Rating: PG
Summary: Christian's depression is slowly killing him through alcohol, and he hasn't yet fulfilled a very important promise. Can 'divine' intervention save him?
Notes: Well, this baby's been sitting, fermenting in the back of my head for a while and only recently took shape… One of Saturn T. Riddle's fanfics srot of gave me a jumpstart and made me want to share this ficlet with the fanfiction.net community. If you see any connections here from Dogma… well, I love that movie, so that's why they're there J
I don't own Moulin Rouge or Dogma. I do, however, own a recorded copy of both movies. So there, nyaa! Also, I recently read 'My Name is Asher Lev', and Asher visits Picasso's studio in Monmarte, hence one of the lines in this fic…
With one who musesBut says not a single word
I enjoy the coolThe garden was empty. The long, heavy blades of the Red Windmill were still. The lights strung up everywhere were dim – Christian's heart was just as empty as the Moulin Rouge was.
The writer stared out of his lonely garret's one window at the empty streets below with blank, dead eyes. An empty bottle of Absinthe was clutched it his right hand, and many more bottles lay strewn about on the floor, the dilapidated mattress he called a bed, and his cluttered writing desk. Cobwebs coated his once-bright Underwood typewriter along with a carpet of dust an inch thick. Footprints led from the window to the bed to the desk, but it was obvious that he hadn't sat down to write in a very long time.
The writer in question looked just as ill groomed as his shabby room. His mat of black hair was unkempt and uncombed, and he hadn't made much of an effort to keep his face shaved. Dark circles ringed his reddened eyes, and he looked thin and desperate. There was a sort of hopelessness about him that transcended all physical appearances.
He had been this way for over half a year. Recently, though, his life had taken a turn for the worse – the drinking was catching up with him. For a while after she died he had taken some small comfort in the hallucinations brought on by Absinthe – he and the little green fairy would sing slow, sad songs together on rainy nights. However, after a while the Green Fairy stopped showing up, and he would drink more to try and find her again – but all he found was the blackness of unconsciousness. The complete blankness of the mind brought on by that was all too inviting, and pretty soon his blackouts replaced the Green Fairy. He would deliberately drink so much of the fiery liquid that he could no longer remain in the conscious world… this Christian was slowly killing himself.
He probably would have succeeded in this venture if now for a little divine intervention. On one particularly cold, wet, rainy day much like any other, Christian wasn't expecting anything spectacular to happen. He woke up at noon with a throbbing headache, but that was soon dulled with a bottle of Absinthe. Each drink he had dulled the pain of everything a little more… The one he clutched in his shaking fist at the moment was actually his third bottle of the day – and it was only one-thirty. Thus, it was no surprise that when a glowing white figure suddenly appeared in his doorway, he just thought it was another hallucination.
"You changed your colors," he slurred, turning to face the figure. He leaned shakily on the doorframe for support. "Come to sing with me some more?"
"Honestly," the being said, stamping its foot down on the wooden floorboards, "you're in worse shape than I expected. What have you been doing to yourself?"
Christian stared at her for a moment, at a loss for words. This was obviously not the Green Fairy. "Who are you?"
The apparition shook its head in annoyance. "I suppose you can't really see through all the light… either that or you're too drunk to see anything clearly."
The irritation in the figure's voice offended Christian. "I'm not drunk," he slurred indignantly. "
"Right, and Picasso's from Australia."
"Who?"
"…never mind." The figure gave a very audible sigh and took a few steps forward into the room. "Fine, I'll lose the glow. It's not like it did anything for the decor of this room anyway… this place is hideous." The amount of light in the garret diminished significantly, giving way to the somber gray-blue light filtering weakly in through the window. When Christian had cleared the spots from his eyes, he saw a strange sight before him. The woman standing in his doorway was very slight of built and quite short. Her eyes were quick and intelligent, green orbs set in a pale, narrow face framed by wavy amber hair. She wore the simplest of garments: a silvery robe like those worn by monks, belted by a satiny white cord. She regarded Christian as a mother would an errant child. "Better?" she asked.
Christian stared at her, gaping, for a moment before finding his words. "Yes. I mean, no! Why are you in my room? Get out!" He made as if to hurry her on her way, but the figure wouldn't allow it. She held out a hand to stop him, and though she was only half his size, she held him still with no apparent effort.
"Writer," she said, her voice commanding and just a little fierce, "you will hear what I have to say!" She flicked her index finger against his broad chest and he flew backwards onto the mattress as if Warner had hit him.
"W-who are you?" he asked, wide-eyed and slightly frightened.
The little woman drew herself up to her full minuscule height, her presence filling the entire room. A pair of massive, glittering silver wings unfolded themselves from her back and spread wide, the pinions of her wingtips touching either wall. When she spoke, her voice took on the sound of a symphony. "I am a Muse!"
"A what?"
The figure raised her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and folded her arms across her chest. "A muse! You know, your inspiration? You flash of insight? Your inner voice?" When he continued to stare at her blankly, she muttered darkly to herself, then scowled at him. "Really, you modern poets are impossible. It's all about you, isn't it?"
"Pardon?"
"I know what all you new-age hippies think. It all comes from your own head, right? There's no such thing as a muse!"
"Well-"
The muse cut him off with a curt gesture. "Well, guess what – you do have a muse. It's me."
"I'd guessed that." He looked her up and down for a moment, taking in the cross expression and impressive wingspan. "So… why are you here?"
"Why else? To inspire you." When Christian backed up slightly and covered himself protectively, she rolled her eyes. "No, you ninny, not that kind of inspiration. Look, I think we started off on the wrong foot. Hello, my name is Celebare. I'm your friendly neighborhood inspirational goddess."
He eyed her proffered hand warily. "I thought you were a muse."
"Oh, don't go out of your way to be stupid!" she exclaimed. "There's more than one muse, honestly!"
"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" he asked defensively. "You still haven't really told me why you're here."
"You made a promise to a very special person a little over a half a year ago," she replied softly. "If you keep on living the way you have been you won't have enough brain cells left to write your name, much less a story."
The uneasy feeling Christian had in the muse's presence turned to sudden comfort. A strange peace descended uponhim, and he felt his alchohol-clouded brain clear. "Have you… do you speak to her?" he whispered, hope and pain and desperate longing mingling in his eyes.
Celebare nodded, a gentle smile on her face. "Oh yes. She was one of my charges when she still lived… oh yes, she was an artist in her own right. It just took the music of another to bring that out in her."
"Did she give you a message for me?" Christian asked, his voice choked.
"She says you can't give up," Celebare replied. "You must go on. She wants you to share your gift with the world… and she says she'll wait for you for eternity if she must."
He didn't seem to know whether to despair in his loneliness or rejoice in this message from his love. His eyes held a slight mistrust, though, as he regarded the benevolent demigoddess standing before him. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"Would I lie about something so powerful?" She smiled gently and helped the young man to his feet. "Now, are you going to fulfill her request, or are you going to waste the rest of your life moping?"
Christian numbly nodded, staring at the wall as if dumbstruck. The muse gently reached out to embrace him, and he buried his face in her robes like a small, distraught child. She held him as a mother would as racking sobs shook his body violently, as his tears soaked through the thick, silvery fabric. She held him until he had howled out his aching loneliness and sorrow, until his eyes could cry no more tears. He wept until his sorrow evaporated, and he then fell asleep in the Muse's protective embrace.
"We're all counting on you," she whispered as she laid him down on his mattress and covered him with the thin sheets. "You're gifted – use that gift." She then turned and left, but not before surveying her sleeping charge a moment longer. Out of all the artists she had ever supported, she felt the most compassion towards him… he felt more deeply than many, and had been wounded more grievously than anyone.
Several hours later, Christian awoke. He felt somehow refreshed, cleansed… and he remembered the Muse's visit. For a brief moment he thought she had just been an Absinthe-induced dream… until he noticed a silver feather on his pillow. He picked it up, and examined it in the fading light. Divine intervention…
With a new conviction he rose from the mattress and walked across the short space to his writing desk. He carefully brushed the cobwebs off and sat down in the hard, wooden chair…
And millions of miles away, in the place known to some as Heaven, the myriad of muses gathered around to listen to the sweet sounds of a typewriter…
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved, in return…"