Unmasqued

Christine could barely see what was happening, but she heard the grunts and punches, the slapping of flesh to the floor, the slams of feet and boots on the walls and furniture. She saw arms raised in blows, a shoulder, the rearing, then ducking dark head of her beloved followed by the glint of Philippe's lighter hair, all accompanied by the sickening sounds of battle.

All at once, there was a heavy thud that jolted into the bed on which she lay, and suddenly Philippe was leaping to his feet. He whirled toward the line of whips, his fingers closing around the longest, thickest, blackest of them all as Erik struggled to his feet next to Christine.

"Erik!" she cried softly, wanting more than anything to reach to him, to touch him and assure herself that he was alive, and here… but of course she could not-she could not move, and she could not distract him from what was surely the battle of life and death for them both.

He spared her a bare glance, but that was enough for her to see his face. This face, his warrior face, she'd never seen before. This face was more horrible, more twisted and dark, and it fairly burned with determination and loathing.

She could see them now; they were standing, braced and facing each other, and Philippe had his ugly whip.

"You always seem to come back for more of this," he sneered with a flick of his wrist. The leather cracked through the air, so loud and sharp that Christine gave a small, involuntary shriek as it snapped next to her, laying into Erik's flesh.

She saw it close, right in front of her eyes. Saw the way the thick black striped over his muscular arm, the way he jolted, and the wide red cut it left in its wake. Tears clogged her throat. How could he bear it? How could he fight such a weapon?

The whip cracked again, but this time Erik moved. She saw the leather flick angrily around his wrist, and saw the way he grunted, accepting the pain, but gave a great jerk at the right moment, pulling on the leather that had wrapped around him. Philippe's eyes widened in shock as he was pulled off-balance.

Suddenly, the whip became the rope that bound them together. Philippe did not release the handle, pulling and twitching it, and Erik held his end, the leather still draping over his muscular wrist. They struggled, Erik dragging on the leather as if reeling in a fish, and Philippe drawing away, trying to loosen his weapon, his face tight with fear and hatred.

At last, the comte released the handle, whirling back toward the rest of his weapons. Erik stumbled a step back at the sudden release, but he kept his wide-legged stance and, with a great swish of movement, pulled the whip toward him.

He didn't wait for Philippe; there was no mercy in his face. The black whip snaked out, just as his brother turned, holding a smaller one with several tails, and cracked into Philippe's arm. He howled in pain, but did not release his weapon… but before he could raise his arm to strike, Erik brought his own whip around and caught him on the other side, the other arm.

He'd said nothing during this entire time, and Christine saw the way his fingers trembled; his knees staggered when he moved. Sweat and blood mingled over his body, glistening on his dark skin where the shirt had been torn away. He breathed with effort, nearly gasping at times, but he didn't waver. He didn't miss.

And when his whip flashed out again, this time, it wrapped around Philippe's upper arms. For all the comte's skill with the whip, he was not so skilled at defending himself from one.

Erik jerked, and Philippe came toward him.

Then Erik released his whip, and in a quick, smooth movement that happened in the blink of Christine's eye, he had the black braid coiled around his brother's neck, crossed at his throat. One end of the whip in each hand, Erik pulled.

From her place on the table, still bound and belted, Christine watched Philippe's face turn red, his fingers grasping futilely at the two strong hands that pulled relentlessly at the whip. He wasn't yet choking; Erik was playing with him…

"Erik, ho!" she screamed, watching in horror. "No! You'll be no better than he!"

Erik looked at her, his face still a hideous expression of darkness. "He deserves it," he told her. But she saw that the whip had loosened slightly. "I could snap his neck with one movement."

"No, Erik. No. You cannot. You will become a murderer in truth… not only in legend. Don't do it."

With a sudden movement, he released the whip, and Philippe staggered away, hands clutching at his throat as he tumbled backward.

Erik turned at last toward Christine, quickly unbuckling the belt that had held her in such a vulnerable position, and one of her ankles, before Philippe pulled himself to his feet and came after him again.