Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter One

**Dancing in the Darkness**

By Starr Lada   
Chapter One 

It was going to be a good day. The sky was a beautiful robin-egg blue, with a warm golden sun glowing brilliantly just over the eastern horizon. In a sweeping meadow, a group of Romanian gypsies emerged from their pitched muslin tents to begin a day of work. Thy were performers; a traveling carnival of brightly dressed singers, acrobats, dancers, magicians, and fortunetellers.

One man stood by his tent, arms folded over his shirtless chest. He stood with dark, nearly black eyes glaring around him. His black hair ruffled in the light breeze. He wore dark crimson pants that were nearly brown, and a pair of high polished black boots.

"Bella, get your lazy strumpet bones out here, and tend to the horses, _now_!" He turned, opening the tent flap with a violent thrust. "If you touch one _scrap_of that food, I will skin you!"

A young lady of about eighteen came stumbling out of the tent, wearing a light dress of violet cotton. There were no shoes or sandals on her feet, and yet her ankles and arms were decorated in gold bracelets, armlets, and anklets. She had the unique feature of fathomless amber-hued eyes, showing an adult quality exceptional for women of her age. Thick black hair fell in a curly mane over her shoulders, and down her back, almost concealing a large gold earring in her left lobe.

"Go on!" the man seethed, smacking the back of her head. "The horses need to be fed and groomed!" Turning to stride into the tent, he mumbled to himself. "The horses pull more weight around here than she ever will."

The lady turned off to where seventeen horses stood grazing at the edge of the grassy clearing where their caravan had set up camp. At the same time, a dark haired man with olive skin, and dark green eyes, came striding forward in suede slacks that were patched on the knees, and sagged around his waist. At first he only watched her as she picked up a grooming brush, pulling a twilight blue vest over his well-toned shoulders, bright magenta from sunburn.

"Morning, Bella." He said in the native Romanian tongue. "Are you ready to face Paris?" He almost chuckled when she completely ignored him, as though he were used to it. "Good… I'll take that as a yes."

The man stood and watched as the lady began to groom the velvety coat of a white stallion. She seemed to not notice his presence for a very long time. Then, as her attention moved to a chestnut cold, her amber-hued eyes glanced towards him.

"What do you want from me, Adnah?" Her voice was sudden, like a clap of thunder, and yet remained soft as a spring rain. "You know perfectly well how busy I am."

Adnah nodded.

"You know the thing my Uncle has been keeping in the covered wagon?" He spoke in a mysterious whisper, even leaning in towards her. It was a tone usually used for spectators. "He's going to reveal it to the French crowds today."

She shrugged, at the same time leaning away from him, as though to avoid something rancid.

"What do I care about Vlad's new attraction? It's different almost every single week with the way he treats them. Now go away, before my Father sees you!"

Adnah didn't utter a single word, but turned and hurried away as though to obey a direct order. The lady took a quick glance around to see if anyone had noticed Adnah near her. Her father was still in his tent. With relief, the young woman shuddered and continued on with her chores.

The gentlemen of Paris who stood around the lady in the meadow, were entranced. They had never witnessed dancing such as her style before. Such passionate people had never seen such blatant physical passion expressed in public. To them, such a dance was something erotic, so wicked that only a whore or an outsider would attempt showing off such a gift. From the size of the eyes around her, it was no wonder how the observant ladies they escorted around eyed her with jealous glares and horror.

She was good at what she did. As the dance ended, gold coins flew at her from all directions. She was only too happy to scramble for every coin. She smiled to the customers, and knew that even if her father took the gold away later, she had earned every penny of it. She was proud of herself.

"**_Bravo_**!" some of the men would cry out. "**_Incroyable_**!"

She bowed, not knowing these words, for her French was limited. She had been taught only a limited amount of years ago. It was their actions, however; their expressions, that made her understand everything. It was a success to have charmed the rich and fancy gentlemen of Paris.

Horrified screams interrupted her victory. From some yards away, a large tiger cage had just been revealed. Worried from the screams, and curious as to their cause, the crowd herded away from their favored dancer, to the other crowd that had gathered. Just as curious, she followed them quickly, surprised to see that everyone from the entire caravan was with the rest of the customers. Women screamed, some fainting into the arms of their escorts. Men covered their mouths and noses with white handkerchiefs, attempting to revive her fallen ladies. There were many small children around, who began to wail at what they saw.

"What a beast!"

"It's the Devil, mommy!"

The lady tried to push her way to the front of the crowd, trying to see what was so horrifying that even the bravest of her own people were gasping in horror. Except for the annual festivals where all gypsy caravans would gather together, she'd never fought such a huddled group of people. Did they always have so many customers? Had she never realized how many people came to see them in their trade, because of how thinned out the crowd usually was?

She reached the front rows of the crowd, and paused. The cage was amid the gathering, like a bad omen. A dilapidated, rotting box with metal bars. Inside the cage, a young man, just around her age she assumed, was huddled in a corner. His legs were bent, knees hugged to his chest. She tried to see his face, yet could not, as he'd buried it in his knees, arms folded around them.

He moaned something in the French tongue, spoken far too fast for her to understand any words. Having sat in the same position as him before, she understood he was in immense torment. Yet the screams continued from the onlookers. It sickened her until she could take no more.

"Enough! Stop it!" She saw Adnah and his Uncle Vlad prodding the poor young man through the cage with a sharpened branch. Hurrying forward, she reached out to snatch it from them, her amber-hued eyes appearing to be on fire. "Adnah, enough! You're hurting him!"

The caged young man lifted his face to glance at her warily. It was then that she understood the terror around her, even though she herself was unafraid. What looked at her seemed to be a living corpse. Seemingly dead flesh clung to his skull like the hide of a drum over its base. Did he have eyes? The sockets seemed to be empty. He was also very thin… his fingers like bones. For a very brief instant, the lady gasped. Yet then she regained her composure, as Adnah cruelly prodded him again.

"Adnah, stop it, now!" she cried. "I won't stand for such –"

"Arabella! _Enough!_"

Her father appeared, his black eyes narrowed in rage. In fear, Arabella gasped, slipping away into the crowd before he might grab at her hair, or smack her. Then, turning, she wove through the onlookers to escape. She felt sorry for the poor creature in the cage, but she was unwilling to stay and get herself flogged.

"**_Mademoiselle_**!" the young man in the cage cried out, reaching through the bars. "**_Aidez-moi_**!**_ S'il vous plaît_**!**_ Aidez-moi_**!" He must have understood she'd wanted to help him.

Yet Arabella continued to slink away into the tent that she shared with her parents. There, she huddled under a cot. Her mother, who never really left the tent, stood by a small campfire. Her molasses brown eyes looked over at Arabella in annoyance.

"What've you done this time?" Her voice was rough and hoarse from having cried and screamed a great deal the evening before. The red around her eyes suggested lack of sleep and exhaustion. "Did you try to hide away the gold again?"

Arabella trembled violently, closing her eyes. There was no point in answering her mother. She didn't really care about what had happened. She never cared about anything anymore, except for her liquor.

"Get up!"

Arabella felt a sharp tug at her hair, and her amber-hued eyes snapped open. Moaning, she thought with dread that she had fallen asleep.

"You little brat! If you're so interested in that Devil, go try and clean up the vomit in his cage!" Arabella was flung out of the tent, the heavy muslin falling against her. "If you're lucky, he won't eat you today!"

Her father stormed back into the tent, holding a fistful of her black hair. Arabella raised her eyes to the closing tent flap in shock. She was amazed he wasn't beating her senseless. He didn't have any interest in flogging her to death.

Terrified suddenly that he might come back out, Arabella stood. She moved towards the dilapidated structure where the deformed young man was caged. Adnah stood waiting for her with the keys to the cage in his hand. It was nearly sunset, and the crowds had left. By the diminishing light, Arabella saw the young boy in a heap, retching violently all over the cage. Chains hung from the bars, and she realized in complete disgust that they had chained him to the bars… most likely so he couldn't hide his face from the crowds.

"If you come with me, I'll clean this mess up for you." Adnah was nearly twenty-five years old, and yet insanely obsessive towards Arabella. His attitude sickened her to no end. "What do you think, my dear?"

Snatching the keys from him, Arabella glowered.

"Go to hell, you rotten Romany dog!"

Adnah only laughed. He thought that her refusal towards him was so funny, just a farce. Yet Arabella had no doubt that he was a disgusting soul behind his handsome face. She hoped that one day he ended up on the end of a knife.

The water to clean up with is at the door." He said before walking away. "Bring me the keys when you're done."

Sighing, Arabella watched him walk away. Then, turning to the cage, she momentarily froze as she had earlier in the day. Her amber-hued eyes met the black sockets of the skull faced young man immediately. They froze her in place, as though in some evil spell. Yet she was not superstitious.

Inside, he was staring at her cautiously. He was noting every miniscule move she made. As Arabella broke out of her shock, and unlocked the cage door, he shrank into a corner of the cage. She watched him as he watched her, hardly paying attention to the mess she was cleaning.

"**_Bonjour_**…" she said quietly after a while. It was part of the limited French vocabulary she had. The young man was startled. Arabella sat up, both hands held up towards him. "My name is Arabella…" The young man blinked.

"Bella…" She hesitated. She wasn't certain how to make it clear what her name was, but she could ask him his name. "**_Vous_**?"

He glowered, turning away to hide his face. Arabella realized with shame that she'd been staring. Yet she hadn't meant to. She wasn't horrified or disgusted… just watching him.

"Chevalier." Came a small whisper. There was more, but it was in a bitter, angry tone. Arabella thought for a long moment. She thought of the words she might know which would make sense when she put them together.

"Chevalier… **_tres belle…_**" she managed. His name was beautiful. That's what she was trying to say. She didn't know how to say it coherently, but he did seem to understand.

"**_Merci_**." He replied in a harsh voice, suggesting sarcasm, or that he didn't give a damn what she thought of his name.

Arabella held out a hand to him. Her eyes again stared into those bottomless sockets as he turned back to her. She wasn't afraid of him, and she wanted him to understand that. She didn't judge him.

Chevalier seized her still outstretched hand suddenly, and yanked at it brutally. Arabella screamed as a very abnormal strength flung her into the iron bars of the cage. It knocked her unconscious, and she collapsed in a heap.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two 

There were cries of fury behind Chevalier as he ran across the compound. Men and boys came at him with ropes, whips, and daggers. He was too fast for all of them at first. He was set on getting away. He wasn't going to let them keep him captive any longer.

Yet then he skidded, his feet flying out from under him. There were more gypsy brutes in front of him. Chevalier stumbled in one great circle, searching out an opening between the men who closed in on him. They were getting too close. Their hands reached out to grab him and block off any chance of escape.

"No!" he cried pleadingly in French. "I didn't mean to her **_la Mademoiselle_**! Let me go home!"

It did not good to shout. Only a few of the gypsies understood him completely. They sneered at him. Chevalier wept, closing his eyes. He waited for them to start beating him. They always beat him, for the smallest act of defiance. This would bring him a severe punishment, surely. Only when they had pulled him back to his feet did they begin to hit him. His arms were wrenched behind him painfully, and the blows began. Chevalier was so helpless that he couldn't even curl up into a huddled ball to defend himself. He felt his lip split as someone slugged him.

_I didn't mean to hurt her!_ He thought wildly. _I really didn't! I'm so sorry! Just let me go home!_ Gritting his teeth, he tried not to scream, and

bring them the satisfaction of knowing how much he was hurting.

Tsifia came hobbling across the compound as fast as she could manage. Dressed in a dark crimson dress, and leaning on a walking stick, she looked around with dark brown eyes. Her wrinkled mouth was pursed into a frown as black hair with streaks of silver fell into her face. She squinted in the dark in order to see. She was by no means some invalid old woman, but age was starting to get the better of her.

Her son-in-law, Yaakov, was dragging the deformed young man to his cage from a recent escape attempt. The man was bleeding horribly from the nose and mouth, bruises covering his shoulders arms and shins. His wounds were all visible under horribly tattered clothes. At the same time, her granddaughter was stumbling away from that cage in which the man was kept. Adnah was helping her gently, taking a close look at a bruise on her wrist, and a very small cut on her head. She shrank away from his touch. This is why Tsifia had left her old caravan wagon where she made her home. Yaakov had called her out to tent to Arabella.

"Bella…" She hobbled to the two younger ones quickly. "Come, child. Come to my wagon. I'll take care of those bruises."

Arabella looked up at her grandmother, too stunned as yet to speak, one palm pressed to the cut on her head. Quickly, she moved to follow her, her amber-hued eyes casting about her slowly. Meanwhile, Yaakov threw the nearly unconscious young man back into his prison, slamming the door shut, locking it with a sound of horrible finality.

"Nana…" Arabella looked through the bars at the creature from a distance, her eyes glassy. "He's bleeding. Shouldn't I help him?"

Adnah was still standing beside her as she said this, having followed them across the camp. He sneered at her words.

"He'll only try to get away again." He sneered. "Leave the demon be. I told you I'd take care of it, but you didn't listen."

"Your offer was something that was just all-too-worth refusing." Arabella snapped back. "And he's unconscious – he wouldn't be _able_ to try and escape!"

Adnah walked off, clutching the keys to the cage in his fist, his knuckles pure white. Arabella and Tsifia went towards the old caravan wagon. Yaakov moved towards his own tent, eyes narrowing on Arabella a moment in fury.

"Strumpet!" he hissed. "That's why you carry a weapon!"

Tsifia urged Arabella into the caravan and climbed in after her. Her steps were slow, deliberate. Her eyes had to struggled to see so that her feet would not miss one of the tiny steps.

"Sit down, Bella." She said calmly, gently. "You know, your father is right – for once in his half breed life. You shouldn't be so trusting. That man didn't know that you weren't about to hurt him – as you see, he'll do anything to escape."

"His name is Chevalier, Nana. He told me just a few moments before…" Arabella trailed off, her statement startling her grandmother. One eyebrow raised curiously a long moment. After a few seconds, she sighed.

"Don't you go near him again."

Her eyes locked on those of her granddaughter desperately. Arabella's eyes were soft, filled with compassion.

"Nana, he needs my help." She reached out, taking one of her grandmother's hands between her own smooth ones. Tsifia sighed heavily, touched by her compassionate nature. Yet she was worried for Arabella.

"Why can't you listen to me?" she pleaded. "Just once, why can't you listen to me?"

One o'clock the following morning found the meadow nearly silent. From the forest bordering three sides of the grassy space, an orchestra of crickets and tree frogs sang out noisily. All the camp seemed asleep. Most of them were in their tents, but some gypsies were sprawled out in the grass, by a large campfire that had gone down hours before. They'd been too drunk to make it to their own tents.

That left the wagon where Chevalier was caged unguarded.

Arabella carried an old blanket, rags, food, water, and soothing medicinal cream in one large basket. She hurried silently through the shadows, her eyes looking around nervously for someone that might awaken and see her. As she approached the cage, she searched for the young man through the bars. Her ears remained constantly alert for anyone who might be coming near at any time.

"Chevalier?" she whispered.

There was a sharp movement in the cage. There was Chevalier, sitting bolt upright from sleep to look over at her. He was huddled in the far right corner to her position. She saw his body tremble with cold or fear.

"I've brought you some things to help you."

"**_Mademoiselle…_**" His voice was soft, and trembling from nervousness. Yet it was a very sweet voice. The sound of it nearly entranced Arabella as much as his face startled her. It sounded so apologetic, so frightened.

Arabella quickly pulled a blanket from her basket of items, and pushed it through the bars of his cage. He wouldn't understand if she spoke Romanian all she wanted to say. He looked down at the blanket slowly, then returned his eyes to her.

"**_Est-ce que c'est pour moi_**?" His French accent was absolutely lovely. It made the purity of his high tenor voice all the more beautiful to her. Trembling, Chevalier gathered the blanket hesitantly around his shoulders. "**_Merci, Mademoiselle_**."

Arabella smiled to him quietly. He was obviously very astonished. He hadn't expected her kindness. Even now, he was wary of her. Very slowly, Arabella put a small cup of water through the bars, and placed it in front of him.

"Drink."

He didn't move.

"**_Pourquoi êtes vous faisant ceci_**?"

Arabella shook her head sadly.

"I don't understand." She whispered. "But I want to help you. You are hurt."

They looked at each other for several long minutes. In the dark, Arabella tried to look into his eyes. During this time, she unloaded the basket of items she'd brought with her in through the wagon bars. She had bread, a bag of fruit, rags, and the medicine her grandmother had helped her make. All was displayed to him. Chevalier looked only at the medicine for a long time, curious. Then, he lifted those seemingly empty sockets to her.

"Medicine" Arabella breathed. Putting her hands in through the bars, she dipped her fingers into the salve. Then, she pointed to a bruise on Chevalier's face. He jerked away a moment, until she rubbed the medicine onto her own face, over the cut she'd received earlier that night. "I can dress the whip marks with the rags once you let me take care of your other wounds."

Chevalier sighed, understanding only a little from her actions. Slowly, he took the cream, rubbing it carefully onto the bruises and cuts he was able to reach. Afterward, he took the food and water she had offered, devouring it in moments. Arabella walked around the cage to stand closer to him, aware of his eyes on her at every moment.

_Why does she help me after what I've done to her?_ He wondered. _How can she be so forgiving, when her own people do not forgive me for being born looking as I do_?

"What about your back?" Arabella tried to pat her own back so he'd understand. Not knowing the right words in French, she muttered in embarrassment… "**_Son derriere_**?"

Chevalier smirked, though the deformity of his face hardly permitted her to realize it. He was almost laughing outright at her mistake.

"**_Dos_." **He said quietly in French. He pointed over his shoulder. "**_Dos… pas derriere_**. **_Derrière…_" **He motioned towards his backside

Arabella laughed softly. Reaching into the cage, she lifted the container of medicinal cream. She offered it up to him.

" **_Por dos._**" She said hesitantly. Chevalier obviously understood, but shook his head.

"**_Je ne puis pas atteindre pour le faire moi-même."_** His voice was a jumble of confusing syllables. He dramatized for her benefit the face that he could not reach his own back. Arabella nodded and hooked at thumb to the center of her chest.

"I will do it for you." She dipped her fingers into the salve, and held her hand out to him. Chevalier stared at her hand for the longest time, then

he sighed heavily.

_Why am I doing this?_ Chevalier turned around slowly, removing his tattered rag of a shirt. Looking over his shoulder, he sat as close to the bars of the cage as he could. Arabella smiled in approval, though he could not notice. _She's likely to drag her nails through the cuts because of what I did to her before!_

A sharp sting shat all over his back as the first of the cold ointment touched his clammy flesh. Chevalier winced, his entire body stiffening. Tears burned his eyes as the pain overtook him. It was not the girls fault that the medicine hurt him. Yet each touch was like having a flame placed directly to his back. Still, after the burning sensation, came a cool numbness that relaxed him only momentarily, before the ointment burned yet another wound.

_**Mon Dieu**! Let this be over soon!_

The young woman said something quietly, and Chevalier sensed her back away from the cage; he heard her footsteps. He turned to look at her. For the first time, his eyes realized how beautiful she was, even in the moonlight, as it streaked through her black hair. But now was not the time to think about such things.

"**_Merci_**." He said gratefully. It was obvious that she understood at least that word.

Arabella spoke in that strange tongue he didn't recognize. Chevalier liked the sound of it, but only because of the woman who was speaking. Arabella didn't sound cruel, bitter, or mocking. He was beginning to understand her. She seemed almost like someone he could trust.

_Fool Chevalier! You cannot trust anyone! You know that!_

He pushed everything that she had brought to the cage back into the basket as she held it up. Yet when he tried to return the blanket to her, she shook her head. After a moment of unease, Chevalier gave an accepting nod, and turned his face partially away. He didn't like her to stare at him as she did, even though she looked at him almost as though he were normal.

"**_Adieu_**." He whispered. She stood staring at him a moment, and he began to feel the humiliation the crowds had brought him earlier. Yet he was truly surprised when she reached up to touch his face, and jerked away from the bars suddenly. His eyes were wide with instinctive fear. "**_Non! Ne me touchez pas!_**"

She bit her lower lip, drawing her hand back slowly. He realized he'd hurt her, but that didn't matter so much. Although he did wish he knew a way to apologize that she could understand, he never liked anyone to touch him.

"**_Adieu, _**Chevalier."

Arabella turned and bolted away, her eyes again searching nervously for anyone who might have seen her near the cage. With a soft, slightly amused smile, Chevalier again pulled the blanket around him. It offered little warmth, but cut out the often driving winds.

"**_Bonne nuit, ma dame _**."


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three 

Arabella liked Chevalier. He was nothing more than a young man, kept prisoner to shock and terrify audiences with his unheard of physique. Not only was he a prisoner, but he was in constant fear, because he never knew what was going to happen to him next. His keepers spoke a language he had likely never even heard of.

During the next few weeks, Arabella found herself dancing near and near to Chevalier's cage than the days before. Her goal was to try and save him from getting flogged or prodded constantly. Yet whenever she tried to interfere on his behalf, her father would beat her without mercy. Even then, it couldn't stop her from watching over him. She would keep rotten food from being thrown at him, and would try to keep him from being beaten.

After six weeks of sneaking food and medicine to her foreign friend, Arabella realized she was beginning to understand what he said, even when he did not illustrate what he said by pointing or dramatizing it. Not only that, but Chevalier was learning Romanian at an outrageously accelerated speed. He could form several very coherent phrases. Even when Chevalier couldn't articulate something, he would understand it perfectly.

Chevalier was more unique than anyone could have ever imagined. Arabella had never met anyone like him.

One night, seven weeks after she had first met Chevalier, Arabella came stumbling across the compound around eleven at night. She walked directly to the door of his cage, unlocking it with violently trembling hands. She had not touched his cage door since the day he'd knocked her unconscious. Something was very wrong. Chevalier could tell immediately.

"**_Mademoiselle_**?" He lifted himself to his knees as she closed the door to the cage behind her. "What is the matter?"

Arabella collapsed beside him, tears streaking down her red face. Hunched over in obvious pain, she put the salve, which she'd more than once applied to his own wounds, at his knees. Chevalier gasped as she doubled over, a hand almost covering his mouth as though he'd be ill. Strips of cloth – which had at one time been her blouse – hung in bloody tatters from her shoulders, sticking to her back. She had been whipped, far worse than he himself had ever been beaten.

"_**Mon Dieu!**" _he gasped. "Who? _Why_?"

Arabella looked up at him slowly, unable to speak. Chevalier understood, when she reached for the medicine she'd placed by his knees, and nodded. Quickly, he took up the salve. As tenderly as he possibly could, he stripped the remnants of her blouse from her bloody back. She was soaked with her own blood.

"Your papa did this?" he demanded. Arabella slowly nodded. "**_Ce monstrueux bâtard_**!"

He smoothed all of the salve over her back repeatedly. How she managed to cope with such pain was beyond him. He could feel her violently trembling and flinching. He could _see_ it. She was biting her lip to keep from crying out aloud in her pain.

She was such a sweet woman. She didn't deserve to be treated like this. She seemed so frail. How could her body deal with such amazing pain? No one deserved this… especially not one of his friends.

"Don't cry…" he soothed gently. When he couldn't speak her language, he would switch immediately to his own. If Arabella didn't understand the words he spoke, his tone made up for lack of coherent, verbal communication. He put a hand gently, hesitantly, onto her right shoulder, which was relatively unharmed. Arabella turned to look up at him gratefully.

"My Papa forbid me from going to Nana's wagon." She whispered. "It's horrible. He did this to me, but still he will be angry when I can't dance for a few days."

Chevalier didn't know the right words to comfort her. Instead of using words, he instinctively put his arms around her. His movements were hesitant, his body stiff as he pulled her head to his shoulder. This was an action completely alien to him. He was afraid she would pull away. Yet she let him hold her, and he felt a shiver pass over him.

_Savor this._ He thought to himself bitterly. _You'll never hold another woman within your arms. You are lucky to receive even this much physical contact with this woman._

He blushed furiously. He had been raised as a French gentleman. What he was doing wasn't at all proper. For him to be holding a half naked woman in his arms… But he wasn't truly in France anymore; not as far as he was concerned. This was a whole new world to him, and a whole new situation. He wasn't among the French people right now. All that was once proper no longer mattered. And this girl needed help, and comforting. Somehow he couldn't let himself think he was doing something wrong.

"Hush, **_Mon petit un_**." He soothed affectionately. It was the first time he'd ever allowed himself to really feel for a human since his mother had rejected him at birth. "All shall be well."

He began to sing gently, until long after she had drifted off to sleep. Chevalier sat there, completely unmoving, except for one hand that strayed over her mane of black hair, just barely touching the silky strands. His fingers ached as though pained with inflamed arthritis. Yet he would not comb his fingers through her hair.

Tsifia didn't like the silence coming from her daughter's tent. Over an hour had passed since she'd heard the cries of Arabella being beaten under Yaakov's whip. Yet since the beating had ended, Arabella had not come to her in search of help. Tsifia feared that Yaakov had finally beaten her to death.

"Yaakov!" She threw open the flap of her daughter's small dwelling, looking into the mess that was in it. Her eyes looked around quickly, darting around in all directions. Arabella was not to be found. "Where is your daughter?"

Yaakov sat up with a glower. He lay on the ground, dragging blankets up to cover his wife and himself hastily. His dark eyes were red, and swollen from drunkenness.

"You've picked a fine time to come barging in here!" he snapped. "How should I know where the little brat is?"

Tsifia straightened, pointing at him. Her brown eyes narrowed on his form – which was quite obviously naked through the thin blankets that covered him.

"By the Gods, I won't let you speak to me in such a fashion!" she spat angrily. She jabbed her finger in his direction. "Now, damn you! Where is your daughter? Where is Bella?"

"Go _away_, old woman!" Yaakov fell back on the ground with a groan. "I don't know – and I don't _care_!"

"_Arabella!"_

The shout came from the outskirts of the camp, by Chevalier's cage. Tsifia was the only one who turned from the tent to find out what the trouble was. Yaakov only rolled over, throwing an arm over his wife. Tsifia hobbled across the compound, nearly tripping on the uneven ground several times. The single voice that had cried out Arabella's name became several alarmed voices as she drew nearer.

"Here now, what's all this about?" She made her way carefully between those of the frightened gathering. "What about Bella? For pity's sake, someone answer me!"

Adnah was by the cage, grasping what was the now unlocked door. His green eyes were as round as saucers with alarm. He seemed to be fighting the urge to go completely inside. Tsifia turned to the scene which was so horrible to him… and nearly smiled.

Arabella lay in the arms of the deformed young man, fast asleep, and oblivious to the panicked voices of the crowd around her. In the front of the cage sat one large container of the medicine Tsifia had taught her how to make years ago. She recognized it from the pungent odor that stung her nose from well over a yard away. Chevalier looked around from the cage quietly as the gypsies stared. He made no move, as though he feared he would waken Arabella, even though the constant noise around them did not even make her stir.

"Look what he's done to her!" Adnah abruptly turned to the crowd, enraged. "Look at what he's _done_!"

"Shut up, Adnah!"

Tsifia moved to the cage quietly. With slow determination, she curled the arthritis-ridden fingers of her right hand around one of the bars of the cage. Knowing far more French than most of the camp, she looked at Chevalier.

"Who did this to her?" she asked calmly. "Was it her father?"

"**_Oui_**." Chevalier reached up with one bony hand, very hesitantly stroking his fingers over Arabella's hair.

"She came to you, and you helped her…" Tsifia was honestly a little taken aback. "You helped one of those who put you here, and then stayed willingly in an unlocked cage?"

Chevalier didn't look up again. Adnah and the others were watching, apprehensive, and terrified as to what might happen.

"Bella has been nothing but kind to me, Madam." Chevalier sighed. "She always helped me. I would not be able to call myself human if I did not return such a kindness."

He didn't mention why he'd stayed in an unlocked cage. Surely, he was regretting it. Tsifia watched him as she motioned to Adnah.

"Carry her to my wagon." She ordered. Yet when Adnah moved to obey, Chevalier looked up at him, literally snarling. He recognized Adnah as one of those who cruelly beat him. Also, he knew that Adnah was dangerous… even to Arabella. It hadn't escaped his notice the attention he tried to gain from the gypsy woman.

"I won't let her be hurt by her father again!" he roared in French to Tsifia. "I'll watch her until she wakes – but I will _not_ let _this one_ touch her!"

"If you don't calm down, she will be awake in moments." The old woman sighed. "How would it be if you carried her to my wagon, and then returned here? That way, Adnah would not touch her."

Chevalier considered this. If he brought her to the wagon, maybe he could take the chance to escape. Yet maybe they would catch him. Maybe they would beat him as badly as Yaakov had beaten Arabella. He wasn't about to put himself through such pain.

"I will carry her… if you can let me out of this cage forever."

Tsifia nodded.

"I can try, Chevalier." She turned. "Adnah, get out of the way! He is coming with me." She held up a hand to silence the protest forming on his lips. "I don't give a damn how much you _or_ Vlad moan about it! He's staying in my wagon with me for the night!"

Chevalier followed her back to her small wagon, his eyes passing quickly about at the gypsies surrounding him. Arabella slept so soundly in his arms, it frightened Tsifia. She had to fight a driving urge to reach out and check for a pulse in her granddaughter's throat.

"Lay her on my bed, just there." Opening the door, Tsifia pointed up the couple of steps leading into the uncomfortably cramped wagon. Chevalier obeyed her, and then knelt beside the bed. Tsifia shut the door to her wagon behind her, sitting herself in an old rocking chair. Chevalier looked at her as he pulled a blanket up over Arabella's form.

"How… how did you know my name, Madam?" he whispered with politeness caused by force of habit. Tsifia pointed towards Arabella calmly.

"She told me your name." She chuckled. "She certainly has taken a shining interest in you." Her French was as fluent as her Romanian, and she knew how to express things.

"I am sure I do not know what you mean." Chevalier sighed. "Madam, what am I to do? Where will I sleep?"

"Here – on the floor for tonight." Tsifia held up a hand, waving around in illustration. "Tomorrow, I will see what I can do about a bed for you, perhaps even a tent. Bella usually goes back to her tent once she's been cared for… but she must have felt very safe with you. She rarely even stays with me."

Chevalier said nothing for a long while. Then, he reached out as though to touch Arabella's cheek. Yet his hand stopped short. Tsifia was watching him pleasantly, a gleam of understanding in her eyes. Even unable to read the expression on his face, she seemed to know every thought in his mind. His body language spoke to her of much.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" she prompted. "You'll be safe here with me."

He didn't move for a long moment. Yet then, his bottomless sockets turned up towards her.

"Why is it that you do not hate me?" he whispered. His voice was bewildered. "When I ran away from home, my own mother was about to abandon me."

Tsifia turned away with a sigh, closing her eyes in weariness.

"When seeing a world through the eyes of Arabella… one can never find good reason to be repulsed by a face."

Chevalier turned back to Arabella's sleeping form. He did not try to touch her again. He sat back on his heels as he knelt by the bed, his fingers clasped firmly in his lap.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

The caravan had toured France for two months, and soon they would be moving on to another country. They would be going on to Belgium, and Arabella wasn't sure how much time they would spend touring there. Chevalier had been growing a little anxious as time went on. Over the weeks, Tsifia had managed to arrange his freedom from the cage, but usually he was very heavily guarded. Once they left his country, there would be no hope of him escaping, and surviving, in a land that he knew nothing of. Arabella tried to support him, and was convinced he would not attempt to leave. She needed him, and she knew he had a better chance of having food and a home, however rotten it was, if he stayed.

Arabella slowly left camp one sunning morning, when the bees swarmed around large groups of flowers as they grew in the wile. She wanted to see the forests, and her father had given her a rare moment of freedom in which to do so. No crowd would be around that day, so her dancing services would not be necessary. As she left the clearing they had settled in, she noticed Chevalier helping Tsifia down from her wagon, holding a large canteen under one arm for her.

After that, she walked for a good half of an hour, enjoying the trees and wildlife, until she came to a small river. By this time, she'd worked up a good healthy sweat, and her hair was greasy from the several long days in which she'd been given no water to wash it in. This was the ideal opportunity to clean up.

Blooming trees and thick green grass surrounded the stream. Birds sang all around Arabella as she washed her hair in the chilly current. Her blouse was cast aside so that it would not get wet. Although luxuriating in the experience, she knew that she could not take forever. Chevalier was virtually alone at the camp, and she didn't want someone provoking him into a fight. That would only result in him being caged again.

She didn't hear the footsteps approaching.

"Bella, you look beautiful!"

She gasped, grabbing her blouse to cover herself. She recognized Adnah by the sound of his voice before she even saw him. What worried her was how he'd sneaked up on her. If someone was careful enough to be silent when approaching you from behind, they were up to no good. She'd learned that from being victimized more than once before, in many ways.

"What the Devil do you think you're doing here?" she hissed. Adnah stood less than two yards away. "You have no right to spy on me!"

"Oh, don't be angry, Bella." He reached out, taking her shoulder. Arabella flinched away from his grasp violently. "I was sent to make sure you were all right."

"You can see that I'm fine." She turned away to button up her blouse, her fingers trembling. "You can leave now."

His arms encircled her, his hands grasping her arms. Arabella gasped, barely able to pull from his powerful grip. She felt his open mouth touch the side of her face, and stiffened.

"Aren't you going to thank me for having this much concern for you?"

"_**Tiga**n_ dog!" Arabella hissed furiously. "Let go of me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry… I forgot…" Adnah's voice was malicious. "Only that corpse is allowed to touch you. Isn't that so?"

"Don't talk about Chevalier that way!" She fought him wildly, but he was far too strong for her. "_**Satana! Tigan satana**!" _She knew that Adnah was only baiting her with the talk about Chevalier. Yet she could not help reacting violently to how he mocked her only friend.

"Ah!" Adnah began to force her to the ground, only holding her tighter as she fought. "I was right!" He forced her arms behind her. "You let that French **_ciustenie_** into your heart! Probably into your _bed_!"

"No!" She was thrown onto her back, and Adnah grabbed her wrists, pinning them together above her head. He held them down with one strong hand. "_Adnah, stop it! Please_!"

Her screams rose into the air, making birds take flight in fear. Adnah struck her so hard that two teeth broke loose, and she spat the blood into his face. Her nails clawed at the ground, twisting her hands to try and free them. Nearby, a doe and her fawn were startled away by the noise.

"Let me_ go_!" she cried hysterically.

"_Adnah_!"

Adnah sat upright quickly, but his eyes went round before he could turn to the interfering voice. As Arabella wept, breathing heavily, she saw him cup his hands over his stomach slowly, and then blood was dripping through his fingers. He was a small man, and any injury through the back would have easily gone through to his front. Groaning, he fell forward, his body of muscle falling onto Arabella. Arabella wept with relief as his form was taken off her after a brief minute.

Chevalier towered there, pulling a long dagger from Adnah's back. On his face was a look of barely controlled fury. His hands were so tight around the hilt of the dagger that his knuckles were white. Arabella remembered giving the dagger to him in case anyone had ever tried to hurt him when she wasn't around.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly. His voice was just barely above a whisper, sounding nearly emotionless. Arabella pushed herself onto her elbows, nodding as her bleeding lip trembled. She didn't miss the slight tremor in his voice. Satisfied with her unspoken answer, he turned his back to her. "Put your blouse back on, **_ma belle_**."

Arabella sat up quickly, buttoning her wrinkled blouse with shaking fingers that bled slightly, from how they had clawed at the earth. Tears slipped down her burning cheeks. Slowly, once her buttons were properly arranged, she managed to stand. Her knees nearly buckled, and it took a minute to keep her balance properly.

"Chevalier…" She stepped over Adnah's body without a glance, but shuddered all the same. "You saved me… How did you know?"

"I saw him follow you into the forest." He answered quietly. "I knew you'd gone off in this direction, and he followed so quickly after you left… I knew he was following you, and was worried for you." He sneered a moment, still furious at what had almost happened. "Are you all right?"

"I think so." He turned to look at her, only his profile visible to her. "Chevalier, how can we explain what happened to Adnah?"

"We won't." he said simply, picking up on the hint of hysteria in her voice. "No one else saw him come this way. No one will ever guess. As far as they are concerned… you never saw him."

Arabella knew she had no choice but to agree. Nodding, she began to walk along the river bank for a few yards. Chevalier touched her elbow, and she turned to see him gazing at her. Slowly, she realized that he was doing the only thing he could think of. It was the right thing. Somehow, she knew it was.

"Will you wait here while I take care of his body?" He reached up, almost touching her bruised cheek. He hesitated briefly, lowering his hand again to his side. "Do you want me to stay here for a few minutes, with you?"

"No." Arabella sat down heavily. "Just… finish this…please. I need the time to myself."

He looked about to say something, then nodded, turning away to haul Adnah over his shoulder.

Chevalier carried the body down the river for over an hour. Adnah's corpse reeked with the blood sticking to his shirt, and from the sweat that had gathered there over the past few days when he'd not bathed. Chevalier had to grit his teeth in order to endure the weight and the smell combined. Going down the river was taking him so long with Adnah's weight over his shoulder.

He was nearly exhausted, so he didn't really wish to be careful about hiding the body. He knew there was danger, however, about the body being found before it had decayed. With a groan, he dragged the body to the middle of the river, and jammed it under a large rock, submerged in the rather soft currant.

When that chore was done, he climbed to the stream bank, and headed back to where he had left Arabella. He thought about how Adnah had deserved to die. What Chevalier had done to him was nothing, compared to what he deserved. He had been taught that killing wasn't right. Yet this had been the one exception to the law he'd never regret. He had tried to hurt Arabella, and Chevalier had punished him for it.

Without the weight of Adnah on his back, it only took about forty minutes to reach Arabella again. She sat with her feet soaking in the warming currant as the sun rose higher into the sky.

"Well?" She looked up at him quietly. Her eyes were swollen and red. She must have been crying a great deal. To think of Arabella crying tore at his heart.

"It is taken care of, **_ma Cherie_**." Chevalier sat beside her. His clothes were still wet from walking into the river. Yet he was also soaked in his own sweat from the hot day. "Are you all right?"

"I do wish you'd stop asking me that!" she whispered pleadingly. "I'm all right… at least… I will be." She looked up slowly. "There is plenty of daylight hours left."

"Do you want me to stay with you a while?" He stared out across the river.

"Would you?" She slowly reached over to cover his hand with her own.

"**_Oui_**." Chevalier smiled tenderly. "I will stay with you for as long as you would like me to." He looked down at her uneasily, watching as her fingers began to stroke the back of his hand absently. "What are you doing, **_ma belle_**?"

"I don't really know…" Their eyes slowly met and she took in a sharp breath. Chevalier quickly turned his face away, thinking that for once, his face had caught her off guard, and perhaps offended her. Yet she squeezed his hand. "Chevalier…I love you!"

Chevalier's eyes widened, though it could hardly be noticed. He turned to look back at her, and saw the shock in her eyes. Her free hand had risen to her mouth, as though she did not believe the words had come from her mouth. Yet they had… and then she managed to smile.

"I do… I love you."

"**_Ma Cherie!_**" He knew he couldn't hope for what she said to be as true as she believed. No one could truly love a face like his. It took a long time for him to think of a proper response as his heart squeezed almost painfully, but it was a bittersweet pain. **_"Touché."_**

No one in the caravan looked for Adnah after his apparent disappearance. His uncle could not have cared less whether his nephew was alive or dead. More than anything, he complained about having no one around to help him with the daily work. It was rumored around the camp that Adnah had run off with a French peasant, leaving Chevalier and Arabella safe from suspicion.

When the caravan left France, Adnah's uncle, and Yaakov, defied Tsifia's orders that Chevalier was not to be caged again. Beating him so that he was unable to defend himself from them, they forced him back into the old tiger cage where he'd originally been locked up. They didn't want to keep such a strong eye on him during the relocation. They said it would have been too much to worry about, if they had to keep an eye on him during the entire journey.

Arabella, who had barely left Chevalier's side since the rape attempt, tried to come to his aid that day. It had infuriated Yaakov. Enraged, he'd smacked Arabella to the ground, and then dragged her off by the hair. Had Chevalier himself not been so helpless at the moment, he would have done everything in his power to help her. No one knew of their budding romance, so no one noticed the fierce protectiveness and rage he'd shown that afternoon, when her cries of pain had reached him across the distance.

Yet after that first night, Arabella almost never left the side of the cage. She ate near it, and talked to him constantly. She even went so far as to camp by the cage. At the same time, Chevalier was careful to be quiet, and not provoking Yaakov or Vlad into beating either of them. As they would talk together during the long days and cold nights, he picked up the habit of calling her 'my beauty' in French, on a regular basis. They were completely inseparable.

Arabella knelt on one of those cold nights by the cage, combing her fingers through her hair. It was greasy, tangled from the long walk that day.

"Chevalier, I'll never left my father touch me again." She glanced up at the cage as his face appeared close to the bars. He was smiling slightly.

"Good." He stated. "We won't be bullied around anymore, is that it?"

"Not exactly…" she breathed. "I'll never step into his tent again. If I don't go into the tent, he won't be able to hurt me… to do things he shouldn't." She shuddered.

Chevalier stared at her for several endless minutes. Understanding her words was very hard for him. Yet he understood all-too-well. His eyes slowly became filled with rage, however hard they were to see in the shadow of his brow. Arabella had only seen such a look on his face once; the day he killed Adnah.

"Next time they let me out of here, I am going to kill him." He breathed.

"Chevalier, no!" Arabella reached through the bars of the cage, trying to grasp his hand. Yet he had pulled back so she could only touch his fingertips. He often did that, seeing as he didn't care for a great deal of physical contact. "You must do nothing! He will kill you, or Vlad will! Vlad is very close to my father!"

"**_Ma Belle –"_**

"Listen to me, Chevalier!" She pulled his hand insistently, close to her heart. "You are all I have here… I have nothing if I lose you."

"Calm down…" Chevalier reached out with his free hand, lightly touching her hair. His eyes, always seeming so black and bottomless, bored into her. The anger left his face slowly as he tried to soothe her. Arabella was nearly in tears, she was so afraid off Chevalier being hurt by Yaakov or Vlad. "You will never lose me, **_Cherie._**" He promised. "Please, I don't mean to become so upset. You know that it isn't you I am upset with, don't you?"

He lowered his hand from her hair to her shoulder, his fingertips lightly pulling her closer. They were very close suddenly, so very close. His eyes were boring into hers. Chevalier sought to find forgiveness in her face, and suddenly began trembling. Arabella slowly realized that she, too, was trembling.

Arabella thought he was going to kiss her. The way he leaned closer to her, it seemed he would. Yet long moments passed, and then he drawed back. He let out a shuddering breath.

"I … I can't." he sighed. "Oh, **_Mon Dieu!_** I _cannot_!"

Holding his head, Chevalier leaned back in the cage. His entire body was shaking. His knees were bent, and locked together. Arabella truly felt sorry for him. Yet at the same time, she was exceedingly disappointed. He had never kissed her before, and it was rare enough when he came into physical contact with her. She would have liked to be kissed by him.

"Good night, Chevalier."

She sighed, and lay back on the ground. Knats leaped all over her. Although her grandmothers' wagon would have been more comfortable, Arabella refused to leave Chevalier. It was a particularly cold night, and she curled tightly into a fetal position to keep warm. She couldn't get over the feelings that had overwhelmed her when she thought, hoped, Chevalier was about to kiss her, and she did not get much sleep that night.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five 

Chevalier watched Arabella as she moved about the small campfire by Tsifia's wagon. She was stewing a kettle of hers for a broth she was making for a common gypsy illness several people from the caravan had come down with. Although the crowds had already begun to arrive for that day, she never liked to leave something unfinished. Many people were starting to crowd around Chevalier, about to block his view from Arabella.

Annoyed, Chevalier stood and strode over to Arabella. The crowd easily moved to create a path for him, not wanting to be near him. As he approached, Arabella looked up at him, smiling secretly

"Why not dance for the people, **_mon petit danseur_**?" He winked softly. "Do not keep your precious gift to yourself."

Arabella looked at the crowd gathering around them. Yaakov was nowhere to be seen. Only Vlad watched from a distance, keeping an eye on Chevalier.

"I want to finish this." She sighed. Chevalier smiled, shaking his head.

"I will keep an eye on it for you." He promised. Turning, he raised his hands out to the crowd. They recoiled from him, but stared in fascination. Easily, he called out to them in their language. "What do you say?" he cried out. "Do you want to see our beautiful Arabella dance for you?"

"**_Si!"_** the crowd began roaring with approval. Chevalier turned to Arabella with a grin, bowing softly as he acknowledged her with a graceful wave of his hand.

Having no choice but to concede, Arabella sighed with a gentle smile. Beginning to weave into a slow dance around the small campfire, she wagged a scolding finger at Chevalier. With a low chuckle, he bent forward, beginning to clap. Soon, the crowd joined in, forgetting about the twisted face the man they had come to see really possessed. Arabella had them completely entranced.

"_Bella_!"

Gasping, she turned at the same time as Chevalier, to see Yaakov glowering in the crowd. Quickly, a group of other gypsies saw that the onlookers dispersed to other parts of the camp. As Yaakov stepped forward, Chevalier leaped into his way.

"Stay out of this, **_ciudantenie_**." Yaakov hissed. "This is between my daughter and I."

"Stay away from her." Chevalier warned. "Talk to her from where you stand."

Yaakov was enraged; but at the same time, he was seriously taken aback. Slowly, he took a step back, away from Chevalier. He looked to Arabella. Never had Chevalier been so incredibly bold.

"You were supposed to groom the horses, and make breakfast for your mother and I." Yaakov growled. "Get your ass over there and do your chores – _now!"_

"Don't." Chevalier turned as Arabella moved to obey her father. "Don't go anywhere near the tent."

Biting her lower lip, Arabella rushed away. Chevalier sighed, knowing she would not listen to him. That was Yaakov's fault. Turning to him, Chevalier glowered.

"If you have an itch, look for your wife." He breathed. "Leave your daughter alone."

Yaakov's eyes widened, hands clenching into fists.

"How _dare_ you!" His fist flew out, but Chevalier grabbed his wrist. Yaakov grimaced at the pain of his grip.

"No Sir." Chevalier replied coolly. "How dare _you."_

Releasing Yaakov's wrist, Chevalier watched him sink to his knees. Cradling his arm, Yaakov just looked up at him with hatred. He was not a fool who would go up against Chevalier alone. He knew how strong the man was. With a sneer, Chevalier turned and walked across camp to Arabella. She looked at him with a sad smile as she groomed a chestnut mare.

"You won't be going back to that tent." He stated. "I'll stay with you all day to make sure he doesn't try to hurt you."

She said nothing, but continued to groom the different horses. Quickly, Chevalier reached out to touch her hand. He only touched the very tips of her fingers, but Arabella looked up at him quickly.

"I promise." He whispered. "He won't hurt you."

Tsifia watched from the steps of her wagon as Yaakov climbed to his feet. He rubbed the tender skin of the wrist Chevalier had bruised after defending Arabella. Chuckling at his true weakness and cowardice, she tucked a locked of fading black hair behind her right ear. Hearing her, Yaakov looked up with a glower.

"What do you think you're laughing at, old hag?" he demanded hotly. That question only made her laugh harder.

"You're a scared little shit when someone shows you that they aren't afraid of you like you want them to be!" she cackled.

Infuriated, Yaakov reached down to grab up the boiling kettle Arabella had left unattended by the fire. With a howl of pain he let it fall to the ground, tending a now rather badly burned hand. Tsifia was bending over, holding her sides as she laughed. Again provoked, Yaakov lifted the kettle once more, throwing it at her with all his rage.

Tsifia was blinded with tears as she quite literally began to snort, she was laughing so hard. Not only was she unharmed, but he had failed to hit the wagon altogether. With a shout of frustration, Yaakov stormed away.

As her laughter subsided, Tsifia turned to again sit in her wagon. Her thin fingers, elegant even when slightly twisted by arthritis, reached out for her deck of Tarot cards. She was very intrigued by the recent behavior of her granddaughter and the young man she had befriended. Now, her curiosity peaked, she dealt out the cards to read them for the couple.

The first card she turned over was the Lovers. It came as a slight shock, yet Tsifia did not disapprove. They needed and understood each other as few people did. She hoped they would find happiness together.

The next card, however, drowned out any hope her beloved granddaughter would find happiness with Chevalier.

The Death Card.

Gasping, Tsifia knocked the entire deck to the floor. That wasn't possible. Fate couldn't be cruel enough to take a man or woman, barely out of adolescence, full of love and hope, away from the living world. Away from those who loved them.

Turning to look out the small window to her wagon, Tsifia grew cold. Who was the card meant for? Not her Arabella. She looked so healthy.

Chevalier then. It was difficult to tell if he was ill or not.

The idea that the illness might not be the cause of death, struck her with intense fear. Yet she thought desperately. Occasionally, the cards were wrong. It could happen.

Looking down at her spilled cards, her eyes went round with terror, clasping a hand over her mouth. All of the cards had landed face-down, except for the Death Card. It stared up at her with powerful insistence.

_Just putting me out of sight does not mean I do not exist._ It said boldly. _Rip me to shreds, and I'm still here…. _


	6. Chapter Six

_A/N: I apologize, readers that I never could figure out further chapters to place between this one, and the last. Perhaps one day, even if it takes years, I'll finally manage it. I know it's an abrupt jump._

Chapter 

Arabella was violently ill. She was vomiting every several minutes. Even when it seemed she could have nothing left inside her to vomit up, her retching continued. After some time, it was blood she spat out.

Chevalier knew that his gypsy love was going to die. At this point, it would not even be a matter of days. At the point in which he'd finally let his heart feel love, it was going to shatter from sorrow. He now understood how cruel God had been. He had abandoned true belief in God at an early age, and now refused to acknowledge he'd ever worshipped Him.

"Tell me…" Arabella looked up at him from the bed they tried to keep clean for her. Her face was sallow, nearly as lifeless as Chevalier's. "Tell me again what it will be like, once we've gotten away from here."

Chevalier choked back a sob. For days Arabella had been asking him to tell her what the future would hold for them. When the sickness passed, she wanted to know what their life together would be like. Knowing she was going to die, the story became harder and harder for Chevalier to tell. Yet he felt that at the same time, the hope of his tales was helping to keep her alive.

"Well…" He swallowed thickly. "Immediately we'll leave here. Your grandmother will come with us, if she likes. Your father will never be able to find us again. He'll never hurt you again."

She smiled weakly. Yet she took his wrist slowly, with a grip it didn't seem she should have been strong enough to possess.

"What about us?" she insisted. It seemed to be a ritual now. They would go on as they did. Arabella was like a child listening to a parent constantly telling her a favorite bedtime story, one she had memorized. A type of script had formed between them. "Tell me about us, together."

In spite of himself, Chevalier began smiling. He understood the hope she had that this might actually happen. If this story gave her the strength and the will to live, perhaps he could hope as well.

"I'll take you to Notre Dame." He promised softly. "We can be married there. The bells in the tower will ring loud enough to deafen all of Paris! Then, we can escape to England for a while… on a long honeymoon." He blushed gently at that idea.

"The noblewomen will invite me to tea…" Arabella began softly.

"While so sip your tea and gossip, I'll go fox hunting with the gentlemen, and be bloodied by the King." Arabella laughed quietly as Chevalier squeezed her hand. How ridiculous he sounded. The King was not likely to bloody his cheeks with the fox's blood on his first time hunting. No one would do that for him.

"Tell me more!" she pleaded. "The sound of your voice makes me feel better." She pushed herself up onto her pillows.

"We'll have beautiful daughters – just as lovely as you." Bending down to kiss her forehead, Chevalier knew there was a chance he could become ill. Yet he didn't care. He'd rather comfort her in her final hours, and die of the illness, than be away from her, and then live without her. "Together, we will live and die. Together, Bella."

"Always, and forever…"

Tsifia was watching and listening to them from behind. As she did, she was mixing some herbs together in a small clay bowl. Water was mixed with juices from wild berries and crushed hemlock. Tears slipped from her wrinkled eyes as she mixed it all together.

"Chevalier, come outside with me for a moment, would you?" she sighed.

"Nana, no!" Arabella tried to sit up in objection. Yet she began to wheeze, to cough and to vomit again. Chevalier grabbed her shoulders, quickly rolling her onto her side.

"Calm down**, _ma Belle._**" He soothed. "It's alright… just another moment, and this fit will pass." Gently, he rubbed her back, knowing it helped to calm her lungs.

The attack did stop in a few minutes, but Arabella passed out. Chevalier gently rolled her again onto her back, and brought covers up over her. He sighed heavily, stroking hair away from her sweat covered brow.

"Madam, please, hand me a rag to clean her face with."

Tsifia did so quickly.

"I've made a broth." She whispered to him. "If her suffering can become any worse, I'd rather she not be put through it."

Chevalier paused in washing Arabella, closing his eyes. He soaked up the meaning of her words, understanding the finality of the potion Tsifia had created.

"I won't let you kill her." He whispered. "I'll do anything to save her from this. I will give her every chance."

"Don't, Chevalier!" Tsifia sat down, wiping at her watery eyes. "We both know that she cannot be saved. Look at her…"

Chevalier watched Arabella's unconscious face solemnly. What would happen if she died without waking up? He'd never be able to say good-bye to her. Slowly, he reached out, very gently taking one of her shoulders. With his free hand, he reached for the tea he'd gradually been feeding her.

"Wake up, **_Cherie_**." He urged quietly. "Wake up. You must get this into you. It will make you feel so much better.

Arabella's eyes opened slowly. Seeing him, she smiled brilliantly, despite the illness. At that very instant, a thought occurred to Chevalier. She _knew_. Arabella _knew_ she was dying. Yet she didn't seem very frightened. She seemed almost at peace.

"Oh, Chevalier! Can you believe it?" Her eyes had gone wide with wonder. "My grandfather is with me now!"

"He… never left you, **_ma Belle_**." Chevalier whispered. He was convinced suddenly that she must be delirious. "Your grandfather is your guardian angel." Yet he felt he was lying to her. He didn't believe in angels, or Heaven.

"Yes." She agreed with finality. "My guardian angel."

Her eyes changed, and suddenly, they were brimming over with tears. She clung to his hand desperately.

"I am going to miss you so much Chevalier!"

"Don't be silly!" he replied hastily. "How can you miss someone you're going to be married to?" He lifted her head with one hand. Drink this, dearest."

Arabella drank down the sweet tea as he had asked her to. She was startled, obviously. She wondered… did he not know? Did he not know she was going to die? There would be no fancy wedding. There would be no tea parties, or fox hunting parties. There would be no beautiful children.

Her head rested back into the pillow.

"Chevalier… **_mon amour_**…"

"**_Oui, Cheri?" _** He gently stroked her scorching hot cheek, tears spilling down his thin cheeks.

"I love you."

He stared down at her for several long minutes. Had she spoken loud enough for him to hear, she wondered. He put down the cup of broth to lift her gently into his arms. Her head fell against his shoulder.

"I love you too, **_ma Belle_**." He kissed her hair. Arabella took his shoulder insistently.

"Stay with me, Chevalier. Grandfather promises that it won't be very long now." She stared up at him. "Stay with me until it's over. I don't want to be alone."

Tsifia began to weep. Her husbands' spirit, she believed, was truly with Arabella. She was one of the few who believed that. He would take care of Arabella. No force on Earth could help her. Only Heaven could help her now.

Yet Chevalier didn't respond to that. He never talked about angels or God. He didn't believe. He'd only spoken of the angels minutes before to console Arabella. He knew she believed, and her happiness was very important to him. He didn't want her to be frightened.

"I will stay with you always, **_ma petite amour._**" Chevalier promised softly. "Will you stay with me always?"

"Oh, yes, Chevalier! Always!" Again, Arabella lay back onto her pillows as he helped to settle her back down comfortably. "Forever after."

She closed her eyes quietly. Erique gently kissed her forehead and stood to let her sleep. He moved to stand just outside the wagon. He looked around at the gypsies moving about the cold camp. Very few of them bothered to look in the direction of the wagon. They didn't know that Arabella was ill and going to die. They didn't care.

A drop of water hit the back of Chevalier's hand. Looking up, he saw a dull, steel gray sky. It was starting to drizzle. How perfectly the skies could change with his moods, and cry as much as his heart cried.

He turned, and went back inside the wagon. Half of the night, he watched over Arabella. Yet countless hours of worry and labor to help her get better, got the better of him. He fell asleep kneeling on the floor, his head on the mattress by her side, one of her hands clutched in his own.

It had stopped raining, and it was very cold. Chevalier could feel this before he opened his eyes. Arabella's hand was cold within his own. There was no movement anywhere nearby. She and Tsifia still seemed to be asleep.

Slowly, lifting his head, Chevalier opened his eyes. Yes, Arabella's eyes were closed gently. Yet the fever was gone from her cheeks. Her skin lacked the coloring of all circulating blood. As Chevalier released her hand, he felt her fingers stubbornly cling to him. They were stiff like twigs.

"**_Ma Belle?_**" Trembling, Chevalier reached out to touch her cheek. "It's morning, **_ma Cherie_**. You must have some more broth now."

Arabella usually awakened rather easily to the sound of his voice. Yet that did not happen this time. She did not so much as stir. Chevalier could not see that she was breathing. Alarmed, he took both of her shoulders.

"**_Belle? Mon Dieu!_**" He shook her hard, but her head rolled like the head of a rag doll. "Bella!"

Her limbs were relatively statue-like with rigor mortis. Chevalier knew about the condition that settled over the body after death. He'd been fascinated with what happened to the physical body all throughout life and death. As he desperately tried to deny what his eyes already told him, and awaken her, there was a gasp from behind him.

"Oh… Bella!" Tsifia had awakened, and began to weep. "My child!"

Chevalier shook the figure of his beloved gypsy girl again.

**_"Bella!"_**


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter 

Looking down into the grave, Chevalier wring his hands nervously, furiously, behind his back. Three gypsy men were shoveling dirty into the gaping pit. He couldn't stand to watch, but was paralyzed to the spot, as he listened to the sound of metal on dirt. Burials for these people were very simple. Arabella had been wrapped in a white muslin cloth. Otherwise, she had been committed directly to the earth. When Tsifia had told Chevalier they planned to cremate her body, he had not been able to allow it. He'd actually advanced on the poor old woman in a complete rage, until she conceded to burying her granddaughter as Chevalier wished.

His throat hurt as he muttered a prayer to God that he didn't believe in. A lump made the ache even worse as his tears blurred his vision, the salt stinging his eyes. She would be dirty, was all he could think about. Her skin would become filthy, and would decay. The horrible image formed in his mind without his will. Arabella's beautiful body would begin to rot within days. In his imagination, the image was so vivid that he shuddered visibly. He saw every stage of her decomposition. He choked back another sob.

Arabella had been alive only a _day_ ago. A week ago she'd been as happy as her life could have possibly allowed. She'd smiled and danced. She had spoken with him, and danced for him. She had touched his hand with affection.

Chevalier lifted his right hand to stare at his open palm. Only the night before, his love had kissed his hand, and his sickeningly sallow skin. She'd stroked his abnormally long and skeletal fingers. Only one night ago, she had called him her love.

"All right everyone! We have work to do!" A voice tore Chevalier from his train of thought. "The ceremony's over! Start packing! We leave at dawn!"

Chevalier looked up so fast that he felt a muscle in his neck snap tight. The pain was blinding, and beautiful colors snapped like flashes of lightening behind his eyelids before fading to black. Cursing, he reached up to soothe that sore spot. Soon, the pain was gone as though it had never existed, leaving only a dull burning sensation from his head to his shoulder. His vision returned to him, and all that was left was an empty sensation behind his eyes.

"Yaakov! You shame yourself!"

A yard away, Tsifia turned to her son-in-law. Fury was etched onto her wise older face, and Chevalier realized how foreign rage was to her. Had she ever been so angry before in her life? He wondered.

"The sun will be setting soon! We cannot be busy packing when it gets dark! We have to stay inside our tents!"

Chevalier turned to look at Yaakov. He was talking to Vlad, Adnah's uncle. Yet once Tsifia so boldly contradicted him, Yaakov stiffened in anger. He turned slowly, dark eyes blazing. His hair ruffled from the breezy day. He was the very personification of intimidation. Yet Chevalier knew it was all a farce. The man was nothing but a fiend, a cold and power-hungry coward at heart.

His own wife, Arabella's mother, knelt with her face hidden behind a veil of long dark hair, by the graveside… seeming to be mournful enough for Chevalier to feel sorry for her. Yet she was a shadow of a woman, and he set his attention on her husband.

"The crowds here have thinned out." Yaakov stated, seeming to be calm. "We are moving on to fresh money."

"Pig!" Chevalier's blood began to boil to a skin blistering fury. He clutched his fingers into fists. He knew that Yaakov hardly cared for gypsy beliefs, because he had learned too much of the settlers beliefs and ways. "You have no compassion! You should be on your _knees_, in _tears_ over the death of your daughter! Yet all you can do is stand there and talk about money!"

"Stay out of this, **_satana_**." Yaakov shot a black glare towards him. "How I behave, is none of your business!"

Chevalier nearly growled. He took an enraged step towards the cold-hearted man. Tsifia held up a hand to try and stop him, saying his name softly, but sternly. Only out of respect towards her, Chevalier stopped, hardly able to keep from springing forward.

"What gives _you_ the right to be angry?" Yaakov sneered at him. "She was a lazy little tramp. I will not waste my tears on her."

Chevalier charged, his fists flying furiously. It happened so quickly that Vlad, who was still beside Yaakov, didn't have time to warn his friend about what was coming, as Yaakov turned his back to an enemy he never knew he had. As Chevalier tackled him, he was knocked face-down into the damp dirt. He growled, trying to turn over, to knock Chevalier off of him.

**_"Vous fils de chienne! Meurtrier_**!" Chevalier pummeled him with both fists as Tsifia yelled, and Vlad tried to pull him off of the body of his trapped companion. "It's _your_ fault she died! _You_ killed her in the end, not letting her stop dancing, not leaving her alone!"

"Stop it, **_monstru!"_** Vlad ordered. "I'll lock you up again!" His fingers dug into Chevalier's shoulders.

That only made Chevalier all the more furious. Blindly, he grabbed at Yaakov's hair, pulling at it violently. Swearing, he smashed Yaakov's face into the earth. It was damp from the rain, yet still quite hard. It was hard enough to injure anyone who fell onto it with the right amount of force.

"Chevalier!" Tsifia was there, and her voice was shrill. "Let go of him!"

Chevalier slammed Yaakov's head down a second time, and then looked up at the woman with her blood-shot eyes. They were narrowed with determination.

"Did you love your granddaughter at all?" he demanded, as Yaakov struggled weakly to escape from beneath him. Chevalier used one hand to shove Vlad away from him easily. "Do you not _hate_ him for what he's done to her?"

Tsifia stared at him for a long minute before finally nodding, looking resigned. Just at that moment, Yaakov lifted himself to try and throw Chevalier off of him. It was then Chevalier made his final decision. Angrily, he placed both strong hands on the back of Yaakov's head. With a roar, he shoved his face back down into the ground with all his strength.

There was a sickening, snapping sound, and then the ground grew red beneath Yaakov's head. His nose had broken, and Chevalier wouldn't have been surprised if a portion of his skull had been cracked.

"**_Satana!_**" Vlad rushed forward once again, kicking Chevalier in his side until he fell off of Yaakov's form. "You will die for this! How _dare_ you attack him, or touch him?"

Wincing from the pain, Chevalier held his abdomen with his fingers splayed across his torso, rolling slowly onto his back. He glared up at Vlad through a few tears of pain, a look of victory in his smoldering eyes.

"I didn't touch him…" he wheezed proudly. "I _killed_ that bastard."

"**_Ueigas!"_** Vlad screamed, tearing off his belt, and throwing it down at Chevalier. He beat at him with the belt, kicked him violently, threw him all around the grave as Tsifia watched, weeping openly once again. Arabella's mother just knelt there, staring into the grave, completely oblivious to all that had just transpired.

Half an hour later, Chevalier was thrown again into his most despised cage, bloody and unconscious. Yet before he'd fallen unconscious, Tsifia had seen the look on his face. He wasn't afraid anymore. He didn't care if he was locked up anymore. He was proud of killing Yaakov, and nothing would make him feel sorry for doing it.


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter 

Tsifia looked across the camp from the small window of her wagon. Three days had passed since Chevalier had killed Yaakov. Yet Vlad had not tried to bring sensible justice to the murderer of his friend. Instead of having Chevalier arrested, Vlad had beaten him, and caged him, and now continually tormented him. When Tsifia had asked why he didn't do more about the murder, Vlad had blatantly replied that Chevalier still brought in money, and was still useful to him. Besides, he said to her, Chevalier wasn't worthy of human justice.

Tsifia believed that Yaakov hadn't been worth of the quick death Chevalier had given him. He hadn't deserved a quick and mostly painless death. He had deserved to rot.

Since then, Chevalier had been kept caged at all times. Every night he would be beaten and whipped until he fell unconscious. Tsifia, who could watch him from her window, knew he never let out so much as a soft gasp when Vlad beat him. He would merely grit his teeth, as if waiting for the night Vlad would give him one blow too many, and grant him death.

She felt sorry for him. Chevalier had submitted to this treatment simply because he saw nothing more he had to care for. Arabella was no longer there to protect, to love. She was no longer there to give him her love. Now he didn't care about his freedom. Tsifia wondered if he was truly as resigned to this life as he seemed.

If he were free again, maybe he would find something to care for. Surely he would find something. He would get over Arabella's death, if he could get away from the memories of their time together. The scars and bruises on his body would heal, most of them. He could be perfectly healthy, and lift a reasonably contented life.

Then she had decided. Tsifia wouldn't let the man her granddaughter had loved, live out the rest of his life in a miserable cage. She would give him the freedom they had dreamed of together. It was the most she could do, for Chevalier, and for Arabella.

Grabbing her shawl, Tsifia left her wagon and crossed the camp to Chevalier's cage. He was sprawled out on the dirty floor, eyes staring up at the low ceiling. He didn't take any deliberate notice of her. That wasn't very surprising to Tsifia. In the past three days when she had watched his mistreatment, she'd become merely one more tormentor in his eyes. She did nothing to help him, and therefore, was no better than _them._

"Chevalier… get up." She whispered to him. When he did not reply, she reached through the bars to give his arm an insistent smack. "Chevalier, hurry up!"

Groaning, he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. Blood soaked through his shirt, but of course that wasn't so unusual now. Once on his knees, he looked towards Tsifia. She moved quietly, his eyes following her intently to the cage door.

"What are you doing?" He sighed quietly as she reached for the lock with two hairpins in her hands. "You can't pick it. I've tried countless times in the past."

"Oh, but I bet you haven't tried lately." She challenged him softly. "Look at this thing. It's about ready to break open on it's own."

It took ten very patient minutes to pick the lock. When the familiar _click_ of the spring was heard snapping open Chevalier shot up. He reached for the door to shove it open, almost making Tsifia stumble backward. He leaped from the cage, slamming the door shut behind him. Already, some small spark of a survival instinct was coming back to him.

"Now, go." Tsifia urged him in a loud whisper. "Take care of yourself, Chevalier… Arabella wouldn't want you to be here. Go!"

He looked at her a long moment, and then bolted towards the woods.

Chevalier ran until he could no longer stand. For a young man who had been mercilessly beaten, it was miraculously far. There was a noticeable limp from a sharp pain in his right leg, where it bled lightly. Also, his back pained him. Everything pained him. Yet he was driven onward with the desperate thought of getting as far away from camp and humanity as possible. Dawn was approaching, and any sight of people – travelers or settlers – was not anywhere to be seen. Of course, that did not mean someone was not nearby. Yet he couldn't go on any further.

He collapsed on a riverbank, and immediately fell asleep.

He was dreaming. Surely, what Chevalier was seeing, had to be a dream. He couldn't believe anything his eyes told him.

He was sitting on the riverbank where he had collapsed. The cracking of a blazing fire nearby drowned out the sound of the rough current. It was much faster in the dream than it had been when he'd fallen asleep. As Chevalier watched, the silhouette of a lithe and perfect figure danced before him. The minute details of very moment were impossible for him to forget. As he watched, frozen to the spot, the figure danced over to him, and turned her face to the light.

Arabella!

She was gloriously beautiful, and her smile was as radiant as ever before. He had never seen an image so awesome in his entire life. Arabella danced in front of the fire, her gown seeming to be made of the very flames. They writhed over her as she moved, lighting her face in such a way that it seemed illuminated from within. Her eyes were the very amber of the earth, and her hair was the amazing silken ebony of the night sky.

"My beautiful Chevalier! Dance with me!" With a radiant smile, she reached out for him. "We escaped Chevalier! We are free! Just as you promised, we're free of him!"

Chevalier smiled, trying to touch her outstretched hands with his fingertips. Yet she backed away, teasing him with a distinct wink of her eye. Needing to touch her, to hold her as he had the night she died, Chevalier stood quickly. She was so close…

"**_Ma Belle,_** _look_ at you!" He held up both hands in astonishment, fingers splayed towards her. "I've never seen you like this before!"

"Come on, Chevalier!" Arabella laughed softly, dancing steps away from him again. He had never seen her so carefree. "Follow me!"

Watching her, Chevalier gasped. Her steps were taking her towards the fire. He reached out to her, this time to try and help her. His eyes went wide, and his lips parted to warn her of danger. Yet no sound came out, and she stepped farther back. His hand desperately tried to take her wrist, and pull her away from the danger.

"Bella!" His voice finally tore free from his throat. "Stop!" His voice, as well as she, was lost.

The fire consumed her, and exploded in a great white light, that blinded Chevalier. The heat was so intense that it knocked him back. He cried out, a great shot that went on and on. His arms flew up to shield his face from the flames.

**_"Bella!"_**

Moaning, Chevalier blinked at the sky. A glaring white sun shone down on him, drowning out the end of his dream. Blinking to clear his vision, he judged that it had to be around midday. Birds were twitter twittering in the nearby trees. Everything was quiet and calm. He was safely and blessedly alone.

Sitting up, Chevalier rolled to look at the river. Then, he realized he was thirsty. His mouth was entirely dry. Silently, he scooped up handfuls of ice cold water, relishing in the fresh taste and texture. Still needing more relief, he leaned forward, using his hand to splash water up into his face.

Suddenly, he remembered the dream.

It washed over him in a wave of sickness, much like he'd fallen into the river. It was as though water flooded over him. His breath caught in his throat, and his fingers dug into the grass.

It had been far from any typical dream. Something had been very different. To Chevalier, it seemed Arabella had actually been there. He, who didn't believe in spirits of any sort, was convinced Arabella – her soul, and not some dream rendition of her – had visited his dream. He'd felt the almost undetectable breeze that had passed over his cheeks when her skirt and flown nearby him. He had felt the searing heat of that white fire as it exploded around her.

Standing, Chevalier looked around slowly. The memory was no longer so nauseating, and he let it return in flashes of exquisitely vivid images. He remembered things he had not even noticed during the actual dream. Trembling, he tried to straighten out the rag of a shirt he was wearing.

The look in Arabella's eyes just before the flames had consumed her…

Chevalier realized that she had known of the danger. She had gone into the blaze while still beckoning to him. She had done it deliberately. He began to remember… her hand, her beckoning, pleading hand, which she'd had held out to him, had been the last thing to disappear in the white light.

_Chevalier, follow me…_

Walking along the river, Chevalier thought to himself silently. His feet kicked through fallen leaves that littered the ground. What had Arabella really wanted of him? He couldn't have gone into the fire with her. Nothing would have happened, because it hadn't been real. If it had been real, he would have –

He would have died.

A sudden understanding made him again feel a little nauseous. So … dying was the answer. If he wanted to be with Arabella, he only had to die. Not only that, but she _wanted_ him to die.

He looked around the forest, swallowing thickly. He still didn't really believe in angels. Maybe after dying, he wouldn't be reunited with her. What was worse than an eternity without Arabella?

_Chevalier… go straight. Go up into the mountains of my country. I'm waiting for you there…_

Her voice echoed sweetly in his mind. He trusted that voice more than anything in the world. He trusted her unspoken words more than he trusted his own instinct.

There were no mountains as close as he could see. Yet Arabella had told him they were out there. Chevalier was willing to walk until he reached her open arms. So, beginning to move faster, as his limp slowly went away, he began what would become a long journey.

Chevalier moved on for weeks, traveling for at least sixteen hours each day. Whenever he slept, Arabella was there in his dreams to encourage him. Sometimes, the journey seemed unbearable to him Once in a while, he became so exhausted, and so hungry, that he would become ill. Yet she would push at his will. She understood his physical suffering. Yes it was cold at night. Still, she would forbid him to give into such illnesses. It wasn't time, and it wasn't a noble way to die.

There were other problems. Every night, during the dreams, Chevalier would want to stay with her forever. They would argue constantly once their usual conversations, and her usual encouragements, were over with. He would tell her that he would never let himself awaken again, so he could stay in the dream with her. Every time she told him to waken, he would refuse, but only at first. Her constant persuasion always won over his resolve.

"Do it." She would insist. "Soon, you will _never_ have to leave me. For now, you have to wake up. You have to keep moving."

He would always obey her desires in the end. Awakening, he would continue in the same direction as always. Whenever he came across a path, farm, or village, Chevalier would sink into shadows, then again find his route once the obstacle had been left far behind. He pushed onward relentlessly in his wakeful hours. He covered many miles every day, moving on much farther than most travelers would in a week. He didn't need much rest, and despite his live in the camp, and how it was going now, he was in good health.

Finally, one evening, just during sunset, Chevalier saw what Arabella had been describing to him in his dream for so many weeks now. It was Romania… the Carpathian Mountains. She had described how absolutely beautiful they were during his journey, but never had he expected this. It took his breath away so that he actually had to lean against a tree to get over his shock.

The closer mountains were smaller, littered with trees now and again, a dark gray against the background of the other mountains, which were a slate, nearly silver gray. As he stared at them, the sky above was turning from crimson and dark violet, to a deep dark purple, and a midnight blue. The cliffs of the mountains seemed very treacherous as the shadows spread over them. Chevalier knew, however, that the enchanting, dangerous beauty of the mountains, could not keep him under such a spell. He still had a long way to go until he could rest tonight.

It took most of that night, and half of the following day, before he reached the base of the closest mountain. It was most definitely a mountain. Yet compared to the others beyond, it seemed little more than a foothill. He was by a very small cave-like indent in the rocky face of the mountain, and slept at its base. In the morning, he would try to find a route that would lead him to find his real destination. To find Arabella… It wouldn't be easy, however, because the mountains had such sheer and steep cliffs and slopes to it. They would be very hard to scale.

There was time tonight, however, for one last, lovely dream. In case he didn't get to meet with his love in the afterlife, he had to see her this last time. His deepest fears of not seeing her insisted upon his rest.

They sat side by side near a soothingly warm fire, very near to each other. Arabella leaned towards Chevalier so that her weight was partially supported by one hand. That hand was so close to his… yet they could not touch. They had tried in earlier dreams, and though they seemed to touch, they could not feel the physical contact. After several nights of attempting to feel each other, they had decided not to touch in the dreams, so as not to go through that pain again.

"Tell me what it is like to die." Chevalier looked at her hand quietly, thinking about taking it… longing to take it. Yet he knew better. "Will I be frightened, or in pain?"

Arabella smiled up at him sweetly. She had such sincere happiness to her eyes… and some quality in her that Chevalier always knew he could trust. The fire reflected off her amber-hued eyes beautifully, making it look as though there were flames in her very eyes.

"Sometimes there can be moments of pain, or discomfort. They don't last very long, and when you die, they are completely forgotten." She paused, reached up as though to touch his face, but her fingers stopped short as they always did. "I wasn't afraid at all when I died. You were at my side, so I didn't have to be afraid. Even though you were asleep, having you there took away my fear."

Chevalier stared into her stunning eyes. The entire galaxy, perhaps even the beauty of the whole universe, could be seen within them.

"What _is_ death?"

"It is life, Chevalier. You'll see when you join me."

He woke up a short time afterward, sighing heavily because she had again managed to make him leave her. His heart ached every time he felt the dream slipping away from him. Yet she said it was very nearly time… perhaps within hours, they would be together, and nothing could separate them ever again.


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter 

The sun was still low near the horizon when Chevalier opened his eyes, feeling the ice that ran through his body from the overnight cold. It was freezing cold, and the wind whipped around him, howling eerily. He hated the sound of it. To him, it sounded like the howl of wolves, ravenous, and dangerously close.

With a sigh, he shivered, and then sat up quickly, rubbing his arms to try and warm himself up. Standing, he looked up at the mighty height of the mountain he had slept at the base of. The top of it couldn't be seen, or even imagined, from where he stood.

It was time for him to find Arabella.

Walking around the base of the mountain, Chevalier occasionally tried to lift himself up small cliffs. Yet it was hard for him, his fingers refusing to hold onto anything, because the cold had numbed and stiffened them. Sometimes swearing, Chevalier would refuse to let the cold stop him from scaling twenty or thirty feet of a steep incline. As the day wore on, the wind died down, and he was able to move better as the sunlight warmed him.

Towards mid-afternoon, Chevalier found himself at the base of a giant waterfall, which he'd not been aware he'd been approaching. The wine, though warmer and not so horrible sounding, had still been too loud for him to hear the waterfall ahead of him. The rush of white water plummeted from a height of at least two-hundred feet. That was nothing. The inclines around it were not so steep that he couldn't make it almost to the top safely. He could feel Arabella was close now. If he could just get to the top, he was certain she'd be waiting for him.

Adrenaline surged through Chevalier's body like a shock of electricity. His heart began pounding uncontrollably, throbbing in his ears, and making the blood vibrate in his veins. His excitement mounted, it was almost an intimate feeling.

Reaching for any available rocks protruding from the Cliffside, he began to pull himself upward. From the exhilaration, his strength became almost too much for him to control. He easily had enough strength to lift himself up the cliff, but the rocks were weak, and could crumble easily in his grasp. Sometimes, a rock would almost fall from his grip, or out from under his searching feet.

It wouldn't stop him. He knew how close Arabella was. Whenever he had the chance to look up, he was sure he could see her silhouette. She was yards away. He knew it.

"My love…"

She smiled and then backed out of his view. Chevalier became more anxious. He began working quickly, more rocks crumbling from his haste. Seizing a large bit of stone, he began to pull himself up once again.

The rock gave way under his grip, crumbling to dust. Chevalier's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He wanted to cry out for Arabella. Yet in that moment, his shock wouldn't allow it. His vocal chords were paralyzed.

_Forgive me, my sweet Chevalier._

A strong hand curled around his wrist. It stopped his fall so abruptly, that it nearly tore his arm from his socket. He gasped in pain, and then waited as something strong pulled him to the top of the cliff.

"Pedro, I told you last night; your singing wakes the dead!"

Something threw him onto the ground. For the first time in several minutes, Chevalier took a deep breath, lifting his eyes slowly to try and get a look around.

"**_Satana_**! What the Hell is that thing?"

Chevalier struggled to his knees, trying to look around. Five men had formed a half-circle around him, and held up switchblades as well as daggers. He didn't really get a very good look at them, because one man came at him with a growl, slamming his foot into Chevalier's chest.

Gasping, Chevalier fell back onto his side. He had felt something crack in his ribs and shoulder. He didn't understand what he had done to be beaten by complete strangers, one of whom had just saved his very life. He wondered where Arabella was now. He wondered why she had vanished.

"Where's his money?" someone hissed. "Someone search him!"

"I'm not touching that freak!"

A hand grabbed his shoulder, hoisting him to his feet. Through a haze of pain, he tried to make out the faces of those surrounding him. As a hand grasped at his throat, Chevalier gagged. He tried to breathe, and to call out for Arabella. If he could just call to her, she'd appear, and everything would be all right.

"What the _Hell?"_ A roar directly behind him almost deafened him. "Where's your money, **_ciudatene_**?" Rough hands shook him until his teeth chattered. Everything was happening so fast, he couldn't make sense of it all.

"Bella!" Chevalier screamed, trying to fight off his assailants as panic seized him. "**_Ma Belle!_** _Help me!"_

He saw the fist, but was not quick enough to try and escape it. The blow came at his jaw, shattering several teeth. The taste of blood was rich, and sweet. Chevalier had grown used to the taste, from being beaten by the people in Arabella's camp so often. As his teeth rolled around on his tongue, Chevalier spat them out in disgust, watching as they smacked his assailant in the chest.

"Bastard!" Another fist jabbed him in the ribs, and Chevalier felt a searing heat enhancing his pain. Gasping for air, he felt his lungs flair in a horrendous pain he'd never known before. Looking down, he saw blood begin spreading over his ragged and filthy clothes. The man, who stood in front of him, the one who had mercilessly beaten him, held a bloody dagger in his right hand.

"**_Mon… Dieu…"_** Chevalier whispered. "Bella…"

_Chevalier!_

Her voice in his head was a scream of sorry. She was crying for him. Just hearing her voice in his mind was comforting to Chevalier. As the pain seemed to dull within his chest, his body began to feel numb. One man – who the entire time had been holding his arms from behind, dropped him to his knees.

"David – you idiot!" The voice of another man was low, almost frightened. "If anyone found out about this, we'd get it for murder! David – **_ucigas_**! _Murderer_!"

"I'm no murderer! I did the world a favor!"

Chevalier reached up slowly to cover the stab wound by his heart. Shocked, terrified, he thought about how close to the heart the knife had been. Although he was now unaware of the pain, he could hardly breathe. His body trembled violently, as his lungs seemed to shrink inward. The voices around him became muffled, and he began crawling along the ground, trying to see or to hear Arabella again. His knees scrapped against rock, dirt, and through grass.

His blind search brought him to the side of the river. Looking down at his reflection, Chevalier shuddered. That was his ugly face. He didn't blame people for despising him for it. Perhaps they were right to kill him, and spare the rest of the world from seeing him. Yet his vision had gone gray… Still, none of that really mattered. He just wanted Arabella.

Sound came back to him in a rush of shocking clarity. He heard the rough current of the river gathering in the pool at the base of the cliff. He heard the men behind him arguing, their voices mingled with fear and anger. He heard his own heartbeat, and felt it throb in his chest, ears neck, wrists, and ankles. The pain of the beating began to return too, and his hand again clutched at the gaping wound in his chest, which blazed with burning pain.

"Bella…"

"David – _stop!_"

Something, Chevalier never learned what, struck him from behind. The blow landed on his back, making pain shoot up and down his body. It was so sudden, he didn't have any time to react, or catch his balance. His body pitched forward, the icy waters closing over him. The current immediately swept him away, and Chevalier soon felt the plummet of the waterfall.

He tried to breathe, to scream. Yet water choked him. His limbs flailed frantically, uselessly. He waited for the impact that would come, and certainly kill him. He waited for the blackness, hearing as Arabella screamed out his name, yet now she didn't sound sorrowful. She sounded… elated.

He suddenly understood that Arabella had let him be killed so he would not kill himself. She did not let him commit such an offense, and let the despicable Romanians at the top of the cliff send him off to where Arabella waited.


	10. Epilogue

Epilogue 

Chevalier opened his eyes with a soft smile. He was on the bank of the pool, at the base of the towering waterfall. The sound was no longer overpowering to his ears. It was now rather an enlightening sound. Around him, he smelled the scents of sun baked grass. He felt dry, warm, and without pain or fear. It had diminished the moment the fleeting blackness had overcome his body, when he'd finished his fall from the top of the waterfall.

"You caught me, didn't you, **_ma Belle?"_** With a low chuckle, Chevalier rolled onto his back, reaching out to his side. Long, soft skinned fingers entwined with his own.

"I caught you, Chevalier." Arabella's voice was soft, sweet, and fearless. "I never plan on letting you go now. Never again."

Reaching out, Chevalier drew her close, and buried his face into her beautiful, midnight black hair. He pulled her body against the length of his own. Never had he been so close to her. He'd always been too afraid to touch her, and hold her. Yet now, he clung to her.

"Is this our life?" he asked softly. "Is this what you meant by life?"

"Yes."

"Will this always be our home?"

Arabella lifted her face, sweetly kissing his jaw line. Soon, her little kisses reached his mouth, and Chevalier shivered from the complete ecstasy her touch brought him. He opened his eyes to hold her closer, stroking her hair. The mounting excitement in him was just like when he'd been eagerly climbing up the side of the mountain. Strangely intimate.

His eyes widened suddenly when he saw that his hand was completely, and utterly, normal. His skin was pink, and rosy as the skin of others. His fingers were not abnormally long. Reaching up with a trembling hand, he felt across his face. He felt defined cheeks, and smooth skin. Yet it was healthy; no longer thin like parchment. His lips were entirely normal. He even had a full head of rich hair, which fell past his shoulders. Pulling a strand into his view, he saw it was a dark auburn. Just like his mother's hair.

With a soft moan, he again closed his eyes. Tears were dripping down his cheeks as he held Arabella close once again. When his mouth again met hers, he was full of desperation, of relief. It was the most passionate experience of his entire existence.

"I don't know what is planned for us, Chevalier." Arabella crooned in his ear, when they rested in each others arms later on. "Whatever happens, we'll be together. I _promise_ you, that we'll always be together."


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Angst, Tragedy