No Mountain Too High
A Moulin Rouge fan fiction
by Galatyn Renner
for Sparkling Diamond Satine, the queen of MR fan fics
Disclaimer: Christian (is mine) and Satine belong to Baz, the genius.
Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side, come what may.
But you won't be, will you Satine. Christian walked the streets of Paris in a mood that was beyond despondent. The light drizzle didn't help anything.
Where are you, Satine? Where have you gone and why did you leave me? He corrected himself. Never mind, darling. I know where you are. You make the angels jealous. Water ran down his cheek, tears mingled with raindrops. Christian did not brush it away; tears were all he had left of her.
"Monsieur, monsieur?" Christian turned around to see a flower girl standing behind him. They were the only people in the street. He had never seen her before, and yet-
"Satine?" He looked again. "Dear God, it can't be." But he desperately wanted to believe.
"My name's Marguerite, monsieur. Buy a rose? For your lady?"
"My lady is beyond earthly roses now. Even in life, she outshone them. A rose does not have a tongue, but
hers spun words of gold and music. But yes, I will buy a rose. All of them, if this will cover it." Christian
fished two ten-franc pieces out of his pocket and gave them to her.
"Yes, monsieur. Would you like them sent somewhere?"
"Send them to the Duke of Monroth at the Moulin Rouge. Tell him they're for the one he couldn't have, from the one she truly loved."
"Shall I tell him the whole story, monsieur?"
At that moment Satine's voice echoed in his ears. "Tell our story, Christian."
"Tell him that I will eviscerate him in fiction. And that I will tell our story." He turned to go.
"I'll tell him, monsieur. And I think Satine would be proud of you."
"How do you-" Christian spun around. He was alone in the street. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone on a single rose that lay on the pavement. A red-gold rose, the color of Satine's hair. He bent and picked it up.
"Tell our story, Christian." Satine's last words echoed in his ears again.
"I will tell our story, Satine. I will tell the world our story." Christian rushed home to his flat, sat down in front of his typewriter, sent a short prayer up to Satine as he kissed the rose and began to type:
This story is about truth, beauty, freedom; but above all things, this story is about love. The woman I love is . . . dead.
The Beginning
A Moulin Rouge fan fiction
by Galatyn Renner
for Sparkling Diamond Satine, the queen of MR fan fics
Disclaimer: Christian (is mine) and Satine belong to Baz, the genius.
Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side, come what may.
But you won't be, will you Satine. Christian walked the streets of Paris in a mood that was beyond despondent. The light drizzle didn't help anything.
Where are you, Satine? Where have you gone and why did you leave me? He corrected himself. Never mind, darling. I know where you are. You make the angels jealous. Water ran down his cheek, tears mingled with raindrops. Christian did not brush it away; tears were all he had left of her.
"Monsieur, monsieur?" Christian turned around to see a flower girl standing behind him. They were the only people in the street. He had never seen her before, and yet-
"Satine?" He looked again. "Dear God, it can't be." But he desperately wanted to believe.
"My name's Marguerite, monsieur. Buy a rose? For your lady?"
"My lady is beyond earthly roses now. Even in life, she outshone them. A rose does not have a tongue, but
hers spun words of gold and music. But yes, I will buy a rose. All of them, if this will cover it." Christian
fished two ten-franc pieces out of his pocket and gave them to her.
"Yes, monsieur. Would you like them sent somewhere?"
"Send them to the Duke of Monroth at the Moulin Rouge. Tell him they're for the one he couldn't have, from the one she truly loved."
"Shall I tell him the whole story, monsieur?"
At that moment Satine's voice echoed in his ears. "Tell our story, Christian."
"Tell him that I will eviscerate him in fiction. And that I will tell our story." He turned to go.
"I'll tell him, monsieur. And I think Satine would be proud of you."
"How do you-" Christian spun around. He was alone in the street. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone on a single rose that lay on the pavement. A red-gold rose, the color of Satine's hair. He bent and picked it up.
"Tell our story, Christian." Satine's last words echoed in his ears again.
"I will tell our story, Satine. I will tell the world our story." Christian rushed home to his flat, sat down in front of his typewriter, sent a short prayer up to Satine as he kissed the rose and began to type:
This story is about truth, beauty, freedom; but above all things, this story is about love. The woman I love is . . . dead.
The Beginning