A/N To expand on how dark this fic is, there are verbal abuse triggers and just a wee bit of character death with a fair amount of acrid and twisted. I've been trying to get back into writing and Swan Queen just so happened to be the ship that could bend to the angles my mind is swirling at currently.
In other words: Don't expect to understand much, but I've added breaks to help clarify as much as I can … though I'm loath to do so since it takes away from the sharp edge that a seamless flow provides to the "dark and twisty" and the artistic, poetic air. Oh-well, enjoy and (disclaimer) remember that I don't own anything, and this is unbeta-ed for liberal use (Read: abuse) of my poetic license. You'll see why if you ever reach the end.
Oh, and for those of you that care to know, this is my first Swan Queen Fic – whatever relevance that has. Now, onward to battle!
Like a thought brushing up against a sigh.
~ A Perfect Circle "Vanishing"
It was her fault, all of it. There was no justifiable dispute to that; not that she had even attempted to find one. No, it was a solid truth that she refused to swallow even as it seared her throat raw. To swallow the truth was to swallow her guilt and tarnish the memory of the woman that had given her so much and continued to give even when she shouldn't have.
You need to accept it.
We all have to accept it.
Just accept it!
The words that she had heard spoken so often in the beginning echoed in her head like a chorus of torment, telling her to let go and accept it. Those two words held such a volatile venom that they inevitably started to leak poison into her mind, made her question the reality of it all. She couldn't just accept it because no one would listen – nobody listened!
But there were times that she did accept it, in her own way. There was a time that she listened:
"What is it like – dying?"
"We've had this conversation."
"I know. It's just that-"
"I don't need to answer you."
She let out a frustrated sigh that was practically scripted by then. "I am going to get an answer out of you. Deflecting only works for so long you know?"
"Then we'll just have to see how long I can last. Won't we, love?" The equally scripted wink that followed was always met with an eye roll before her lips were seized by her aberration – her apparition.
It was her fault. She did it. She is the one who ended the life of her precious wife, her beautiful soul. She was the one that pushed her away because she was – she was … no one was meant to fix what was too broken to love. No one was meant to fight for her. Her love was a death sentence that had claimed not one, not two, but a nearly innumerable amount of lives in one ay or another.
She was undeserving of their ceaseless affections and held no qualm with their silence. Of them all, it was probably her that had the implicit right to truly forsake her – to leave no more than a whisper in her wake – but she had loved her beyond any logical reason in life, and if it was even possible, more so in death. She was the only one that spoke to her when the others had long since left her to her shards.
And then there were times that she … didn't quite accept it. She allowed her apparition her dues:
"You know, you always were such a worthless waste. I often wonder what anyone sees in you."
"No. Please, stop."
"Still such a pitiful beggar. You begged me to pay attention to you – begged for me to love you – and look where it got us."
"I didn't mean to. I just-"
"Killed me. I know. Believe me, I know exactly how your love likes to kill and to take. You didn't mean to love me; you weren't meant to love me, but you begged me … and I let you. I let you kill me softly."
The biting tones always died down to a gentle whisper of benevolence and even forgiveness, for her apparition could never stay mad at her for long. No, her love wasn't tainted with acrimony; it didn't kill. Her wife was her eternally forgiving soul, always giving her just what she needed.
The sterile air never changed, never ceased to suffocate her and her son whenever they would visit his other mother. It wasn't one of those nice facilities where there were people milling about. No, it was a place for protection, though it wasn't theirs that anybody worried about – it was hers.
It happened in the forest, about half a day's ride from her castle. They had argued and she made her bright eyed lover flee. It wasn't her fault that her first instinct was always to run - she never should have made her promise to stay. It was her fault that her beloved broke her promise.
Eventually the boy stopped joining his mom. The visits became too personal, too secret, too volatile. It wasn't right for a boy of just thirteen to see his mother so undone – he didn't need to see how his mom couldn't help but feed his mother's fantasies, or how she left each time, more broken than the last. He couldn't bear to see how it killed his mom like a slowly spreading poison.
There was no comprehending how – or even why – the fierce, self-assured woman they both continued to love with all their fragile little hearts had dragged herself so far down. He barely even recognized his mother anymore.
So he stopped going; he stopped seeing her and the tortured, pained looks that always crossed his mom's features as they left – the ones that she thought she was hiding from him. They silently agreed that she would be the only one to bear witness as his mother faded – she was the one to bear the sight as his mother ceased to exist – and vanished.
Sometimes, sometimes she was so far gone that she never even allowed her apparition to speak. Her need, like a cloying heat, was far too over powering. And all she did was give her exactly what she needed, ever her benevolent soul:
She wanted, needed- no, she deserved every bit of pain that her apparition inflicted upon her. She refused to allow her to treat her with tenderness or care. Accepting it was such a distant cause that simple words couldn't delve deep enough to relieve the pressure of the aching truth, caught in her throat.
It was her fingers, her tongue, and her teeth that danced across her flesh and pulled the guilt from her aching body. It was with the arching of her back, and the quivering of her endlessly exhausted muscles under dark, rent flesh that she felt weightless for the first time since she started disappearing. She felt like she could finally accept it.
"What is it-"
"Like a though … It's like a thought brushing up against a sigh."
The following silence was as foreign as the fact that she had answered – she didn't need to answer.
"Was that what you were waiting to hear, my love?"
"Yes. I suppose it was."
Their deviation from routine wasn't unprecedented. If anything, it was close to expected. Maybe not by her apparition, but she always did know exactly what she needed and she knew exactly when and how to give in to each need. Be it with words or actions, she played into each and every illusion, pouring out her love – the love of a savior – in hopes of saving.
"Is my Queen finally satisfied?"
"She is."
And now, now it was time to give her kind soul what she needed…
Home: That is what they decided. She would go home, away from the castles and forests and horses – they wanted to take her away from the 'darkness'. It was time; it was just enough time.
She wore an airy smile as her world spun only to regain focus in her savior's arms. She was in her arms, and it didn't matter that her castles and her horses were gone because her home, her reality was always in her savior's arms.
She smiled because each tear that hit her face was like a light show bursting from a shattering ice crystal; no, they weren't tears at all. It was a melody, a beautiful chorus that sang in her ears and drowned out everything but her reality.
"Like a thought…"
Her frail hand, blanched of the healthy color it once held – that formerly only dared to fearfully hover over that space at the center of her chest, just a little to the left – rested against her heart. The staccato rhythm was hers - her savior wasn't just her forgiving soul, she was her heart - and she was saying goodbye. Saying -
"brushing up against-" A thin trail of blood trickled down from corner of her lip, slow, like the sigh of her last exhale.
For a small instant, staccato danced with marcato in a legato of tears… before the rhythm became tenuto with no scripted note to follow.
Like it or hate it? Want to chase me with torches and pitchforks? Alas, it is what it is. I'd just like to take the time to remind you that I had several warnings ranging from rather vague to inarguably blatant. If you don't know the definition of "twisted", I suggest that you go and find yourself a dictionary, lovely.
Anyway, after that rather heart wrenching trip, I'd just like to say that there is an actual medical method to my madness that kind of sprang up halfway through. If the story isn't clear enough on what that is, leave me a review or a PM and I'll try to explain how this came about in the, I guess, best way that I can as even I am still a bit uncertain on that front. This just kept coming and it made me write it when I have about a dozen other stories that stopped after the first or second paragraph.
That is my scapegoat: This story made me write it! And even though it's "Complete", it's kind of prompting me to write the "other half of the story" which is a parallel from a less scattered but more/equally heartbreaking perspective.
I'm just going to shut up, and let all of you decide how cruel I am.