Finale
Come what may . . .
Hand in hand, Christian and I stood looking at each other as the curtain fell. He had a smile on his face like that I'd never seen before; joyful and relieved, thankful, grateful toward the power that had conquered all – in his mind and, I realized, mine as well, undeniably love. He was the Christian I knew again, loving and lively, his soulful eyes alight and openly conveying everything he was feeling.
Rose petals drifted from above our heads in a gentle shower, their fragrant scent filling the air –
Air that was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe.
"Get ready for curtain call," the stage manager called as he came by, the last strains of music fading away from the orchestra pit.
My breath hitched in my throat as I again tried to inhale, and I gave in to an unwelcome gasp.
Everything seemed to fall away from me as I tilted my head back, struggling for air, my lungs burning and crying out for oxygen. I was becoming dizzy from the lack of it, and lost my balance, only to feel Christian's arms secure around me.
"Satine?" he asked, panicked concern lacing his voice.
I tried to respond, but the only thing forthcoming was a cough, forcing me to further struggle with the absence of air, combined with fright at the lack of control I felt. It was one of the most horrible feelings I'd ever had physically, not being able to catch my breath. My lungs protested against the strain, and for the first time the pain was clearly prominent in a way I knew with utter certainty –
I was dying.
"Satine, what's the matter?" Christian's voice sounded through the haze, "Tell me – tell me what's the matter."
He paused, then called out, "Oh, God, somebody get some help!"
Christian eased himself to his knees on the floor, lowering me down in his arms, and I clutched weakly at the material of his shirt. My grasp only remained for a moment, however, before my fingers, numbing and cold, slackened and my hand dropped back down involuntarily.
I vaguely heard Harold calling for the doctor, but he knew as well as I did that it was of no use – the consumption had been there too long, they'd found it too late, and there was nothing to be done. This was the end, and the feeling struck me with regret simply for the fact that I would have to leave Christian.
Everything else, I could accept, but I couldn't leave him – I couldn't let go.
Struggling for the words – the effort it took simply to speak wracking my already pained lungs further – I could only manage a whisper through the coughs that threatened to claim what little air I could summon.
"I'm sorry, Christian," I said softly, "I-I'm dying. I'm so sorry."
I wasn't quite certain what I was apologizing for, simply that I felt the need to – there was a great deal for me to feel sorry for, from what I'd done to him, even if those actions had been forgiven, to the simple fact that my life was ending and I was destined to leave him alone despite my best efforts against it.
Come what may . . .
"Shh, you'll be all right, you'll be all right," he insisted, trying to lull and reassure me when he wasn't even sure himself. I could feel him trembling, shaking with fear and incomprehension of what was happening – devastated by the idea that this could happen.
"It's cold . . ." I was crying now, not from the physical pain, but the emotional. I wasn't ready to die – I wasn't ready to leave yet. I had so much to do, so much to say . . .
"Hold me," I whispered.
His arms tightened around me, and I could see him looking away, distressed, distraught – but then his eyes returned to me, and I maneuvered my gaze to meet his.
"I love you," he told me, his voice half-strangled with the effort to remain strong – strong for me. But the tears were escaping uninhibited, rolling down his cheeks, his expression helpless and like that of a child.
I will love you . . .
"You've got to go on, Christian," I whispered, drawing in another breath.
It was becoming increasingly more difficult, but I had to have these words with Christian. I couldn't leave him without that closure, without that comfort, however small it was.
"Can't go on without you," he responded with a vehemence that tore at my heart, his head shaking as he denied the very suggestion that he should be expected to.
"You've got so much to give," I insisted, desperate to have him know. "Tell our story, Christian."
"No," he said again, and began to shake his head. His response was muffled with abject grief, anguish, pain – all of which I felt, and wished I could take away from him.
"Yes," I whispered again, more firmly. "Promise me . . . promise me."
"No . . . no," he protested, though more weakly this time.
His resolve was crumbling, and my urgency increased. Everything was beginning to drift away by now – the pain was lessening, becoming little more than a distant ache, and all I could see was Christian, as I focused all my will on him.
Until my dying day . . .
Even if all my love wasn't strong enough to keep me here.
"Yes," I said softly, "That way . . . I'll always be with you . . ."
The sound of the broken sob he gave was the last thing I would hear while I still remained within the circle of his arms. It resounded against the silence of the stage, then everything fell away, and I was left to look down from above, unable to interfere, but always there to watch over him.
I'll always be with you.
Come what may . . .