He didn't fall, but he staggered away from the wall, nearly collapsing on his knees. Tears of pain clouding her vision, Carlotta used his empty chains to pull herself to her feet.
"Thank you," Erik said to her, now standing upright with a slight sway. She noticed that he kept the bad, scarred side of his face angled away, even though he met her gaze. He began to rub his wrists and test his feet, obviously trying to get his body to work properly.
"You do not have to hide your face from me," Carlotta told him in the voice that did not belong to her. "I've seen much worse." It was an unfamiliar sense of compassion that prompted her to speak unnecessarily in the horrible voice.
Erik looked at her in disbelief, one of his hands going automatically to touch his tortured skin. "Thank you," he said again, letting his fingers fall away. From the expression on his face, she knew he meant this perhaps more than he'd meant the previous thanks. He turned to the Giry woman. "But now… Maude? Are you badly hurt?"
"Not so badly as you, I'd say," she replied, and Carlotta agreed.
The handsome side of his face sported a long oozing scar, and what was left of his shirt and trousers was split with obvious whip marks. Bruises colored his high cheekbone and around his good eye, and she'd seen the massive purple and green marks on his torso when his hands were still raised. Still, despite the fact that he was battered beyond comprehension, he had a body that she would have enjoyed exploring as much as she'd enjoyed Guy's. It was no wonder Christine Daaé had spent a week alone with him, and had returned hollow-eyed and quiet.
"I am much better than I would have been after another day at Philippe's hands," Erik said, starting to move away from the small alcove of a prison. "I am alive, and free. But now… I must find Christine," he said, even as he was using the wall to support his weight.
"I can show you the comte's private chambers," Giry told him, but she looked as though she could barely stand herself. Indeed, she clutched at the wall with white fingers and knees sagging.
"Unfortunately, I am well aware of their location," Erik replied.
Carlotta eyed the labored breaths he was taking, and noticed the trembling that accompanied his every move. "You'll be no match for him in your condition; we must plan a better way. I wish to see him dead."
Erik paused at the edge of the wall, turning to look back at her. The expression on his mangled face was frightening. "You will."
She couldn't stop writhing and twisting, despite the fact that she was spread-eagled and helpless. The cuffs on her wrists and ankles just barely allowed her to twitch and jerk, and as Philippe bent to her, pinching, sucking, stroking, grasping, Christine fought, uselessly, to get away from his touch.
And she tried to escape into the recesses of her mind, away from the reality… remembering Erik's touch, the love and reverence in his hands and coming from his lips… not the repulsive possessiveness of the comte.
When he bent between her legs, his fingers closing over the tenderness of her spread thighs, and his hungry mouth latched on to her, she screamed and writhed, tears streaming from her eyes. It was an invasion, a horrific invasion, and it was unbearable.
But she had no choice but to bear it; the sliding, thrusting rape with his tongue and teeth was relentless. Christine's cries ebbed into keening sobs as she twisted and turned her head, bucked her hips until his fingers dug into the soft skin above them to hold her down, so that he could all the better ravage her.
When he lifted his face, his lips full and glistening, she knew the worst was yet to come. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he settled between her legs, pulling on her hips to bring her bottom just to the edge of the table, her knees slightly bent, and then belted her into place. The leather strap fitted over her hips so tightly she could not move and she began to struggle with renewed fear, whimpering.
He looked down at her, breathing hard. His eyes showed no blue; they were black and glittering and frightening. His hands began to move at his waist, his eyes focused on hers.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and Philippe looked up, behind her head. Christine could not see what had happened from her position, but when the comte's face turned ashen, hope lifted within her. "You!" he choked.
"Get away from her," came Erik's voice, and Christine nearly cried with relief. She was saved. Somehow, somehow a miracle had occurred.
"You are in no position to give orders," sneered Philippe, turning from Christine. "You can barely walk, you miserable beast." He stalked away, over to the array of whips hanging on the wall, but before he could reach them, something barreled across the room, knocking him to the floor. Erik.
Christine could barely see what was happening, but she heard the grunts and punches, the slapping of flesh to the floor, the slams of feet and boots on the walls and furniture. She saw arms raised in blows, a shoulder, the rearing, then ducking dark head of her beloved followed by the glint of Philippe's lighter hair, all accompanied by the sickening sounds of battle.
All at once, there was a heavy thud that jolted into the bed on which she lay, and suddenly Philippe was leaping to his feet. He whirled toward the line of whips, his fingers closing around the longest, thickest, blackest of them all as Erik struggled to his feet next to Christine.
"Erik!" she cried softly, wanting more than anything to reach to him, to touch him and assure herself that he was alive, and here… but of course she could not—she could not move, and she could not distract him from what was surely the battle of life and death for them both.
He spared her a bare glance, but that was enough for her to see his face. This face, his warrior face, she'd never seen before. This face was more horrible, more twisted and dark, and it fairly burned with determination and loathing.
She could see them now; they were standing, braced and facing each other, and Philippe had his ugly whip.
"You always seem to come back for more of this," he sneered with a flick of his wrist. The leather cracked through the air, so loud and sharp that Christine gave a small, involuntary shriek as it snapped next to her, laying into Erik's flesh.
She saw it close, right in front of her eyes. Saw the way the thick black striped over his muscular arm, the way he jolted, and the wide red cut it left in its wake. Tears clogged her throat. How could he bear it? How could he fight such a weapon?
The whip cracked again, but this time Erik moved. She saw the leather flick angrily around his wrist, and saw the way he grunted, accepting the pain, but gave a great jerk at the right moment, pulling on the leather that had wrapped around him. Philippe's eyes widened in shock as he was pulled off-balance.
Suddenly, the whip became the rope that bound them together. Philippe did not release the handle, pulling and twitching it, and Erik held his end, the leather still draping over his muscular wrist. They struggled, Erik dragging on the leather as if reeling in a fish, and Philippe drawing away, trying to loosen his weapon, his face tight with fear and hatred.
At last, the comte released the handle, whirling back toward the rest of his weapons. Erik stumbled a step back at the sudden release, but he kept his wide-legged stance and, with a great swish of movement, pulled the whip toward him.
He didn't wait for Philippe; there was no mercy in his face. The black whip snaked out, just as his brother turned, holding a smaller one with several tails, and cracked into Philippe's arm. He howled in pain, but did not release his weapon… but before he could raise his arm to strike, Erik brought his own whip around and caught him on the other side, the other arm.
He'd said nothing during this entire time, and Christine saw the way his fingers trembled; his knees staggered when he moved. Sweat and blood mingled over his body, glistening on his dark skin where the shirt had been torn away. He breathed with effort, nearly gasping at times, but he didn't waver. He didn't miss.