If I should die this very moment

I wouldn't fear

For I've never known completeness

Like being here

Wrapped in the warmth of you

Loving every breath of you

Satine walked out of the Moulin Rouge. The beauty of the winter day was lost on her as she walked across the muddy street, towards Christian's apartment. As her heart pounded furiously in her chest, went up the stairs, her face a deceptive mask that hide the turmoil inside.

She opened the door and Christian looked up from his packing, his soft smile sliding off his face as he saw her cold look.

"What's wrong?" He asked, frowning. Satine's stomach plummeted. Don't, her heart pleaded. Please don't.

"I'm staying with the Duke," she lied. "After I left you, the Duke came to see me and he offered me everything. Everything I've ever dreamed of. He has one condition: I must never see you again." You're heartless.

Christian stared at her, the words not sinking in. Only a vague look of confusion and hurt made tears tear at the back of her throat. A shaky smile came on his face, though the looks of hurt and shock were still there.

"What are you talking about?" He asked.

"You knew who I was," she said, turning away from him and towards the fireplace.

"What are you saying?" Christian asked, fear creeping into his tone. She was glad she'd turned away, or else he would have seen how like a knife in the gut his words were. "What about last night? What we said?" Satine turned to look at him, wiping the pain off of her face.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," she said. "The difference between you and me is that you can leave any time you choose. But this is my home." Her voice caught in her throat. "The Moulin Rouge is my home."

"There must be something else," Christian insisted, slowly wearing her resolve down. "This… This can't be real." The agony in his voice broke through all her walls and guards. She stared at him, all the cold words catching in her throat and melting into sobs. They gushed out of her and she stumbled to a chair, sitting down heavily and holding her head in her hands. She didn't care anymore; make him stop hurting so much.

Christian stared at her for a moment, then rushed over, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in his.

"What happened?" He asked quietly. Satine leaned her head forward, their foreheads pressing together.

"Zidler… He… Told me something," she said softly. Light from the rising sun, pale and thin and weak, moved up the floor like water towards them, reflecting off the white walls. "I'm dying, Christian." Christian said nothing. His eyes widened in pain and one of his hands moved from her lap and moved to the back of her neck; a comforting pressure as it moved under her hair and touched her skin.

"That's why you fell? The first time we saw each other? And that's why you collapsed the first night we met?"

"Yes. Consumption." Satine said softly. Christian stroked her hair, squeezing her hand with his in her lap.

"We'll go someplace with good weather," he said softly. "Far away, so they won't find us. If… you are… dying," he swallowed, his voice breaking briefly. "We'll make the best of the time we have together." Satine smiled, tears filling her eyes.

"You mean it?" She asked shakily.

"As long as you're alright that I can't give you what you've dreamed of." He said this a bit bitterly, and Satine laughed a little. She kissed him lovingly, the pain in her chest easing and, when she drew away, breathless, she said, "You're what I've dreamed of, Love."

Satine walked quickly across the street, back to the Moulin Rouge, leaving Christian to finish packing. She would get as much jewelry as she could from her dressing room. Then she remembered the elaborate diamond necklace the Duke had gotten her and smirked. That would be all they'd need. A secret insult he'd probably never know about, but that would undoubtedly be immensely satisfying for her and Christian both.

She snuck through the halls, past hurrying workers, but she shouldn't have bothered; no one paid her any attention. She walked swiftly and silently up the stairs, into her room, and out of sight.

Grabbing a bag, she pawed through her clothing and chose the plainest, most unassuming dresses she had. They were in remarkably short supply, and she winced when she realized that she'd probably have to get more clothes. For now, the few dresses that didn't catch attention would have to do.

Then she went to her boudoir and took out the box that held the necklace in it. Opening it, she stared at the diamonds that glittered coldly in the pale morning light. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she thought of what this necklace symbolized. It was less a necklace and more a collar. Accepting it would have made her an object.

Hearing someone coming down the hall, she shoved the box into the bag and, just before the door opened, kicked it under her bed.

The Duke walked in, smirking. Satine's heart filled with hatred, but she covered it up easily. Surprising, actually, how easy it was to hide her disgust and loathing as she smiled at him. It had been impossible to hide her love for Christian. Perhaps love was simply more powerful than hatred.

Oh, don't say 'perhaps' around Christian. He might have a stroke.

"My Dear," he said smugly. "You're looking lovely."

"Thank you, Dear Duke," she said, her voice taking on the same airy tone that it had before when she spoke with him. "I'm rather fond of this dress myself."

"Yes," the Duke said, obviously having no interest in the conversation. "I was told by Zidler that you'd spoken with the writer?"

"Yes," she said neutrally, turning away from him and shutting the doors of her boudoir softly.

"I see." The Duke walked up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She willed herself not to shove him away. "Well, rest assured that he won't be bothering us again." Satine froze.

"What do you mean?" She asked breathlessly, sliding out of his grip. He smiled in a way that made her heart stop.

"Go and see." Satine ran to the window and looked out of it. For a moment, there was nothing. Then the door of the apartment building burst open and two very large men walked out, lead by a third, dragging a desperately struggling Christian out into the street, towards a car parked by curb.

Satine couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She heard the door close behind her, heard the lock click and the Duke laugh quietly, but she couldn't take her eyes off of the horrific scene unfolding in the street below.

Christian bit the arm of one of the men viciously, and when he instinctively shoved the smaller man away, Christian jerked out of the other man's grip and made a run for the Moulin Rouge.

The third man was quicker. In an instant, he caught Christian and dragged him back to the other two men in a headlock. As he did so, Christian's struggles became sluggish, and Satine sobbed helplessly when she realized he couldn't breathe.

The man released Christian, and the writer fell limply to his knees, heaving. The man lifted him up and as he did, he pinned Christian's arms behind his back. The man Christian had bitten punched Christian in the head with such force that Christian again fell to his knees.

The three pounded mercilessly on Christian, and Satine screamed and screamed as if it was she that was being beaten. Someone was pounding on the door, yelling her name, but the Duke ignored whoever it was.

Finally, the men dragged the limp, bloody Christian into the car trunk, got into the car, and drove off, leaving only a blood-smeared sidewalk behind.

Satine fell to her knees, her hands clutching the windowsill as sobs wracked her body. Coughs pounded at her chest, and her cries were agonizingly painful. The steps of the Duke echoed hollowly through the room as he walked over and patted her on the head.

"There there," he said, unable to keep the pleasure out of his voice. Satine felt a cold, icy feeling settle in her legs.

"Where are you taking him?"

"Back to his country. He came from England, you know."

"England. He's English." Satine said numbly as the cold feeling rose over into her stomach.

"Yes. He came to France from England," the Duke repeated. "He'll go back there, if he survives." The cold closed over her heart.

"If he survives." The coldness closed over her throat, and came into her tone, her voice. She stood; her legs were stronger than what she thought they'd be. She turned on him, the cold rage closed over her head, making things plain and clear for her. "I won't do the play, Duke." The Duke stared at her.

"Excuse me?" He asked.

"I won't do the play. I won't go with you. And," she pushed past him and took out the bag. She ripped out the box and threw it at his feet. "I won't take your gifts." She unlocked the door and opened it. "Now get out." The Duke's eyes bulged.

"How dare-" He started, but Satine cut him off, her voice cold and soft.

"What did you hope to accomplish, by taking the man I love? Was I to suddenly care? About you? Was I to give in to your wishes? What did you expect?" The Duke said nothing. "Get. Out." Stiff with rage, the Duke stalked towards the door, and Satine followed to slam it closed behind him. Before he left, he grabbed her arm and yanked her close.

"You'll regret this, Whore," he snarled. Satine's eyes narrowed.

"Try me." She said quietly. He shoved her away and walked out, closing the door hard behind him.

Satine stared at the door for a few moments, furious. Then the rage faded, and reality set in, cold and bitter. She staggered to the bed and sat down. The image of Christian, bloody and unconscious, was burned into her mind. She remembered his last desperate attempt to get to the Moulin Rouge. To her.

Then she held her head in her hands and wept.