Disclaimer: I own nothing, but you knew that. I hope.

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It had been the Doctor's idea to have her rise onto the stage that way. Like Venus emerging from the foam that gave her life, he had said fancifully.

Somewhere between the words and the deed, that interpretation had been lost, though it certainly wasn't due to lack of trying. Satine had carefully studied a print of Botticelli's famous painting, the better to comprehend the sensations she was meant to convey--Venus, aglow with youth and vivacity, sedately ascending from her life-giving oasis. In rehearsals, her emulation of the goddess's qualities had been flawless. But several things had transpired between the last rehearsal and opening night. Succeeding at such a portrayal by now would be difficult, if not futile.

It was a stupid idea, anyway. She was an Indian courtesan, for heaven's sake; where was Venus supposed to fit in? Life-flushed goddess indeed. Satine doubted there was enough life left in her to pull through the first act. But pull through she did, albeit not far enough imitate the proper goddess. The eerie blue light caused her too-white skin to appear more ghostly than radiant. She made quite a decent Eurydice, perhaps, but not Venus.

So Eurydice it was. Striving towards the living although her heart already bore the raw sting of ice. Rising from the hell that persistently clawed to possess her wholly, ascending from the underworld without really escaping it--she was bedecked with enough heavy jewels to remind her of that. Pure water, pure heart, pure soul; there was none of that. Just greasy makeup, cold stones, and a body that had been devoured many times over and was even now devouring itself from the inside out.

Yet it was enough, and as she mounted her icy pedestal the house drew in its breath for one awed moment before erupting into cheers so enthusiastic they drowned out most of her badly stifled gasps.

Ivory arms, lead-heavy, strained into the air with deceptive grace as she fought to clear her head. To leave Satine behind and become the Hindu courtesan. The endeavor failed, naturally. Typically, she had no trouble assuming other personas. But Satine and the courtesan were one and the same; she had known that ever since Christian had haphazardly spouted out the storyline that night in the elephant.

And then it was time to sing and the half-formed deity felt dangerously close to panicking. A raspy red cough was gathering deep in her throat, her corset was practically biting her in two; it would be a wonder if she could /breathe/ through rest of the show, let alone sing. Frantic reassurances ran through her head and she turned them into a childishly awkward chant to take her mind off their significance.

/Catch your breath and not your death, you're a star now and not just a whore. Sing out the note through a grating red throat and you shan't feel the pain anymore./

She opened her mouth, hoping fervently that only words would come forth. It wouldn't do to collapse in a fountain of blood.

Words came indeed, and words alone, so perfectly pitched it was scarcely possible to separate the voice from the instrumentals. Her stomach was turning inside out, but she sang louder, throat screaming as her voice sweetened, and soon she felt no pain.

The house sat raptly as the blue light beamed down, iridescent-incandescent on the pretty-pale singer with her complexion like death, crystalline voice hitting the purity of each note, vitreous eyes looking out to nowhere. A conglomeration of beauty and agony--barely alive, but so much the better. Since time began, Erebus had shown a distinct taste for pretty young girls, and this one was ripe for the taking.