Her Song

November, 1958

"No, no, no, no!"

A sigh escapes Elizabeth as Cohen screams for the tenth time, stepping away from the microphone as her horrible 'mentor' stormed up to her. In this studio, cut off by soundproofed walls with but a single solid wood door and window looking out into the ocean, she had spent the better part of the last two weeks trying to record Sander Cohen's new song.

"Dear Elizabeth," Cohen, his voice softer now, steps onto the raised mahogany platform in the center of the studio, "my little songbird, why can't you understand? I do not want you singing some sickeningly sweet love song, emotionless drivel or pedestrian sadness. I want to hear agony and beauty, heart wracking sorrow in each and every note." He reaches for her, brushing her dyed-black hair.

Elizabeth nods politely, but inwardly she recoils, Cohen's touch sending a wave of revulsion through her very being. She only puts up with him to get a line on his trafficking operation, each day she spent as his apprentice revealing new depths to the man's depravity. She still doesn't know what he's done with the children, but she can't imagine anything good came of it.

"Now then, from the top! Remember, little songbird, I want sorrow, longing, heartache! Not despair, and certainly not happiness or joy!"

As Cohen steps away, Elizabeth turns her attention to the other two in the studio: another pair of Cohen's disciples, one tuning a violin while the other strings a worn-looking guitar. "If Cohen gives up on me, I'll never find out where Sally is…" The thought draws another sigh from her, Elizabeth genuinely considering just giving up and killing Comstock without making him remember.

"Comstock…" A flash of anger surges through her; Comstock had taken Booker's name, his appearance, even his occupation in an effort to escape his guilt over what happened to Anna. Booker, her father, the only true friend she had ever known. The father she lost before she even got a chance to truly know him.

"Booker…" The name parts her lips as a whisper, the rest of the studio's occupants turning to her. A smile touches her lips as an idea forms, "If Cohen wants sorrow, then I'll give it to him." Turning again to the guitar-playing disciple, Elizabeth imagines Booker playing the instrument, as he did in her memories. Her thoughts remain on Booker DeWitt as she steps back to the microphone.

"Have you found your muse, my little songbird?" Cohen, partially hidden in the shadows, leans against the studio wall across the microphone from her. A stomach turning smile appears as she nods.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth pictures Booker, remembering their first meeting. A smile tugs at her lips, but she keeps her expression neutral. No need to aggravate Cohen further.

Her mind drifts to when Songbird caught up to them, hurling Booker into a building, raising its clawed hand to end him. She feels her jaw tense as she remembers pleading with Songbird to spare him, to take her 'home'.

"See the Pyramids alooong the Nile…

Watch the sunrise from a tropic isle.

Just remember, darling all the while…

You belong… to me…"

She fights to keep a tremor from her voice, her lower lip quivering as she remembers the anguish in Booker's face, her own heart breaking as tears flow down her cheeks. They reached for one another, but she was pulled away just before their hands met. She heard him call after her, his voice filled with panic.

"See the marketplace in ooold Algiers…

Send me photographs and sooouvenirs.

Just remember, when a dream aaappears…

You belong to me…"

Elizabeth swallows back a sob between verses, singing the chorus in the same breath. She thinks back to the torture, to being told Booker had abandoned her. She didn't believe it, but she feared that it might be true, or that something worse befell him.

"Fly the ocean in a silllver plane…

See the jungle when it's wet, with rain.

Just remember, till you're hooome aaagain,

You belong, to me…"

She almost gives up, not wanting to remember the end, but something drives her on. She remembers the doors, revealing the truth to Booker. She remembers him allowing her and the other Elizabeths to drown him, to stop Comstock from ever having her.

"I'll be so alone… without you…

Maybe… you'll be lonesome toooo… and blue…"

Her voice sticks in her throat as she fights back another sob, a tear rolling down her cheek. She was all alone. She'd peer through the doors to watch the Bookers and Annas, wanting desperately to go home, to be with her father. But there was no place for her; none of the Bookers would remember her. None of them could. Their time together never happened, except in her memory.

"Fly the ocean in a silllver plane…

See the jungle when it's wet, with rain.

Just remember… till you're hooome aaagaaain…

You belong… to meee…"

As the final note fades away, Elizabeth drops to her knees on the wooden platform, sobbing into her hands. She doesn't care whose watching, doesn't care that what happened was necessary, doesn't even care about her omniscience. She misses her father, and damn anything else.

"My dear, sweet Elizabeth…" She hears Cohen's footfalls, each closer than the last. "Why do you cry? That was perfect, a masterful performance."

For some reason, she has to tell someone, anyone, who that song was for. Cohen would do just as well as one of his disciples. Her sobbing slowly fades as she picks herself up.

"I sang your song for my father, Cohen." Still sniffling, Elizabeth stares defiantly back at the 'maestro', "Not for you. My father protected me even when he didn't know who I was."

Tears threaten to spill again, Elizabeth blinking them away, "He gave up everything to keep me safe, even his life. Now he's gone, and I'll never see him again. Never be able to thank him, never be able to tell him I love him."

She doesn't care anymore. She knows Cohen thinks all music and art revolves around him, that his ego could very well take offense. If he throws her out, she'll go without complaint. Elizabeth wipes the tears away as Cohen stares back at her, his expression inscrutable.

"Then I should thank your father." His response catches her by surprise, "For giving you such sorrow. Without him, I suspect you'd never have sung so beautifully, my little songbird, and for that you should be thankful."

Anger courses through her as Cohen and his disciples leave, his exultations at another masterpiece fading as he disappears out the door, Elizabeth now alone in the empty recording studio.

Throwing the microphone across the room, Elizabeth steps to the glass window, staring out into the ocean as tears roll down her cheeks again. Slowly, she raises her right hand, the silver thimble on her pinky shining in the light as she presses her palm against the glass.

"Booker…"

September, 1894

Booker sat hunched over his desk, filling out paperwork. His last job ended messy, and now he had to fill out a mountain of forms dumped on him by the police.

"Why'd that fool have to run?" Grumbling, Booker pushes himself away from the desk, stretching as he strolls about the office. "At least the visions aren't so bad today."

"Wait… what's…?" Stopping in his tracks, Booker turns his gaze to the window, something drawing him closer. Something familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raises his left hand to the glass, the sensation guiding it to a particular pane. Booker thought he could hear something, a voice, words maybe. The glass feels warm under his palm, a warmth he thinks he knows.

And then it hits, like a bolt from the blue; Booker feels a surge of sorrow and heartache from nowhere, like the day he lost his wife. Pain and anguish, loneliness and grief, so fierce he didn't know how he'd go on, or what he should do. But that was also the day he held his daughter in his arms for the very first time, joy mingling with the sorrow, giving him something to hold onto. This time, there's nothing, not even a sliver of something joyous or at least comforting to hold onto.

And as suddenly as it appeared, the warmth beneath his hand and the sorrow vanishes, leaving only a voice Booker isn't sure he really heard. A voice he's heard in the visions.

"… I miss you…"

Author's Note: Hi everyone, I just wanted to say that piece was originally just going to be a one-shot to add some depth to a section of Unbroken chapter 3 (4 by this sites reckoning), but a follow-up came to mind. These pieces don't receive as much of a 'critical eye' as Unbroken does, so please just bear with me. Thank you for reading.