Title: Loved and Lost

Disclaimer: I don't own anything having to do with Moulin Rouge but this story, and the DVD.

Category: Angst

Summery: Death effects people in many ways. How does it effect a person so totally in love? Christian's feelings in the aftermath.

A/N: I guess I'm writing this because I wanted to know what happened on that not-so-very-special day that Christian sat down at his typewritter. What made that day different than the others? What does Christian have to go through to get to that point where he can actually write the story?

Here chronicles the events of Christian's life after Satine, as I feel it happened. I think I have a pretty good grasp on Christian's character. This chapter sort of ties up what happens to Harold Zidler and The Duke. Later chapters revolve more around Christian.



Chapter 1:

He just rocked back and forth. Rocked back and forth as you would rock a child to sleep. He cradled a precious treasure in his arms. As he did so, he let forth a wail. A wail so raw and full of despair it seemed as though the cheers behind the curtain faltered for a second. But the young man just continued to rock. He took no notice of the people surrounding him. Most of them were crying as well. A little man, with short ebony hair and beard edged uncomfortably toward his shaking friend.

"Chwistian?" The dwarf's voice too sounded thick with sorrow. The young man did not answer. The dwarf tried again. "Chwistian?" He touched his friend lightly on his shoulder. Christian jerked back into reality for a moment.

"No! Leave us Toulouse! Let us be! She needs to be alone!" Toulouse backed away. Christian's eyes were blazing with a fire that could not be extinguished by the tears that accompanied it. His eyes told a tale of so much emotion and heartbreak that Toulouse grew scared. Again Christian bent over his treasure and began to sway back and forth; his eyes shut once more. Toulouse walked wordlessly off the stage. He knew how it felt to lose someone. As he went, another scream from Christian followed him into the darkened streets of Montmartre.

.And still the young Christian swayed.

~?~

Harold Zidler was a powerful man. His presence filled a room with authority. He was always considered a leader. He seemed lost now though. Christian continued to sway in a slow and steady rhythm. He didn't know what to do. He watched the man hunch forward and retch, his head turned away from the auburn hair and ashen skin of Satine. He took an uncertain step forward and knelt beside Christian. The young man stopped heaving. Christian lifted his head slowly and squinted through tear-filled eyes at Zidler. To Zidler, Christian's eyes shone with cold fury and uncontrollable grief. Zidler too was momentarily taken aback by his eyes, but he touched Christian's hand.

"Let go Christian. She's gone, let her go." He tried to gently pry the limp Satine from the strong grasp of Christian, but the young man just held on tighter.

"No." That was all he said. He curled his arms farther around Satine and fell forward. He lay crumpled over her, still sobbing.

Zidler sighed. He would leave the young man for a moment. He walked resolutely toward the curtain. He found the opening between them and pushed his way through. The stage lights momentarily blinded him.

The audience had stopped cheering at this point. Most of them were looking at each other in a confused sort of way. But when Zidler appeared they again broke out into an overwhelming applause. Zidler raised his arms for silence, as he had done so many times during the parties when The Rouge was still a nightclub. The audience did eventually settle down.

Zidler wasn't sure what to say, but he had to say something. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he began. "Tonight you have witnessed the first and final performance of 'Spectacular, Spectacular'." The audience murmured to themselves, and Zidler again called for quiet. "There will be no curtain call toni-." But Zidler was cut off. Again the sound of Christian's scream filled the theatre, and this time the audience could hear it. Many of them stood up, the women put delicate hands to their faces. This scream was different. It was filled with pain, as well as sorrow. The people in the audience suddenly knew something was wrong. Men gathered up their wives, and the audience worriedly made their way toward the exit. That scream told them that their cheers of congratulations, and cheers of delight were not needed here.

Zidler watched them go, and hurriedly returned backstage. An older man was standing over Satine, shaking his head. It was the doctor that the Stage Manager had gone to fetch. Christian was doubled over on the ground. He had been separated from Satine, and had vomited about 10 feet from her vulnerable body. The Argentinean was holding Christian's shoulders, preventing him from rising and returning to Satine. Christian finished gagging. He tried to put up a fight, but the Argentinean was too strong. Christian flailed his arms helplessly for a few moments before lying still in a dead faint, grief finally overcoming him.

~?~

The wind outside whipped around the stooping man as he walked through the dim streets of Montmartre. A light snow was falling about him, and he pulled his tailcoat farther around his body. He felt empty. He had lost her. Right in front of his eyes, she had dared to deceive him. Him. Edward, the Duke of Monroth. Once that title commanded respect, now it seemed as though a person could toss aside his name just as easily as they could toss him aside. Why he had dared to love her, he did not know. No woman in his life had ever loved him. But he had loved her. He had loved her more than all of his fortune, and all of his fame. He would have done anything for her, but she couldn't see that love. She could only see that ridiculous writer, and his way with words. He felt anger towards Christian. Jealousy even. What did that boy have that he didn't?

The Duke stuck his freezing hands in his pockets and continued down the narrow street. He didn't look up again until he almost ran into another man walking down the same path as him. "Sorry," the Duke said in an offhand voice, and looked at whom he had bumped into. He voice caught when he saw that it was that imbecilic dwarf.

Toulouse glared at the man in front of him. "You! What awe you doing hewe?"

"What does it matter to you? Why don't you go back to your friends? Go see if Satine will betray you as well." The Duke spit out the words with fury.

Toulouse stared at him. "She didn't wove you. She couldn't betway someone she never woved."

"I can still make her love me. I can make her do anything. If giving her everything she ever wanted couldn't do it, I'll take away everything she ever had."

Toulouse shook with suppressed rage. "She won't do anything fow you anymowe, Duke. Let hew wie in peace." Toulouse continued on his way, his head bent over in silent mourning. He reached a corner and turned down it, and disappeared into shadow, leaving the Duke to stand with his own thoughts.

The Duke stared after the dwarf for a moment then turned around and headed back the way he had come, the red wings of the mill again in his sight.

~?~

Zidler crouched over Satine. Her eyes were half closed; the ornate Hindi Headdress was still entwined in her hair. "My little Sparrow," he whispered. He carefully undid the headdress from her locks, and brought his hand over her sapphire eyes, closing them. She looked peaceful in a way. She no longer needed to worry about life's troubles, and she had died an actress, like she had always wanted. She had died happy. It wasn't Satine's death that troubled him though. He had known that she was dying. He had known it for weeks. No, he worried more about the man lying unconscious several feet from her body. He didn't think that Christian would die happy or fulfilled.

But at the back of his mind another nagging worry surfaced. What would happen to his beloved Moulin Rouge? The Duke still held the Deeds. What would happen now that Satine couldn't be there for the Duke, or to act in his plays?

As though on cue the Duke appeared on stage. He strode purposefully out of the shadows towards Zidler. "She's dead then." It wasn't a question.

Zidler looked at the Duke. He feared the power emanating from the man standing in front of him. He didn't know what to say to him. He could only nod.

The Duke glanced at Satine's body. She no longer looked beautiful to him. She was a frail witch. Some unseen force had spoiled her. The Duke couldn't understand what Satine had felt in her last moments, her feeling of completeness. He could only see that he himself was the one that had been left to wither. He wanted to blame someone for that. He wanted to blame someone for what he felt. He turned on his heels, as though looking for somebody to take out his feelings on. He caught sight of Christian, still lying on the floor. Christian had just come around, but lay unmoving and silent.

"You! It was you!" The Duke screamed. He ran over to Christian's helpless form and kicked him, hard. Christian couldn't feel the kick. He couldn't feel anything. He looked up, his eyes cloudy, his face still wet with tears. The Duke only saw arrogance staring back at him. The Duke had been hoping for a reaction from Christian, but he didn't get it. Christian remained on the floor. The Duke closed his eyes, fury over coming him. He slowly tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I'm closing you down Zidler. The Moulin Rouge isn't yours anymore." He watched Christian continue to stare at him. Christian could not hear a word that was spoken, or any of Zidler's protests, for the world was screaming at him. But he lost consciousness again as the Duke gave him a final kick in the stomach before leaving the theatre for the final time.

/end chapter one

A/N: There you have it. The day of Satine's death. I don't hate the Duke as much as most people, but we all know he closes the Rouge. I'm putting up another chapter soon. Chapter two is in a state of editing, and should be up shortly. I'll leave you with a quote from it:

When he finally stopped running, he looked up to get his bearings. He found that he was only a couple blocks from the darkened Moulin Rouge, whose wings were motionless. He also saw that he was standing in front of a small, local tavern: Le Bar Absinthe. It seemed as though fate had shown him a way to escape.

-Bohem Revolu