Paladin70

Sophia visibly trembled as she stood with Fidelio at her side. It had taken Erik a moment to realize where he was and who was near him, as his dreams had cornered him, trapped him in a hell he relived week after week.

He breathed heavily, his palms damp and his mouth dry. Each crackle of wood in the fireplace reminded him of the sickening sound a stick to flesh created. He'd dreamed of iron bars and straw, of a crowd gathered 'round to humiliate a frightened child.

Gooseflesh rose along his arms, the shadows in the room deceiving his mind. In his dream Karl Turro had held the key to his cage, and across the darkened tent Erik had seen Sophia in a cage of her own. How far away she had seemed, how alone and helpless she had appeared.

Without a word, Erik glanced at the floor and saw two blankets at his feet. The cage he felt surrounding him was only in his mind.

"You startled me," he said under his breath as he scratched the back of his hand.

"Likewise," Sophia replied. She remained at a distance, smaller in his presence, fearful of him. His nightmare no longer frightened him alone.

"I'd only closed my eyes a moment ago."

Sophia exhaled and garnered his attention. She half-smiled and met his eye before she looked to Fidelio and spoke. "You've been asleep for quite some time," she said as Fidelio licked the palm of her hand.

Erik stared at her and shook his head. "I sat only a moment ago," he argued, knowing full well it was useless.

Sophia watched him from the corner of her eye and her smile widened. "I made soup while you slept. It's been at least twenty minutes, possibly longer."

The thought of food made his stomach sick with hunger. Again he stared down at the blankets, uncertain of whether her words were a mockery or an invitation.

"You were restless when I walked in here," Sophia said quietly. "I thought another blanket would put you at ease, but I woke you instead. My apologies."

Erik's lips parted but no words emerged. He didn't know what to say to her.

"My grandmother made this for me a long time ago," she said as she neatly folded the one she had intended to place over his legs. He noticed how she continued to favor her right hand, wincing each time she bent her fingers. "I dragged it with me everywhere I went, and my mother asked my grandmother to make me another one. Of course, I wanted nothing to do with the new one. This one was familiar to me…preferred, I suppose. The other one was very pretty, though. I don't know what became of it."

With a wistful smile, Sophia looked at him again. "Sit if you'd like and I'll check the soup. It should have cooled by now."

Erik stepped forward and took the blanket from her hands. "Sit," he said as he stared into her eyes, their fingers touching.

The corners of her lips turned up in a coy smile. "Do you mean to ask me to sit or are you telling your dog? I've confused your commands before."

Erik bent his head until their foreheads were so close they almost touched. He grasped her left hand, lacing her fingers with his.

"For the dog it is a command, for you a mere request for your company," he murmured.

"You confuse me," Sophia whispered. "Truly, completely, you keep me in very tight knots." Erik started to shake his head, but Sophia nodded. "I feel at ease when you're near me and yet when I see you I cannot think straight."

Erik nodded slowly and ran his thumb along her index finger. He felt her lean closer to him, her hand squeezing his tighter.

"Am I speaking nonsense?" Sophia questioned.

Erik brushed his lips past her forehead. "Not at all."

-o-

"Fortunately for you," Citrine said as she sat on a stool and cleaned Philippe's wound, "it appears your neck is just as thick as I suspected."

Philippe lay perfectly still on the parlor couch with several towels at the back of his neck and another protecting his opened shirt. He no longer bled freely, which allowed Citrine a good look at his injury. The skin had been sliced away which resulted in a flap still attached near his dimpled chin. Painful and ghastly, but in no way life threatening.

"How does your head feel?" she questioned, which earned her a glare. "Your eyes no longer appear dilated. I suspect you feel as though your head is splitting in two?"

"Just stitch me up," Philippe mumbled, attempting to hold his face still.

Brushing his hair back from his forehead, she ran a cloth over his face and told him to close his eyes. With a ragged sigh, he obliged, his body remaining tense.

"What you did for Sophia was very brave, Philippe," she said quietly, using his given name rather than his surname.

"Just…"

"You risked your life for your sister," Citrine continued as she heated the needle, sterilizing it before she applied it to Philippe's wound.

Philippe's jaw tensed. "I should have done more," he said between his teeth.

Citrine began to sew the laceration together, which kept him silent. What more could he have done? She wondered. He wasn't a violent or combative man; he was a butler now, and before his duties at the Manor he had tended to a vineyard.

"It's over now," Citrine replied softly.

"His body is still out there."

"Yes, Monsieur Belmont moved it into the smokehouse."

Philippe's body was pressed hard against the couch as he attempted to escape the pain. His breaths came harder and faster as the pain increased with each pass of the needle. He gripped the cushion as tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

"My apologies, Monsieur. I haven't any willow leaves for the pain."

Philippe voiced his discomfort in several grunts until Citrine finally snipped the end of the thread and placed a cold compact over the healing wound.

"His body should be burned," Philippe said as he blinked away his tears. His face was bone white, his lips tinged blue from sealing them together. "Burn it so that no one will ever find him."

"You'll find no argument from me, Monsieur."

Philippe took a deep breath before he closed his eyes and settled back. He hadn't the strength to continue the discussion, which Citrine was glad to see, as she had no desire to argue with him.

"Rest here for a while. Sophia is still sleeping and I sent Monsieur Belmont to stay in the house while she rests."

"I want to stay with her," Philippe replied weakly.

"Later, Monsieur. You look as though you could use more rest, and it would be foolish of you to move when she wouldn't even realize you were in the house. I expect that when she's awake she'll look for you."

Philippe made no attempt to argue. He looked away and sighed, his shoulders dropping as he relaxed.

Before Citrine rose, Philippe grabbed her hand and gently squeezed her fingers. "Thank you, Citrine," he said, keeping his voice low.

The pain in his eyes looked completely unrelated to his injuries.