Paladin 54

Something wasn't right.

As much as Philippe had attempted to convince himself otherwise, he felt that there was something terribly wrong. The horse could not have untied itself; it wasn't a trick horse and the boards were still in place. No, he thought as he blew out the candle and closed the desk drawer, this was no accident.

Philippe cursed under his breath and hoped that he was wrong. If he were correct—if Karl was behind this—he would murder him with his own bare hands.

Sprinting from the house, he barely took time to close the door before he ran to where the horse had been tied. It was then that he saw a shadow from the corner of his eye. Spinning on his heel, he turned just in time to see the board before it hit him across the forehead.

The world went dark before he hit the hardened snow.

-o-

Sophia ran her brush through her hair as she stood before her bedroom mirror, smiling at herself. Giddy excitement filled her insides and she rocked back and forth from the balls of her feet to her heels.

This must be what love felt like, perfect and invigorating, exactly as she imagined. She'd never thought her heart could beat so quickly in a way that left her tingling rather than terrified—and she never wanted the feeling to end. As she braided her hair, she wondered if Erik felt the same. He seemed much more composed than she did, as though he were unaffected by these feelings.

But, she reminded herself, he'd been just as nervous as she was at supper. His hands shook when he brought the fork to her mouth. Why did that seem to wind her heart and her mind into tighter knots? Really, this was ridiculous. He was, after all, only a man. A very passionate man, who felt warm and comfortable, whose masculine scent was still on her skin.

"He's more," she said to herself with a giggle. "I know he is."

Somehow Sophia knew he would disagree with her. She still wondered what had happened to him that caused his back to be so scarred. He'd talked so little about his family that she hated to press him further, fearing that perhaps there was a great tragedy that had taken place in Paris, one which affected him so greatly that he didn't wish to speak of it.

But—as she had learned through her own losses—talking to someone, anyone, released some of the pressure she felt around her heart. Perhaps in time he would realize that and confide in her. They were still new to one another, and being as such, Sophia wasn't sure if she could offer him any relief if he told her his tragic past.

"I think too much," she muttered as she drew back the covers and climbed into bed. She lay still for several moments before springing up and scampering to her window. Frowning, she sighed at Erik's dark window. How could that man sleep? Why wasn't he looking out the window, longing for her embrace?

She'd been reading too much lately. That explained everything. Shaking her head, she decided to sit by the fire and wait for Philippe to return home. Worrying about him would definitely end her lovesickness.

-o-

The split across Philippe's forehead would leave him unconscious for quite some time. And, Karl thought wickedly, with any luck the snow would freeze him.

Leaving Philippe where he fell, Karl spit on the snow and stalked off into the night.

"You will not make a fool of me, Sophia," he said under his breath.

-o-

Fidelio kicked Erik in the spine for a good half-hour before the master of the house, lying on the very edge of the bed, had enough of the dog and ordered him onto the floor. At first Fidelio thought he was playing and continued to emit a low growling sound that ended in a snort. Turning onto his back, Fidelio licked the back of Erik's neck and around his ear.

"Off," Erik commanded, his eyes unwilling to open.

The mass of gray hair gave a groan before he slunk away, waited for Erik to fall asleep, and then sprang up on the bed again and stepped on the back of Erik's head with one massive paw.

"Have you gone mad?" Erik groaned. "Sleep or you'll be outside in the cold."

Fidelio nudged him in the middle of the back with a large, square, and—Erik determined—incredibly thick skull.

That was the end of Erik's good will. Furious, he sat up in bed and turned, nostrils flared.

Fidelio yelped in surprise as Erik towered over him, his hand balling into a fist. The sound of fear gave Erik the ability to restrain himself as he knew that hitting the dog would do no good.

Briefly closing his eyes, Erik remembered cowering on the floor with his hands over his head, fear embracing him as he waited for his father to either hit him again or finally leave. It was a dreadful feeling, one that overpowered everything else in his life. Time would stop, the world would no longer exist. Emptiness filled his days and nights, and terror in knowing that tomorrow would be the same, that the man who held the key to his chamber would return with his face of stone and his hands as unforgiving as hammers.

Shuddering, Erik opened his eyes and found Fidelio with his head down as though he understood his master's intentions and accepted his punishment, just as he had done before. Frightened, the wolfhound tentatively wagged his tail and licked the fist before him, showing his loyalty extended past his cruel fate.

Erik exhaled and shook his head, misery consuming him. In the orient, he had learned to place his fist into his palm, an ancient symbol that promised I carry no weapons, I mean you no harm. Knowing the feeling of appeasing a heavy hand, Erik unclenched his fist, still angered by Fidelio's antics but unwilling to hurt his loyal companion over lost sleep.

"You've no other warnings Fidelio. I said off," Erik said sternly. He gave Fidelio a scratch under his chin and with a sigh of defeat, Fidelio jumped down and plopped onto his side in front of the door. He whined in a pathetic attempt to regain a place on the bed, which Erik ignored. There was no possible way Fidelio needed to be let out yet again and he had no desire to stand by the door and wait for the long-legged beast to trot around, sniff out a rabbit, and bay in the middle of the night.

Stretching, Fidelio scratched at the door with his front paws and the sound kept Erik awake and livid. There was no possible way Fidelio needed to be let out yet again and he had no desire to stand by the door and wait for the long-legged beast to trot around, sniff out a rabbit, and bay in the middle of the night.

With his patience gone, Erik shot out of bed and opened his bedroom door, wondering what had made the wolfhound so restless.

"Go," he ordered. "And don't come up here until morning."

Leaving the door open, Erik didn't wait to see if the dog went downstairs or remained on the landing. He dragged his feet across the floor and gazed outside one last time. Sophia's light was still on, as was another down the hall. The parlor, he guessed, having never stepped foot inside her home.

It appeared to be a quaint, cozy abode from the outside. Ivy, dormant over the winter, crawled up the sides of the house. In the summer there were probably flowers in the boxes and hydrangeas scenting the night air.

His mind, though groggy, was busy unraveling old memories. He remembered a similar house from his childhood, one that stood on a hill somewhere… Cattle, he recalled, lowing in the distance and the smell of hay in the air, the odor so strong that it stung his nose.

Viewing Sophia and Philippe's home at night was the only time he recalled such things, though he wasn't sure why. Too tired to think a moment longer, Erik allowed his mind to wander and eventually his thoughts returned to their dinner and how liberating it was to have company.

Gooseflesh rose along his arms and tears threatened to leave his eyes. He was so lonely. So incredibly, terribly, pathetically lonely all these years and he hated himself for it. If only he had tried harder to fit into the puzzle, if only he'd been less defiant, and if only he'd done something, anything to undo his wrongs.

It had taken a lifetime to finally have the pleasure of company at suppertime, to share a meal and a smile—and a kiss. It was as though his life were a pitcher under a faucet and after years of drip, drip, drip someone had finally turned the spigot and out came a deluge of what those tiny drops had promised but had never fulfilled.

Yawning, he wondered if Philippe had returned yet and assumed that the answer was no, as he hadn't heard a horse approach. He wanted to see Sophia again, but it was the middle of the night and his presence would be inappropriate. For the first time in his life, Erik was acutely aware of the balance he needed to find, of the changes he needed to make. Ugliness was only one factor in Christine's decision to leave. He realized that now and it made him feel no better, as the faults weren't physical. They were worse because they were internal, terrible feelings and thoughts and actions no mask could hide. But, he thought, at last finding a scrap of hope, perhaps they were faults he could still change.

"I do love you," he whispered to his window. "I know I love you, not the idea of you, Sophia." He stood for a while and hoped to see Sophia walking around her room but eventually decided to leave her be. It was for the best that he didn't loom over her, smothering her with his insecurities.

Once Erik crawled back into bed, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, unaware that Fidelio had returned to the room.