Disclaimer: Not mine. Colfer's.

Summary: Sometimes the assumption of complexity is all that keeps us alive: that, or the impending light of summer, which might never come. At some point, winter becomes unreasonably long and the shapes of the day are all too predictable.

The Speed of the Seasons

I

Why does everyone assume that the most complicated things intersect and start with glory and end in despair? Why do they think that to hit the ground hard you have to fall from a height? Sometimes the downward force isn't gravity—and yet, oh my, it can still crush our bones.

I look at her, expecting something, a flicker of the eyelids, a sign of hatred. I think at first that she might be hiding it—maybe she doesn't know the other side of the coin. But she does. She knows both sides, and they're different. I hint again and again and again, until 'again' means as much as 'never.' I console myself by hating it. I feel better pretending that I have blown it, pretending that 'never' is so very much less than 'once.'

Before long, the ploy is to talk openly, to set aside the hints, as if subtlety was ever the issue. She talks, but she never once lets it go to the place where it might mean something more than practicalities. And when you force it there, she tries to remove the pin and drops her dagger. Maybe she notices, maybe she doesn't; it wouldn't matter, anyway, because she'd only try and pull it out.

I wish she'd hate me. If only there was that passion. If only she wasn't on the opposite side of the circle. Hate is nearer to love than apathy.

I tell her I love her often, and she always says it back, and I always believe her, because she knows what I mean, and I know what she doesn't mean. She never feigns. There's never any need to. And one added to zero equals one.

And—though she laughs that confident laugh, and the frown is contemplative, and she knows there's something there, something to grab onto—she thinks in clichés; it never occurs to her that mess would be better for me. She thinks a quiet soul is better than a screaming soul. She thinks that quiet things sleep; she doesn't realise quiet things die.

From time to time, I take her hand in mine for no apparent reason. It serves no purpose: it means nothing, except a lie. She knows that, too. She doesn't edge away. She just sits: but my hand grows hot and red: hers is warm, unmoving, unflinching.

Her eyes never meet mine or anyone else's; she never speaks. She just scans for enemies, targets, threats…

I smile and she smiles back knowingly, but the smiles are not equal. A line stretches out from mine, an offering to her heart, but that line never finds anything impenetrable, and so it wonders off like a missile in deserted skies.

Oh my, that line is just so damn long, and it keeps heading south on an unstoppable course to nowhere: black and grey lights the way. I detect a dash of green but it isn't there. It's never there—

—and—oh my—my feet just can't stop moving at the speed of the seasons.

II

I find myself waiting for her. I am waiting for her too swing around the furthest part of her orbit, but Pluto is too far to travel.

Or I expect her to sit on a shelf, waiting: waiting for the change to happen, for it to click into place. Everything will stay balanced and ordered once it goes my way, I think. It will click and then there will be equilibrium. The lines will run parallel and she will grab my hand and slow me down, and the seasons will whisk over my head.

I suppose she think about it all the time, considering, coming decisions, finding a way to the equilibrium. I pretend that it is all about perception: I understand and she does not. She takes an age to realise what I fathomed when she was still watching wrestling videos.

But then I add my heavy of my legs to the equation: I've always been moving. I am not at the centre of the world. The seasons don't spin round me on an axis; I sprint with them.

Like lightening it strikes me that she made her decisions long ago: or maybe there was never a choice to be made. Maybe the dilemma is a figment, a friend of hope to hang on to, for there is no greater power to which I can cling. The whisper of hope fades into a strangled mumble, as I finally recognise the sensation of my fingertips gripping at it.

I stare at her, and she waves a friendly hand across my eye line, confused, amused, misconstrued. She knows why I look; she knows the underlying theme of my thoughts. But she never realises she should be judging me, or that I even want her to.

I'm a principal, I'm a friend, I'm a brother; she never decided these things; they are just truths, lacking in any consideration. She spares my placement no more thought: because, oh my, I am on the edges of her universe.

III

You can't always jump in front of the bullet if you fire the shot.

I look into her eyes and I want to say something savvy—and I do. She listens; perhaps she smiles or laughs, and that is the end of it.

So, I wish something would hurt her. But nothing does; her life is too happy. It is not perfect, and she is intelligent enough to see the imperfections. But there is nothing to attack her, nothing to protect her from.

She can save my life a thousand times, but, just once, I would like to jump in front of the bullet.

And so I hurt her, and then I save her. But, oh my, sometimes I don't jump fast enough for gravity to slip me in-between my projectile and my love.

She thinks I do it by accident; she thinks it is just an instinct, an unfortunate quirk of the brilliant mind. In a way, she's right. But oh my, sometimes that shot is so damn good, and sometimes silver is so little more than grey, that the bullet fades into the fog before I launch into my futile dive. We both die.

Or sometimes it catches me full in the heart, and she lives: but the nod of forgiveness is about as different from an amused giggle as silver is from grey.

IV

Oh my; oh my—it makes me feel better to prefix it with surprise. But I understand it.

It is simplicity itself.

Just because there is a mêlée of branches and leaves, it does not mean I cannot see the truthful shadows of the oak.

But my feet just can't stop moving at the speed of the seasons. And I never tried to stop them before now.

My legs are locked with cramp and lactic acid. There is nothing more to come from them. I push and I push, but the colour is too far—

Oh my, those leaves are so slippery; the brakes are sleeping. There is no friction. My shoes are worn. The grip has long gone. Those clouds are so lethargic—

I find myself reaching for the anchor; oh my, it is not warm or inviting, but I am too cold to care. It only takes one sweeping flick of the blade, and I fall.

The oxygen debt of a decade seeps from my extremities, as spring drapes its warm bosom over me. It weeps and screams for help; I smile at this, pretending it is something more than grief. And then I smile wider, because in a few moments I will not need to pretend.

Spring turns to summer, and I shiver all the more in the heat.

Bright lights turn to black in an instant. I catch my last glimpse of her face in anguish.

Oh my, I just can't keep up with the speed of the seasons.

Oh my, Juliet—oh my… oh my…

fin

Thanks very much for reading that. It's more of a passion piece than anything else. I was trying to pull off a dazed Artemis, moving into a darker tone.

How did I do?

Reviews would be lovely, as this is the first thing I've posted here. I'd love some feedback.

Thanks,

Droplets of Grey