For Love of You
A/N: This wasn't made-- it grew out of a late night and reading too many star-crossed love stories. It's a songfic is set to Mystic Night by Loreena McKinnett, and is an absolutely *beautiful song* You can hear it at http://www.quinlanroad.com-- it's also on the Possession trailer. Satine and Christian belong to Baz. Katherine Everett belongs to me, as does her last name. My, aren't I possessive?
Dedication: To Norah and Dia, two wonderful writers who never fail to amaze me.
He slept fitfully on nights like these, whispering names that had long fallen into silence, twisting under their cool sheets as if he was burning with a fever. Sometimes he would turn to her in his sleep, caressing and kissing her with a fervour that had never passed into their lovemaking.
Katherine stayed stiff as her husband dreamed of her, as she always had. When his hands slipped over to her body, she would gently put him off and turn away, her eyes burning with unshed tears. Occasionally her chin would quiver and she would give a few dry sobs, but her natural reserve usually remained triumphant.
She knew all about her, the courtesan whose name was still in his heart. He had told her the entire story-- simply, without reserve or hesitation when they had first become friends. When he began to court her a year later, she rarely thought of the woman. She was simply part of those few faded years in Montmarte. Important, certainly, but Katherine had wanted no passion. She would gladly play second to the beauty for a good home and kind husband. It was far better to play a loving wife than a poet's mistress.
But when he whispered her name as he lay with his wife, the cold tendrils of jealousy had snaked into her heart. Her love for him had grown as far as he would let it-- a warm affection, a tender regard. But he stood before her, blocking every entrance to a love she now desperately craved. Even now that she was carrying his child, he still gave her the polite care he always had.
Her voice was a rich alto that sang the gentle ballads of England well, but Christian never wrote poems comparing it to an angel's song. And while all the sewing circle envied her mass of golden hair and soft grey eyes, her husband only smiled at compliments about his lovely wife. Katherine never missed the wistful glances at a flash of red hair or the deep azure eyes. He bought her pearls, never diamonds, although he knew she loved the stone. And those epic poems that everyone admired her for, the verses that proclaimed endless passion for the woman he adored. . . he never once thought of Katherine when taking ink to paper.
She rose from the bed, feeling the covers slide away from her in a soft whisper of fabric. The moonlight fell in pale shafts across the floor, lending a melancholy air to the room. Katherine glanced up and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her mouth twisted, and she closed her eyes, her breath heaving against her hand. Her thickening waist was apparent in the plain nightgown that rose to closely encircle the base of her neck. The shadows under her eyes had deepened over the past few nights, Katherine reflected dispassionately, taking her hand away to study the reflection. Rag curlers lay in a prosaic oval around her face, a flat braid contained the rest of her hair.
She turned away from the mirror, reaching for her rose kimono. Christian had never liked it since she had brought him home, so she wore it but rarely. But she loved it, loved the watery silk against her skin. In forbidden, illicit moments when she dreamed that Christian whispered her name in fevered kisses, she wore only that.
She kept the nightgown on tonight, and walked out to the balcony. The door slid open silently enough for Christian to stay in his dreamworld. She stood on the edge before the railing, her fists balled together, nails digging into the vulnerable flesh of her palm. Katherine watched the night impassively. She restricted her thoughts to topics, the baby blankets she would hem tomorrow, the dinner arrangements for next Thursday.
Christian kept drifting into her heart. . . his smiles, his gentle kisses. Katherine shook her head, bemused in spite of her aching soul. She'd never believed in love until she'd found herself absorbed in every aspect of her husband. Now she craved his touch, even while knowing that he would never return her love with anywhere near the same force.
Clouds shifted over the moon, and Katherine shivered. The chilly night air rippled over her body, infusing the thin silk with its presence. She looked down at her hands, plain and square. Yet another failing-- her hands had been white and slender. Katherine shut her eyes against the softer starlight. She didn't like it when the moon's luminous cast over the land faded. . . it was too . . . lonely.
The words of an old ballad came to her lips then, and she hummed a few bars before singing the hallowed words. She could faintly remember her old grandmother soothing her to sleep with those songs, and they always brought her comfort. They evoked ancient memories that were her own, and not her own, a deep well of instinctive knowledge lodged in her soul. Memories of great loves, of places she had never been to.
A clouded dream on an earthly night, Katherine sang softly, letting the music wash out the pain with a milky haze of lyric. Hangs upon the crescent moon. A voiceless song in an ageless light sings at the coming dawn. The breeze picked up again, picking up the leaves that had fallen from the trees and blowing them in gentle circles over the ground. On impulse, Katherine let her braid free, drinking in the feeling of the wind ruffling through her hair. It felt like she'd always imagined flying to feel.
Birds in flight are calling there, where the heart moves the stones. It didn't seem fair that she should stay in the narrow part of Christian's heart, reserved for mortal beings like her. How could she compete with a stainless angel who never felt ill or too large, never had to mend his jacket pockets? Why settle for prose when poetry was only a moment of inspiration away?
Katherine and Christian would never dance across the sky while he sang to her. They would never read poetry together in the first flush of dawn, or simply lie together, feeling each other's hearts beat.
No matter how much she craved his love, he would never give it to her. Not out of cruelty, not out of dislike. Just because he couldn't. It was no longer his to give.
It's there my heart is longing for, all for the love of you.