A/N: So, this happens to be my first foray into the Arrow fandom! Originally posted at my Livejournal.
Moira remembers trying (and failing) to swim as a little girl, a long time ago - no, a lifetime ago. Her parents had owned a lakehouse in the north that they would travel to in the summer, where she loved nothing more than to sit on the dock and stare out at the water, imagining all of the fish living out their lives under the surface. She'd never had much experience with water, unless she counted the baths her caretaker gave her.
The water had looked beautiful.
Then she fell in and quickly discovered that it wasn't. It was heavy, and cold, and seemed to seep through her bones in the same way that it seeped through her clothes. It filled her lungs while she thrashed, managing to choke out a fleeting cry for help. Moira would learn later that she got it, but not until after darkness closed over her. The last thing she remembered before staring up at the stricken face of her father was reaching blindly for the light above the surface.
This feeling that she has now - this isn't the same. She's not a small child that is trapped in a lake, maybe five feet deep at most. No, this time she's at the bottom of the ocean, looking to where the sun should be only to see nothing. It's a tightening in her throat, pressing against all sides of her body. They say that the pressure near the bottom of the ocean could easily crush any human being almost instantaneously. Moira has been waiting for that to happen for some time now.
The next breath she takes is a struggle, though the smile she gives to one of QC's investors is not. That's easy - more subconscious than the tremble of her fingers as she reaches for another glass of champagne.
It's not until she feels something in her chest lighten that she knows that he's left the room.
Malcolm Merlyn is not someone whose presence goes unnoticed. Ever. But she is more than happy to deal with his absence.
It will only be a brief reprieve - Malcolm knows her too well. He is letting her collect herself, and then he is going to confront her about something else that's gone wrong in his mad plan. It's a ploy that she's familiar with, but he somehow manages to catch her off guard every time. He likes to use her as a psychological experiment, honing his skills in manipulation on her like she is nothing more than a doll to play with. Once there might have been more behind it, but his wife is dead and he can't ever forgive himself, let alone her.
She gets lost in debate with Thea about the fashion of the high society females present when he reappears.
"Moira."
Try as she might, she cannot prevent the the water from re-settling in her lungs at the sound of his voice. She cannot prevent the burn on her skin as his hand curls around her arm, deceptively gentle. She cannot stop herself from feeling like a wild animal caught in a trap, caged in, only able to strike out in wounded desperation. She can't even stand to add her daughter's accusing stare to the list as he leads her away from the crowds, his hand on her arm the entire time.
She thinks he might be trying to burn her out. Either the deception will drown her, or he will scald her until one of those things ends her.
With each step, Moira Queen sinks ever further.