Saint Marie fanfic. Monica can't find it in herself to pray anymore.
Monica prays for love—
And she finds it in Claire's sweet smiles and kind eyes, in the tilt of her head as her attention shifts solely to Monica, in the airy fall of cornsilk as stray strands tease at her cheeks when they stand close to each other. She feels a flash of heat, friction, static electricity, when Claire links their fingers together as they teleport in unison, stained cheeks and increased blood flow at the arm that immediately rose to catch her when she stumbled upon arrival, hands unclenching from her heart when Claire staunchly defends her against the White Bishop. And she can't obtain enough of that feeling, that precious emotion that buoys her from a dark premonition of failure and victory stole from than tainted, bloody hands. Of Players falling, betrayal frozen on blank, accusing stares, struck down from those they called friends, of the veil of ignorance ripped away before they were ready to understand, of the deaths of innocence and childhood. But this is their reality. One minute, Claire is flashing a grin at her, the next she is gone and Monica can't hear her anymore.
Love is lost as blood stands starkly against Claire's white nightgown.
Monica prays for silence—
And she finds it in the cold, sterilized hospital room and stainless steel instruments sliding through membranes and cells, in the bleak fog that is her world, in the hazy edges and dark spots as she struggles half-heartedly to focus on something, anything. She feels the all too familiar numbness of morphine in the IV drip taking effect, absently euphoric as she danced on the line between consciousness and oblivion, casually indifferent as she laughingly tries to guess her name and the name of the fair-browed boy who would be rather handsome if he smiled. And she can't obtain enough of that feeling, that manufactured bliss that shelters her from the truth that she is more than willing to forget and things she should remember. Memories of curving lips and too bright energy and skin on skin, warmth on warmth, of bonds touching and bonds breaking and frantic telepathic commands that came all too late, of the helplessness on her as her body gave out again. And this is their reality. The first casualty had fallen and Claire's death is all her fault.
Silence is lost as the sedatives stem her wild thrashes and screams.
Monica prays for courage—
And she finds it the firm resolve on faces creased with pain and determination and the minister's strong, unwavering voice, in the weight of the White Knight's hand on her shoulder—too heavy, too dark, and nothing like Claire's—in the memories of eyes and smiles that seem too far away now. She feels anguish bubbling within her, despite her attempts to quell it, like a festering wound that heals none too quickly, fury, blinding and fierce, because someone could've saved Claire but didn't because she was only a pawn and pawns were expendable and too easily discarded, desperation because her paltry abilities didn't make a difference, because she's just so very weak. And she can't obtain enough of that feeling because that's all she has left to cling to. Of affection and friendship and the possibility of everything she's ever wanted that can never happen now. Reality crashes down on her. She knows that once she leaves these hallowed grounds, Claire will truly be gone and her memory will fade and that truth is breaking her heart.
Courage is lost as suddenly the tears are falling and falling and not stopping.
Monica doesn't pray anymore.