Christine fingered the new forming scar along her groin grimacing when she traced a tender spot. She almost laughed bitterly when she glanced down at her body and saw the wreckage that lay before her eyes, her skin baring free skittered cuts and bruises. Then she stopped. She had nothing to laugh hatefully at- not the way Margareite id. Margareite's body had been worse then her own; she only prayed that she would not face the pain that Margareite had when they had brought a knife between her young legs. She choked a half sob, bringing her knees up to her torso and resting her head on them, clenching her fists tightly, her nail biting into the deep freshly scared gouge she earned the night she had been kidnapped. I hate men; stinking, violent, unmerciful, sons of bitches… I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, she thought crudely. I hate-NO! Her mind scolded sharply. You cannot sink into Margareite's hell .I cannot… I will not. Not all men are like this… Raoul… Erik…Father… no not all are evil. Only this bunch of sliming, bitching bastards.
And yet insomuch as she tried to argue with herself, her daily hell threatened to over throw her sanity with pure hatred for not just the men that abused so many women around her, but the male half of the human race as well. Reason began to flee from her mind, her thoughts only of pure hatred. But she could not fight back enough to escape and she well knew it; her body was too frail, her passionate hate strong but her will to act upon it week.
Much as her mind became a heated den of loathing, her gentle nature remained, and she played it out for the women when they were returned after their services were served. She had especially come to favor the young girl, Kassandra. At first Christine could not get the child to speak no matter what conversation she tried to strike up and she found herself utterly confused at the girl's silence, and slightly hurt. However with nothing better to do but work at the project of trying to communicate with the girl, Christine continued to offer a gentle voice. Then came the day when the girl was thrown into the room with such force a loud cracking as the girl's head slammed into the wall caused Christine to fling herself at the door in a small spurt or strength.

"You son of a pig!" she spit, raising a hand to strike the man across his rough cheek. The man grasped her wrist painfully, jerking her before him and bringing his knee sharply into her gut, then proceeding to backhand her to the floor, adding a good kick after that for a good measure. Grunting, he slammed the door behind him, Christine dimly aware of the sound of the padlock snapping shut. It took her a moment to gather the air within her body again, her ribs promising a large bruise in the evening, her stomach swearing off the stale bread for a full two nights at least. After filling her lungs with air many times, she brought herself to crawl over to Kassandra, the child's bruised and broken body unmoving by the wall.

"Kassandra?" she touched the girl with a light hand upon her shoulder, gasping when she felt the bone move beneath her fingers. The child's body vibrated with a groan, but no sound followed, tears streaming down her dirt streaked face, silent sobs wracking her body. She couldn't stay in this position, Christine thought to herself. I have to get her in a more upright position. "Kassandra, I'm sorry but I have to move you. You can't stay this way." She looked into the girl's lifeless green eyes, overflowing with pain; the olive green orbs begged her not to move her, but Christine bit her lip and gathered the girl up halfway in her arms, not having the strength to carry the girl. She gave a small jump when she felt the bones of the girl's other shoulder ripple beneath her hand, the bottom half of her body completely limp. The child let out a scream that marred her already ruined face, but no sound came. The girl had no voice. It as not that she didn't want to talk, she could not. Otherwise her scream of pain would have sounded in an ear piercing cry.

"Oh gods," Christine whispered as she propped the girl's limp form against the torturously splintering wall, Kassandra gagging, but not vomiting, between noiseless howl of agony. Christine knelt next to her pitiful for wishing desperately that Marti were there- the child reacted most when she spoke. Her body was a disorganized lump, the bones of her shoulders no longer forming shoulders, sticking out at odd angles; her torso sat in a weird way that told Christine that it had been snapped, paralyzing Kassandra from the waist down. She looked at Christine with death in her eyes, sorrow biting deeply into her heart. The girl was not going to live.
At lack of anything better to do, she moved next to the girl grimacing when a sliver of wood embedded itself into her back and brought the girl to her. The child convulsed with pure misery, but bit her lip; to what avail due to her silent voice, Christine wasn't sure, but she knew she wanted to be held, her eyes imploring a kind embrace. She straightened Kasandra's body as best she could, the child unable to hold back the occasional yowl that escaped her useless voice box. In a way, her wordless, utterly soundless wails brought Christine to despair more then one would have if voiced. Kassandra had had to endure her days a mute, unable to voice her pain, her hate, her heart. Christine shut her eyes tightly at the hate the blackened her sight. Well she would give the child a voice- she would sing her sorrow, her pain, her heart. She would give the child what she could never have.
The notes started uncomfortably, rustily within her throat, slightly rough with a touch of breathiness. She stopped, shaking her head. Erik had given her a voice once in a way that no one had-she had to keep that in her mind to give this girl a voice. She faded momentarily back into Erik's lessons so long ago… such peaceful days those were... so peaceful… her heart was torn then, but at least her body was not.

…one with the music… listen to the beat of your heart… it is the base rhythm for all song… listen to it…feel it…let the notes be your heart, your voice… song is the only thing that exists in that moment… nothing else matters but you and the song…

And so Christine sung low and long, her soprano stretching into the lowest ranges, digging for the sorrow that lay within her heart. The song swept into a melody of suffering, of a heart unspoken for…the music became a language all its own. Her heart beat wildly within her ears, pumping the blood viciously, vengefully within her veins, her breath coming deeply, as though she were exhilarated by some ecstatic joy…she had not let herself break into so long she had forgotten the feeling of flight as the notes soared and dipped; the feeling of freedom merging with the heart of a small child mutilated brought her to tears, her voice remaining strong through the need to sob. She sang for what seemed like forever, wrapping its spell about the two bodies. Some time later, Christine felt the girl's body give one last shudder, and the life left her eyes, leaving the dead green orbs staring at Christine.

Lamar's back had begun to scab over, though it still hurt to twist his torso. He lay on his bed now, face down, grimacing as Charlotte patted her fingers across a reopened wound.

"Jesus child!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm not a stone you know. My back can still feel things."

"Apparently," she bit back in her crisp tone. "Although the way you complain I'd think your skin were tender as a babe's if I didn't know any better." Lamar's mouth fit into a tight line.

"Oh and you could stay your voice better?" he snapped. He stiffened when he felt her hands still upon his back. He bit his tongue, immediately regretting his words.

"That's all I did for my entire life, Lamar," she answered coldly. "Don't you dare be sneering at pain. It is not somethin' to be sneered at."

"I know," Lamar answered softly. "I meant no offense. Please forgive my careless mouth." His niece was silent, but her hands continued to lay ointment upon his sore back.

His niece…after the night that she had whipped him brutally with blind rage, she had become utterly devoted to him, but she also bit out with her sharp tongue at will. He often found himself smiling wryly at some comment or another she made. He had not been surprised when he found that she was literally stuck to his flank like glue, refusing t leave his side except for his private needs. Even when undressing for the night, she unabashedly shed her clothes ( this, she explained when he had blanched at her movement to slip into the bed nude, was the result of years being naked and she felt uncomfortable sleeping in cloth of any sort but bed sheets). Despite her refusal to be embarrassed by nakedness, he refused to sleep thus, always wearing some kind of underwear. Whenever he heard her sleeping deeply by his side on the other end of the bed at night, he mumbled his thanks to whatever powers that may have been in higher worlds hat she had a strong heart that allowed her to bounce back as well as she had from her life time of abuse.
Now he sat up, slipping on a shirt over his newly treated back as a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he called as Charlotte washed her hands in a water bowl. A young officer entered, politely nodding curtly.

"Sir," he began, his voice cool. Lamar's eyes saddened at the knowledge that this young man would be hardened by his twenty first year. "A man here to see you."