Disclaimer: I own nothing; for fun, not profit; etc.
Spoilers/Setting: Beginning of season 4.5, vague spoilers based on one scene from You Will Know the Truth.
Notes:Because on so many levels, Laura is the heart. My own is breaking for her.
oOo
She is queen of the pagans, goddess of an estranged mythology. Gods give way to God; and it leaves her the heart of a dying religion.
She's only half-lucid, Laura knows, the smell of incense blanketing her like a cloud. Burning books, scriptures, sacred words peeling back letter by letter. Maps. She remembers maps. Too-verdant vegetation, light so clear it hurt her eyes to look through it; made for gods, not mortals. There are some things man is simply not meant to see.
She wonders how it is that they are all tied together, unknowing, suspended on these capricious strings of fate; flaccid marionettes on a fraying thread. Gods, man, machine: Deus ex nihil. She wonders what it says about them.
The taste of chamalla is bitter on her tongue, sharp even through its own haze. She thinks of blood on her hands, not her own and pressing sticky and warm through her shirt, her breast, her heart. Her blood, hers. Hands clasped together. She bleeds out in a fetal position, life in death and beginning in end.
She is queen of heretics, goddess of destruction. It's a fitting end.
Flashes like visions: gods broken and strewn about the tomb of a goddess so full of despair she'd died to end it; stars glittering like hard hope; an arrow in the hands of a table idol, a headless statue, a false god.
She sees her fate in these blackened pages, and knows it, grasping at it desperately in a more-than-tactile sense; because she, of all people, recognizes the ancient idea of predestination. All this has happened before.
She is life and death incarnate, maiden-mother-crone. Lunar. Wax, wane: restore, renew.
Her pills are laid out neatly, grouped in tablets and capsules in a bright array of colors and shapes. She'd never been prone to slovenliness. The phone is ringing in the background, she realizes dimly, and it the sound of it fuses with one circular thought:
She wants to die.
She wants to die.
She wants to die.