar's hooves helped with calming her down, pattering a steady beat in her ears like a heartbeat. She contemplated laying her head on Tristan's back to rest, but she didn't want him to get the wrong idea. Their friendship was very much on the rocks after the conversation that had occurred earlier in the night as it was. It wouldn't do to add something else to the mix.

At last, her father's house came into view. Juliet gave a sigh of relief. Erik was safe, he was getting his wounds treated, and Gaston was locked up. He couldn't come after either of them ever again.

"Put Caesar round the back where he was, please," she instructed Tristan. "I'll help you."

"Oh no." Tristan was shaking his head at her if movement of the back of his head was anything to go by. "What you need to do is to go inside and get rest."

Juliet allowed herself an unrestrained eye roll, rationalizing it with the fact that he couldn't see her. "What I need to do is help you tie Erik's horse up. I don't trust Caesar will take to you as well without someone he recognizes more easily there."

She could almost hear his jaw setting stubbornly. "He was fine with me earlier," he protested.

"He was following Erik," she said, her patience with him wearing thinner than the soles of her oldest pair of stockings. "He wouldn't have noticed if a total stranger jumped in the saddle." Well, maybe he would have, but for the sake of emphasis she decided she could say that.

"Who is he anyway, the Pied Piper?" grumbled Tristan, jumping down to lead the horse to the post and wrapping the reins around it securely. They would take him back to the stables in the morning when it opened. Juliet restricted herself to biting her lip in displeasure as he assisted her in getting out of the saddle.

She took one step and stopped, looking down at her hands in horror. A dried, brownish-red substance covered them in uneven patches. When she looked at her shirt, it was stained the same hue, again in splotches. She remembered the exodus to the hospital and an icy sludge crept through her, replacing her blood.

Blood. Juliet was covered in Erik's blood. It was on her hands, her shirt, and now burned into the insides of her eyelids. She couldn't close her eyes to get away from it; it was still there, haunting her and making her stomach roil with disgust. I have to get it off me, she thought, small amounts of hysteria beginning to trickle into her mind. I've got to get it off. Her hands went to the front of her shirt to wipe it off, but stopped. They hovered centimeters fro the fabric. No. It was there too. A panicked gasp sucked into her lungs.

"Juliet, are you all right?" Tristan's voice broke into her stilted stream of thought. She didn't answer. She couldn't. A vague awareness of the fact that he had moved closer so he stood directly behind her came over her. "Juliet?"

Not many things scared Juliet but for some reason, blood always had. It made her nauseous and gave her chest the feeling that it was being constricted by tight bands of fabric. The fact that the blood belonged to Erik, the man she loved, made it even worse. She couldn't pinpoint exactly when she discovered her paralyzing fear of it. Generally, she associated it with the vivid memory of fainting dead away at the sight of a younger cousin's battered and bloodied knee at the age of thirteen.

"Mon amie, what is it?" asked Tristan, resting a cautious hand on her shoulder. "You've frozen solid."

Swallowing convulsively, Juliet forced herself to move so he could show her hands to him, revealing the ugly stains. "This," she whispered.

He paused, looking at her hands. It seemed like he remembered her fear. "It'll come off, I promise," he murmured to her, wrapping a light arm around her shoulder for stability. "I'll help you wash it off, if you'd like." He spoke in a voice one might associate with attempting to lure a spooked animal closer. She nodded numbly.

Together, they reentered the house and went in search of the nearest washroom. Tristan filled a basin with water and dipped a clean rag in it, wringing the excess water out.

"Let me have one of your hands," he requested. When she looked up at him sharply, having misinterpreted his request in her exhaustion, he shook his head. "No, I just want to wash them," he assured her. "I know my place." She could tell the bitterness seeping into his tone was purely accidental and sprung from being as tired as she was.

No more words were exchanged as he began to rub the cloth over her skin. It was little more than a caress, but it wasn't one of the sort that would probably have occurred earlier in the night. The gentle touch gave a sense of friendship, of mutual understanding, but it was also tinged with a bit of regret. She supposed it was normal and knew it would be some time before their friendship drifted back to the comfort and ease it used to have.

"There," he said at last, drawing her attention back to the present. "Completely back to normal." A small smile turned up the corners of his mouth. He held the rag behind his back and Juliet didn't look into the basin, knowing the color the water had likely turned.

"Thank you," she said, giving her hands a scrutinizing once-over to make sure the awful substance wouldn't reappear.

"Not a problem." He kept the rag out of sight, opening the door. "If you'd like, toss your shirt out of your bedroom once you've changed for bed. I can take care of it."

"No, no," she shook her head at him. "Tristan, you've already done enough for me. You need to sleep too, you must be dead on your feet."

He shrugged on his way out the door, offering her a parting comment, "I don't think I'll be sleeping much tonight. Too much to think about." She cringed; yes, they still had a ways to go before their friendship went back to a semblance of normal. Even though it might mean some frosty silences here and there, she was thankful the conversation about where they stood was over and done.

When she got ready for bed, Juliet slipped into her nightgown and, mostly because she couldn't bear to be in the same room as a garment tainted in the way it was, tossed the shirt outside her room. She listened for Tristan's footsteps. About two minutes later, they arrived and stopped in front of her door. "Goodnight," she whispered, only loud enough to carry past the door.

There was a long pause. She wondered whether he'd tiptoed away. And then, "goodnight," drifted her way in response. A miniscule smile, like her lips were beginning to remember how to do such a thing, passed over her face.

Tiredness washed across her in deep, heavy waves. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open long enough to burrow beneath the covers on the guest bed. For the first time in months, her sleep was deep and undisturbed. The threat of Gaston was removed and it felt as though a weight had been lifted from her chest. Erik's music visited her dreams, playing a comforting melody she didn't know. The sound of his voice mingling with the strains of a violin gave her the sense that she was being enveloped in a warm embrace.

She hoped it wouldn't be too long before imagining being in Erik's arms became a reality again.

A/N: And that's where I'm stopping it for now. I intended to put more in this chapter, but some of the details got away from me and it would've been far too long.

A few notes from your author: (who should be sleeping at this moment and is very tired) Brishan is kind of my favorite character in this entire story right now. I don't want to just write him off like that, but I know I shouldn't make him too prominent.

Also, if you'd like to know how I envision Tristan to look, look up the actor Tom Price. (PC Andy Davidson in Torchwood for those of you who watch that amazing show :))