You Can't Walk Away From Love
It was snowing again.
Satine gazed out the window at the pristine crystals that fell in a gentle wave toward the ground, her thoughts drifting toward the hope that the change in weather would not severely hamper their plans for travel. Christian had spent a week making arrangements and preparations, and had been working himself nearly as hard as he had the last few days before Spectacular Spectacular was to open, and indeed it would be a tragedy for all that planning shouldn't go to waste.
But as she glanced up toward the clouded morning sky, Satine couldn't repress the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sensation that something simply wasn't right. Everything should have been perfect—she and Christian were finally leaving Paris; she would at long last fulfill her dream of flying away from there. Away from Montmartre, away from the Moulin Rouge . . . away from the Duke.
She sighed, her breath fogging the frosted windowpane.
Christian entered the room a moment later, and she could almost feel his anxiety as he moved over to her, her coat in his hands. She obediently shrugged the heavy woolen winter garment on, absently looping the buttons into their holes, and securing her scarf around her neck.
"Are you ready, darling?" Christian asked gently.
Satine turned to face him, and gave a resolute nod, ignoring the twisting of her stomach into knots. She tried to put it off to the fact that, despite all her 'worldly' qualities, she was not a well-traveled woman, but it was a feeling she recognized all too well . . . much the same that she had experienced before the events that had occurred in the Gothic Tower. That was weeks ago now, but it all still seemed so close at the back of her mind . . .
"Then we'd better go; our train leaves in an hour."
"Look, Christian—isn't it beautiful?"
Satine was leaning with her arms folded against the railing of the boat that was sailing them down the sapphire ribbon of the Nile, a dreamy expression on her fair features. Already she looked healthier, her voice light-hearted and melodic as she called out to him.
Christian stood alongside her, gazing lovingly at her instead of the sunset she was referring to, and his response came with an earnest nod of agreement. "Beautiful."
He was inspired undoubtedly by the breathless sight of Satine against the exotic backdrop Egypt provided, comparisons made of her lovely eyes to the color of the river Nile, her hair the same as the red and gold in the setting sun's reflection before them.
Yes, it was beautiful.
She smiled toward him in a carefree manner, and for the first time he noticed she was not wearing the traditional styles of turn of the century Paris. Instead, her willowy form was clad in a dress of pure white linen, fitted at the waist with a simple belt of gold. It seemed to suit her well, more so than her previous wardrobe had. It made her not the Sparkling Diamond, but simply . . . Satine. The woman that he loved.
Time seemed to slow, as it often had cause to do while he was in her presence, and she turned back to the railing, leaning down to skim her fingers along the surface of the sparkling blue waves, though it distantly registered in his mind that the water should not be so closely within reach.
She reached down further, and he opened his mouth to tell her not to lean so far . . .
But it was too late—she had gone over the railing.
Christian plunged in after her without a second thought, the icy water immediately gripping his body and fusing it with cold, unforgiving despite the sunlight that filtered through, bathing the depths of the Nile in a reddened glow, making it appear more a river of blood than a giver of life.
Then, there was a glimpse of a fiery curl, and he twisted madly in her direction, but it was to no avail; she slipped away from him, and he voiced a scream that came out soundless.
Shivering and without a jacket to warm him, Christian sat up on the hard wooden bench, gasping for air until he realized he was not drowning after all. The cold that pervaded his limbs was from the snow; it had become a heavy torrent, and had bitten against his skin, the frozen flakes finally melting against what little warmth was left. He repressed a shudder, lifting a hand to his head, and finding that the touch of his frigid fingers hurt, though not simply from the chill.
He repressed a shudder and gingerly reached a hand to his aching head, his eyes wincing closed in pain as he found a sizeable knot there. Opening his eyes again, he looked around his current 'accommodations'—if they could be called such—and suddenly remembered how he'd gotten the knot, and subsequently had gotten there.
"Satine . . ." The drowning feeling of despair returned, and he slumped back against the cold and unyielding wall of damp stone, staring blankly at the bars of the cell. They had been so close, then their worst fears and anxieties had been imagined . . .
The downstairs of the Dieudonné household had been silent as Christian and Satine made their way down to bid farewell to the family; too quiet for a home in which two children lived as well as the adults, but they'd been too anxious to pay it any real mind. Then they'd approached the parlor and heard unfamiliar voices drifting out along with the doctor's and his wife's, and hesitated, not wanting to interrupt.
"You understand, Doctor, we must check everyone," a man's voice stated.
"I assure you, Monsieur, I have not seen him—either of them," Dr. Dieudonné responded.
Christian had frozen, brows furrowing in confusion and suspicion.
"Is that so? We were told the boy was seen entering this very house."
"I have no idea what you are talking about, and furthermore it is an insult to myself and Madame Dieudonné that you should suggest such a thing!"
"My pardons, but I am certain in that case you will not mind us searching your home?"
"I will permit this, but I will not allow you to subject my wife and grandchildren to it," the doctor responded firmly.
"Very well, Monsieur."
Satine's hand had tightened on Christian's, and they began to back away from the door just as Giselle Dieudonné came out of the parlor with Philippe and Sophie in tow. Sophie immediately gasped, seeing they were so close, but Philippe hastened in wisely covering his sister's mouth with a hand to keep her from giving them away. Giselle gestured both of them toward the kitchen door, and they disappeared into the other room just as the sound of the doctor and his 'guests' was heard from outside.
"You—go search upstairs. You—look around down here. I'll check the wine cellar."
There were sounds of shuffling outside the door, and then Giselle began to pull them both toward the door that led out of the kitchen—just as the man from outside, now made apparent to be a police officer, entered the kitchen and caught sight of them. He immediately began yelling out to his companions, and before they knew it, all three were in the kitchen—but Christian and Satine were not intent upon staying there.
"There they are! Arrest him!"
They immediately broke into a run out the door that Giselle opened for them, but the slippery ground was unkind to Christian's walking shoes and Satine's high heels, while their three pursuers wore heavy boots customized for the harsh weather.
Suddenly, Satine's hand slipped from his, and Christian looked back to see she'd been snatched by one of the men, who had a firm grasp on her forearm, and though she was quick in planting one of her heels straight into his shin, he only wrapped an arm around her waist and held her tight, despite her struggles against it.
"Satine!"
"Christian! Go!" she yelled out at him, but he stubbornly refused, instead turning back to reach for her hands, grasping them tightly until the other two gendarmes seized him and pulled him away from her.
"Let me go, you don't understand, she's dying—we can't stay here, we have to—we have to go—don't you understand!?" Christian yelled, struggling against them, but his feet would not find purchase against the snowy ground, and he felt himself wrenched away from Satine, a sharp blow connecting with the back of his head and quickly cutting in to his remaining resistance.
"Arrest him, arrest him!" A new voice yelled out, but Christian was not coherent enough to make out a face, simply mumbling out a weak protest, unable to struggle any longer.
"You can't—you can't do this . . ."
The last thing he'd heard were footsteps crunching against the snow, and the earlier voice, now all too familiar.
"You can't walk away from love."
Then the darkness consumed him.
"Hello, my sweet."
Author's Note: Title inspiration is from the film Original Sin. Sorry if it confused anyone, but just for clarification, the part in Egypt was a dream, when Christian woke up that was his current reality, and then the part following was a flashback, though I did not feel the need to italicize the whole thing.
Merry Belated Christmas, and thank you for reading. Be thoughtful and review!