Forget Me
'All that we see, or seem, is but a dream within a dream.'
Edgar Allen Poe
She would never forget, never cease to remember. The memories were too fresh, still and forever, within her mind and though she tried she could not dispel it. The servants never questioned when she said to cover every mirror, they never thought when she retreated unto her rooms each night before the proper hour.
Reflections, it whispered – that treacherous, torturing mind of hers – are the devil, and I shall not tolerate such sin. Masks, it said, are worn for reason, you of all, my queen, should know that.
She would never forget the precise curve of the body, the shade of the eye. Such a cocky, assured, tilt to the head. Her maids never asked the 'whys' they wished to when they found her wardrobe strewn about, everything within that had born the colour blue torn and slashed, though they never found a knife.
Blue, it crooned, was for the innocent, not the killer, not the sinner. Not you.
She would never forget the voice, the screams and wails of that body before it fell, fell, fell, into unending blackness. Dead, enveloped, broken. No one stayed to watch her pass, to watch her fall, the same way, to the demons and the devils. Though they all knew, they all saw the signs, the signals.
Hissed curses in the dark of night. You deserve this, it cried, voice like broken glass. Suffer, die, bleed, my Queen, bleed.
She would never forget the pain, the searing, the burning – hot tears down cold cheeks, red, red, red on black and blue and golden skin. She would never forget the fear, the hunger, the hunt. And she whispers that one word on the wind as a prayer.
Sheik.
The knife is sharp, though she does not feel it, time having dulled the senses, sanity broken and decayed. And all she can see is red and fire and ice and pain, since the time that was but never should have been. Her body screams once more, one frightened, loathing gargle of a sob, and for once she dares again to dream.
They found her on the bathroom floor, a sea of colour drained her skin and art interlaced on skin, and no one moved, and no one asked, though tears ran freely – crystalline and empty, worthless.
And only he uttered the one thing worth uttering.
"Tell the people, their Queen is dead."
AN: So my first story is posted - and it's a Zelda one-shot, no surprise there really for those who know me (I'm as big a Zelda fan as I am a Trigun fan). I hope that you all liked it, even though it is rather obscure and angst filled. I think it fits Her Highness rather well. So take this any way that you will, the last line was meant to be enigmatic.
So, Read and reveiw, please - Reveiws make me happy, and my in-box is hungry.
Naj