S p i n n i n g T h e W e b
Neville always asks about his parents, usually in those delirious moments that are trapped between consciousness and slumber, and Augusta never knows what to say. Her grandson has always been an inquisitive child, and Augusta cannot help but worry, her body wracked with invisible tears, because Frank was an inquiring child as well, and all it took was moment of insanity for him to be as good as gone. If Neville goes the same way …
So she creates fairytales, spinning tales of knights in shining armour and princesses who were whisked away to a world in which dreams (not nightmares, because in a fairytale everything is perfect) throb like an eternal heartbeat, until, eventually, she's become entangled in her own web of stories.
And then she worries about her future, not Neville's, because she's weaving a trap of delusion and insanity, but she keeps going, unable to save herself, because Neville's sitting on the edge of the bed, baby blue eyes wide, asking politely for another story.
"The prince was fair and handsome, and his name was Frank," she says tonight, and if her grandson registers that the hero's name never changes, it doesn't show on his face. "He and his wife, the beautiful maiden Alice, were very important people." One, two, three. Create the material, spin the web, become ensnared. Step by step, she's dragging herself under, and she doesn't care, because these stories are keeping her son and his wife alive in her mind (more alive than they are in those hideous beds, at any rate).
"Together, they helped to make the world a better place by defeating evil, and they lived happily ever after …" Neville looks up at her, smiling gratefully.
"G'night Gran," he whispers. "Thanks."
And in that moment, all Augusta can see is Frank, who adored her stories as much as his son does, and all that passion is reflected in Neville's eyes as they glow in the moonlight that infiltrates the room.
She tiptoes out, gently sliding the door closed behind her and listening for that familiar creak of wood that jerks her back to reality. Scurrying downstairs, Augusta makes herself a cup of coffee, reveling in the routine that accompanies repeating an action night after night. And then Augusta laughs madly, because it's all just so ironic, her son and daughter in law are trapped in St Mungo's, and she's the one sinking into her lounge chair and going insane.
"Gran." Neville's standing on the bottom step, an imploring look on his face as he waits for acknowledgement.
"Yes."
"Can you tell me another story?"
"Once upon a time there was a handsome prince and a fair maiden, and their names were -"
"Can I hear a different story, please Gran?"
"I guess …" Augusta wracks her brain, darting and ducking to avoid being trapped in her intricately spun webs of fairytales and denial.
"Once upon," she begins again, her hands caressing her grandson's as she holds them tight, "there was a young man called Peter, and he owned a pet unicorn."
Neville sits there, entranced, as his grandmother tells the only bedtime story she can remember, and Augusta smiles, despite it all. Maybe, just maybe, she isn't insane after all, maybe she's nothing but a woman grieving for those she loved and lost, and for a fairytale she could never live.
"This unicorn was no ordinary unicorn, he had a rather special power …"
And with that, Augusta spins the web of bedtime stories again, only, this time, there's not a Frank or an Alice in sight.
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(a/n: This story was written for the Fic Orphanage Writers' Challenge, in which you had to include the prompts a magical animal, a bedtime story, nighttime, and a beverage/meal. This my friends, is the result, which I am rather proud of, especially since I am going through quite the Neville fangirl phase at the moment. Please, as always, leave a review. :))