A/N: I suddenly felt compelled to write a MR fic on my favourite bohemian, Satie. Has anyone noticed how he always speaks of truth in the film? The fic isn't so much about truth, it's pretty much Satie rambling about how life changed after Satine's death, but anyway....it's my first fic, so be kind in your reviews.
~*Truth*~
The moment that red curtain fell, taking Satine with it, I think the Moulin Rouge died. The will was lost. Satine, our goddess, our sparkling diamond, was gone. We all died with her. Not literally, but everyone lost a little faith in the bohemian ideals. Suddenly, truth, beauty, freedom and love didn't seem like invincible notions.
We all had our ways of dealing in the ensuing months after her death. Christian did write his story, had it published, and it became a best-seller among us. We all bought one with the very little money we had. And afterwards, he left Montmartre. He didn't say where he was going, and I don't think anyone really wanted to know.
Toulouse painted. Painted and painted. And they were all portraits of Satine in her many costumes, smiling. We all loved Satine, but she was more to him than others. She was his muse, his inspiration. Then, inevitably, syphilis overtook him and death claimed him for the underworld. Another strong voice of the revolution left us. After his death, he became very famous. The nobility flocked to buy his paintings for thousands of francs.
The entertainers either left or drank themselves into oblivion. Some travelled across the Atlantic, to find their fortunes in America. Zidler, I'm sad to say, never recovered from Satine's death or Christian's departure. It was too much a strain for the old man, and he died in his sleep.
And our band of bohos also drifted apart. The Argentinean decided to return to his native Buenos Aires, to tour the clubs and sing his song of bohemian life. The Doctor followed the Diamond Dog China Doll to China, and became critically acclaimed for concocting some of the most amazing fireworks and pyrotechnics they'd ever seen.
And me? Erik Satie, the music composer of 'Spectacular Spectacular'? I got off lucky. The Paris upper classes discovered my music, and I found myself a wealthy patron who provided me with money to write music for his parties. I gave up Absinthe, packed a case of my most valuable posessions and moved into the upper-class district of Paris where the titled partied their way. I hated these people for their want of posession and superficiality, but I hoped that my music would change them.
And it did, in a way. They don't know it, but it tells the truth of the world I lived in. My message will not be forgotten in the years to come, hopefully. If they do not know the other bohemian ideals, then they will know mine.
Truth.
~*Truth*~
The moment that red curtain fell, taking Satine with it, I think the Moulin Rouge died. The will was lost. Satine, our goddess, our sparkling diamond, was gone. We all died with her. Not literally, but everyone lost a little faith in the bohemian ideals. Suddenly, truth, beauty, freedom and love didn't seem like invincible notions.
We all had our ways of dealing in the ensuing months after her death. Christian did write his story, had it published, and it became a best-seller among us. We all bought one with the very little money we had. And afterwards, he left Montmartre. He didn't say where he was going, and I don't think anyone really wanted to know.
Toulouse painted. Painted and painted. And they were all portraits of Satine in her many costumes, smiling. We all loved Satine, but she was more to him than others. She was his muse, his inspiration. Then, inevitably, syphilis overtook him and death claimed him for the underworld. Another strong voice of the revolution left us. After his death, he became very famous. The nobility flocked to buy his paintings for thousands of francs.
The entertainers either left or drank themselves into oblivion. Some travelled across the Atlantic, to find their fortunes in America. Zidler, I'm sad to say, never recovered from Satine's death or Christian's departure. It was too much a strain for the old man, and he died in his sleep.
And our band of bohos also drifted apart. The Argentinean decided to return to his native Buenos Aires, to tour the clubs and sing his song of bohemian life. The Doctor followed the Diamond Dog China Doll to China, and became critically acclaimed for concocting some of the most amazing fireworks and pyrotechnics they'd ever seen.
And me? Erik Satie, the music composer of 'Spectacular Spectacular'? I got off lucky. The Paris upper classes discovered my music, and I found myself a wealthy patron who provided me with money to write music for his parties. I gave up Absinthe, packed a case of my most valuable posessions and moved into the upper-class district of Paris where the titled partied their way. I hated these people for their want of posession and superficiality, but I hoped that my music would change them.
And it did, in a way. They don't know it, but it tells the truth of the world I lived in. My message will not be forgotten in the years to come, hopefully. If they do not know the other bohemian ideals, then they will know mine.
Truth.