A/N Longest non chaptered fic to date! I wrote this in English, so it's a
little flowery, and a little out there! See if you can figure out who the
"tormented genius" is.It's from Riff's POV btw!
When you walked into the small room the first thing that you noticed was the smell. It was that musty smell that accompanied old books. I found the spot I was looking for in the small, dark room. I skimmed over the cracked, leather bound volumes before I pulled out one. It wasn't a novel like so many of it's brethren, but a biography. I read the familiar lines describing a tormented life so similar to mine. The story of a man tormented by his genius. A man to whom death was not unknown. As I read through it all, I couldn't help but think of how alike we were.
I found myself lost, as I often became when I read, in the story of a man completely tortured by his genius. Of a man completely in love, then losing it all. The similarities began in our early lives, the only constant being deah. My first memory was that of my mother dying, was very similar to the first memory of this wonderful genius.
It was in that room that she found me, curled in a chair, reading. She had snuck in so quietly, afraid of what I might do. She knew I didn't like to be bothered while I was reading, and she wanted not to bring out my temper. I knew of the stories that people told about what I had done to people who'd pissed me off. The story of what I did to the prince led people to cross to the other side of the street as I walked past. "Um, General, sir?" The girl asked, as always, quiet as a mouse. There was a slight quaver in her voice, as she was nervous about having inturrepted me.
"Yes?" I said, looking up with a slight frown.
"It's Ms. Magenta sir, she's fallen ill." I was out of the room and halfway down the hall before she could even take a breath at the end of her sentince.
As I darted down darted to our roo, a deep panic gripped me. Magenta was never sick Never was ill a day in her life. Never even had a cold. I got to our room halfway out of breath, and she gave me a little smile. "You ran all the way from the library didn't you? All for me." I smiled weakly as well. She still looked normal. Except her eyes had lost some of the fire that they usually had.
Just as I thought that everything was fine, her body was suddenly racked with a horrible coughing spasm. As her thin frame lept from the mattress with each violent cough, a small, red drop of blood grew on her lips. I sat down gently next to her and softly stroked one of her beautiful red curls out of her face.
She smiled again as I gently soothed her. To everyone else, I was a cold, cruel man. A general, no scratch that, THE general, who wasn't afraid to waist a whole company of soldiers if I had to. But around Magenta I grew soft. She was my only family. My only tie to life. My only tie to sanity.
Some had called me a genius. After all, I damned near won the war myself. I looked down at the book which I still had in my hand, now knowing exactly what his tormented self must have been feeling. He too had lost his sister and wife to consumption.
I prayed that we would have more time together. That this was not the end. That this was only the first round. That we would be able to reassure ourselves of how much we loved each other. I sat on her bed, gently stroking her face, praying. I never have been religious, never thought I would be either, not until now.
She drifted off into a light slumber. I looked down at her and felt a lump grow in my throat. The only thing stopping the threatening tears was my pride. The sound of approaching footsteps left the tears burning in my eyes. It was only the servant girl, Liv, asking if we needed anything. I sent her off politely, for once. I smiled.
Magenta would have been proud of me, had she been awake. I was usually snappy to her, but now, now I was nice. I usually didn't even bother with the servant anyway. If something had to be done, I'd do it myself. I didn't want her, I didn't need her, but a servant was a status symbol.
The weeks wore on, and Magenta's condition grew steadily worse. I took to spending almost all my time either at her bedside, or, while she was asleep, wandering the grounds of our house, always staying with in earshot. Nothing seemed to make me happy. As Magenta grew weaker and weaker, I sank further and further into depression and the bottle.
Until at last that day came. It'll always be ingrained into my head. There she lay, pale and fragile, her once vibrant red hair laying limply, framing her white, ashen face. She fell into another coughing fit, the sheets starting to turn red from the blood she was coughing up. I sat there, holding her close, not caring about her staining my shirt. If it was anyone else coughing blood onto one of my dress shirts the blood would be coming out of a wound. But no, this was my sister, my lover.
She could tell she near the end. She moved as close as she could to me, and laid her head on my shoulder. She took a deep, ragged breath, before finally speaking. "I love you, I always will." She hissed, almost silently into my ear.
"I love you two" The tears that I had been fighting to hold back burst free. "I need you, this can't happen" I all but sobbed.
"You'll make it, you always have, you always will. I love you, don't forget that" As she finished speaking another spasm rocked her body, and I could feel the blood coming out. It made me cry even harder. As I held her limp form in my arms, her dying body, all I could do was tell her how much I loved her.
"You can't die! I need you! You're all I have left!" I sobbed.
"All good things must come to an end" She said raspily. "Goodbye Riff, I love you, I always will. You'll never know how much. But I love you." I pulled her even closer.
"No! No! You can't die, you can't" She coughed once more, and took one final, gasping, breath.
Liv chose this moment to walk in. She saw me, sobbing, Magenta gathered in my arms, and bowed her head in respect. "She was a great woman."
"Greater than you could ever know, greater than you could know." I said, trying to regain my composure somewhat. Liv bowed again, and slowly backed out of the room.
One year later, here I was. Not soon after Magenta had died, I had taken it upon myself to finish the biography. I found a poem, written by the genius, that seemed to fit what had happened.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went on envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea
Oh, how that poem fit us. The wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Magenta. We had loved with a love that was more than love. I couldn't help but stare at her grave, ironically surrounded by blooming flowers. How could anything so beautiful dare to grow around where what the most beautiful creature I had ever seen lay dead, buried in the ground?
I looked down on the familiar gray tombstone, with a simple carving of an angel on it, and a short phrase "All good things must come to an end." Her dying words. I stood at the foot of her grave, and looked down at it. I pulled the small hip flask from my belt, and took a deep swig.
Replacing the hip flask, I pulled another thing from my belt. A small silver derringer. I spun the barrel of the gun, and held it up to my head. I removed a piece of paper, one that I had prepared, and grasped it in my free hand. With my other hand, I placed the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger, falling upon my sister, my lover's grave.
Anyone who had walked through that cemetery on that bright spring morn would have found me, dead, with my note in my hand. The note, that let me end it all.
I can't take it anymore. It has been a year of torture. I've had to give up my position as head of the Queen's Army. I've sunken into too deep of a depression to bounce back. Oh, Magenta, the day you died you said I could go on, I always had, I always would. But I didn't. I couldn't get past loosing you. I love you too much. I have missed you every one of those long days. And now, now this day, I'm finally coming to you. Finally seeing you again. Your vibrant beauty. Oh, how I missed you. Now I can finally see you again. Hello, my dear sister, my lover. And goodbye to this infernal world, this hellhole that they call a planet.
*****
A/N again! Sorry, it was a little sappy! But the tormented genius, if the poem didn't tip you off, was Edgar Allen Poe. I wrote this while we were watching the A&E biography of Poe, so cut me a little slack! I hope you enjoyed! PS, the poem's called Annabel Lee, and it's by Poe.
When you walked into the small room the first thing that you noticed was the smell. It was that musty smell that accompanied old books. I found the spot I was looking for in the small, dark room. I skimmed over the cracked, leather bound volumes before I pulled out one. It wasn't a novel like so many of it's brethren, but a biography. I read the familiar lines describing a tormented life so similar to mine. The story of a man tormented by his genius. A man to whom death was not unknown. As I read through it all, I couldn't help but think of how alike we were.
I found myself lost, as I often became when I read, in the story of a man completely tortured by his genius. Of a man completely in love, then losing it all. The similarities began in our early lives, the only constant being deah. My first memory was that of my mother dying, was very similar to the first memory of this wonderful genius.
It was in that room that she found me, curled in a chair, reading. She had snuck in so quietly, afraid of what I might do. She knew I didn't like to be bothered while I was reading, and she wanted not to bring out my temper. I knew of the stories that people told about what I had done to people who'd pissed me off. The story of what I did to the prince led people to cross to the other side of the street as I walked past. "Um, General, sir?" The girl asked, as always, quiet as a mouse. There was a slight quaver in her voice, as she was nervous about having inturrepted me.
"Yes?" I said, looking up with a slight frown.
"It's Ms. Magenta sir, she's fallen ill." I was out of the room and halfway down the hall before she could even take a breath at the end of her sentince.
As I darted down darted to our roo, a deep panic gripped me. Magenta was never sick Never was ill a day in her life. Never even had a cold. I got to our room halfway out of breath, and she gave me a little smile. "You ran all the way from the library didn't you? All for me." I smiled weakly as well. She still looked normal. Except her eyes had lost some of the fire that they usually had.
Just as I thought that everything was fine, her body was suddenly racked with a horrible coughing spasm. As her thin frame lept from the mattress with each violent cough, a small, red drop of blood grew on her lips. I sat down gently next to her and softly stroked one of her beautiful red curls out of her face.
She smiled again as I gently soothed her. To everyone else, I was a cold, cruel man. A general, no scratch that, THE general, who wasn't afraid to waist a whole company of soldiers if I had to. But around Magenta I grew soft. She was my only family. My only tie to life. My only tie to sanity.
Some had called me a genius. After all, I damned near won the war myself. I looked down at the book which I still had in my hand, now knowing exactly what his tormented self must have been feeling. He too had lost his sister and wife to consumption.
I prayed that we would have more time together. That this was not the end. That this was only the first round. That we would be able to reassure ourselves of how much we loved each other. I sat on her bed, gently stroking her face, praying. I never have been religious, never thought I would be either, not until now.
She drifted off into a light slumber. I looked down at her and felt a lump grow in my throat. The only thing stopping the threatening tears was my pride. The sound of approaching footsteps left the tears burning in my eyes. It was only the servant girl, Liv, asking if we needed anything. I sent her off politely, for once. I smiled.
Magenta would have been proud of me, had she been awake. I was usually snappy to her, but now, now I was nice. I usually didn't even bother with the servant anyway. If something had to be done, I'd do it myself. I didn't want her, I didn't need her, but a servant was a status symbol.
The weeks wore on, and Magenta's condition grew steadily worse. I took to spending almost all my time either at her bedside, or, while she was asleep, wandering the grounds of our house, always staying with in earshot. Nothing seemed to make me happy. As Magenta grew weaker and weaker, I sank further and further into depression and the bottle.
Until at last that day came. It'll always be ingrained into my head. There she lay, pale and fragile, her once vibrant red hair laying limply, framing her white, ashen face. She fell into another coughing fit, the sheets starting to turn red from the blood she was coughing up. I sat there, holding her close, not caring about her staining my shirt. If it was anyone else coughing blood onto one of my dress shirts the blood would be coming out of a wound. But no, this was my sister, my lover.
She could tell she near the end. She moved as close as she could to me, and laid her head on my shoulder. She took a deep, ragged breath, before finally speaking. "I love you, I always will." She hissed, almost silently into my ear.
"I love you two" The tears that I had been fighting to hold back burst free. "I need you, this can't happen" I all but sobbed.
"You'll make it, you always have, you always will. I love you, don't forget that" As she finished speaking another spasm rocked her body, and I could feel the blood coming out. It made me cry even harder. As I held her limp form in my arms, her dying body, all I could do was tell her how much I loved her.
"You can't die! I need you! You're all I have left!" I sobbed.
"All good things must come to an end" She said raspily. "Goodbye Riff, I love you, I always will. You'll never know how much. But I love you." I pulled her even closer.
"No! No! You can't die, you can't" She coughed once more, and took one final, gasping, breath.
Liv chose this moment to walk in. She saw me, sobbing, Magenta gathered in my arms, and bowed her head in respect. "She was a great woman."
"Greater than you could ever know, greater than you could know." I said, trying to regain my composure somewhat. Liv bowed again, and slowly backed out of the room.
One year later, here I was. Not soon after Magenta had died, I had taken it upon myself to finish the biography. I found a poem, written by the genius, that seemed to fit what had happened.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went on envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea
Oh, how that poem fit us. The wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Magenta. We had loved with a love that was more than love. I couldn't help but stare at her grave, ironically surrounded by blooming flowers. How could anything so beautiful dare to grow around where what the most beautiful creature I had ever seen lay dead, buried in the ground?
I looked down on the familiar gray tombstone, with a simple carving of an angel on it, and a short phrase "All good things must come to an end." Her dying words. I stood at the foot of her grave, and looked down at it. I pulled the small hip flask from my belt, and took a deep swig.
Replacing the hip flask, I pulled another thing from my belt. A small silver derringer. I spun the barrel of the gun, and held it up to my head. I removed a piece of paper, one that I had prepared, and grasped it in my free hand. With my other hand, I placed the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger, falling upon my sister, my lover's grave.
Anyone who had walked through that cemetery on that bright spring morn would have found me, dead, with my note in my hand. The note, that let me end it all.
I can't take it anymore. It has been a year of torture. I've had to give up my position as head of the Queen's Army. I've sunken into too deep of a depression to bounce back. Oh, Magenta, the day you died you said I could go on, I always had, I always would. But I didn't. I couldn't get past loosing you. I love you too much. I have missed you every one of those long days. And now, now this day, I'm finally coming to you. Finally seeing you again. Your vibrant beauty. Oh, how I missed you. Now I can finally see you again. Hello, my dear sister, my lover. And goodbye to this infernal world, this hellhole that they call a planet.
*****
A/N again! Sorry, it was a little sappy! But the tormented genius, if the poem didn't tip you off, was Edgar Allen Poe. I wrote this while we were watching the A&E biography of Poe, so cut me a little slack! I hope you enjoyed! PS, the poem's called Annabel Lee, and it's by Poe.