A/N: The pressures of real life seem to have compressed into another dark piece of fiction, and somewhat ashamedly, I present another angsty piece. Please review, lest I feel unloved. We all know what happens when that occurs, don't we?
Disclaimer: They all belong to Baz. I'm just borrowing for a touch of angst. The quotation hope is a luxury for those who believe they can control their futures isn't mine, obviously-- I got it off the Possession website.
To Die For Love
by drama-princess
I never thought to die for love.
The evening passes greedily, the Duke swallowing every word I breathe into his ears, drinking in the sight to my bare skin slowly inching its way free from satin. It is a prelude to tonight, when I will lie beneath him and think of Christian. There is no music gliding smoothly in the background. The servants are silent, leaving the barest trace of their presence on the table.
Is this what life is like for all?
Whispers of the Duke's breath scrap against my hearing. I feel his want in every word. I do not need his rough caresses that bruise to know that he is aroused by the gentle sway of my hips. Yet still I play on, raising my chin, trailing my hand.
We are acting out our parts, the two of us. I do it knowingly, he does not understand how we gesture on stage. The darkness bleeds out of him, reaching towards me with leering faces. He is always there, his moist breath staining my neck. I dare not think of Christian now, not even in the dim light of the Gothic Tower. The emotion will assert itself on my face, softening my features, bringing a smile to hover about the corners of my lips. He is watching me too acutely to shift my eyes towards the horizon in escape.
Only in the darkness of the cage will my soul set free.
Marie draped the veil over me earlier in a black parody of a bride. I stared with unseeing eyes past the lace at my reflection. If I peered hard enough into the mirror, I could see the negative of the scene. My dress became frothy lace, a cloud on which Aphrodite could be born. The veil softened and blurred the harsh edges of the mirror. My face rippled like circles of water, drawing finer lines of happiness.
No, I cannot think of Christian now.
Yet thoughts of him eat away at me, eroding the substance of my resolve. Clouds of red pass before my vision, blood and fire. That is all I see now. Blood and fire, haunting my every breath. The coughs are getting worse. I hold the handkerchief to my lips and then press it tightly into my hand. My nails dig into the tender part of my palm, nearly drawing blood. I hide a wry smile behind the garnet wine. I cannot let the Duke see my pain.
I fell into an abyss when I fainted earlier that I cannot escape. If I cling to Christian's hand, I will bring him down into hell-- if I turn to the Duke, I damn myself. There is only one choice, just one choice to save us us all, my mind whispers, but I am afraid, oh, too afraid to even put it into words.
I never thought to die for love.
I know what the evening will bring if I cry out Christian's name just once. I've seen it in my dreams, over and over. Christian does not know, of course. I let him smooth away the trembling pain with his lips, but I cannot open his heart to the fire that consumes me. I will not let him die.
I never loved anyone before enough to save them, but I will not let him die. I know the dream. How could I not? Always, the dream is the same.
We are out on the balcony, the Duke and I, my neck chained close with ropes of diamonds that will be the death of me. I stare out at the string of lights that Paris flaunts, my hands tightly gripping the railing. My knuckles are almost white as the Duke bruises me with his kisses. Latin music plays in my veins and at the Moulin, strumming chords of painful rhythm and the high, strained voice of violins.
I realize that I have stood, somehow, and am staring into another mirror. This one is truer than I would wish, revealing the hollows in my cheekbones and the deepening shadows under my eyes. A hand slips itself around my waist, and I am too tired to protest. The colour of my lips is darkened by the blood from earlier. The fireplace burns behind me, snapping fingers of flame out towards the chairs, sending burning sparks of coal to death. A servant steps out, his eyes warily meeting mine as he holds out the diamonds from my dream.
It is beginning.
Accept it, the Duke hisses. My mind plays along with his next line. I know it-- in some ways I know it better than the words that fall from my own mouth, so often have I heard it. As a gift from this maharajah to his courtesan. It is on my lips to ask about the ending, to breathe an innocent question brought by the rehearsal this afternoon. It would be so easy to follow the dream and ask.
I do not.
For I know how the story really ends.
Christian's sweet face is staring into mine, his lips pressing together with the first taste of jealousy. He sees the Duke's hands on my body, sees the necklace I wear. The music spirals and fades as my heart's defenses collapse and I whisper our song to him. Christian vanishes from my vision as the Duke takes my wrists and forces me down. I kneel helplessly on the rug I now stand on. The necklace lies in a heap of encrusted stones nearby, as broken as I am.
And we know, I answer the Duke. It is what he wants to believe, and I will make it true. That is real love. I press his lips to mine before he can reply, ignoring the waves of sickness that fold over me. The diamonds lay heavy against me, clammy skin near pristine jewels, and I wonder if the Duke wishes the collar on his pet even as he takes what is his.
Not his. . . not his. . . not his. . . I whimper as the Duke tears off my dress, exposing me to the cold of night. My hands fly up to cover my face, stained with evidence of utter degradation. Fear runs through me, and I am truly like a terrified virgin before the darkness of this man. The clasp in my hair flies to the side, he sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I try to imagine the hands running over mine are Christian's to hold back the sobs, but he would never touch me so.
The dress falls almost tenderly in comparison, carelessly tossed over a nearby chair. The servant has faded as the Duke works at my corset strings, hastily tearing them in effort to see the skin beneath. I try to stifle my cries of fear, hoping he will mistake them for arousal.
He does, and presses me close so I may kiss him. I do, letting myself fall into a dream of Christian now that the lights are out. It is his face beneath my slim fingers that I am learning, his lips that I taste against my own. My kisses slow, become too tender, and he brings me up sharply with the breaking of my corset and a slap against my back as he pulls it free.
The Duke throws me down onto the bed and my head turns to the side. Then the darkness overwhelms me, and I see Christian, only Christian. He is crying, his face pressed into his hands. He is surrounded by bits of broken glass and pools of clouded absinthe. A cigarette smoulders in a nearby manuscript, and his hands are stained with blood. He coughs and curses softly, and I begin to weep at the familiarity of the sound. I am gone now, my body tossed into the frozen ground with only his tears to warm my death. But I've left him with a twisted gift, so he has nothing to mourn for long.
I bring the Duke down to the floor with me. His touches are crude, more pawings than caresses. As I thought, he keeps the diamonds on even when I lie naked beneath him. The floor is harder than I thought it would be, but it suits my purposes. I wait patiently as he has his way with me, letting my mind linger over the memories of Christian that I treasure.
His shyly eager face as we made love for the first time. . . reading his poetry to me after a night of passion. . . lying entwined together as we slept under the warm lights of a Parisian summer. . . our voices reaching into a duet, our fingers meeting in a first caress. So many memories that we've formed during our summer of love.
One image hangs over them all. . . .Christian, wondering at my pale, set face when I left for the Tower, and the unexpected kiss before I slipped out the door. Then the gradual softening of the line between his eyebrows as I sang to him.
Come what may, Christian.
Christian's eyes raise and stare into mine accusingly. Whore, his broken voice whispers to me. I bite back a cry at how much his face has changed, how empty he appears in the darkened garret. Look what you've done to me, he says cruelly, taking a step in my direction. Whore. . .
I will not let it happen.
It is possible, I suppose. The dream could be wrong. I could recover-- this could merely be a bad bout of pneumonia or bronchitis, rather than some haunting disease that will kill me. And I could hope that even if I were to die, Christian's life and heart would go on without me. I could hope that he will remember me with a beautiful sadness for the woman he loved.
Hope is a luxury for those who believe they can control their futures.
I cannot risk that, but oh, I never thought to die for love. I always scorned the Juliets and Guineveres of this world, preferring the cold comfort of diamonds to the tempests of emotion.
I force back the nausea as the Duke nears his climax and feign my own.
It is almost time.
My breath hitches, and the facade of pleasure washes away with fear and pain. I'm so afraid that I cannot do it, cannot throw away the chance. Come what may, he has to love me, has to love me. I cannot do it, don't have the courage nor the strength.
But I do.
The Duke collapses, boneless, on top of me so that I cannot breathe, and I hit him hard enough to make him fall into unconsciousness. He falls to the cold floor and lands only with a muffled noise. There he lies, barely breathing, a faint line of blood trickling down to his lips.
Like I did, I think cruelly, shoving his limp body off of mine. You will pay for your crimes, Monsieur la Duke. Not as you should, but enough to satisfy one poor girl's thirst for vengeance.
The knife is lying in my corset, as Baby Doll once showed me.
Here's a good way to deal with any rough customers, she advised me breathily, showing off her own glittering silver blade. I haven't had occasion to use it before, but I have a feeling, here she hesitated, biting her lower lip in a gesture that endeared all the men to her, that I will someday.
I press my lips together and whimper, suddenly paralyzed with fear. I don't know if I can do this now, in the moment of decision.
Christian. I must do it for him, for the man I love. I can't live without him, anyway, and this is the best way to end it all.
It always ends bad.
Christian will learn that lesson too late, but no other woman will claim his heart that way I did. It may be selfish of me, but that is how I want it. No other lips will kiss him with the passion mine did. He will never write his songs to another's heart, in the name of his love with another.
He will remember me.
The moment has passed, and I pick up the knife by its polished handle. A few broken wine glasses are shattered near the Duke, and a bottle rests near his left hand.
In that hand I carefully place the knife's case. He was drunk, raped me, killed me. That's the way the story will end, my dear Duke, and although neither you nor I will be satisfied, that's the way of things.
It's a poor consolation. Tears spill from my eyes, and I suddenly want Christian, want him to be here as I die. I want him to hold me, to die while wrapped in the warmth of him.
I hold the knife near my heart and close my eyes.
If I should die this very moment. . . I won't fear.
But oh, I never thought to die for love. . .