Liminal (adj.): 1. of or relating to a sensory threshold; 2. barely perceptible; 3. of, relating to, or being an intermediate state, phase, or condition: in-between, transitional.
When I wake, I can hear singing.
I can hear the melody, though the singer is far distant from me; it is a familiar song, and it acts as both a balm and a poniard, gouging my spirit as it heals. I can remember singing it, among lights and dancers.
That a thread of music should reach me all the way from the Above is no surprise to me, now, for I have heard her singing for many years.
At first, when I was freshly defeated, and my wounds were magical as well as emotional, I raged against hearing her voice, though I could do nothing to stop it. Weakened as I was, I could do little but follow my subjects into her world and watch from a distance; my other, winged form disguised me somewhat Aboveground, as I observed them cavorting with my victor. They visited her often.
I never managed to witness her singing, however. She was always chatting with my gardener, or playing with my goblins, or dancing with my knight. She would spill her life out to them: a torrent of words that they accepted happily, offering friendship in equal exchange. Her family seemed completely unaware of her new friends and their frequent visits, though the babe, her brother, was occasionally permitted to play with my subjects, when his parents were away.
Not long after her return home, my vanquisher had a change of heart: she had been made aware in my realm that words have power, and she rightly concluded that they must have some sort of power everywhere; she grew increasingly conscious of the words she chose to speak.
I myself had regained strength, and could watch her from crystals once more. Try as I might, my power could not shield me from hearing her singing, and the notes were always with me as I surfaced from sleep. Even as I rebuilt what I had lost due to her words, I lost the anger that had prompted me to watch for a weakness in her. What had been a desire for vengeance turned to curiosity; I watched her in moments of boredom.
Gradually, the power of words impressed itself on her even more. My subjects still flocked to her, but now were met with a desire for quiet conversation and companionable silences. They were pleased to please this conquering child, and so did her bidding: they taught her goblin chess, regaled her with stories of their world, and told her of their own lives. She was immensely satisfied to hear of the Underground, though she never asked after me when I was watching.
And still she sang, and still I was the only one to hear it. My curiosity in her became sharper; I became determined to catch her in an indiscretion, and make my presence known the moment her tongue slipped.
She could not be aware of my attention, mortal as she was, so I deemed it safe to watch her at my leisure, no matter what she was doing. In school- I did not watch her there often- she said but little, and only when it was required of her. With her mortal friends (I was perhaps somewhat surprised that she had any, so much of her friendship was given to my subjects), she laughed and listened, saying still but little. At home, she spoke only when necessary, though more to her brother than anyone else.
Her family had noticed a change over time, but had chalked the behavior up to adolescence; the girl's demeanor had improved so much overall that it seemed little matter that she did not rattle on as other girls are wont to do.
My pretty victor's awareness of words reached new heights. She spent hours writing- school work and her own words- but used them aloud less and less. The denizens of my kingdom who still visited her were reduced to bringing her rare books from the Underground, or letting her sketch their likenesses; she spoke hardly at all, though she was as welcoming to them as ever.
At this juncture, however, her silence had drawn the full attention of her family; her instructors had noticed as well, though there were scant weeks of schooling left to her. Unbeknownst to her parents, her mortal friends had drifted away and been pushed away by their daughter, who could no longer offer up human words to comfort their wariness of her increasing strangeness.
I watched with an intensity, now. Her singing was driving me slightly mad, for I had never yet caught her at it. If anything, her song was louder than ever, though I could only hear it in the moments between sleep and wakefulness.
A confrontation occurred in her home, as I watched from the comfort of my throne: my little champion spoke few words, though her eyes spoke volumes. Her parents pleaded and shouted and cajoled and reasoned. In the end, her willfulness disallowed her to say enough, or what they wanted to hear.
Unfortunately for her father and step-mother, she had reached her majority, and they could not force her to anything once she graduated from school. My silent one left them for her mother's place, in a city where she could say as little as she wished- or so she imagined.
Her mother, so long absent from daily child-rearing, noticed the silence of her daughter immediately: a gradual change over years seems abrupt to one who has not seen the subject in the interim. The dark-haired mother did what the other family could not: my taciturn conqueror was brought to a doctor, one who would attempt to tease out the cause of her silence.
By way of introduction and explanation, my precious said only, "Words have power."
For a time, she sat in expensive silences, sometimes marking the hour by staring about herself, sometimes reading, sometimes writing in a notebook (mirrored by the professional); the conclusion was unofficial, and marked the end of her sessions: she is not unhappy. But she barely speaks.
In this time, in the swelter of waning, urban summer, she finds refuge in cool, silent places; her mother is content to let her have her way for the time being.
I, too, am content to wait. Every spare moment is spent watching her, and I am not sure, now, that she doesn't notice it. I have tried prolonging that instant when I can hear her singing to me, but the melody is always just out of my grasp as sleep leaves me. She cannot be doing it consciously, for I am gazing on her- by crystal, by owl, by shadow- almost constantly.
I indulge myself in thinking there is a certain inevitability to her silence, now. As though the mundane words she holds behind her teeth are being compressed- are metamorphosing into words of more concentrated meaning- and that if she were to keep silent long enough, my willful beloved would form a word of diamond, strong enough to shatter the world.
The waiting will be agony, but I can withstand it. As always, she is the source of my pain and the cure. I cannot know what word she will choose, to bring the Above and Underground to kneel at her feet, but my Sarah knows the importance of words; she will choose wisely.
In the meantime, I will listen to her singing.
A/N: Thanks for reading my first piece of fan fiction; it's amazing how a narrative can emerge when you least expect it.
Disclaimer: As always, I seek only to gratify myself and those of like mind; the owning of the world where I lay my words belongs to another: it is not mine.