A/N: Cardinals--where I live, at least--are notorious for flying into windows during springtime. They, every time they fly back for another blow, are attacking the reflections of themselves. I thought the image was appropriate.
Cardinalheart
Have you ever wondered at how time races by if you fail to keep your eyes on it?
Where are the footsteps that led me here? Where are the sounds, the smells, the sights I must have encountered from my starting point to this one? I left them out of my mind for a moment, and time snatched them up as an owl in the night, silent and unhalting.
A part of me is conscious of my decision to stop and kneel; my limbs break and tumble as if I am made of clay. I wonder if my knees will shatter as I hit the ground.
Somehow, though, I am whole. I lift up a hand to my face, if only to make sure I am yet human. I, watching as the flesh, blood, and bone flex with barely a thought, bend my fingers experimentally. In the stillborn silence, the joints almost seem to creak; they are a door quickly closing on rusty hinges, slamming, mocking, you are too late, you are too late.
I let my hand fall limply to the grass.
I have seen people weep. When I was a child, I, too, shed my fair share of tears. But a young noble learns quite quickly that tears only serve to betray one's emotions and, therefore, one's country. Allowing oneself to cry sacrifices reason to emotion, and the worst decisions are always fired in the kiln of passion.
No. Not all of them, I scream inside myself.
Regardless, I have worked all my life to stack a dam against my own tears. Not even this can crack that wall open now. My eyes, although my mind does not register what they see, are clear and unhindered; they rasp together drily as I blink against the gentle breeze.
Still, I have seen people weep and have, indeed, wept before. So when I close my eyes, I can feel the ghosts of those tears behaving as any normal spirit does—haunting, lingering, and then evaporating into the air. True to the nature of the haunted, I am comforted by their presence yet glad to see them go.
Could I say the same, though, of him?
I open my eyes and allow myself to see.
Rough, leather-tipped fingers curl up from trampled grass, the spaces between them calling out to be filled.
I am never one to refuse a cry for help.
My too-perfect fingers—carefully-filed nails, soft skin, and all—are welcomed into those spaces. I tighten my grip, if only to convince myself that I still have a grasp on my own consciousness.
I press my palm tighter into the leather one, forcing my pulse to throb between us. Can I share my heartbeats with him? Can I pour a pulse into his skin as my own drains?
No. But that doesn't mean I don't try.
A smear of dried mud on his tunic catches my attention, and I immediately lift my other hand to the troublesome spot. With a fixated determination, I scrape and beat at the stain until there is little evidence it was ever there. From there, I move to another stain, and then another; I smooth a wrinkle there, dust off some mud there, adjust a stray thread there. My fingers trail searchingly, scanning for evidence of imperfection.
I pretend not to notice that I am ignoring the stains and imperfections I can do nothing about.
My fingers find their way to his face and settle lightly on his cheek. I smooth the hair off of his forehead and run my fingers through it, straightening out tangles as I go.
(Your Majesty).
I do not answer him, whoever he is. He is searching for a queen, and he will not find one here. At this moment, I am not a political figure. I am not treaties, legislation, diplomacy, and royalty. I am only some poor numb creature who has temporarily lost herself to time. He will have to wait until I am able to retrace my footsteps.
(Please, it is not safe).
Some fleeting, responsive part of my mind answers, And what is? But my physical self focuses on a golden lock of hair between my fingers and the unforgettable texture of leather. My fingers trickle from the top of his head to his neck and begin searching pitifully. Why do I search for things I know I will never find? Memories burst behind my eyes—going to my mother's grave, leaving flowers, asking questions that would never be heard, searching for a person and an answer that no longer existed.
No. I must not think of such things.
(Your Majesty, I must insist).
No, you must do what I insist, I say inside my mind. But my tongue and mouth seemed to have followed the example of my eyes, and all the words I send become shriveled and dead from the desert atmosphere.
Instead, I hold his hand tighter and press my other hand on our intertwined ones. A mad thought streaks through my mind—when his muscles begin to freeze, will his fingers remain this way, the outline of my hand shaping them?
(We will come back later for the b—to, to retrieve him, Your Majesty).
Majesty. What does that word even mean? Majesty is not alive; it is a polished thing of magnificence, glory, and dignity. That is what I am to this nation. I am the shining magnificence of confidence and leadership. I am the glory of victory, the embodiment of our symbolic immortality. I am the dignity that burns brightly despite hardship and suffering.
Magnificence is a carefully composed creature that, despite forging valiantly ahead, listens to reason. Glory, although she may bow her head in silence for those lost, does not allow every drop of blood to overwhelm her carefully-constructed dam. Dignity does not tear her hair out or scream or laugh at the madness of it all, even when doing so would be inarguably appropriate.
Majesty is not something human and, therefore, cannot be allowed such human liberties as grief.
My hands return to my lap, and they feel even colder than they were in his unmoving grip. He is beautiful, even still. The red sunset paints his skin in a rosy glow, and I cannot help but think of how warm he looks. Surely he is just jesting with me. He is playing a cruel and convincing joke, and he shall have to pay for it dearly, but at least he is still alive. My pulse sobs, silently shaking its head at my delusion. No, he is alive, and I will prove it. My fingers twitch—
(Please, Your Majesty. We have been here for far too long).
--and still themselves. I stare unblinkingly at his quiet face. As my eyes trace him, sketch him into my retinas, they dive beneath the rotting skin and the drying blood in an effort to find some forgotten fragment of the spirit that had once caused that same flesh to laugh.
It would be useless to talk. His ears will not hear me anymore, but maybe the waves of my thoughts will ripple through his spirit and, somehow, he will understand.
(…We have been here for far too long).
We had so much time, didn't we? I had all the time of the world, and I wasted it. I was human once; we were human once…but I became Your Majesty, and I left my humanity behind with you. You had to pay doubly for it, it seems. You have always paid for my errors with your blood, and now…now it seems my debt is too steep even for you.
I so wish we had been more than debtor and lender. But wishes cannot change the past, can they? Only stubborn children with a magic sword and a song can do that.
My smile is weak, and it dies soon after its birth.
If you are, indeed, lingering here and listening to what I have to say…then I will no longer detain you. I have no right. I have already taken far too much of your time, and now, it seems, I have robbed you of everything else. No matter what I asked of you, you were ready and willing to fight. I suppose I should have questioned why, but I never did.
Rest peacefully, valiant soldier.
We have been here for far too long.
Yes, I suppose we have, haven't we? Nearly two lifetimes we've lived, splashing and chasing through time. We had our share of humanity. More so, even.
Maybe we'll meet on some distant shore.
(…Your Majesty).
But until then, keep my humanity safe.
(Your Majesty).
My heartbeat returns from the wild fluttering of a cardinal to the steady, hollow echo of footsteps on stone. My wild, bucking breathing is led into the ocean, broken, and tamed.
As I stand, I feel my bones clink together with all the softness and humanity of steel.
(This way, Your Majesty, quickly).
The reasonable part of me realizes it is not safe for me to be on the battlefield, so I follow. There may be enemy soldiers or turncoats still lurking among the fallen who would delight in taking down the victor's queen. Briefly, I wonder if they might not have already done so with some sort of spell. My skin feels rigid and dense, as if my bones have become petrified. Although some part of my brain tells me my lungs are functioning normally, I cannot feel their rise and fall for the steady burn that is licking at the inside of my chest.
Carrion birds and clouds are sinking toward the earth, and it all somehow feels incongruous. How can the world slip by smoothly on oiled axles when everything should be held at a screeching halt? Where is the bated breath, the respectful moment of silence? The clouds should be weeping, the carrion birds should be ripping their breasts open in heartbroken despair. I should be running back to my fallen hero, weeping unashamedly and digging my fingers stubbornly into the earth.
But magnificence, glory, and dignity restrain me from doing so. I, as Your Majesty, am required to always look toward the future. I, as Your Majesty, cannot allow myself to linger in past scenarios that might or should have been.
As we crest the hilltop, I, with the memory of leather in my fingertips, cannot help but look back.