Here is the second chapter. I have posted two of them today, so make sure you didn't miss chapter 13! See you all on Sunday!

Chapter 14: A Strenuous Session

"No! You leave her alone!" Madame Giry snarled, pulling Christine behind her. "Don't you think you've done enough to her?"

"I warned you. Any resistance against me will ultimately be against your little chance of survival. Guards!" He bellowed.

A small handful of guards appeared, all of them larger and more menacing than any others Christine had seen. It crushed the little sense of security Madame Giry had created in her defiance.

"Retrieve that soprano." He ordered, his gloved hand pointing directly at her.

The women burst into fits of screams and panics. Madame Giry pushed Christine and Meg against the back corner of the cage as the men opened the door on the other side. The rest of the women pushed themselves as far from the door as they could, trapping the two ballerinas against their backs.

The first guard entered, the cage jostling against his weight. Matilda and Sorelli kicked at him to push him away but he swatted their feet away with ease. He growled in frustration and grabbed Sorelli by the ankle, throwing her behind him and out of the back of the wagon. Matilda screamed, leaping forwards to try and save her but ultimately received the same treatment. Christine watched as her two friends struggled and screamed against the guards outside of the cage, the two of them pinned onto the gravel.

Her stomach twisted. If they were to get hurt, it would be because of her. Why did these people think her life was important enough to risk their safety? She tried to stand but the force of the women against her pinned her down. She whimpered. They had seen enough death and destruction today. She fought back the same freezing fear that consumed her when Jammes was attacked. She couldn't just sit by and let the worst happen yet again. If her journey here had already caused spilled blood, she wanted nothing more to do with it. No more blood would be spilled because of her inability to act.

"Stop. Stop! STOP!"

Everyone froze, turning to stare at her. Christine pushed Madame Giry and Meg aside, standing as best as she could in the back corner. She swallowed her fear and stared at the Angel of Death.

"I'll come. You don't need to hurt them."

"Christine, no." Madame Giry begged. "I will not let you go with that monster!"

With a speed Christine once thought impossible, the shadow's gloved hand reached through the bars and latched onto Madame Giry's upper arm. He yanked her closer to the bars, her head clanking against the metal as it whip-lashed from the force.

He growled in her ear. "Madame Giry, hold your tongue! Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise."

Madame Giry trembled, like she had been thrown into the coldest water in an icy tundra. Fear gripped her so tightly she whimpered and froze. Christine could only stare at her. The once bold tower of security crumbled after a mere threat. Who was this man?

Hesitantly, she stepped towards them, crouching down next to Madame Giry. She put one of her hands over his, trying to gently pull off his fingers. She could feel the tension in his muscles through the gloves. No wonder his grip left such sore bruises on her throat.

"Please. I will come. Please don't hurt them."

The shadow looked at their touching hands, then to her. After a moment of hesitation, he let go of the ballet instructor.

"It cannot be." Madame Giry whimpered. "It's impossible."

Everyone else remained frozen, even the guard in the cell. The wind was even silent as she stepped over her friends towards the cage door. She saw their wide eyes, all of them begging her to stay, but they knew she could not. The guard stepped out of the cage and Christine followed suit. She watched as her two friends were put back into the cage and winced as she heard the lock. Now, she was alone and face to face with the man who haunted her dreams. No one could save her now.

She exhaled. She needed to be brave.

The Angel of Death held out his hand. She hesitated. It was a chivalrous act, his open palm waiting for her to take. Yet, those were the same fingers that she had just peeled off her beloved instructor. What guise was this? But she remembered Madame Giry's bravery when Firmin was burned, how she tried to protect everyone. She remembered Meg leaping over to kick Jammes's attacker, even though she knew she could get hurt. Now she stood, staring at the gloved hand before her. How ironic that when she was faced with death, it was her turn to be brave. She took a deep breath and glanced up at the shadow. He watched her intently. She took his hand.

"No. It cannot be. No! God, no! Christine!" Madame Giry cried, reaching her hand through the bar for the little soprano. The shadow turned and glared at her and she reflexively pulled her hand back.

Christine had never seen Madame Giry so terrified before. Despite all that had happened, she was the tower of security and reason. She hadn't cried throughout the journey. Why was she so terrified now?

"You will be silent." The Angel of Death hissed at Madame Giry. He turned briskly, pulling Christine through the campsite.

She began to tremble. What did Madame know that she didn't? She turned to look at her again, looking for a clue, hint, anything that would tell her. All she saw was her wide eyes and trembling grip on the bars. She tried to pull back, the fear now gripping her heart like a vice but her capturer's icy grip again proved to be unbreakable. He didn't even seem fazed when she pulled with all of her might, continuing to drag her along like a child. Any bravery she had gathered had been left behind with her friends. Her heart rate was uncontrollable, her throat seizing shut. What did Madame Giry know? What was going to happen? Had her bravery just been foolishness?

"Where are we going?" She asked. He did not reply.

She kept up with him, though slightly behind him. She looked at his broad back, tall and powerful. If he ever wanted to hurt her, she realized, there would be nothing that could stop him. She tried to blink away the tears that stung her eyes. Meg was right. She was naive. She was stupid.

They walked past the campsite and around some of the larger rocks at the opposite end of the field. Around the back of some larger stones hid a small tent.

She glanced at her friends in the cage once last time before he dragged her forward. She stumbled, barely catching herself as he let her fly into the tent. It was dark, with only a candle in the far end to illuminate the room. Her eyes were drawn to the padded mattress on the floor, covered in exotic pillows and blankets.

She felt sick. Her eyes were glued to the bed. It was the only furniture in the room, the only reason she would have been brought here. He brought her here to defile her. To prove how weak helpless she was before throwing her back to her friends as a warning. She wasn't here to rehearse, she was here to quench his unholy desire.

Christine bolted for the tent opening but crashed into his solid chest. She stumbled backwards, but was caught by two strong arms that wrapped around her waist. She froze, trembling against the Angel of Death.

"No. Please." She cried, pushing herself away from him. He let her slide out of his arms and watched as she retreated to the far side of the tent.

"Relax Vicomtesse." He hissed. His tone sounded stung by her fear. "I have no plans to bed you."

Christine clasped her hands together, pulling them into her breast and turning her body from him. Was she embarrassed by his remark? He was right, that was exactly what she was terrified of. But did she believe him?.

"Why?" She rasped. "Why have you brought me here?"

"Breathe." He said calmly, raising his hands upwards. "I have only brought you here to sing."

Christine furrowed her brow. "To-To sing? Here?"

"It is the most private location in this camp. No one would dare interrupt you here."

In other words, Christine thought, no one would dare come to save her.

She turned back to face him. He remained in front of the tent, blocking her escape.

"You have every right to be afraid. I have been quite atrocious. But I promise you, I mean you no harm."

He reached back into the shadows and pulled out a small chair. She blinked in surprise at his magic trick. That chair was not there before, was it? As he sat down, he opened his hands and held them up to her.

"I will remain in this chair. I will not touch you."

Christine felt her shoulders relax. They stared at each other, both unsure of how to continue.

"Monsieur, I- there has been a mistake."

"How so?" He asked.

"I am not a leading soprano, just a ballerina. I don't sing-"

"That is not true." He interrupted. "I have heard you sing. You see, it was I who threw the pottery at Signora Giudicelli."

Christine's eyes widened. Had he been watching them their entire journey through Persia? "What?" She gasped.

"I threw the pottery at her when you performed at the amphitheatre. That wretched diva produced the most vile screeches that defame Opera. But when you took the stage…" He hesitated, staring at the still trembling mouse he had brought into his den. "You demonstrated potential." he finished. "You are the one that is mistaken, little songbird. I heard you sing in her place. Your voice is smooth, crisp, alluring in every detail. But it was weak and rusted. You lack emotion yet showed immense talent. I am not mistaken. I heard you sing. You can sing. The question is: do you want to sing?"

Christine could not process what was happening. He spared her life on that mountain so she could sing? He had to be lying.

"I didn't think I had a choice."

"As I said; there is always a choice. One of the greatest lies we can believe is that we have lost all control. I may be villainous, but I believe in order. The decision to sing ultimately lies with you."

"But you think the others will die if I don't?"

"I think they stand a better chance if you sing. Though their survival is not guaranteed."

Christine didn't respond. She stared down at her tattered black shoes, thinking about his words. For so long, she felt as though she was just following the will of the world, like a piece of driftwood down a raging stream. She couldn't stop her father from dying, nor could she keep her angel. In the end, it was her decisions that put her in this place. As much as it comforted her to hear there was an alternative, she wished that he did force her into a choice. That way, she wouldn't bear all of the guilt when she failed. Was that wrong of her to believe?

"I was a composer, before I worked for the Shah." He continued. "I know this may be difficult to believe, but I promise you, I can recognize the sound of the muses when I hear it. You have an incredible talent, though it is clearly without practice. I can help you improve your voice so that the Shah can be just as tranced as I was when I first heard you. If you succeed, you can save your friends."

Christine blinked. The thought of her being able to save anyone seemed unreal. She couldn't save her father nor her angel despite everything she did. She couldn't even save herself, but here she was, standing in a tent in a foreign land with her enemy telling her she had the power to do the unthinkable.

"I don't think I can." She whispered. "I'm not strong enough to do this."

"I despise lies, little songbird."

"I'm not lying. I'm-I'm good enough-"

"Another lie. Your talent is clear."

"Carlotta has more experience, more public support-"

"If the public heard your voice at its true potential they would abandon her."

Christine began to stumble. "Please, I've never been a prima donna.."

"Why is that?"

Christine winced. It was because of her betrayal, because she abandoned her angel of music and in turn, he abandoned her. She hugged her arms, avoiding his questioning gaze. She bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears that singed her eyes.

"Is it because of those incompetent managers?" He asked, clearly frustrated that she did not answer him.

"No. They have been nothing but kind to me."

He scoffed. "Kind? They pushed you into the back, hindered you from reaching your potential."

"They let me stay at the Opera."

"Let you stay? What would cause them to get rid of you? Had they never heard you sing before?"

"I was-am unaccompanied. I was under age and did not have a patron."

The man hesitated. "Unaccompanied?"

Christine looked down. "I am not a vicomtesse. I'm not married. And I- my father passed away. I have no one, monsieur. No money, no status, no husband. They had every right to send me to the streets. Instead, they let me stay."

The Angel of Death didn't say anything. He stared at her, now frozen in place. Christine at first had avoided his eyes, but after his prolonged silence, she stared up at him in confusion. He blinked, clearing his throat.

"So the ring is not from the Vicomte?"

Christine completely forgot about the ring. She shuffled uncomfortably. "It is from him, monsieur. He asked me to marry him before I left for this tour. But I...I refused him."

"Refused him?" Was the hushed whisper that escaped his lips. Christine studied him. His hands gripped his pant legs as his eyes stared down at the floor. The mask completely covered his entire face, curving around the edge of his skin to the border of black hair and cheekbones. She couldn't read his expression, though his body was tense. It almost looked as if he was in shock.

"Monsieur?" She questioned. Was he having a heart attack? Was he ill? He didn't look like he was breathing.

He sat straight, his tone returning to normal. "Why did they let you stay if you were unaccompanied?"

Christine shrugged. This was something she had asked herself many times over. Madame Giry had always told her that she was a part of the Populaire's family, something Christine couldn't understand. "My father was a violinist, he played there often and helped with maintenance and other things before he died. I had studied ballet there as a child, so they knew of my abilities and that I could sing. I was almost 18 at the time of my father's death. I guess I was just a safe assurance."

"Your father must have passed away recently, I assume? You do not seem much older than 18."

Christine bit her lip. She nodded, stifling back tears. "Just over a year ago, monsieur."

"I apologize. I am being intrusive. Forgive me."

She turned back to face him. She wasn't sure his intentions, but he did not seem like what she had assumed. This confused her, as most of her experiences with him had been volatile, but now he was being...gentle?

"I am sorry for your loss." He said softly.

It was an olive branch. A profound gesture that assured her he wasn't the monster she had imagined. She gazed at him quizzically. She had heard this many times before. Anyone who had known her father had said that to her. She had always looked away from them, unable to bear the pity or apathy in their eyes. They would never know how hollow she was without him. They would never know that she lost two of the most important people in her world that night, and nothing they could say would ever bring them back. She had to bite her tongue to stop a verbal tirade against them. They weren't sorry. They just said it to be polite. She knew this because they would immediately try to change the conversation or say something to make her smile. The thought of being present in her moment of sadness was too much for them to handle, but they neglected to realize that she drowned in it every day.

Yet this man didn't say anything. He remained present and she didn't know how to handle it. After a while, she muttered a thank you. He continued to stare as if he was waiting for her to continue talking about it. His tone was genuine and his eyes seemed to grow soft. Was he truly sorry for her loss? She didn't want to continue this conversation now. After all she had been through these past couple of days, wallowing in her pain was not going to help her save her friends. He leaned forward in his seat, as if to stand. She instinctively shuffled backward. He ignored her fear.

"Would you like to talk about him?"

She shook her head. "No. But thank you."

He nodded. "Of course, this is not the place or the time, nor the company you would desire."

"Why? Why are you being kind to me?"

The softness in his eyes disappeared in an instant. "Do you think me a monster? Incapable of doing so?" He snarled.

She flinched. "No-N-No. I didn't mean any disrespect."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I'm just confused." She whimpered, lowering her head to avoid his gaze. "You have only heard me sing once, monsieur. I have no desire to be a Primadonna. You are being most generous to me now, but I've been locked in a cage all day. I've watched you nearly kill two men. Yesterday you nearly killed me and-"

She didn't even realize he had stood until he was towering over her, his hands gripping her upper arms.

"Killed you? I would never!" He accused.

"I'm sorry!" Christine cried.

He didn't say anything. He merely loomed over her, his eyes burning her soul. How was he able to petrify her like this? She couldn't move, couldn't turn her eyes away from those amber orbs.

"Please, let me go." She whimpered.

It was as if her skin had turned into boiling lava. He recoiled from her and retreated back to the door of the tent. She rubbed at her aching arms. Christine didn't understand his sudden rage. Why did the thought of harming her, a girl he had only met a few days ago, cause such emotion? Did he truly mean it when he said he wasn't one for murdering young maidens? Yes, that had to be it. There was no reasonable explanation why he would be angry at her accusation other than it tarnished his moral code.

It was silent for too long. She was about to speak when he interrupted her.

"I owe you an apology. I have been...monstrous. I let my temper get the best of me and I can see how I have hurt you. I promised I would remain in that chair and have already broken it. Forgive me."

She instinctively rubbed at her neck. She had no idea how bad the bruises looked, but she was certain they were visible even in the candlelight.

He sat back down and sighed. "I owe you an explanation as well. We did not realize there would be so many in the cast, so I decided to let the women rest in the cages while the men walked. It was a decision based on circumstance, not cruelty. Your managers rode with me as we discussed business, yet decided to attack me once the carriage stopped. Firmin was lucky to survive. I understand how terrifying it must have been to watch, but if we did not seal the wound shut, he would not have made it to the capital. As for my treatment towards you…"

He hesitated. "I have nothing but lamentable excuses. On that mountain, I let my anger at the situation take control. My duty is to ensure that all of you make it to the Shah alive and that bird could have been sent to any nearby traitor. In this country, women are used often in warfare. I thought you were some sort of spy. I realize now that I had assumed the worst. You were innocent and did not deserve to feel the brunt of my anger. I promise you that I will not touch you again."

He sat back down, his composure reset. Christine merely stared. A part of her wanted to believe the man in front of her to be just a poor, misunderstood messenger. Yet, she could not shake the haunting feeling that something was wrong. She merely nodded, grateful he at least apologized. Regardless, she refused to let her guard down.

"Now." He sighed. "How much do you know of the Shah?"

"Very little." She admitted.

He leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His hands were clasped together tightly. "He is the leader of one of the most powerful empires in the world. The king of the Middle East. A king who maintains his power through brutal means. He lives for the thrill of death and relishes in bloodshed. He shows no sympathy, no remorse, no kindness to anything small and useless."

She met his eyes, bright in the darkness. Her hands trembled.

"If he hears that toad sing, he will not be impressed. He will send each and every one of you to your demise in the cruelest, bloodiest way possible. He will spare no expense to ensure the cast and crew who disappointed him beg for the sweet comfort of death by the time he is finished. If that is his wish, there will be nothing I can do to save them."

Christine now understood. If she didn't sing, they would die. If she didn't shine, everyone she cared about would burn in living purgatory. She wanted to scream, beg, cower underneath his tall frame and plead for an alternative. But she knew this was it. This was the point of no return.

"If I sing, will my friends live?" She asked again.

The Angel of Death was silent. "Their chances are much higher."

It was no guarantee. But who was she to decline this game of chance? At least this way, she had the opportunity to her friends. Her father had told her to be brave. She had to do this.

She cleared her throat, rubbing her sore neck with her pale fingers. With as much strength as she could muster, she decided.

"Then let's begin."

Now everything is in motion. Let us continue on this tumultuous journey. See you all on Sunday! Please R&R