Author's Note: This is the first of several Utena-themed drabbles I'll be reposting here from livejournal.
In my time away from here, I have grown. I have matured in body, nubile curves and lovely face my shield, but I am still a child in mind. Even now, all I can focus on is him. The way he swept his hair back before each practice was hypnotizing, a cataract of chestnut silk tumbling through hands and over shoulders. He trained under me: it was my hand on his hip that adjusted his stance, my mouth that spoke of complicated strategies, my foil which met his in furious repartee. It was I who thought of him every morning as I emerged groggily from my bed, and every night as I struggled to tuck his image away so that I might sleep.
Maybe I mistook the way our swords met for affection, but I soon learned that fencing is no substitute for love. The day that another of my club members took him far away from me, I dropped a burning match on the hard, cold floor of my grand fencing hall. I can remember smoke and flames swirling about me as I punched through the windows with torn-up hands. But now that I am back, it is as well as it was before I destroyed it; I sit and dwell in it alone, an empress inside her castle. A palace in which all the attendants are made of stone.
The students here all bend like marionettes to the will of the witch; she makes it so very obvious that she is pulling the strings, and yet they all refuse to see it, holding out for some hope of miracles or something everlasting. I know better, and that is what allows me to work from the shadows. They underestimate me. She is a witch of magic and illusions. I am the witch of lies and hidden feelings, of vengeance and confusion. I am the witch of the poisoned apple. I am the witch that is destined to be forgotten, and that is why I will take as many as I can with me.
