A/N: This story has been in the works for a bit, and I finally decided to post it. A huge thank you to all of my readers and lurkers. Buckle up, because this is gonna be one hell of a ride.

Gravity

Three days before the riot...

A vast, scarlet sun dipped low into the horizon line, stretching fingers of gold and red across an enormous, grassy field. Thin streaks of evening sunbathed every mismatched caravan and tent in a strange and ominous glow, painting the chipped wood and tattered tarps to make them beautiful, if only just for a moment. The sun seemed to consume everything in its path, but darkness was on its way, hiding behind long wisps of clouds, a sinister smile formed of both moon and stars.

"An ill omen!" A white-haired gypsy murmured, pulling a dark hood over her eyes with jewel-encrusted hands. She stood prominent within a group of similarly dressed women, and they bowed their heads fervently, repeating her prophecy in whispers. Performers were rushing around them as if they did not exist, moving toward the second largest tent on the field. It stood out proudly from the other tents, made of a glittering purple fabric, belonging to the esteemed Ringmaster. He was obsessed with royalty and claimed that he, himself, was a descendant of the English Queen, and demanded his performers treat him as such. And most did, in fact, follow his every order and whim, for they were afraid of his blood infused whip, and the crack it would make when he uncoiled it from twisted, venomous hands.

An ill omen.

The white-haired gypsy let her eyes fall from the sky, and reluctantly began to lead her group to the purple tent. Tiger handlers and performers argued in throngs around them, clutching various carved wooden cups that smelled of spiced wine and brandy. The handlers were spitting demands left and right, complaining about the snow tiger that didn't seem to listen anymore.

"I say we put a bullet in that ancient hide of hers. Sell the skins for a fortune. Then I could leave this god-forsaken place," one of the handler's sneered, emptying the rest of his brandy in one swallow.

"I've worked with her longer than you," another handler shoved his way into the conversation, baring his yellowed teeth like a hound. "So, I should get at least half the price when we sell them."

"Ringmaster is gonna want at least half. Unless we kill her at night and drag her off the grounds. Tell him she finally got out of her cage," another suggested, taking a long drag off a cigarette. "With the amount of time he spends lounging about in his tent, I'd say we have a good shot."

"It's gonna take at least three of us to drag her. Maybe even four."

"Let's do it tonight, then. After the show. And one of us should make sure the Ringmaster's decently soused. Wouldn't want him walking in on us dragging her. Then we'd be fucked."

The white-haired gypsy stood behind the handlers quietly, now waiting in a haphazard line to enter the Ringmaster's tent. She stayed silent, her eyes cast averted to the ground, a dark shroud covering her most of her face.

How can men be capable of such greed and cruelty?

The line to enter the Ringmaster's tent began to grow larger as more and more performers stumbled about with linked arms, and a cacophony of sound grew from the masses; an estranged mixture of singing and laughter.

Within the chaotic rumblings of distant roaring animals and the subtle swaying of dancers, a slender, muscular young woman slipped soundlessly through the crowds that were gathered in front of the gaudy, purple tent. She wore a skin-tight bodysuit that was covered in glistening turquoise gemstones, and walked nimbly upon her bare feet. No one seemed to notice her as she made her way toward the main arena tent, her long black hair falling loosely down her back, a mirror to the darkness that swept across the fairgrounds. She slid inside of the main tent with ease, looking back only once to ensure she was not being followed.

Once alone in the grand vaulted tent, she let out a long sigh, relaxing slightly as she surveyed the enormous and empty space that stretched out before her. Metallic cages were already in place around the arena, and she wandered up to the imprisoned white tiger whose large head rested on two butchered paws. The woman slipped the animal a piece of meat that she pulled from an ice bucket, running a hand down the bars that kept her favorite tiger trapped; a valiant beast that had come to trust her.

"One day I'll set you free, old girl," she whispered as the tiger snatched up the piece of meat and gave a low rumble of satisfaction. "It's not fair, I know. Sometimes I feel just as trapped as you." The tiger stretched out her neck, shaking some fleas from the edges of her tattered ears. The woman lingered for a moment before she lifted her eyes toward the riggings and the trapeze that were draped from the rafters. She breathed in the familiar and comforting smell of the earth beneath her feet, moving languidly away from the animal cages and into the space where she would undoubtedly fly through the air and hopefully – this time – into the arms of her partner, Caspian. He'd been continuously showing up to the Ringmaster's briefings after each show more soused than the last, and she was growing increasingly angry and nervous at his lack of ability to keep the promises he made to her. In fact, the only promise he seemed to keep was his unreliability, and the young woman, Christine, was beginning to loathe him.

She sighed again nosily as she pulled at a rigged sandbag, moving it with her foot so that she could soar for a bit. Flying always made her feel better, even if she had to do it completely alone.

She pulled the rope against the pulley rigging, tying it to a beam of wood near the side of the arena. She knew all of the places where the ropes were taut with sandbags, and had memorized each pulley location so that she could spatially, even with her eyes shut, know which direction she would be traveling; but the speed and intensity depended completely upon her.

This aerial ability, seemingly a gift given by the gods, was what kept her from leaving; along with the fact that her mother refused to even consider going to a different company. Christine knew her mother had grown up in this circus, and had many roles within it: she was a midwife, a choreographer, a hair stylist, a sister, a mother. And she had no intention of leaving...an idea that Christine could not, at least lately, get out of her head.

She hummed to herself as she pulled upon a thick piece of rope, and in an instant she flew upward, the strength of her arms holding fast against the gravity attempting to pull her back down. She had secretly been reading a couple books, without her mother having any idea, of course, about the laws of gravity, and the structure of the known universe. Giselle, the white-haired leader of the gypsies had given it to her a few weeks ago, one night after a decent show. Christine had been ecstatic, hungry to learn about things beyond their tiny little realm, and the suffocating rules and regulations that had become her life.

As she soared, she let her upper body relax, gently forming an arc with her right arm. She was wind, she was spirit; she was a goddess who created, who never dared to destroy. She continued to hum to herself, closing her eyes against the breeze that ruffled through her long, loose curls. In these moments, especially before a big show, Christine imagined bigger, more dangerous stunts, with impressive leaps and flips; she could do them all, if only Caspian could recover from his broken heart – something that she, herself, did not understand. If love was so painful, then why did anyone openly seek it? She smiled to herself, knowing deep down that she would never give herself to a man. No, she'd spend the rest of her days flying; hopefully with a more decent partner.

She decided she would bring it up to Mr. Beauchamp, the Ringmaster, yet again, and with a pinch of luck he might finally fire Caspian once and for all; giving her complete and total control over her entire bit in the show. She smiled, thrusting her body against the second rough cord that was within her reach, leaning into its pull, its bend that fought to bring her back down to earth. Forever, while in the sky, she fought against gravity; something that she did not completely understand, but was determined to figure out…she just needed more time with Giselle's book…

"Your days are numbered, Caspian," she whispered to herself, releasing the first rope that would send her spiraling across the audience. She knew down below, her favorite white tiger was watching her freedom with sad envy; and right then and there, she decided to sneak just one more piece of meat to her before she left the arena for the company briefing.

Christine released her grip slightly once her momentum had worn down, tumbling down the length of the rope with grace and agility. She scraped her bare feet into the dirt, hitting the ground running, her long slender legs catching the impact with a proficient elegance. She let the adrenaline wash over her as she breathed, releasing the rope, realizing she had burned her palms slightly from the lack of chalk.

"Oh well," she murmured, moving across the floor to make room for a back-hand spring. Her body had always been the one thing she had complete control of; it never betrayed her, it never resisted each bend and twirl that she willed into existence. As she landed the movement, she struck both arms up into the sky, leaning her head backward; it was her final pose that she would give to the audience before her aerial routine. She giggled as she thought about the jealousy that some of the gypsies had displayed about her body; they glorified how lean and muscular she was, and complained about Christine stealing the attention of male audience members, therefore squandering the chances for the younger gypsies. Yet Christine had no intention of ever letting a man approach her after the show – the only thing she cared about was running to the nearest dancer and getting a glass or two of some spiced wine.

Of course, her mother, Magdalene, loathed the fact that she drank herself into a nice stupor after every show. But Christine loved it – the gossip, the mix of alcohol and adrenaline, and the gypsies reading her palms, promising her fame and fortune through the lines in her skin. She also loved to dance, and was the most graceful of the lot; and the younger gypsies, although green with jealousy, often begged Christine to teach them a thing or two about gymnastics. She would laugh at their requests, but would always oblige their curiosity – hell, if she had no interest in pleasing a man, she might as well help others obtain their attention. Christine strode past the white tiger's cage, knowing the time for the company briefing drew nearer and nearer. She pulled another piece of raw meat from the pail, and stuck it between the rusted bars of the cage.

"Here, old girl, something to lift your spirits. Good luck tonight…I know you're going to be ferocious – with a touch of beauty." She smiled at the poor beast, hoping that her love could reach into the beaten-up heart of the snow tiger. "I've got to go…but I will sneak you a treat after, if I can." She planted a kiss in the palm of her hand, and reached inside the cage to touch the tiger's scabbed up paw. "Sweet girl," she said softly, her heart turning sick at the lashes all over her matted fur from the handler's whip.

"Maybe one day, we'll both be free."

A voice over the loudspeaker cut into the melancholy of her thoughts, and she froze, cursing herself for losing track of time.

"All performers will report to Mr. Beauchamp's tent immediately for the pre-performance briefing. The briefing will begin in five minutes."

"Shit," she muttered, turning away from the tiger cage and breaking into a sprint. She tore open the front of the grand tent, her bare feet pounding against the worn dirt path on the way to the Ringmaster – Mr. Beauchamp's – well-furnished tent. She was grateful during her run that she was so quick; anyone else probably wouldn't make it all the way across the grounds in time. But she flew as if she had wings, trying to settle what she might say against Caspian to Mr. Beauchamp – hell, she'd say it in front of the entire company if she had to. Her patience was running thin, and she couldn't risk another fucked up maneuver at the hands of a drunken, heartbroken imbecile.

The Ringmaster's purple tent came into her sight, and she was relieved at the stragglers who were still mulling about, sipping on wooden cups filled with whiskey while they waited. She slowed her running to a light jog, pushing her way into a circle of male performers, snatching a cigarette from the nearest mouth she could reach.

"Damn it, Christine!" the man complained, digging in his pocket for his pack. "You could have just asked for one."

"And where's the fun in that? Plus, this one's already lit," she responded lazily, and a few of the female gypsies giggled. Aria, one of the younger gypsies, clawed her way into the circle to get closer to Christine.

"Can I touch the diamonds on your leotard, Chris?" She asked, begging with innocent, large blue eyes. Christine laughed, puffing on her stolen cigarette while nodding. "Of course. In fact, it's good luck to touch them before a show."

"All right, let me get my hand in on that, then," a tall, bearded man – one of the tiger handlers – stepped forward in the circle, and Christine mimicked his movement, daring him to come closer.

"One more step toward me, Leon, and your balls will wish they'd never been formed." The crowd around the two tittered with laughter, and Leon furrowed his brow, towering over Christine. "You always got something quick to say, don't you? Wait until you finally get desperate enough for an orgasm, and come running for me to shove my dick inside of you," he growled, and Christine narrowed her eyes at him, right before she threw her head back with a bout of loud laughter.

"You? Giving a woman an orgasm? You wouldn't even know where to begin. Oh yeah, Leon, I've heard all about how you tried to 'please' Elizabeth…she was begging you to finally get hard so she could relax a little bit…and it seems that you couldn't quite get it up. Is it old age? Or maybe just ignorance? Could you not find the proper hole?"

The entire circle erupted in raucous laughter, and Christine folded her arms, standing triumphantly as Leon's cheeks burned. "You little slut!" He pulled back his arm to hit her, but Christine ducked and somersaulted beneath his left side, kicking him as hard as she could in the back of his shin.

"Cunt," she snorted as he buckled over, grasping his knee and howling in pain. The crowd became larger as stragglers of gypsies pushed their way into the circle, laughing along with the men who were usually bullied by Leon on a daily basis. Christine stepped forward again – oh, she wasn't finished with the bastard yet – and drove the calloused heel of her bare foot straight into the side of his neck. Leon moaned in pain, curling his knees toward his chest, writhing in the dirt.

"Christine!" A loud voice boomed, and the entirety of the circle fell silent, save for the groans of Leon who lay on the ground in the fetal position. Christine rolled her eyes as Mr. Beauchamp parted the small crowd, the buttons on his shirt almost bursting open to hold his protruding belly. He had small beady eyes, and quite a few wrinkles on his forehead that deepened once he laid eyes on Christine.

"Someone help Leon up. Now!" He barked. "As always, Christine, you're in the cause of yet another fight. I would cut your performance time if I had another trapezist."

Christine bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from exploding. "He's a pig, Mr. Beauchamp. He's the one who started it. I was just defending myself – "

"Quiet, girl! I'm going to report this, yet again, to your mother. Apparently she has no idea how to control her children."

"I'm not a child! I'm nineteen, for God sakes!" Christine challenged, folding her arms against her chest. Mr. Beauchamp's eyes grew dark, and he stepped closer to Christine, shoving his nose down into her face. She could smell the sour stench of old brandy upon his breath.

"Now listen girl, and listen good. I could throw you and your mother out on your asses if I chose to. She's become too old to even dance, yet I allow her to stay and help with things that could be taken care of by the gypsies. Do you know what that means? Your mother isn't needed here. But I allow it."

"You need me! You wouldn't have a single aerial act without me. Caspian's become a witless drunk and you know it!" Christine snapped, refusing to back down, even though he loomed over her, his eyes dark and wild. The eyes of an abuser. Of a narcissist. Of a man who considered himself righteous, when in reality he was nothing short of a demon, carrying out the Devil's bidding.

She remembered the whippings. All of the young girls had to line up single file, and the "troublemakers" would be punished by none other than the self-righteous Ringmaster. She remembered the way he would dump down a glass of whiskey before he gave the bullwhip a couple of long snaps.

She remembered the screaming, the crying.

The begging.

But she had always bitten a hole in the side of her mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing her pain. Christine had grown so good at it, that the whippings barely bothered her anymore. It was the little ones that she worried about…

He was malicious and desperate. A vile man. Someone too sick to even understand the evil that poured from their flesh. Someone too proud to taste the poison dripping from their lips.

"Oh yes, Christine, I need you…but your mother, on the other hand…" He backed away from her, folding his arms across his chest. "It's her that I don't need. You just keep that in mind before you start another fight. Now everyone; head inside the tent. Briefing is about to begin. And I won't have you cutting into the precious time of other performers preparing," he snarled, bits of spit hitting Christine in the face. She closed her eyes, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek. She could almost feel the bullwhip on her back, biting into her, slashing her skin with a sin that was not her own.

A/N: Well? What are we feeling? Any thoughts or comments, no matter how long or short, are so very precious to me. I cannot tell you enough as an author how happy I get when I see I've gotten a comment. So please, let me know what you're thinking! And as per usual, thank you for taking the time to read.

Love, L.