Christian brooded. He couldn't help himself, not there, not then. He stared blankly at the inhabitants spread throughout the dim lit theater, chilled from the crisp Parisian breezes outside. The women, in their vibrant nuanced garments and painted faces, whispering. The men in their suspended slacks silently jeering, still looking spent from rehearsals. Smoke billowed around some of their tables, but even the drinks in their hands could not - and did not for that matter - obscure their reality.

The Moulin Rouge usually came alive at the darkening of skies, becoming a bustling, dazzling, somewhat spectacular sight. Bohemians here, can-can dancers there, wealthy and poor and anything in between, all looking for a night of ease and pleasure that the Moulin Rouge always could fulfill. Christian nearly spat at the thought of why it was so silent, why it seemed every being was holding their breath. All because of him . . .

Christian shifted in his chair at the small table before him, hands clutching his faded blue scarf and resting beneath his chin, his stares never wavering. He had waited only minutes, but oh how long it felt. Like his heart was a well-worn garment being torn strand by painful strand. Christian tried to fight the thoughts, squeezing shut his eyes at the memories.

Satine. Satine. He could not erase her smile, vibrant and soft, or the way she walked with natural elegance. Her scarlet hair that always fell perfectly around her beautiful face. Her eyes that could capture him and never let go. How her touch lit him on fire, how her kiss was sweeter than the voice of fairies and softer than rose petals - he knew he could go on and on, and he did, unable to stop himself.

She was smart. She knew that their love was essential for both of them. Love, as he had said, was like their oxygen. Ever since that fateful day, him just a shy young writer and her a dreaming courtesan, Christian knew there was something between them, a fateful, unbreakable cord. Despite her initial refusal, Satine knew that what they felt for one another was not going away anytime soon.

She knew also about the danger. Of the whispers amongst the other women about her and the "penniless writer". Of Zidler, who had already confronted her. Of the ever growing suspicion of the heartless, stupid, good-for-nothing -

"Duke." Christian slithered, scowling deeply and slouching further in his chair. He held the fabric of his scarf close to his nose, able to smell the perfume from it, Satine's. It had been hers, but she had given it to him out of playfulness one day after spotting him admiring it upon her fair neck; it had become his favourite since, and could not help but wear it, to bring comfort. She could always comfort him.

With these thoughts of Satine came the inevitable ones of the Duke too. Of them. He knew Satine did not love the Duke, but he offered her so much. He had money, he was respected, he was established - unlike Christian, who in all honesty had nothing to offer her. He knew she deserved better, someone to fulfill her dream.

More than anything, Satine wanted to be an actress. Christian recalled times marveling at the way she could truly and bafflingly become another being, to transform before his eyes. It was in most part why the Duke believed so deeply that she loved him. It worried Christian. Did she truly have feelings for the Duke? Or more importantly, himself? Had their "love" been an act, a foolish game meant to please her and leave him heartbroken?

Christian bit his lip, knowing he should not think such thoughts. The bubbling sensation inside his stomach was growing. He recalled, above all the other thought swirling relentlessly throughout his mind, Satine's fateful words spoken to him not long ago.

"On opening night I have to sleep with the Duke. And the jealousy will drive you mad." That night was upon him, upon them all. Everyone knew that if all went well tonight, Spectacular, Spectacular! would indeed become true. Christian did not know if it was worth it. If this production was worth more than her. If the ending he had written was worth the pleasure of the Duke. That statement did nothing to ease his increasing anxiety.

Despite his initial denial, despite their everlasting affection, despite his stubborn strength and solemn understanding, she had been right. It was true. The jealousy was driving him mad.

No. He refused to accept it. He had promised Satine. She believed in him. Christian took a steadying breath, sitting straighter in his chair and denying that still raw emotion inside him. The silence continued to ring about, the air chilled yet and darkness increasing. The women whispered, the men jeered. Even so it seemed like Christian could not contain himself.

Suddenly, interrupting his reverie, Christian found himself face to face, nearly nose to nose, with Nini. She sat seductively on his lap, dark hair and darker eyes contrast to her wan skin. Skin exposed left to right, the skin that touched his face from her delicate hands on his cheeks.

Christian held his breath. He had learned some things about Nini. One of them was that she had ratted him and Satine to the Duke. He held his tongue as she looked to speak, but just barely.

"Don't worry Shakespeare, you'll get your ending . . ." Nini falsely soothed in a tone a mother might to her child, patting his cheeks as she continued to explain. The elegant eyes batted at him, playfully, "Once the Duke gets his end . . ."

Christian swallowed, holding his breath. She would not dare -

". . . in -"

No sooner after the words escaped her red lips was Christian rising and grabbing her madly, pressing her off in a shove. She shrieked and moved to hit him, others at the table giving exclamations, surprised with the scuffle. "Get your hands off me -"

"Nini - Nini, no!" The Argentinian was the one to grab Nini away by her forearms, struggling stubbornly, and Christian clenched his fists, forcing himself to restrain. Shameful, it would have been to hurt the woman. But had the moment lasted a split-second longer, he would have. He knew he would have.

The Argentinian held the woman close, protectively, hushing her softly and caressing her fair shoulder, though she was still far from calm. His eyes were glued to Christian, gaze cool but direct. They had been stopped before any harm was done, by either of them; at least, physical harm.

Christian had taken the comment like a slap to the face, breathing harshly then at the adrenaline-fueled anger still pulsing in him. She had known, too, that it had hurt far more than bruises.

Shooing Nini along quickly, the Argentinian approached Christian, subdued eyes dark as he took to his side in the shadows; the gentle lines in his face were relaxed as he spoke his word of advice like a father to a son, like a lesson had been learned himself.

"Never fall in love with a woman who sells herself . . ."

Christian, who had been anticipating a bit of sympathy, clenched his jaw from speaking; his mind whirled with imagined scenes of Satine, accomplishing her "services" as she would say, with him -

". . . it always ends bad!"

The last word was shouted directly to his face, causing him to jump and the others around to take ear to the conversation, to the accusation echoing around. Christian, frustrated and ashamed, stared down around the amphitheater blankly, gut cold with regret and hot with that sickening jealousy. The Argentinian turned away, leaving the other with his thoughts, ones he could not suppress.

"We have a dance . . . in the brothels of Buenos Aries!" The Argentinian gave a sharp snap, and Satie played a deep, resounding octave on the piano.

The silence amongst the members was one of anticipation, one deep and anxious. The Moulin Rouge in entirety was quiet, waiting. Everyone seemed to realize just what was at stake.

All eyes watched the man descend the small staircase, tease them with his silence as he strolled along. His trim form was strong, dark hair combed perfectly, dressed simply in a crimson vest and dark slacks. His shadows in the night followed him as he paced slowly on the wooden dance floor, footsteps filling the air.

The Argentinian continued in his deep, throaty accent, "Tells the story . . ."

He spun about, hands directing to the onlookers for their attention; the violin joined the soft piano then, a lament, long series of notes.

". . . of a prostitue!" His arms were sent in the direction of a woman among them, the spotlight imitating. The audience laughed joyously, amused, as did the indicated woman in black, letting out a cackle as she half-stumbled down the stairs.

She stepped sultry steps to face the man as he continued, raising a finger, "And a man!"

The Argentinian cocked his head downwards slightly, "Who falls in love . . ."

The instruments began a gentle ritardando, piano giving way to low, slow notes and the violin trembling on its own. The woman ran her hands smoothly along the smooth planes of her sides, circling about to meet the man, an ironically innocent expression on her gentle face.

". . . with her." The Argentinian's voice was dangerously soft, taking his own place to face the woman. They both widened their stance, and no one moved as the tremolo from the violin gave way to an anxious silence . . .

And resumed fiercely in solo. Both dancers gave a firm planting of their foot, one crossing over the other. The sound sent Christian's pacing, each step in time to the firm tempo. He watched the dancers intently, listening, trying to forget.

"First, there is . . . desire!" The word was spoken in a throaty breath of longing, and thus the bodies that had been circling each other slowly came together, ever so close to touching. The eyes met, the skin barely, as if foreplay to their erotic dance.

"Then, passion!"

The two clasped hands, and the Argentinian executed an elegant spin of his partner, who pressed against his body finally and wrapped her leg around his waist; he grabbed her own, nuzzling her soft neck lovingly, but his eyes betrayed his actions.

The audience was revealed the object capturing his attention, a dancer who strolled casually onto the floor, and the Argentinian reacted violently, angrily.

"Then, suspicion!" He cried, deep with emotion, and he grabbed the woman's wrist harshly, as if the one he had so longed for had become nothing more vile. Nini looked to pull away, from his grasp and his presence, upset at this sudden turn from attention to loathing.

"Jealousy, anger, betrayal!" He pulled her in, and she responded opposite, hands against his chest to push him away; the Argentinian knew her strength was limited and grabbed firmer, pushing her back. "When love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust -"

He pulled her arms parallel, locking eyes firmly with the like grip. "Without trust, there is no love!"

Nini's arm was drawn upward, her body downward and one leg back, exposing her fair neck in the skillful pose. The Argentinian gathered her again, though not like before. His eyes never leave hers as they spin, the grasp harsh and unforgiving. The woman's gaze grew distressed at each passing moment in her partners grip.

"Jealousy . . . yes, jealousy . . ." The Argentinian clenched his hand as she tried to break free, allowing no loss of command. "Will drive you . . ."

At another futile tug, he gave in and released her so that all could see, into the arms of another man. The coarse voice ended his dialogue in a shout, one that screamed into a stock-stiff Christian's mind louder than any sound he'd ever heard.

"Mad!" The pause was momentary, leading into the tragic ballad. The Argentinian growled in song, throwing his arms to his side, "Rox . . . anne! You don't have to put on that red light . . ."

Christian watched Nini and the dancer clasp hands, her back pressed to his chest, and take long drawn steps along the ballroom as the Argentinian sang.

"Walk the streets for money . . . you don't care if it's wrong, or if it is right -"

A new dancer took quick backward steps with Nini in his arms, turning sharply to stop at the name. "Roxanne! You don't have to wear that dress tonight -"

Two more men surrounded her in the spotlight, taking their own turns moving with her seductively in time to the music, running greedy, hungry hands all over her body. Christian fought back images of the Duke's hands all over Satine -

"Roxanne!"

The dancer lifted Nini high with strong arms, spinning her about above his head as the Argentinean finished the phrase of his pleading melody, laced with his coarse accent, "You don't have to sell your body to the night . . ."

It was then when Christian could no longer supress his feelings. He began, nearly whispering the melody.

"His eyes . . . upon your face . . ."

He moved then from his place in the shadows toward the staircase, seeing Nini approach the Argentinian and run her hands along his face, his voice growing but slightly trembling.

"His hand . . . upon your hand . . ."

The rest of the assembly of dancers trickled onto the ballroom floor, but Christian barely noticed, consumed by own sickening jealousy.

"His lips . . . caress your skin . . ."

The men and women found a partner, positioned to tango, and Christian finished, releasing his voice in full.

"It's more . . . than I . . . can . . . stand!"

The Argentinian stood amongst the others, cuing the music and directing his arm toward a retreating Nini and singing once more, "Roxanne!"

"Why . . . does my heart . . . cry?" Christian began onto the dancefloor, crying the words that ate at him, and hearing the Argentinian repeat the name as he continued, "Roxanne!"

"Feel . . . ings I can't . . . fight!"

His steps were slow and deliberate between the dancers as he made his way to the door, each footfall to the sharp rhythm as he continued his desperate song.

"You're free to leave me, but just . . . don't deceive me and, please, believe me when I say . . . I love you."

In the Tower, candles lit the darkness and filled the air sweetly with their waxy scent. The ambience shone upon the food displayed on the long table pastries and savory stuffs, and onto the man and woman sitting there.

The Duke, who sat at one head of the table, was nibbling on a few items, talking of some dry subject like politics or the condition of Monmatre's financial ladder. Nothing of interest to her, nothing bright or intriguing like Christian would mention.

Satine forced the thought away. She had told herself not to think about him, not until it was over. She glanced longingly out the Tower's balcony with a whispering sigh. She had not eaten, nor even touched her drink. She had no appetite; and why should she? Shifting impatiently in her dress, Satine pressed her red lips to her napkin once again, hiding yet another aching cough and giving an innocent look to the Duke, who had not removed his eyes from her for some time.

She suspected dinner would be brief, if it happened formally at all. Already had she been showered with desiring gazes, lingering kisses and enough tender caresses to last Satine a lifetime, all anxious for what the night would bring. Usually, with her regular clients, she had not a problem whether they be shy or eager, slow or quick; it had not seemed to matter. But with every touch from the Duke, every capturing stare, Satine could only dread what it would lead to. She wanted to get things over with. The quicker the better, she thought, bracing her hands on the table just as the man rose from his chair again, beginning a slow banter as he neared her.

"When this production succeeds . . ." The Duke tapped the table lightly as he passed, voice deep and tempting. Satine found herself, strangely, wondering on Christian, but refocused, "You will no longer be a can-can dancer."

Satine let the words sink in. Of course, she would not be a poor dancer anymore, no. She and Christian, they would make something of themselves -

"But an actress!" The Duke emphasized his words, making them dazzle in Satine's ears like his breath on her neck as he grabbed her chair and leaned close aside her face, "I will make you . . . a star."

Nothing. Nothing had she ever wanted more than to be - A real actress. Satine closed her eyes, imagining herself performing theater like Shakespeare and Broadway, acting aside handsome actors and stunning actresses in films, having a house to herself and money and clothes, no men, no meaninglessness, no Moulin Rouge -

And suddenly, she was drawn out of her chair to the vanity mirror, the Duke standing close behind her. Satine barely blinked as her eyes caught the glint of . . . diamonds. The man raised the necklace delicately, seeing as it looked to be of innumerable value, and placed it upon her neck. Satine was stunned. How could she react? Surely, she could not approve - but she had said it herself: diamonds are a girls best friend.

Her blue eyes met the Duke's in the reflection, asking for an explanation.

"Accept it . . ." He fastened it around her, "as a gift from this maharajah to his courtesan."

"Oh . . ." Satine replied, breathless still, reminded of her purpose. But the play does not permit the maharajah the courtesan - did the Duke think . . .?

"Oh, and . . . and the ending?" She stuttered nervously, unsure of the Duke's reaction. It was her objective to change the ending, not just for the sake of Spectacular, Spectacular! but for Christian. For them.

His words on her sensitive skin gave her a shudder, but Satine felt it was more of relief. Though, somewhere, maybe inside her heart she heard a cry. This she did not understand. She thought of Christian, of his desperate refusal of leaving her - and then, Satine felt the regret.

The Duke, eyes thin, leaned closer to her ear and whispered coarsely. "Let Zidler keep . . . his fairy tale ending."

"Roxanne!"

"Why . . . does my heart . . . cry?" Christian could hear the Argentinian's coarse voice mix with his own desperation filled cry as he exited the ballroom, "Feel . . . ings I - "

"You don't have to -"

". . . can't -"

"- wear that dress tonight . . ."

"- fight!"

"Roxanne!"

"You're free to leave me but just don't deceive me and please. . . believe me when I say . . ." He could barely speak the words, feeling the tears rise, ". . . I love you!"

Christian's pacing slowed to just beneath the Gothic tower, and he looked up. He saw them. The Duke, his lips resting on the exposed fairness of her shoulder; Satine, a glittering piece of jewelry upon her neck. He paused, and maybe in his hollow desperation, his sickening jealousy tempted him to scream. But he stayed silent. It looked as if . . . she could see him.

Satine could sense the Duke growing anxious. His touches came hungrily, frequently, passionately. His patience was remarkable; he would wait as long as it took for her. The only trouble was, Satine had somehow decided that she had changed her mind. She had been fine, even with the gift of the necklace, their excursion to the balcony, his lips tasting her shoulder. She had been accepting. But then, she had seen him. Satine could hardly breathe. Christian.

He looked to her. She could make out the dark of his hair, her scarf around his neck. The memory sent her heart fluttering. How could she ever forget?

"Come what . . . may . . ." Satine whispered subconsciously, her heart beating faster and warming, ". . . I will love you . . . 'till my dy . . . ing . . ."

With a tilt of the head and a sigh she finished, seeing Christian look away as if he had heard her plea, ". . . day . . ."

And that was when she decided.

Christian heard it softly, in the wind that spun the Moulin Rouge above him, the words to their song. "Come what may . . ."

He kept his eyes on her, unable to remove them. His lip trembled involuntarily. It took all the will power within not to barge into the tower and claim her as his own. That Duke had no right to her. But Satine . . .

She looked to him. He could make out the red of her hair, the glittering around her neck. The memories sent his heart fluttering. How could he forget?

And that was when Christian decided.

He took a deep breath, and kept walking. He would not be jealous. He refused.

"No."

The Duke raised his head as Satine pulled out from beneath his lips. She breathed quickly, nervously. But she did not regret it.

" . . . no?" The man whispered disgustedly. Satine heard his silence stretch, closing her eyes and waiting. " . . . oh, I see."

Satine remembered. She opened her eyes, seeing Christian strolling away down the path below. The Duke really did see. "Our very own penniless sitar player -"

Satine turned away, into the Tower again, heart racing with the rush. The Duke finally knew, after all their hiding, secret rehearsals, whispering. She was exposed before him, and she was guilty. She had lied to him, after all.

Satine could barely steady herself as she heard the Duke follow her, closing the balcony doors behind himself. She turned, trying to smile but failing, "My dear Duke -"

"Silence!" The Duke shouted, grabbing Satine roughly around the wrists and forcing her to her knees before him. Satine cried out in discomfort as he twisted her forearms; she realized as she looked up to him. There was no escaping him, no sultry smile or kiss on the cheek to placate him anymore. The Duke was driven by jealousy then. Satine knew a few things about that.

The Duke breathed through his clenched teeth, harsh words piercing the silence, "You made me believe that you loved me."

"No . . ." Satine tried futilely, cowering beneath him. She did not want to seem weak. But she was.

The Duke breathed raggedly, reaching his hands gently down along her neck. Satine felt the warm fingers search and slip beneath the diamond necklace, and then hesitate. She closed her eyes, praying that in some twist of fate he would not do it. Please, no . . . -

And then, he suddenly snatched and yanked, flinging both her and the jewelry to the floor.

Upon entering the Hotel Blanche, Christian could barely contain the smouldering thickening dread in the pit of his stomach as he raced up the stairwell, anxious to escape from something he knew he could not flee. What if the Duke hurt her? What if he pleased her? The loss of her love for him made his throat swell in fear, chocking him with pain, and Christian stalked faster down the hallway. He loved Satine far too much to break his promise - but something felt wrong, not just his jealousy, his sorrow. It was as if his heart ached in an unknown knowledge of tragedy. Of danger.

But I cannot save her. The thought nearly killed him. Reaching his room in quick steps, Christian grabbed the handle and burst inside with a desperate shout, "Why . . . does my heart . . . cry?"

In the few, fleeting moments after the Duke tore the necklace from her, Satine's mind was whirling. The Duke would not dare, he would not dare. Yet, it seemed that as he had stood menacingly over her in the shadow of the pale moon, some cruel, animal hunger had transformed the falsely civil man into the true monster he was. Satine quickly grew afraid, heart racing, wanting to scream. She knew what he wanted to do to her.

She would not give up without a fight, she decided then and there; she had been taught countless times Christian had taught her that.

Grabbing her dress away from her feet, Satine rose and raced away, hearing the furious cry of the Duke in protest; he grabbed her wrist harshly, and she wrenched from his grip, using her arms to sweep the platters and candles off of the table they raced around, giving a scream, desperate, frantic. No, no -

Satine could feel his breath on her as he grabbed her forearms, firmer and rougher, twisting her around. She had never refused a man, not once. It was her service, her sole purpose. But then, she was more than this meaningless love - she had tasted the sweetness of true love and could not dare go back. No one had ever needed to force themself upon her.

Satine dearly hoped that she would not have to experience it. Ever.

Christian tore a hand through his hair as he momentarily paced about his room, unable to vent his boiling, furious desperation. Some dark force was taking over, heavy like a wet blanket he could not shake; he kicked his table, swept his script papers flying about, breathing heavily and feeling no release. He could not erase the image of the Duke and Satine on the balcony, his lips resting on her fair shoulders -

With a gasp short of a sob Christian rushed to his terrace, throwing open the doors and crying from the depth of his aching heart, throat coarse but clear, "Feel . . . ings I can't . . . fight!"

The Duke was strong. Not as thin and scrawny of a man as he seemed; if he wanted, desired, lusted over something, it would indeed be his.

Satine had coldly, barely began to believe this as she was handled again and thrown to the floor beside the bed with a groan, hard enough to bruise, rough enough to break.

The Duke circled around her, touching her hair gently, softly, playing with a crimson strand, and Satine stifled a sob. Tears threatened, but she could not cry. This was her fault. This was all her fault. Her will was screaming, her determination fighting, but she could not move. Satine knew she had to fight. But she knew she would not win.

The Duke yanked her up again, tearing off his coat and instantly pressing against her, shuddering in his blind, selfish desire. His rough hands groped down her chest, down into the front of her dress to stroke her there - Satine wanted to vomit. She would rather be naked before the entire city of Monmatre than to endure this. She would rather die.

No! She comanded herself firmly, This is for Christian. I must do this for him. He loves me. He loves me. Satine saw him again in her mind, looking to her upon the balcony, imagining the look on his face. She had grown to learn his face of sorrow. She had recognized it from the distance. He had looked so betrayed. So sorry. Little did he know, then, what was really occurring.

I have to fight for him, Satine silently demanded, gasping as the monster steadied her refusing limbs, but she knew the fight was ending.

She knew that she was losing.

Christian swallowed, lips trembling, clutching the sides of the doorframe for balance. The thoughts of soothing played endlessly in him, forced to keep him calm, She would never betray me, never deceive me. She loves me. I promised her. She loves me. She is doing it for us. She loves me. Come what may . . .

They all felt cold. Christian hit the doorframe harshly, pain stinging his fist, but he hit again even harder. He couldn't reason with himself anymore. He was beyond it.

A cool breeze blew through his dark hair, and his eyes stared still out at the glittering lights of the Moulin Rouge, at the darkness of the Gothic Tower. His mind had always had a way of its own, the birther of his poetic writing, his heartfilled song, but then the creater of images . . .

Christian, afire with dreaded longing, screamed at the top of his lungs, from the bottom of his soul, loud enough for the entire city of Monmatre to hear, and louder then. How could she do this to him?

How could he do this to her?

Satine trembled. Her body was becoming quickly and quickly more and more exposed, legs bare, arms visible. She covered herself protectively, while she could, as the Duke pulled at the lace of her corset, loosening her bodice, tearing at her dress.

The Duke whispered then, tauntingly, horribly into her ear, breath sour and hot the tenant of her love, drawing out the first and final word, "Why . . . does my heart . . . cry?"

Satine felt his lips upon her shoulder, and she was scared. She thrashed madly, giving a cry of protest, tears wetting her hot cheeks. No more disgusting had a man ever felt to her than then, of all the men she had ever serviced. How dare he mock Christian? How dare he do this to her?

An omnious rip was heard as the last of her dress was torn, and the Duke shouted simultaneously, "Feel . . . ings I can't . . . fight!"

Satine hid her face in her hands in a sob, her strength giving way to her crumbling weakness.

He screamed it into her face, like an insult felt on her skin, in her soul, and Satine did nothing then, her insides still at war. Her dress had come off as if nothing, but not without a cry of denial, of final desperation.

But she knew. The fight was over. He had won.

The utter rawness of Christian's throat did not hinder his woeful screaming, his insides tearing, his whole entirety pained. He was so heartsick, he gagged in between his exclamations, but neither did that ail him. As soon as the cold air escaped him in the cadence of the cry, he simply inhaled and repeated. He needed someone to hear. After keeping it secret for so long, hiding from Zidler, lying to the Duke, speaking of their affection in private, in safety, Christian needed to let it out.

Clutching the doorframe with trembling, awfully trembling hands, he leaned forward, letting the sound of his voice carry. An echo of the noise joined it as he made a crescendo, but not loud enough for her to hear. All he could hear was her voice again and again, her rouged lips pressed close to his ear the last time he had been near to her, protective of her, begging her not to leave him, whispering in gentle song. Come what may . . .

There was nothing he could do. Christian stopped himself at the end of his scream then, breathing in slowly in a sob, a gasp. His blue eyes traced the horizon, still, silent, dark. His mind recalled a night not too long ago spent with Satine, her in his arms safely, him singing to her gently and softly.

Christian looked to the shadowed moon, managing between his sorrow, "How wonderful life is . . . now you're in . . . the world . . ."

He knelt on his terrace, burying his face in his hands, feeling weak like a child. He did not cry anymore. If he could not have her, if she really was gone, then he could not cry forever. Though, he still ached to. She had taught him to be free, to tell the world of his dreams and passions, to embrace his obsession with love. His obsession with loving her. Satine, she was never afraid. She was more beautiful than anything he could have ever expressed in a poem, a song, a story. She was his everything.

Christian sighed, breath quivering, exhausted and stale as he stood and gazed out to the Moulin Rouge, asking himself silently: what was he without her? Nothing, so it seemed.

Nothing.

Satine gave a cry with the last ounces of strength in her body, but no sooner was she flung onto the bed, vulnerable, his. The Duke neared, his shirt unbuttoned, perspired face taut and smug and emotionless, shadowing her on the sheets, and Satine backed away while she still could.

She saw nothing but cold lust in his empty eyes. She closed hers, clutching the silky bedsheets, in hope the entire ordeal would soon be over. Soon, she would be in Christian's arms again, and he would protect her. No more hiding, no more secrets. Come what may -

Just as Satine swore the Duke was to strike, just when she had braced herself for his hands upon her roughly again, a grunt was heard as flesh hit flesh, and a tumble of weight, and then nothing.

Satine's eyes opened, startled. She lay motionless, terrified, in the chill of the tower as the silence rang on. Seconds felt like eternity's in themselves. Nervously, she sat up, finding herself staring face to face with Chocolat, the strong man's dark skin sheen with sweat as if he had run very quickly. He stood, breathing heavily but subdued, worry and shock in his eyes.

"What . . ." Satine whispered breathlessly.

His bloodshot eyes turned, looking upon a form slumped in the moonlight, head lolled to one side, mouth agape and bloodied. Unconscious.

Satine was shocked, her trembling beginning again, and she let out a tearless sob, covering her mouth at the desperate noise it made. Chocolat came nearer, sitting on the edge of the bed, silent. He had rescued her. He had saved her. She risked a glance to the Duke's body, still and hidden, and the relief overwhelmed her. She was alright.

Chocolat said nothing as he offered his hand, and Satine took it quickly, feeling weak and drained. Nothing was needed to be said. He only removed his large jacket and draped it across her bare shoulders, her exposed body, as in a wordless conformation of her safety. Satine leaned into the man, comforted by his strong arms, as he swiftly ushered her to the door, away from anything and everything that had almost become reality.

Never again would any man lay a hand upon her. Satine vowed to herself as they raced through the darkness, down the winding stairs, No one but Christian. No one but my love.