Disclaimer --

I own none of the characters portrayed in the film Moulin Rouge and therefore, own none of the characters portrayed in this fan fiction. They are all owned, protected, and copyrighted to 20th Century Fox and the one and only Baz Luhrmann and company.

The following fan fiction is the exact same story as what was seen and heard in Moulin Rouge. The only difference is that I have taken the time to novelize the story in a point-of-view form. That is, you will find the entire story told from Christian's point of view, pinpointing his emotions, thoughts on particular matters, and inevitable confusion and sadness in certain parts. I originally sought out to write the book that Christian wrote in the movie, but after realizing a few unexplainable discrepancies, chose to write the 'fic the way I did.

If you have no desire to read Moulin Rouge strictly through Christian's eyes, click the little 'x' in the corner of this window now.

A very close friend of mine (my friend, muse, and so much more), Crystal, is/has writing/written a sister-fiction to this one, her 'fic being told through the point-of-view of Satine, which makes a comical read, seeing both of their thoughts on certain aspects. I highly suggest you read it, being that she's an excellent author and has the character of Satine down pat. (Pst! The 'fic's name is "Daughter of the Underworld")

All thanks and dedications go out to her for her unfaltering devotion and assistance with my writing this piece of fiction. I don't know where I'd be without her.

Feel free to review, though try and be constructive, not destructive.

-- Not Quite Shakespeare


Prologue -- "The Importance of Being Earnest"

Never, in all my life, was the word "normal" utilized in retrospect to myself, and as the eldest son of an upper class, English banker at the turn of the century and the final stages of the Victorian Era, the absence of the very foundation of English values (normality, tradition, cogentincy) was perhaps the worst burden a boy like myself could don.

Although I have no particular memory of unhappiness during my childhood years, I distinctly recollect certain comments, even arguments between my parents about my habits and preferences. My father could not understand that, rather than rushing to the playground to rough house with the other boys after classes, I would come straight home, perch myself in an old oak tree and watch London slow down for the day. Even during my lessons, my head was constantly turned toward a window, and it was common occurrence to receive a cuff on the ears or wrists by my teachers for "daydreaming."

My mother, the kind, understanding soul that she was, merely told my father that I was something of a "nature boy;" one who preferred the outdoors to the stuffy, British life, but she was only partly correct. The truth was that even from a very young age (the furthest I can recollect being three), while my body was still developing and I was "supposed to be getting into trouble and being a boy to get rid of those childish impulses before having to grow up," I was developing much differently from most boys in upper London.

I saw everything through a pair of very different eyes. Where other children were seeing black and white, and hearing and responding to the monotony of common British society, I rejected such "negative" progress toward the minds of the adults. To me, things were starkly different; I saw in vibrant colors and heard the beauty in all sounds of the living. Everywhere I went, there was poetry behind the simplest of actions and song in everything representative of truth, beauty, freedom, and more importantly than all, love.

In my little world, the hills were alive with the sound of music, and the Earth truly was a canvas upon which God painted his greatest work. I, for one, was not going to jeopardize an instant to allow myself to fall into the adult world, else risk my grip on my beautiful reality.

During the first six years of my life, things continued along that way rather regularly. I remained firmly rooted in my perfect world (where wrongs were always righted and love always prevailed), my father did not approve, and my mother defended me, as well as scolded my father for attempting to destroy something that she called my "beautiful naiveté." Things changed drastically for the worse, however, with the birth of my little sister.

I had brothered two siblings prior to her, both of which died in the early months of life, something that was unfortunately commonplace. What was so different about her birthing was the fact that there were complications and my mother passed away during it. I was shocked, broken, and for a few weeks, the colors before me dulled, and for a good period of time, I considered allowing them to fade to black and white as my father so desperately wanted. My father was heartbroken and drove himself into his work at a frightening pace, one that left me at home with my little sister for hours on end. It was gradually in her presence, marveling at the small life so dependent on others for her protection, that I found my footing again. I made up nursery rhymes and countless songs, and although to this day she can't remember but the notes hummed, with her nurturing, I healed.

My father was hardly as lucky. Without my mother's kind interference, he openly struck out at my individualism, insisting that I ground myself and become prepared for taking over operating of the bank. I needed to learn the art of "being earnest," a trait that I apparently lacked. He pulled me out of the final years of school during adolescence and forced me into internship under him. It was during those years that I learned an intense hatred for enclosed spaces, bills, and counting money.

By the time I turned twenty and my father was all but ready to retire and turn his position over to me, I had been swept up in an art movement known as the Bohemian Revolution. Despite my having been trapped in a bank, slaving my years away, since my early teens, I had bent little to my father's wishes. I saved my money (rather than contributing it to the family as my father expected me to) and purchased an Underwood typewriter, the best of its kind, and announced my desire to become a writer.

My father was not pleased.

Imagine his annoyance upon my twenty-first birthday, a mere three days before he was scheduled to resign from his business and I was to be commissioned to his position, when I packed my bags and proudly brandished a ferry and train ticket, both of which would get me eventually to the small village of Montmartre in Paris, France.

My father condemned such an action, claiming the village to be "a village of sin," but I knew better. It was the center of the Bohemian world, home to musicians, writers, and painters, all of which were called the "Children of the Revolution." I was to be a part of them and write about the very ideals of the Bohemian movement; truth, beauty, freedom, and love.