Note
This has been gathering virtual dust in my fic folder for a while now, but this whole Emma-in-therapy pseudo arc that the show is pulling has made me decide to come back to it.
What can I say, I'm a sucker for In-Therapy!Emma.
Some warnings:
First, when I say "freeform" in the tag, I mean it. This is not a traditional narrative piece. The idea is that the story, apart from the brief preface in the first chapter here, will be displayed through a different set of documents. Sort of. It's not really that original. I mean, it falls back pretty much to diary or epistolary genre. Though I guess an actual good example of what I intend to do (imitate?) here would be Stoker's Dracula. Kinda? Well, I just wanted to make a nice scrapbook for this story. Let's see how it turns out.
Second, this one is very heavy on the anxiety and the depression part. As it probably can be deduced by my previous confession of being a therapy nerd and by the plot itself. So, there's that.
Third, the origin of the idea dates back to a prompt game I tried to play with some friends, which never exactly fructified. The thing is the prompt generator came up with terms like murder, drinking, running… So, some sort of violence is also to be expected.
I purposefully choose not to detail trigger warnings, so take these previous comments in consideration, specially the one related to anxiety and panic attacks.
Oh, and finally. At the end of the fic I will add a final note on the, let's say, literary work that inspired both the title and a great deal of the plot for this story.
That's all, I think.
Yo, guys. SwanQueen is ours.
Let me take you to a place where an exceptional phenomenon is about to happen. Come with me to witness something unique, something rarely seen. Like an eclipse. Beautiful and terrifying and somehow persistent in its brutal fugacity.
The song sung by the swan just before it dies, exhilarant in its beauty precisely because of it.
The fascinating vibration of the crystal the instant before it explodes in a million pieces.
Everything is about to end. Everything is about to become eternal.
Let me take you, then, down this quiet street, under the orange globes of the light posts pulsing above our heads, through the streams of fog that get torn by our walk, towards the heavily ornamented entrance of the train station, with its stained glass representing a hairy black beast slain by a pale dark haired girl in a red hat, opaque and matt in the ghostly light of this early hour.
At sight, only two estranged pigeons, a roaming piece of paper, the smoke of a cigarette here and a cigar over there, and the rumble of five beating hearts.
One is buried inside a body inside a coat wrapped in coarse blankets jumbled in that corner. Another one beats its way towards the toilets. Two others cross paths and diverge, heading for exits on opposite sides. We won't see them again.
The other one is the one I wanted you to meet… Can you feel the slow, determined rhythm of it?
Let's get a little bit closer. Can you hear it know? And can you see the leaning figure that contains it?
Take a look at the solid legs, slightly flexed, one boot softly, slowly tapping the floor across the other. Notice the right hip resting against the back of the bench, almost imperceptibly pushing back and forth again. Take a look at the arms, covered in leather, crossed over the chest, one hand displaying all five long, white fingers that fall elegantly once and again over the forearm, both arms being swung by the steady breathing. And… yes… come and a look at her eyes, bright pupils throbbing at that same calm but fierce rhythm to which all her body dances.
You won't deny she's quite a vision. You won't tell me the mere sight of her isn't rather hypnotizing.
But, wait. The calm, the pattern, the flow is suddenly disrupted. Pupils grow dark, arms get uncrossed and push the back of the bench to straighten the legs, the whole body. One step. Then two, three, four… And a sudden stop.
Her lips open and move, but we can't hear the short whisper. We do discern the burning trail of her stare, though. It stretches out towards another buzzing echo, the drumming sound of a new set of hearts entering the station in this precise moment. A dark haired woman and a child are the carriers. Of the beating hearts inside each of them. Of the light travel bags, backpacked or hung over the shoulder.
They head for the waiting room at the other side of the station. Hurry, let's go with them. The child calls the woman "mommy" in a sleepy voice, his backpack almost tying him to the ground. Mommy won't let the child's hand go. And, when they're finally in the waiting room, she takes her coat off and arranges a nest of scarfs and coats and sweaters for the child.
Contain your breath, for I fear we could shatter whatever it is the spell that reigns here if we aren't careful.
The child is soon asleep. The mother sits by him for a long time. You might want to step back and leave them to their mutual company, but wait.
And listen.
The murmur we couldn't make out before is now clearly intelligible and comes from right behind our backs.
"Regina."
The dark haired woman turns around slowly, a smile spreading on her face while she stands up and gives two scarce steps towards the source of the sound.
"Emma." She says it like the breeze, like she needed to breathe it.
Both women stare at each other longingly.
And we know now that the eclipse is coming, the swan is singing, the crystal is about to be broken.