Disclaimer: Sloshily not mine.
A/N: Written for Silsmile. The challenge was for me to write a fic based on a song, but only in the timespan of the song as it played. Silsmile wanted 'The World' by Yuki Kajiura. It can be found on YouTube and I wholeheartedly recommend giving it a listen, as it's a beautiful song. Please forgive the pretentious title. It will make sense by the end.
I Will Call It Solitude When All My Songs Fade In Vain
© Scribbler, November 2011.
"To you, Cynthia." Pegasus raised his glass to the portrait on the wall. He had painted it years ago and never attempted another of her.
His wife's face, wobbly and red, seemed to frown. He matched it with one of his own. She looked disapproving. He quickly necked the wine. Outside of the liquid, her face was restored to its blank but radiant smile.
He had never been able to get her smile right. Her outline was perfect. He had not had to consult any photographs, as every inch, every hair, and every curve of her was burned into his memory. How could he ever forget the girl he had risked everything for?
He missed her smile. He missed everything about her. It had been years and the wound was still raw. He had never loved anyone since and presumed he never would again. The kind of love he and Cynthia had shared was the kind that came along maybe once in a lifetime. It was the kind of love that balanced on a tightrope above insanity and hatred; the kind of love that could make a man feel like a god while he had it, and want to destroy himself when he didn't. Losing his chance to reclaim her with magic had nearly destroyed Pegasus. He had compromised his integrity, his livelihood, his life and his soul. What he had left didn't bear thinking about. His fortune was intact, but his other fortunes …
The past clawed at him, leaving bloody furrows in his mind. Memories bled out in thick, painful rivulets; flashes of instants when he had been so happy it almost hurt, and the aftermath, when he had hurt so much he crisscrossed the world trying to make the pain go away.
He missed the way her hair looked when she brushed it, thick and golden as a sheaf of wheat. He had been amazed at how much time and effort went into taming it each morning. Born with a congenital heart defect, Cynthia had never been permitted to play games with other children. Instead, she had been taught from a young age the importance of grooming and good manners. Stepping into her family home had been like stepping back in time to an age where being a debutante and 'marrying up' were all girls were supposed to care about. Cynthia's family worked hard to keep their old values alive in a world they saw as increasingly shameful, and which judged them increasingly shameful in return. They coddled their only daughter until the night she phoned Pegasus at 3am and he scaled her balcony like some fairytale prince.
"I … I can't live like this anymore. I can't breathe here. Please … help me."
Pegasus had been entranced by her old-world charm from the moment they met, but growing up together, he had always been aware of a yearning inside her. She wanted more from life. When she looked into her future, she saw the lives her mother and grandmother had lived before her. She saw them learning how to stay pretty as they got old and never wanting more freedom than their stuffy husbands were prepared to allow.
As if the wine had something more in it, Pegasus was suddenly back in time. He knew it wasn't real, but he felt like if he reached out, he could touch the walls of the old cramped apartment with those curtains that didn't shut properly. He had only spent a short time there after he decided the route of an artist was for him. Artists didn't have luxurious trappings that had run through his upbringing. He had thought, naively, that to be a 'proper' artist he had to live sparsely so he could bring real emotion to his work.
Cynthia turned over in the bed next to him. He knew exactly which day it was. Her smile that day had been more radiant than he had ever seen before. It was the one he had tried – and failed – to put into her portrait.
"You're sure?" he had asked, hesitant about her answer. Maybe she had changed her mind. They had only arrived in New York the previous evening. There was still time for her to demand he take her home.
"Stop asking that," she had said, cupping his cheek. Even rumpled first thing in the morning, she was beautiful. "You've given me the greatest gift anyone ever could."
"I stole you from your family," he had said regretfully.
"You freed me."
"They've probably called the police by now."
"I'm twenty. By anyone's standards, I'm an adult who can make her own decisions. I inherit my trust fund on my birthday in July. That's only three months away. By the end of today we'll be married, and then everything will be wonderful for us."
"There's still time," he had insisted, though not wholeheartedly. "For you to back out, I mean. Don't think you have to … I mean … what I'm trying to say is … Cynthia, your family like my father but they don't approve of my career choice."
As soon as they had heard about his defection to the life of an artist, they had withdrawn from any social circles where he might be. Cynthia's parents were terrified that the romance they had fostered with the son of a tycoon would become a millstone around their daughter's neck. Pegasus had rejected his father's money. Cynthia was worth so much more than him.
"You know they think I'm unsuitable for you, and I know how much you all mean to each other, so I'm … you don't have to …"
She had silenced him with a finger to his lips. "You're everything I ever wanted. I don't care if neither of our families wants to see us again. As long as we have each other, we'll be fine."
Back in the present, Pegasus stared at her portrait again. When he narrowed his eyes, the empty socket ached dully. It was a constant reminder. Abruptly, he wanted to slash the painting.
Fumbling a little, he poured himself another glass and raised it. "Cynthia …" he started, about to make another rambling toast, but stopped. He had dismissed everyone for the day and locked the door to his private rooms. Sipping an elegant glass was good for his image, but letting the help see him blind stinking drunk would not be. He had put a jug of water on the side to dilute his binge and was a good enough actor to mask any hangover tomorrow. This was not the first time he had done this. It would not be the last, either.
The portrait stared, dead-eyed. Cynthia's hands were folded in her lap. She looked like the perfect daughter her parents had always wanted – and nothing like the girl he had married. It wasn't even close to reality. As if oils and pencils could ever recreate what the world had lost when Cynthia died. She looked pristine and delicate and … false.
"I miss you," Pegasus whispered. Then he threw back the wine so hard he choked.
Fin.
You are here alone again
In your sweet insanity
All too calm, you hide yourself from reality
Do you call it solitude? Do you call it liberty?
When all the world turns away to leave you lonely
The fields are filled with desires
All voices crying for freedom
But all in vain they will fade away
There's only you to answer you, forever
In blinded mind you are singing
A glorious hallelujah
The distant flutter of angels
They're all too far, too far to reach for you
I am here alone again
In my sweet serenity
Hoping you will ever find me in any place
I will call it solitude when all my songs fade in vain
In my voice, far away to eternity
- 'The World' by Yuki Kajiura