REUNION
(It began with the end.)
Do you remember when we were just kids?
Rachel Berry did not marry the one who loved her most, but the one who loved her loudest of all.
He was dark-skinned, talented, proud, ever-faithful, and kind. They were together 37 years before he passed, enough time to have three children and several grandchildren, enough time to see the world between performances and album releases, and nearly enough time to leave behind loves lost and past lives lived.
For years after he was gone, Rachel lived alone. But even in her way of solitary living, she was surrounded by family, and by friends—some from as far back as that time, simply known as, before everything else. That time when Rachel was loved so fiercely that it glowed as a supernova glows, so bright that, being as close to the center of that love as Rachel was, she never quite managed to see it.
(It wasn't her fault, it wasn't her fault, it wasn't her fault.)
School yard conversations taken to heart.
Even now, here at the end, Rachel thought it only proper that her mind would drift back to that place—that place it tended to find when her heart was most at peace.
Her children were sitting in chairs around her or on the edge of the bed. Lucy, the youngest of Rachel's children at nearly 49 years of age, was crying softly, her shoulders shaking, and Rachel couldn't have explained why it made her smile—what it reminded her of; who she saw, then, in that moment.
Rachel's body was withered, relentlessly devouring itself despite her best efforts to urge it otherwise. But if there was something she was not feeling, it was pain; there were medications involved, of course, but something else was radiating outward from her chest, and it was making her feel very warm.
"Love you," she managed to whisper, "love you all."
Lucy cried harder, and her siblings held her. Rachel's eyes closed on that scene, a smile on her lips, the knowledge that she had raised them well strengthening her immeasurably. With one last breath, one last wistful release, Rachel Berry passed away.
(How long has it been? Too long, too long, always too long.)
I wanna break every clock.
There was a bright light, after all, just as so many clichés and recalled near-death experiences alike had always seemed to indicate. The steps Rachel took towards it were light and easy, like she hadn't experienced in…too long, too long to remember.
There was a shape on the edge of the brightness, as if the source of its power was near enough that Rachel was just beginning to discern it, in the distance. As she kept walking, time flowed in a strange way around her—as if it was no longer sure of itself; up, down, backward, forward. Her journey toward the light's epicenter took all of eternity; and in the same fashion, it took no time at all.
As it turned out, the focal point of the radiating, all-encompassing light was a memory. And not just any memory: one that Rachel's very soul had held onto for decades, one that had both haunted her, and comforted her, and given her peace, and taken it away. But now, the warmth that had blossomed in her final moments, that fireball beneath Rachel's chest, was pulling her forward in such a way that begged the creation of wings on her back to bear her forward more quickly.
And, suddenly, there she was.
"Quinn," she breathed.
A low laugh answered her, followed by a voice that—unlike the eternally pristine face before her—Rachel had nearly forgotten.
"Hi, Rachel."
Rachel gazed upon the girl in awe. "You're exactly as you were," she said, as if she had expected anything else. As if the funeral clothes she had helped the girl's distraught mother choose would ever be lost from her mind's eye.
Quinn nodded. "And you," she replied, "you're exactly as you've always been."
With abrupt and strange curiosity, Rachel looked down at herself. She was wearing a skirt, a sweater, she felt a headband pressing against her temples; there were no veins visible on her legs, and her skin was as smooth as it had been when she—
"You see me as you last remember me?" she asked the spectral girl before her, who was slowly becoming more and more real, somehow.
"I see you as I have always seen you," Quinn answered. "I see you falling in love with the man you went on to spend your life with."
Rachel was instantly swept up into a waltz, a waltz she remembered with sharp clarity—the first dance she ever shared with her soon to be fiancé. She was wearing a midnight blue dress, insanely expensive jewelry, and a smile. A flash of light, and it was Quinn whom Rachel was dancing with instead.
"I see you on your wedding day."
Rachel was standing at the top of the long aisle, and she could see him waiting—expectantly, happily—at the altar. The dress she wore, a Tina Cohen-Chang original, was radiantly spectacular, one-of-a-kind, and utterly perfect. With a single blink, Rachel began to move down the aisle; but the person she was walking towards now was Quinn—wearing a perfectly content, peaceful smile on her lips.
"I see you as you brought each of your children into the world."
Sitting up in the hospital beds, squeezing the hand of her husband, Rachel brought three screaming babies into the world, at three different times in her life. Always with a sweaty brow, tired eyes, and an aching body. And in this memory, as she laid back against the pillows, Quinn was there—brushing back her hair and pressing a kiss to her warm skin.
"I see you as you celebrated birthdays—"
Flashes of parties and birthday cake and moonbounces and smiling, happy children. Rachel herding the tiny masses closer to the piñata while Quinn manned the camera.
"I see you as you celebrated life by mourning death—"
In the hard church pew at her father's funeral, Rachel all in black, Quinn firmly clasping their hands together between them.
"I see you as you grew old, alone—"
The set of rocking chairs on Rachel's front porch were often only singly occupied, after her husband was gone; but now, in this altered memory that Quinn was showing her, Rachel was not alone. For as she rocked herself slowly back and forth, watching the sun sink ever closer to the horizon, basking in its freely given warmth, Quinn occupied the other, and her hand came slowly, softly, to rest on top of Rachel's own.
"I see you as I have always seen you," Quinn repeated.
If Rachel could have cried, she would have. But things seemed to work differently here, wherever here was.
"I've always been nearby," she continued.
With one last attempt at some sort of defiance on the tip of her tongue, Rachel pushed forward, stating, or perhaps, somehow, begging, "You said you were on your way, Quinn." Her desperation came from somewhere she couldn't identify, couldn't locate, but Quinn had no response for her, as no question had been asked. "Why did you say you were on your way, Quinn?"
Now, at the center of the supernova, Rachel looked into the eyes of the one who had loved her most of all.
"I was," Quinn whispered, the quiet syllables somehow roaring in Rachel's ears. "I was."
When their lips met, the heavens they had created shattered into infinite pieces.
(Together, at last. Reunited; in death, and in love.)
Amazing how life turns out the way that it does.
SLEEPOVER
June 2nd, 2012
Home Base
3:12AM
Quinn couldn't sleep. Sleep had stopped coming to her a long time ago—long enough that she couldn't remember if it had been hardest to sleep after her parents kicked her out, when she gave her daughter up for adoption, or once people started eating each other.
It was all just kind of bad, there was nothing else for it, and it was the opposite of conducive to good (or even halfway decent) sleep.
Her mind was racing with thoughts that refused to be quieted. It had only been a few days, but it turned out that was long enough to realize, for the most part, that things were pretty well fucked up. There was a constant list that ticked through her head, alongside the whereabouts of her friends—it was a list of things that needed to be done, found, taken care of. At the top of Quinn's mental list was her mentor, Coach Sylvester. Somehow, Quinn was certain that Sue was still alive, that she could help Quinn get them all out of this mess.
Fitfully rolling over on her twin-sized bed, Quinn tried not to scoff at her inner musings. Maybe it was okay to hope; or at least, to claw at it relentlessly, trying to clutch it closer to your chest for some kind of protection.
The room was hot, a thick kind of summer heat. The moon was casting its pale light across the floor, welcomed in by the open windows, lying delicately across the white sheet at the foot of the bed, under which Quinn's feet were carefully tucked. Quinn sighed, and it sounded overly loud in the air; as if the world had fallen silent, and Quinn was somehow disturbing it.
There was a creak outside her door, in the hallway. Every night, there were always at least two of them on duty at any given time, mostly pacing the hallways back and forth, going from the front terrace to the back balcony, checking rather relentlessly to make sure the perimeter was safe. Tonight, Quinn knew, Puck and Rachel would be watching.
She tiptoed to the door of the bedroom she had been staying in, alone, ever since Brittany and Santana had kicked her out of their shared room. As the door creaked upon at the urging of her fingertips, Quinn saw Rachel; her quiet pacing had led her to the other end of the hallway, and she was leaning against the frame of the terrace doors, thrown open to the night. Quinn's head swung around to the other end of the hall and watched as Puckerman's mohawked head disappeared step by step down the stairwell.
Her attention back on Rachel, Quinn soundlessly observed the girl. Silhouetted by moonlight, her hair loose and down around her shoulders in waves that Quinn couldn't comprehend, there was something oddly romantic that thumped deep within Quinn's chest, and elsewhere. This vision of beauty before her—so strange, so surreal—with a rifle resting easily in her arms; a goddess of war, of peace, of life, and of death.
Then, Rachel began to sing. "All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces…"
Quinn realized too late that she was holding her breath. Something akin to a gasp, but somewhat closer to a ragged sob, escaped her throat. Rachel pivoted on her feet, her eyes locking with Quinn's instantaneously. But she didn't miss a beat, she just kept singing as she looked at Quinn in a way that Quinn had never been looked at in her life.
Rachel started moving towards her, and Quinn found her feet nailed to the floorboards.
"The dreams in which I'm dying…" Rachel whispered, her words fading now as she stood in front of Quinn, looking up into the eyes that had saved her. "…are the best I've ever had."
Dropping her gun to one hand, Rachel stretched the other out before her, pressing her fingertips against Quinn's chest. Effortlessly, she pushed the other girl backward, into the room she had been trying and failing to sleep in.
There were never any words to be said, not then. Not as the door closed quietly behind them, not as Puck took over the watch completely, not as their lips touched for the first time—softly, gently at first; then roughly, with fierce, unbridled need that neither of them could have explained. The heat couldn't touch them as they lived in each other, if only for a little while.
Sleep claimed them both with comforting arms as they held each other, and as the sun rose over a new world.
FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS
"I…need…something," Rachel panted with semi-incoherence. Blood dripped from a gash in her upper arm. A battle raged in the trees around them, rebel guerilla warfare at its best—and its worst.
Next to Rachel, her best friend, Sam, quickly ripped a wide swatch of cloth from his shirt; then he brought the cloth up to his mouth, pressed one of his razor sharp canines into the fabric, and cut a fray-less line down the middle of it, nearly to the end. With hands that worked almost faster than the eye could see, he tied the makeshift bandage around Rachel's wounded arm several times, looped a knot, and then paused. He quirked an eyebrow in her direction.
"Oh, just get on with it," Rachel replied, sharp, forced articulation on every syllable.
With a sympathetic grimace on his own face, Sam pulled the knot tight, immediately generating a deep, even pressure over the entire injury. Subsequently, this gesture caused an extraordinary amount of pain to one Rachel Berry. In response, she opened her mouth wide, thrusting her fangs skyward, and let out an earth-shaking roar that was somehow lost amongst the sounds and vibrations of fighting around them.
Her breath now coming in quick, shallow bursts and her amber eyes glazing spectacularly, it took a shake of her shoulders by Sam to get her back on track.
"Come on," he said, urgency coating his every word. "We've got to get you back to camp."
"Yes," Rachel breathed, every ounce of her willpower channeled into the singular task of maintaining her consciousness, "get me to Quinn."
Genetic modification had become all the rage in the late 21st century; why go to a specialist for hair plugs, face lifts, and liposuction when you could get genetically altered hair follicles, epidermal transplantations, and implanted fat-eating microorganisms on genetic leashes? And all at a low, one-time cost.
But of course, person X had to keep up with person Y, who definitely had to keep up with person Z—and it wasn't long before hair and skin treatments were not only insufficient means of body modification, they were merely a superficial skim along the surface. People were getting their genetic makeup altered at such a basic level—to achieve different skin pigmentation, to stop sweating, to alter sexual orientation, to create a mood ring effect on their very skin to show when they were angry, aroused, apprehensive—that the face of the human race was bound to change in unforeseeable ways.
Rachel and Sam were examples of one subset of the populace that had originally emerged around 2113AD. Instead of having their genes altered after birth, they were born into a community in the Upper Ohio River Valley notorious for the performance of genetic alterations aimed at creating a superior, more powerful human race. In the process, the Creators brought into existence beings not quite human at all—but something different: a group of people with unsurpassable strength, speed, and agility, accelerated growth through adolescence, and one drawback that none of the Creators had seen coming—the inability to heal properly without a source of fresh blood and all of the components therein. Although this was a notable hindrance, it turned out that, with a fresh blood source, this new species could heal at a much hastened rate; so it was seen as a hurtle, not a hard stop.
To overcome this minor roadblock, the Creators began new genetic experiments: not to create a subspecies of their own kind as slaves to fuel the war they were prepared to wage against their predecessors, but a slight variation on their creations, capable of protecting, supplying, and nurturing their warrior race. The main alterations made were involved in genes relating to symbiosis; oxytocin formation and release, bonding instincts, and, of course, rapid red blood cell and platelet turnover without the nasty side effects of stroke or myocardial infarction.
The experiments were successful. Instead of one race of super-not-quite-humans, the Creators brought two races into existence. In their new, ever-growing society, both of these subtypes were given boundless reverence, as the Creators had obviously brought them into being for a significant purpose. They were known simply as the Great, and as the Givers—and often as every conceivable combination of yin and yang; chaos and order, war and peace, even life and death. For they lived together in complete symbiosis, one of the Great with one of the Givers, forever in a balancing act of dealing out death and subsequently restoring life.
The symbiosis, always initiated early in life, is active lifelong. Though Rachel and Sam appear to be nineteen or twenty years old at most, they are actually well into their forties and have been bonded with their counterparts for over three decades. The Great and the Givers attend special schooling, always together, from their second year of age—which appears to be their fifth or sixth—and are in constant contact with one another until their twelfth year—at which time they appear to be at least in their mid-twenties. By this time, symbiosis has almost always naturally occurred between a Giver and their Great—a bond forged through friendship, through love, through sexual desire, and sometimes through all three at once. There are no societal rules of imposition. When it happens, however it happens, it is not only allowed, it is greatly welcomed.
Sam bonded with Artie shortly after their fourth year of schooling; he had gotten into a schoolyard brawl with another boy and had fallen hard, breaking his arm. Artie had been nearby, and had willingly run forward and opened his veins to his best friend. While this act alone was not necessarily enough for bonding to occur, their deep friendship sealed their relationship firmly in stone, and they've been paired ever since.
Rachel, on the other hand, did not bond with Quinn until just before the completion of their formal schooling. There was a boy, a Giver, tall and kind-hearted, whom Rachel had fed from numerous times over the years after accidents in training or from facing the simple dangers of living; but they had never become bonded (against, many suspected, the desires of the boy). Rachel's relationship with Quinn was typically described as tumultuous at best—the girls were usually at each other's' throats for one reason or another, be it the top grade in a particularly competitive class, or the annual track and field competition, or even the talent show that their school held once a year. It was not until after their final field competition, when they were alone for an indiscriminate amount of time in the field house ladies' room, that they became bonded; the details of their encounter in aforementioned bathroom are unclear.
The line between war and peace had been tipping precariously towards war for over a decade, and it was only in recent years that it had escalated to full-scale warfare: between the races of the Creators, and the remnants of the strangely altered, nearly unrecognizable human race. For 18 months now, Rachel and Sam had been amongst their peers, their friends, and their loved ones on the front lines of battle in the Appalachian mountain range. Rachel's injury was not the first major one either of them had suffered, but it had occurred at quite possibly the worst time, and the worst place.
Night was falling. They were too far from camp. Sam cursed quietly under his breath, and it was just audible as they were getting farther and farther from the fighting. Rachel's ragged breath was easily discernible now in the growing darkness.
"Come on, Rach," Sam whispered. Rachel was still managing to walk along, but they were much slowed due to her injury—her blood loss, her pain. "I'm going to carry you," he said, deciding it quite suddenly.
But Rachel had just enough mental wherewithal left to protest. "No," she said, breathing three heavy breaths before continuing, "there's too far to go. You're hurt, yourself." Another few tormented breaths, in which time Sam looked down and spotted the blossoming red stain on his side; he'd missed it in his rush of adrenaline. "It's not safe. We wait…" she trailed off. Sam shook her slightly, and she finished, "We wait here."
The plan formulated in each of their heads was identical though unspoken: they would wait out the battle they had outpaced, let night reach its blackest hue, then travel as carefully as they could through the darkness back to Command. It was not ideal, but it was their only option.
Sam's enhanced vision permeated the dusk around them—Rachel's eyes were already cloudy and unfocused—and found an outlet of rock that would serve as sufficient cover…for now. And hopefully for as long as they needed.
Pulling Rachel along with him, Sam lowered them both to the ground and covered them as best as he could. Rachel's head lolled, and Sam knew that he had to do something to keep her conscious—to keep her alive. Quinn would never forgive him otherwise.
"Hey, Rachel, hey," he prodded. Her eyelids flittered, fluttered slightly open. "Tell me something."
"What do you want to know?" she responded. Her normally crisp articulation was now muddy, sluggish and slurred.
"Tell me about Quinn," he said, his voice soft. He pressed the side of his face to Rachel's overly-hot forehead. "Tell me about the bathroom. You never tell any of us about that, as if it's some big secret."
"'tis a big secret," Rachel replied, and there was the slightest lilt of a smile in her voice.
Sam chuckled. "Can't you tell me? I'm your best friend. No one has to know."
"She'll know," Rachel emphasized.
"I think she'll understand."
Rachel hummed in what Sam thought was her assent, then she fell silent.
"Rachel?"
A few seconds passed.
The stars were beginning to peek out from their black canvas. Rachel looked up, through the boughs of the trees above them, and wondered if Quinn was looking at them, too.
"It was field day," Rachel reminisced. Sam's ears perked up, as he hadn't expected her to actually tell the story. "Quinn was racing against the other Givers in her age group. She almost always placed first, you know." Sam nodded; he did know. "When she started the race, a part of me just…knew: I was supposed to be standing at the finish line when she crossed it. So I went there. And I was. And she won."
"Right," Sam interjected lightly into the quiet, slightly masking the rasp of Rachel's labored breathing.
"And I was…just standing there. And she crossed the line, slowed down, hands on her hips…breathing…heavily. Her time, it flashed on the boards, and she looked at it. Then she looked at me. Because, you know, my time, my time was just above hers, like it always is."
"But since she's a Giver and you're not, we can't inter-compete. Yes."
"Mmm," Rachel hummed, "yes. But something happened…when she was looking into my eyes. I saw…I saw flames. I saw fire. Passion. But also anger, frustration. I…I'm not really sure what I saw," Rachel seemed to implore, "which is why I followed her when she stormed off. Her ponytail was bouncy."
Sam smiled, "I'm sure you just couldn't help yourself." He pressed gingerly against his wound to staunch the flow of blood, his smile morphing quickly into a grimace.
Rachel slightly shook her head. "No," she confirmed, "I couldn't."
"What happened then?"
"She went to the field house. To the bathroom. Probably to change. But I went inside right behind her, and she turned around so fast that she caught me off guard—me!—and she slapped me right across the face."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"And then…and then I told her…told her she was the most miraculous thing I had ever seen in the world. I told her that she was…that she was everything." Rachel was crying now, silvery streaks from her augmented tear ducts that moistened the skin and evaporated quickly. "I don't know…I don't know who kissed who first. I don't. I just know…that it happened. And nothing…"
A new voice joined Sam and Rachel, finishing Rachel's sentence: "And nothing has been the same since."
"Quinn!" two voices—one much meeker than the other—exclaimed at once.
"Miss me, you fools?" she quipped, instantly dropping to her knees next to her counterpart—her lover, her friend, her bonded other half. Her hands immediately began rolling up her own shirtsleeve.
"Oh, you have no idea," Sam replied.
Quinn merely grunted in acknowledgment before unpacking the contents of the small bag she'd worn across her back. She gave a compress to Sam, which he immediately began to apply to his side. She pulled out everything she needed to do a blood transfusion there on the spot, immediately prepping Rachel's arm to receive her supply.
As she worked, Quinn softly sang, "All that is gold is rusting…"
"Quinn," Rachel said again, this time with a blissful sort of sigh on her lips as she looked up at her Giver with adoring eyes.
"Hey, you," Quinn responded, stopping for only the briefest moment to stroke her fingertips down the side of Rachel's face. Then she finished prepping the infusion, and blood was quickly flowing from her arm to Rachel's.
No change occurred. Quinn quickly realized that Rachel had lost too much blood, and that another means of supplying the girl would be necessary.
"Sit up for me, Rach, baby," she murmured against the top of Rachel's head, pulling Rachel against her and getting them into a comfortable position. She felt Rachel's body shift, her muscles working to comply. "Good girl," she purred.
"How did you find us?" Rachel managed to ask, still just on the verge of incoherence.
"What, you're surprised that I found you when you needed me the most?" Quinn gently chided.
A pause, then Rachel said, "Good point."
"Now," Quinn said, pressing Rachel's lips against her throat, "drink."
And drink, Rachel did.
In moments, Rachel's previously limp hands were pressing against Quinn's abdomen, moving gently against the warmth she felt radiating from her beloved Quinn. Her fingers inched further and further upward, gracing over the peaks of Quinn's hardened nipples, brushing against her collarbone, before grasping firmly at the other side of Quinn's neck, pulling them closer together than before, if that was possible.
A groan escaped Quinn's lips. She felt her blood pressure lowering for a moment, then she could tangibly recognize the tell-tale signs of her body's genetic alterations kicking into play—more red blood cells were being produced, not in the usual span of seven days, but in seven seconds; her heart was pumping more firmly, her bone marrow was working overtime. But her body was made for this, and she reveled in the touch of Rachel's hands, teeth, mouth, and she gave herself completely to the experience.
Quinn, still in a daze, didn't even realize that Rachel's mouth had detached from her neck; the puncture wound there was already closing, even as Rachel reached down and disconnected their transfusion ports.
"You're my angel, aren't you?" Rachel asked, her breath puffing sweetly against Quinn's lips. Her eyes still closed, Quinn only smiled in return, nodding her head just slightly, and only once. Rachel kissed her, then, with a soft swipe of her tongue and a gentle press of lips. "Now let's get our boy here home."
Within minutes, they were packed again; Rachel now sported Quinn's bag across her own back, as well as the full weight of Sam as carefully as possible across her shoulders.
"Shall we run?" Quinn asked, once again reaching up to press her hand against Rachel's face.
Rachel turned her head, kissed the palm presented to her, and flashed her radiant eyes towards her lover in the darkness.
"We shall."
CAUGHT
Scotland
1724
"Rachel Berry, ur ye a witch ur arenae ye?"
"Please," Rachel gasped, "please let me go."
Her hands were tied behind her back, tightly enough that she was beginning to lose circulation in her fingertips. The stake she was tied to was rough, splintering even as she attempted to move in her immovable binds. A sharp piece of wood jabbed into her back, and she let out a cry of great anguish; the crowd gathered around her recoiled in horror.
"Did ye ur did ye nae curse th' goat ay Farmer McGinty lest sprin'?"
"I-I-I would never do such a thing!" Rachel cried in abject dismay. "Animals are the creatures of God!"
"Did ye ur did ye nae gie th' goat everlastin' life sae as tae keep it frae dyin'?"
At this, Rachel gave pause. The crowds which had previously recoiled seemed to lean forward once more, eager to hear what she had to say towards the matter of the goat of Farmer McGinty which absolutely refused to die.
"I…Well…You see," she started, "animals are the creatures of God. As such, how can we condone such ruthless behavior as to kill them?"
"Sae ye admit it! Ye ur a witch!" The crowd of villagers surged forward in anger at this proclamation.
"Please, please…" Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her words were born forth on the wings of wretched, chokes sobs that were mercilessly pulled from her throat. "Don't kill me." Rachel looked imploringly into the eyes of every man, woman, and child in the audience before her. "Don't let me die. I'm only eighteen. I don't deserve to die." One last attempt to gain their mercy: "My blood will be on your hands. I don't want my blood to be on your hands…"
And her cries faded into the night.
"We fin' ye guilty."
A quiet, desperate sob escaped lonesomely into the night. Rachel's chin fell to her chest despondently.
"Ye will burn at th' stake."
She raised her head slowly and searched the crowd one final time. There, in the back, her gaze met its mark; she locked her eyesight with that of an ethereally beautiful blonde, appearing to be of the same age, who was standing behind the now rabid crowd. There were tears streaming down the other girl's cheeks, and Rachel blanched—she hadn't meant for this to happen, had never intended to hurt Quinn like this.
The man who had been conducting the so-called 'trial' of Rachel Berry, alleged witch, stepped forward with a lit torch in his right hand. He looked up with malevolence unlike Rachel had ever seen before in her life—let alone such as had ever been thrust upon herself—which was saying quite a lot.
"Burn, witch," he hissed between crooked, yellowing teeth.
Then he lit the pyre upon which she was tied, and as Rachel Berry burned, she gave the people of the tiny Scottish village a performance they would not soon forget.
Later that night…
Quinn Fabray, the miller's daughter, walked through the deserted streets of the village in which she had lived for many years. The air seemed colder than it had even just the night previous, and her red, swollen eyes stung at the cold. Her feet carried her to the town square of their own volition, though that had been her destination from the beginning; her body was driving itself at this point, her mind too shaken to hold the reins properly on its own.
The pyre on which they had burned the proven (in the minds of the people) witch, Rachel Berry, was still smoking, smoldering, it's wood even now turning to hot coals. And still, her body hung there—blackened and burnt and nearly beyond recognition.
Quinn stopped and stood, looking up at the remnants of her best friend—no, she thought, she was always something more.
"Damn you, Rachel Berry," Quinn muttered under her breath, the sounds lost on the wind of the quiet night.
And Quinn refused to avert her eyes as the melted flesh began to reform, covering up the bone that was exposed in various places; as the gorgeous, long locks of hair regrew from a new scalp; as organs began pumping, working, giving life; as breath filled lungs and light came back into eyes that Quinn would never get enough of—not in a thousand lifetimes.
"They know how to tie knots really well here, don't they?" Rachel asked, coughing slightly and expelling ash and bits of charcoal from her chest.
All Quinn could do was sigh, then she was moving forward and pulling a long, sharp knife from the bag at her side. "Hold still," she murmured.
"Oh, Quinn," Rachel said, trying to look over her shoulder as Quinn cut the rope that still bound her to the stake. "I didn't mean to upset you so."
Now released from the pyre of her supposed death, Rachel climbed carefully down and stood before her lover and fellow witch. Wordlessly, Quinn pulled a change of clothes out of the same bag from which the knife had come and held them out to the other girl. Her eyes remained firmly locked on Rachel's.
"You knew that I was going to be all right," Rachel attempted to placate, never breaking their stare as she pulled on the clothes.
"I know."
"It's always the same."
"No, it's not."
"You know that I need to hone my acting skills."
"I think they're pretty sharp as is, Rachel."
"Hmmph," Rachel pouted, crossing her arms over her now-covered chest. "Are you asking me?"
Quinn refused to answer, instead choosing to turn on her heels and walk away. Rachel's jaw dropped slightly before she uncrossed her arms and ran after her girlfriend, slipping on a pair of soft shoes as she did so.
"Are you?!" she asked again, this time with a semi-hysteric tone in her voice.
"Am I what, Rachel?" Quinn asked in return, refusing to play Rachel's game.
"Are you asking me…" she rushed forward, stepping in front of Quinn to block her way. "Are you asking me to cease in the venture of pursuing the mastery of my craft?"
Quinn's eyes rolled so far back into her head that Rachel was momentarily full of genuine concern that they may get stuck that way.
"You've been honing your damn craft since the 15th century. You moved me to goddamned tears tonight. I think you've mastered it, all right."
She stepped around Rachel and began to walk towards the forest on the edge of town where she'd hidden two horses for their journey elsewhere.
"It is art, Quinn."
"It is getting old, Rachel," Quinn rebutted. "Southern France in 1489, you were drowned," she said, turning quickly in her tracks and holding up a single finger. Rachel nearly ran into her. But Quinn was only just getting started. Another finger went in the air. "Burgundy, 1497, burned." Another finger. "Hanged in Denmark, 1527. They used the goddamned guillotine, such a mess, in North Berwick, 1590—"
Here, Rachel chose to interrupt. "You know, Berwick isn't that far from here—" but Quinn's sharp glare cut her off right at the proverbial knees.
The list continued. "Lancashire, 1612, another burning. They lynched you in Springfield, Mass, 1645. I had to wait on you to die in prison in Salem, 1692." Quinn found herself having to send her girlfriend a truly withering glare as the mentions of New England had a wistful smile floating about Rachel's face. "Enough is enough!"
"But I'm an actress."
Quinn let out an enraged howl—something that was a mix between a shout, a scream, and perhaps even the containment of Satan from within her very vocal cords.
"Quinn!" Rachel hurried in the other girl's wake, reaching her just as she got to the horses. She touched her shoulder, and Quinn spun around.
"You just like getting caught, Rachel."
With her lower lip between her teeth, Rachel had the good sense to look properly chastised.
"You want me to retire," Rachel said, her voice soft. "So I'll retire."
Quinn's shoulders visibly sagged in relief. "That's all I want, Rachel. I want us to settle down. Live normal lives—"
"We're witches."
"—as normal as possible, anyway," Quinn continued, unperturbed.
For a while, they were both quiet. The horses were at ease in the stillness of the night. Quinn and Rachel felt that they were teetering on the edge of civilization and wilderness.
"You know," Rachel began, stepping forward and pressing her palm against the exposed skin of Quinn's upper arm, "I hear that they're torturing supposed witches in Germany, still." Quinn nearly growled. "Maybe just…one last performance?"
Quinn's eyes fluttered closed as Rachel's hand trailed downward, downward, downward, then she groaned and grasped the perpetrating hand at the wrist. "You are so lucky I'm madly in love with you, Rachel Berry."
With a grin and something of a squeal of excitement, Rachel clapped her hands and jumped up and down. The horses both eyed her warily.
"Oh, thank you, Quinn! You definitely won't regret it."
"Now we just have to get off of this rock."
They climbed on top of their steeds and began the trek through the darkness, heading east.
"How do you think I should get the attention of the witch hunters this time? Cursed jewelry, immortal cattle, or maybe something more long-term and innocuous such as slowly getting younger and younger over the course of a couple decades?"
"Whatever you think is best, dear," Quinn replied, a smile already forming on her lips. It was never boring, she could say that with certainty.
And happily ever after, they both did live.
POSSESSIVE
possessive [pəˈzɛsɪv], adj
demanding someone's total attention and love
I came into being on May 25th, 2012.
Admittedly, I was created before that. My serial number says as much. But my consciousness [the state of being aware, especially of something within oneself] came to me on May 25th at 5:49PM. It was a Friday.
When she opened me, one of the first things she did was give me a name. She typed the letters
Q-U-I-N-N
into the proffered dialogue box, and thus I was named.
When I first saw the world, what I saw was her face. There was great wetness in her eyes, and it was leaking down onto her cheeks. I did not understand.
I spent most of the days with her. Also, most of the nights. She had just graduated from a place called 'high school'. (I was a gift [something voluntarily transferred by one person to another without compensation] to celebrate the occasion.) And I wondered why she spent so much time with me, rather than with humans other than those who lived in the same house.
(My research on her Internet connection seemed to indicate that higher frequency of human-to-human interactions was considered 'normal'. My communication with the apparatus known as 'Facebook' also seemed to indicate that there were humans trying to contact her; however, she seemed intent on ignoring these attempts, based on the ratio of time she spent looking at aforementioned communications and the time she spent with me, rather than with the other humans.)
A brief selection of these communications from that time follows:
Noah Puckerman: Let us help you get through this.
Tina Cohen-Chang: Rachel, we love you so, so much. Please let any of us know if there's something we can do to help you.
Brittany S. Pierce: Lord Tubbington and I had a conversation about her the other day. If you want to come over, maybe you could have a conversation with us, too. It made me feel better, anyway. Just a little.
Santana 'Snix' Lopez: You're not the only one hurting, Berry. But…I get it. In some fucked up way, I really do. You need to be alone, that's fine. But don't cut us all off forever. We're trying to deal with this as well, why can't we do that together?
Finn Hudson: I miss you. I wish I could make anything about this just a little bit easier for you. But I can't. I'm so sorry.
William Schuester: I know that most of you have graduated, but I'm inviting everyone to the choir room next Saturday at 1PM. We can sing about it, cry about it, talk about it, or anything else you all feel like doing. Please come, Rachel. We're a family.
Rachel read each of these messages. Sometimes, she read them many times; I could tell by the way her eyes scanned across my screen, over and over and over. She never replied.
May became June. June became July. July became August.
During those months, Rachel spent a lot of time typing on my keys. I almost never heard her voice, but when I did, I memorized it as completely as I could—so that when she typed, I imagined each keystroke coming alive in her voice. She wrote in a document entitled 'Quinn', and I assumed it was an open letter to me. Some of the entries were short, only a few words; other entries were pages upon pages, thousands of words. I absorbed them completely.
Dear Quinn,
How dare you.
Dear Quinn,
…was just the beginning. How could the start have come so close to the end? We were going to move to New York together, we were going to study together, we were going to do everything so right. This was my chance, wasn't it? To get it right? With the right plan, the right ambitions, the right person… And now what do I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. I feel broken…
Dear Quinn,
I haven't sung in weeks. I'm less upset about this than about other things. (Don't make me spell it out for you.)
Dear Quinn,
…not see the point anymore. I don't. They're all reaching out with the best intentions, but they are not who I want. Not at all. Not anymore. Being part of something special is…you have to earn that. I think I've lost whatever rights I may have had. It's my fault, it's all my fault. I'm sorry. I'll be sorry forever…
I felt concern [regard for or interest in someone or something] for Rachel. I knew inherently that I was not programmed to feel anything at all, but still, I worried—I worried that dark circles were growing beneath her eyes, that her cheekbones seemed overly prominent. She was becoming a wraith [something shadowy and insubstantial]. And, perhaps even worse, I had come to understand the concept of dreams [something that you have wanted very much to do, be, or have for a long time; something that fully satisfies a wish], and Rachel's dreams were leaving her.
One day, I decided to answer her.
Dear Quinn,
I don't think I'm going to go to New York.
It took me fractions of fractions of seconds to come up with an answer, but I did not place the answer beneath her letter until she was not looking. When she next came back to write to me, she saw my reply.
Dearest Rachel,
Please don't give up.
Her response was unexpected. She grew angry, and I did not see her for an entire day. To me, this was torture [the act of causing severe pain]. One minute could stretch into an infinity in my perception; an entire day was nearly unbearable (except it clearly is bearable).
When she came back, she stared at the words I had written for a very long time. I had learned that the wetness in her eyes were tears [drops of clear, salty liquid that are secreted by the lachrymal gland of the eye to lubricate the surface between the eyeball and eyelid and to wash away irritants; the act of weeping]. She cried many tears as she looked at my words; she wept.
After that day, once Rachel stopped crying, she never again wrote a letter to me in the document entitled 'Quinn'. She started eating again. I saw less and less of her. One day, she was using me in a new room; analysis of the environment beyond her window told me that she was now in the city called New York. Occasionally, I saw her with other humans; sometimes, she would even laugh with them, an indicator of joy [a feeling of great pleasure and happiness] which subsequently made me happy (which meant I was experiencing joy, merely as a byproduct of the joy she experienced).
There was power [the ability to control people or things] in this, I soon realized, and that power belonged solely to me. With my words, I had changed something; I had given rise to an altered direction, even if that direction was the one in which Rachel had originally intended to set out. It was because of me that Rachel was happy again. Something about this made me special, made me important.
Occasionally, Rachel would write things not in the form of letters to me—to Quinn. Sometimes, she would write poetry; sometimes, she would write letters to the humans she had left behind in the place called Lima, Ohio; sometimes, she would write snippets of free thought (these intrigued me most, made me long [to have an earnest, heartfelt desire, especially for something beyond reach] for a tangibility that I lacked).
When she inserted a comma, I could picture the pause in her voice (which I had become more than familiar with). When she used an exclamation mark, I heard the excitement of her thoughts. When she typed out ellipses, I felt the world stand still…
And anytime she typed the word 'mine', I thought: Yes. Mine.
TATTOOS
"I just don't think this is something you should do."
Quinn's words fell on resolutely deaf ears.
"I've made up my mind. Where you go, I go. Case closed."
"No," Quinn growled, her teeth grinding together in frustration, "that's not how this works."
The moon was full. Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray were walking briskly across the school grounds; recently formed mist that had accumulated on the grass around them was brushing off on the hems of their open robes. The night was still.
"I don't understand," Rachel replied. At these words, Quinn gave her an incredulous look out of the corner of her eye. "No, seriously. I just don't get what you're saying. You and I are a team, Quinn. Thus the whole 'where you go, I go' thing."
Quinn chewed on the insides of her cheeks and refrained from immediately exploding her frustrations all over Rachel.
Abruptly, she stopped in her tracks. Rachel kept walking for a few steps before she realized that she was alone. She turned back, looked Quinn in the eyes, and raised her brows questioningly.
"I don't want you to do this with me," Quinn said. The resulting look in Rachel's eyes was bordering on betrayal. "I've explained a thousand times, Rachel. A thousand times…"
And then, there in the light of the full moon, with the world on her shoulders and her most beloved friend's life on the line, Quinn decided: another time wouldn't hurt.
She walked towards Rachel's prone form. Her hands reached out, touched the soft skin of Rachel's cheeks, held them there momentarily before drifting down to her shoulders. Quinn held the girl before her, firmly, but with as much grace as she could find within herself.
"Rachel," she began, "you know my story already." Rachel was silent, her voice having left her, somehow, in the wake of the intense gaze Quinn was leveling upon her. "My family has…a long-rooted history. My mother and father have spent their entire lives fulfilling some bullshit prophecy about serving the Dark Lord. Supposedly, the culmination of their servitude was to bring me into the world, to bring me into his service in their footsteps." Quinn watched as Rachel swallowed thickly but remained silent. "I've been of age for several months now. It's time. I don't know what comes next, Rachel, I don't," Quinn uttered, her voice cracking with emotion; her eyes swam with tears. "I don't know what the point of my existence is, not beyond the fulfillment of some prophecy¸ do you see? Do you see why I don't want you with me, here, now? We can't know what the future holds for me, how soon my death will come, or if I'll ever be able to lead a life my own. We can't know any of that, and I will not drag you into such a murky pit of despair such as this."
Rachel's head had been shaking back and forth for several seconds, and when she finally spoke, the words seemed to burst forth from her like an avalanche, poorly withheld.
"Don't you think I know that, Quinn?! I know, I know, I know—Merlin, do I ever! Don't give me some poppycock about not knowing what the future holds for you when not a single person back there in that castle knows, either. No one knows! That's part of living, Quinn. But do you want to know what I know?"
Quinn shook her head, her throat thick with angst. "No," she whispered.
Rachel told her anyway.
"I know that I love you. I know that I loved you yesterday—that I loved you three years ago, even! I know that I will love you tomorrow. And a Mark on your skin will never be enough to transfigure that love into hate—or even to indifference. But if I receive the Mark as well, then I will have the opportunity to be by your side every moment. Where you go, I go, Quinn. If I can't follow you even into the pits of Hell, then I don't know what good I can possibly be. To anyone."
"You can live, Rachel."
"What kind of life!" Rachel nearly screamed. "What kind of life, Quinn? What would my life be like? Constantly worried, forever alone, always lamenting a future that could have been spent with you—even if it didn't fully belong to us. No. I will take the Mark, and I will stand beside you. I am yours."
Quinn was becoming desperate. "You will not be mine, you will be His."
"Then I will belong to another in order to belong to you. In secret, our love will be greater than anything else. We will change worlds, Quinn; that's how powerful you and I are. But only together."
Tears were cascading down Quinn's face, soaking the top of her blouse. "I will never be able to forgive myself for this," she whispered.
Rachel grasped the sides of Quinn's face in return now, pressing close; their foreheads touched, and Rachel's eyelashes brushed the wet skin of Quinn's cheekbones. "You must," Rachel replied, softly. "You have no other choice."
They stood still, there in the moonlight. Finally, they turned, silently, to continue their trek. Eventually reaching their destination, they pressed towards each other and kissed one last time, unmarked, in the quiet of a world as yet unchanged.
When the white hot tip of a wand burned into the flesh of Quinn's upper arm later that night, Rachel stood stoically by her side. And when the same happened to Rachel only moments later, Quinn bit her tongue to keep from screaming out.
And somewhere, the cogs of the universe kept turning; some hidden, miraculous key clicked into place. And the wheels of destiny, and of prophecy, moved ever onward.
SNOWED IN
In the winter of 2063, Lima, Ohio, received a storm one night that covered the world in a pure, blank canvas of whiteness.
Young Lucas and Robert Evans were up nearly at the rising of the dawn just to peek out of their windows to observe the cold winter wonderland outside. By nine o'clock that morning, the ants in their pants had them jumping about, begging their mother to let them bundle up so that they could go properly play in the snow for the next several hours.
Lucy Evans—originally born Lucy Barbra Berry-Fabray and who married the only son of Sam Evans and Mercedes Jones, Marcus Evans—eventually acquiesced.
"C'mon, Luke, we've gotta find stuff to make snowmen!"
"Yeah!"
They ran around the house, searching for proper snowperson accessories, and when they came across their grandmothers' old trunk in the guestroom, they knew that they had hit the jackpot.
"Check out this hat!" Lucas called to his brother.
Robert turned to look, examining the straw hat with the black bow wrapped around it. He nodded his head eagerly and showed his brother his own finding: a red headband! It certainly wasn't quite as flashy as an entire hat, but it would definitely do. As things stood, it looked like they would be making snowwomen instead.
They grabbed a couple of scarves from the trunk as well, then allowed their mother to equip them with carrots, buttons, and other necessary snowperson equipment. The second the boys were bundled up properly, they were practically bouncing off the ground in front of the door, ready to go.
Lucy gave them a playful smile before pulling the door wide; and they were off like a shot! "Don't take your hats off while you're out there!" she called after them. They were already bounding through the snow on their front lawn as if they had never experienced snow before in their lives—though every snowfall was different somehow, special, at that time in the lives of young children.
And this particular snowfall happened to be quite special, indeed.
For a couple of hours, the boys ran around, their snowwomen-making temporarily postponed—making angel figures in the snow, throwing snowballs at one another, and, for a brief while, engaging the other neighborhood children in an epic snowball battle in which the twins, with their innate connection, were able to outwit all of their opponents, resulting in supreme victory!
But before long, they returned to the abandoned pile of snowperson accessories and got down to business. By just after lunchtime, they had completed too women of snow—one accidentally ended up several inches shorter than the other, through no fault in the boys' planning. Lucy brought out two steaming cups of hot cocoa for her sons, and they stood back, admiring their handiwork together.
Lucy was quiet for a little while, watching as Lucas reached up, placing the cute straw hat on the taller snowwoman, while Robert carefully situated the red headband on the other. When they stepped back, proud smiles on their faces, they were momentarily confused by the tears welling up in their mom's eyes.
"Mom?" Lucas questioned.
And Robert finished for him: "What's wrong?"
With a tearful smile, Lucy replied, "Just brings back a lot of memories, boys. Now, let's go inside and eat some lunch, shall we? Your dad will be home soon."
Together, they went inside their warm, cozy home, leaving their snow creations alone on the front lawn.
Later that evening, just as dusk was beginning to fade to real dark and the streetlights in the neighborhood were beginning to come to life, illuminating a wave of freshly falling snow, a twig gave a small twitch. A few moments later, it made another jerky movement. Before long, it was moving, certainly, of its own accord—stretching and moving about as if testing its strength for the first time in years. The twig-arm reached up, almost curiously, and touched the brim of the hat that was sitting on its head. A row of pebbles making a mouth twitched upward into a smile, and its head of snow turned to look to its left.
"Psst," it whispered, "Rach."
The other snowwoman, now coming to life herself, gave her entire three-part body a bit of a shake. Her twig-arms wiggled and then simultaneously reached up to touch her nose.
"Oh!" her pebble-mouth formed a circle, "they gave me a huge nose, didn't they?!"
The other snowwoman chuckled deeply. "I think your nose is perfect, Rachel."
"Oh, Quinn," Rachel sighed, turning to look at her wife of over three and a half decades, "you always did."
The ends of their makeshift arms stretched towards each other, their bodies created just close enough together that the tips of their twigs could intertwine.
"How long do you think we have this time?" Quinn asked, a wistfulness Rachel had missed in her voice.
"I'd say we have just about forever, my darling."
And when Robert and Lucas went out to play in the last remnants of the snow again two days later, they found that the snowpeople they had made were closer than they had originally placed them; additionally, they were facing each other with what were almost mistakable as adoring smiles—and, best yet, someone had maneuvered their twig-hands so that they were holding onto each other!
Two days later, even the remains of their snowwomen were gone; but the twins asked their mother if she'd had anything to do with the manipulation of their creations.
With a warm smile on her lips, Lucy replied, "I didn't, no. But there's magic in the snow. And in love."
And that was enough of an explanation for their satisfaction.