This is a long chapter and it is a bit gruesome. If you do not like blood, be prepared to skim the last quarter of the chapter.

Chapter 12: An Eventful Evening

Christine had always considered herself a modest woman, despite the usual attire she wore for ballet. She preferred to keep herself clean and in decent clothing, nothing too elaborate but nothing too revealing either. She was self conscious of her body until she was a teenager. Raoul would occasionally watch their ballet rehearsals when he visited the opera house with his father. His attentive blue eyes created a feeling of uneasiness and a fluttering in her stomach. It was too much for her to bear. Since then, she always wore long, humble, yet proper attire to hide her body from prying eyes. Meg and Sorelli used to tease her, calling her an old widow, but she did not mind.

Yet now, she gladly stood within the bars with Matilda up her skirts, unpinning and tearing apart the fabrics of the petticoats and bodice underneath. Matilda removed layer after layer of clothing until Christine wore just her outer blue dress, chemise, and drawers. She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and allowed Matilda to loosen her corset slightly. Christine sighed with relief at the instant coolness and comfort she felt.

When she sat down again, Christine was glad to see the extra space they had from removing a few layers of clothing from everyone's dresses. Now she felt as though she could sit comfortably, instead of scrunching herself into a small ball. Sophia and Madame Giry lifted the extra fabrics to make a roof over the top of the cage. They tied the end of the fabrics to the corners of the poles. At first, Christine's cheeks turned slightly crimson at the thought of her bodice out for display, but when she felt the shade, her embarrassment quickly fizzled into relief. She rubbed her stiff cheeks and neck which ached with joy at the protective shade. She glanced over at Meg to see that she too was pink from the sun. Christine internally chuckled. Clearly the two women needed to spend less time in the catacombs of the opera house and more time outdoors.

"Be gentle, Matilda! That bustle costs more than your yearly allowance." Carlotta snapped.

"Your bustle is the least of our concerns." Madame Giry retorted from the other side of the cage. "You can either keep all these petticoats of yours and die of heat exhaustion or you can be selfless for once and let us use it as shade. The choice is yours."

Carlotta grumbled, letting Matilda reach under her dress to release all the inner skirts she could. Since Carlotta's petticoats were much larger, they were used along the sides of the cage, draping down to cover nearly three-quarters of its length.

Jammes giggled. "It reminds me of a blanket fort I used to make as a child."

"Except this one is a cage in Persia." Sorelli grumbled.

Jammes wrinkled her nose, glaring at her friend. "I am trying to be positive."

"Well, I am happy for you. Don't let my realistic observations get in the way of your daydreaming."

"Matilda, can you see from out the back corner?" Madame Giry asked, ignoring the petty squabbling of her students.

"Yes. Nothing has changed. No one seems to be bothered by what we have done."

"Understood. Meg can you see anything out of the top corner?"

"No, mama. Just sand and-"

"Good afternoon, ladies."

All of the women shrieked in shock and turned towards the opposite side of the wagon. A young man on a horse had lifted the edge of the petticoats and stared at them, grinning at his successful scare.

He laughed. "I must say, I love what you have done with the place. Very genteel."

"Who are you? How do you know french?" Sorelli pressed, leaning into the center of the cage to distance herself from the strange young man.

"I can speak many languages, as can my master. I am Officer Darius of the Mazandarian court. It's a pleasure, mademoiselle." Darius winked at Sorelli, who returned his flirtatious introduction with a blazing scowl.

"Where are we going, Officer Darius?" Madame Giry asked.

Darius tutted his tongue. "I am afraid I cannot answer any of those questions. The Angel of Death would not be pleased. Though I am here to announce his arrival."

Christine felt her stomach sink. She was certain the pink of her sun-burned cheeks turned pale at his remark. The shadow would return to her, his amber eyes haunting her yet again.

Darius seemed not to notice the sudden, terrified silence that overtook the women. He continued. "In a few hours we will stop at a ravine for the night. Then he will come. He has many questions. I suggest you answer them honestly. He despises lies and will not hesitate to use whatever means necessary to learn the truth."

Despite his threatening message, the young boy finished with a smile. "Once the wagons stop, lift up the sides of these so he can speak to you. It has been a pleasure, ladies."

Just as quickly as he appeared, he vanished. Jammes peaked through the corner of the cage to see him ride forward and out of view.

"The angel of death has questions for us? About what?" Meg wondered aloud.

Christine didn't say anything. As the women speculated, she stared down at her clasped hands. A part of her had begun to wonder if he had travelled with them at all. They had not seen any sight of him, though a part of him just knew he was nearby. It was unexplainable, but she knew it to be true. Her throat, still aching from his attack, seemed to tingle at the mention of his name. She was terrified, but also intrigued. Their encounter had been so bizarre that she was, regrettably, eager to see him again. Why had he bandaged her arm if she was just a prisoner? Where were they going? If he wasn't their enemy, who was he? How did he know of Raoul's family? What did he plan to do with them?

Soon the women grew silent and Christine recollected their encounter. She remembered the heat of his body and the intensity of his eyes. She remembered his entrancing voice and his grip around her throat. How could someone be so contradictory? So enticing yet so dangerous?

A few hours flew by, the women choosing to sit in silence again for the majority of the trip. As the wagons lurched to a stop though, they all tensed. Christine watched as Madame Giry slowly rose and lifted the fabrics of the wagon. She felt Meg grip her hand. What lay on the other side of their protective underthings?

At first, Christine was prepared to feel the glaring rays of the sun against her cheek, but she was met with a gentle breeze. The caravan rested between two large barriers of rock and stone, almost like a giant had taken a mountainous slice out of the peak in front of them, making a thin path through its center. They rested against the far right side of the path, against a ragged upward slope. It curved over the top of them like a stone wave, frozen before it crashed into the small field to their left. It was the perfect place to rest: hidden, shaded, and near a small stream. The land they had travelled after landing in Beirut was long gone, replaced with a beautiful sunset that painted the dusty mountains. The field was decorated with small patches of greenery: grass, bushes, and tall trees. If she wasn't so apprehensive, she would have admired the land's beauty.

The women watched enviously as the soldiers straightened their legs. They walked to a small stream to their left, drinking their fill and talking amongst themselves. It was then Christine realized how dry her throat was. Swallowing at the sight of moisture felt like chugging sand that scratched down her throat to her stomach. She hadn't had anything to drink since the wine at the party.

To her relief and dismay, a man approached them with a ladle and a bucket. He was short and broad, his wide shoulders covered in a plain cream tunic and red clothed belt. He wore baggy, black pants accented with two long silver trims down his outer legs. A long curved sword was sheathed at his side.

"Aab." the man said in Farsi, gesturing to the water. All the women slowly shifted over to the side of the wagon, hesitantly putting their faces up to the bars. Christine felt her heart rattle against her chest. Was he giving them water, or poisoning them in secret? Regardless, her body yearned so badly for the tiniest drip of moisture that even poison sounded appetizing.

He gave them each a scoop of water, which drizzled down their necks and to their breasts as they tried to gulp down as much as they could. The man seemed amused by their desperation. He was about to give a drink to Meg but held back, laughing at her anguished face as he taunted her with a scoop of water. He then held the ladle out for her to drink. She took a single gulp before he pulled it away quickly from her mouth and drained the rest on her head. Meg yelped and leaped back, wiping her eyes while the man cackled in delight.

"Do that again and I will rip out those earrings and force them down your throat!"

The girls gasped at Madame Giry's threat. Although the man did not seem to speak french, he did understand the connotation of her words. She now stood behind the group, slightly hunched so her head remained in the cage. Her eyes glared down at the man. His once amused face turned dark as he snarled at her, muttering something in Farsi. Before he could act, a long hand gripped his bicep.

Christine blinked, unaware of where the man came from. His back was to them, though she could see that he was an older man. He wore a similar uniform, though he sported a crisp blue military coat etched with golden trims. His black hair was sprinkled with wisps of grey, though his lean physique showed he was fit for his age. Christine stared at the back of his blue and gold coat. He almost looked familiar.

The two Persians argued, but the older man threw in the final word, pointing towards the caged women. The guard huffed in defeat. He held out the ladle for Madame Giry to drink. She took the ladle from him and drank her fill before throwing it back to him, maintaining a cold glare. She seemed unfazed by his angry snarl.

Christine, on the other hand, began to tremble. The soldier was a menacing figure with small black eyes and a large nose. They were the only aspects of his face not covered in thick black hair. His attention then turned to her, the only woman left. He held out the ladle near her face and she leaned forward, eagerly to take a large gulp. She instantly regretted her decision. It was as if she had forgotten how to swallow. She coughed and choked on the water, causing the man to jump back and yell. Her throat burned, both due to the heat and the bruises that stung with each breath. Once she had finished coughing, she looked up, eager for more water but terrified of the consequences of her actions.

The grey haired man now faced them. He sported a thin, grey beard, one that highlighted the high cheekbones of his tanned face. His dark eyes contrasted his hardened look, seeming soft in the sunlight. His hand was outstretched, holding back the fuming guard that now dripped with some of the water Christine accidentally spat out. If she wasn't so dehydrated, she was sure she would cry for forgiveness.

The grey haired man took the bucket and ladle from the guard. The guard glared one more time at the women before sulking back to the ravine. Christine felt her spine shiver. Whoever he was, she hoped she would never have to see him again.

She watched with uncertainty as the grey haired man refiled the ladle. Was he angry at her? Would give her any water at all? Gently, he beckoned her back to the bars and for her to lift her chin up. She obeyed, her cheeks burning as he gently touched her bruising neck. Christine could see Madame Giry tense next to her. The grey haired man sensed this too and pulled his hand back. He lifted the ladle.

"Slowly." He said in french. Christine's eyes widened, though meekly nodded. How many of these guards spoke french? Was he the master Darius had mentioned? Yet she bit down her questions and slowly sipped the cold drink. She could now see the man more clearly. He had big black eyes that felt warm and comforting, unlike the other man. His skin was like a soft leather, clearly worn from his long years but seemingly smooth to the touch. In a way, he reminded her of her father. He had a natural grin, an easy going demeanour which she could sense on her father no matter the situation. It was an internal calmness that radiated externally.

"Thank you." She whispered hoarsely. He nodded before casting a glance at Madame Giry. His friendly demeanour did not change, but Christine wondered if it was still a warning glance.

"We are almost there. You must be silent. You must be patient. That is all I can say." He said. Sorelli called out to him, dying to ask more questions, but he ignored her. He walked to the group of soldiers, who had now made a fire and began to set up a few, small tents.

"Christine you imbecile, you could have gotten yourself killed!" Carlotta spat. "Signora Giry, you are lucky that man did not kill you!"

"Sometimes, Carlotta, you need to grow a backbone to survive in this world." Madame Giry snapped, sitting back down against the bars. "These men will not treat you kindly because of your status or charm. In fact, that will probably motivate them to defile and humiliate you at every chance they get. I would learn to adapt before making enemies with the only people who may help you."

Meg bit her bottom lip to hold back a snicker and Carlotta huffed and crossed her arms. The rest of the cast gave each other joyful glares, relishing in the opportunity to see the verbal savagery between Madame Giry and the esteemed diva, despite her haunting words.

"Be silent. Be patient." Matilda whispered, thinking about the Persian's warning. Christine shivered again. What did he mean by that?

"Look!" Jammes squeaked, pointing towards the back of the cage. Jammes lifted up the fabrics to reveal the long line of caravans behind them. Christine was shocked to see so many, but her eyes widened as she found the source of Jammes's excitement.

The caravans lined up against the slope, curving against the rock to reveal every wagon in the line. But her eyes were drawn to last wagon of the caravan. It was one of their own, the one that held the mysterious boxes the managers refused to reveal. Its once white tarp was singed and speckled with ash. Christine was surprised to see that it hadn't been burned down with the others.

But it was the contorted bodies of their male cast mates that caused them to gasp. Each of them were individually bound by their now bleeding wrists to the back of the wagon by a long rope. They laid scattered amongst the gravel and grass. Some kneeled and wheezed while the others had collapsed from exhaustion.

They had walked the entire way here, Christine realized, dragged behind the caravan for the entire journey with their hands tied together in front of them. The thought alone made her sick.

Piangi and Reiner lay collapsed on the rocky field, trembling with each gasping breath. Bastian, Louis, and Gabriel kneeled, looking around them in fear. The three of them were battered and bruised, all grateful their journey had finally ended. But it was the mangled body of Ignaco that all the women were drawn to. He was lying on the ground, still and seemingly lifeless. Reiner crawled towards him, nudging him with his foot. He didn't move, his hands stretched above his head and his body covered in dust and dirt. There was blood dripping down his bare forearms. Sophia grew hysteric at the sight of her husband's mangled body. Madame Giry pulled her into an embrace as the older woman cried at the nightmare before her. The guards came and unbound his wrists, pushing Reiner to the side. He was still unresponsive despite the guards rough handling.

"How long do you think he was dragged?" Sorelli asked. No one responded, though they all thought the same question. How long was he dragged by the carriage while his friends could do nothing but watch?

"Mama?" Meg whispered. "Is he…"

"I don't know." She responded.

Two guards freed the men of their ropes and brought them to a nearby tree, pushing them to the floor like old equipment. The men barely protested, their bodies too drained to hold their ground.

"They won't be able to survive another day of that." Madame Giry whispered.

"Maybe we will walk tomorrow?" Matilda wondered.

Sophia released a choked sob. "Oh God. My-my poor Ignaco. He always had weak lungs, it was why he couldn't play the horn-"

Madame cooed the distraught flutist. "Breathe, Sophia. He may have survived." Sophia shook in Madame's arms, her shaking hand covering her mouth to muffle her cries. The men stared towards the women and the women towards the men. They both had so much to say but no way to say it. Reiner was able to sit up and nod towards them. Jammes gave a small wave.

The guards ignored the men, clearly aware that they would not attempt to run or escape as they set up camp. Small tents were set up around the field, all made of different coloured fabrics held up by a wooden circular frame. The tops of their tents curved up to a point with a protective tarp over the top.

If it wasn't for the piercing scream that erupted from the carriage, Christine would've admired the beauty of the camp.

The screaming continued, like a tormented soul burning in the depths of hell. Christine latched onto her dear friend as they both shrieked in shock. They searched for the source, but saw nothing. It wasn't coming from above, nor the camp ground, nor the men. The quick movement of a carriage door flying open caught their eyes. The first wagon was the source of the tormented screams and just as the women turned to it, a man fell out of its dark interior.

His body convulsed in pure agony against the gravel. At first, the women could only see the back of his white shirt and brown, unkempt hair. Yet, when he turned towards the women, Christine was the only one who didn't scream. The front of his blanched shirt was stained a dark crimson. His chalky white skin was paler than the clean portions of his dress shirt. His open and rigid mouth forced out the sound of many shrill shrieks, the pain contorting his once friendly disposition. Yet, she recognized that ghostly face immediately. It was Firmin and the front of his shirt was soaked in his own blood.

Never had she seen so much blood before. It flowed out of Firmin like a stream down his forearm, soon staining the sand around him. With one had tight to his chest, he reached out with his free hand and desperately clawed his way towards them. She couldn't break away from his eyes: wild, rabid, and begging for salvation.

"It's him!" The manager cried. "It's him! It's-Ack!"

From the darkness of the carriage, a lasso flew out and wrapped around Firmin's neck. Its owner yanked on the cord causing the manager to flip onto his back. He struggled and tried to scream, only able to release choked gasps. Christine grabbed onto the bars in shock. If she let go, she was afraid she would faint. She could not turn away from Firmin's squirming body even though she felt her heart climb up her throat. Why couldn't she look away? Did she want to see a man die?

The owner of the lasso stepped out of the darkness. Christine felt the blood drain from her face. It was the Angel of Death. He wore the same dark garb as the night before, yet seemed even more menacing in the sunset. Madame Giry reached forward pulled her away from the bars to join the other women at the back corner of the cage. Yet, Christine still couldn't tear her eyes off him. He seemed to float over to Firmin, who flailed on the ground. The shadow crouched down until he was mere inches from his face. She waited with bated breath, almost begging him to move. Finish the job, let him go, do something. Just whatever he chose, Christine prayed, don't stand there and watch this man slowly die. Just as Christine felt as though she was going to scream, he released the hold of the lasso and Firmin gasped for breath. He rolled on his side and coughed in between deep gaps for air. No one said anything until his gasps turned to sobs.

"What kind of monster is he?" Matilda trembled.

Christine's eyes lifted from Firmin to the shadow's. He was staring at the women. Christine felt Madame Giry's arm around her tense and pulled her in closer. The shadow only looked for a few moments before turning to the male crew near the tree. They all winced, unable to move or hide from his gaze but all of them too terrified to meet his eyes.

The grey haired man appeared from the makeshift camp. He walked briskly to the shadowed man and the two talked briefly. Frantically, the grey haired man turned to bark orders to the other soldiers. Two men walked to the carriage and pulled out their other manager. He too had lost his coattails and cravat. There was a large bruise under one eye and a cut on the tip of his nose. He looked towards his employees but could not bear to witness their desperate, terrified faces. Instead, he lowered his head in shame. They tied him to the same tree as the men.

Christine had so many questions for him. He seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on. The women looked over, wishing he would yell out the answers to all their questions, but André refused to raise his eyes. Two men carried a limp Firmin into the campsite and threw him on the ground in front of the fire. Christine watched quizzically, anxious and unsure. One man grabbed a metal bar that had been in the fire, its end now red and molten.

"Oh God." Madame Giry gasped. "Close your eyes! Everyone close your eyes!"

Firmin let out the most agonizing scream Christine had ever heard. Unlike his others, this one instilled the fear of death in her. It was so full of pain, so full of despair, that it chilled Christine to the bone. She did not close her eyes. She could not tear herself away from the horror in front of her. One of the soldiers had grabbed Firmin's bleeding hand to reveal he was missing his ring finger. Instead there was just a small nub, oozing with blood. A soldier pierced the nub with the metal bar, burning the skin shut. She had never seen a body flail like Firmin's did. It buckled against the other soldier and his legs shook with a seizure like ferocity. This mixed with his agonising screams was too much for her to handle.

The moment Firmin wailed in pain, the moment the hot metal touched his exposed skin, she screamed.

Madame Giry yanked Christine into a bear hug, shielding her face from the struggling man. She buried her head in her bosom and gripped her tightly. Christine screamed against her chest. Never had she seen such horrors. Never had she seen such blood. What kind of hell was this? She felt that if she didn't scream she would be sick.

She snuck her hands up to cover her eyes, but nothing she could do could save her from the image now burned into her mind. Sophia and Matilda shrieked in horror and Carlotta slapped her hands over her mouth, unable to move. Christine opened her eyes for just a moment. She could see Sorelli, staring at Firmin, her mouth agape and eyes wide. Jammes had listened to Madame and closed her eyes, using her trembling hands to cover her ears. Her clasped eyelids could not stop the trickle of tears that fell from her cheeks.

It felt like hours before Firmin's tormented cries began to cease. The women were petrified, unable to squeak any noise or whimper. Christine turned in Madame Giry's grip, her eyes red with tears. She had to see him; the Angel of Death. How could they be so cruel?

The soldiers continued to set up camp as if nothing happened. The male crew looked away from the camp, most of them sitting up against the tree. Their heads were down, their souls shattered at their new reality. Reiner held onto the sobbing Firmin, but could not bring himself to look at him. The women were the same, holding each other as if they were a raft on a tumultuous sea. Despite her best judgement, Christine's eyes wavered over to the shadowed man and his comrade. The grey haired man looked at the floor, his jaw tense and hands clasped behind his back.

Her eyes then met with those amber orbs. They would haunt her dreams forever. He stared at her. She couldn't read the expressions she saw there. Was he gloating? Remorseful? Curious? Angry?

She turned back towards Madame Giry, unable to take their intensity. She cried and wailed until her tears ran dry.

YinuoTong: Your reviews brighten my day! I am glad the timeline was helpful!

Lucyole: I also enjoy the slow burn. These two have a lot to talk about when they get the chance. Thanks for the review!

Guest: Thank you for your review! There is a lot of miscommunication in their relationship, but we are nearing the point where they slowly begin to unravel it. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!