This story was a lot more difficult to write than I thought it'd be. I mean, I had a plan written out and everything, and it was still a lot more difficult than my other, unplanned stories. Ah well, it's written now. And it was still very fun to do, even though I had a bit of trouble in the beginning making it sound less unclear (yes I used a double negative). Anyway, I hope you like this, and thanks for reading.
Atropos, the Moirai with the abhorred shears. Every time she tenses her fingers, the scissors click close, the thread snips, a man winces, then groans, as his soul is torn from his body. For now he has been cut, cut off from the rest of earth, and his ageless spirit sinks to the world below, as his nerves and fleshy heart die.
In the old world of Ancient Greece, there is no fate worse than being cut off.
X
It torments him, this incessant clicking, like some demonic clock is lodged in his ears; with every second that passes there is a quiet click, a snip, and a tugging in his heart.
Can you hear it, he asks, that noise? But they simply look at him in confusion, and slight concern, and he realises that that flush he feels, that terrible wrench in his soul that wracks his body with every click, is one of guilt.
Guilt for what he did to her, guilt for the hurt he caused her, guilt for every glare she sends his way, with burning eyes of hatred.
Green eyes roll beneath their lids as he thinks of her, thinks of how his heart breaks every time she glares at him, thinks of how his heart would beat again if she smiled at him.
For there are many layers to being cut off, he knows that now, and he stares at the sword in his bedroom and wonders if cutting off his life would be better than being cut off from her. Better than the horrible guilt he feels, at least, and the horrible hurt churned up with it. His fingers close around the hilt.
Then they slacken. Because each time he looks at that shining blade with the sunlight glinting off it, he sees her face, a simple flash of her features like some bolt of lightning, and he knows he can't do it.
Death is final, death is everlasting. At least in life there is a chance of redemption.
So he drops the sword, endures the glares with wet eyes, and when he sleeps he dreams of her.
...
He sits at the dinner table, absently chewing at his bread, and reaches over for the butter. At the same time she reaches over as well, and their fingers touch.
Her hand instantly pulls back, away from his, his moves forward, to meet hers; the dove chases the tiger, the hind pursues the griffin.
She looks up at him, with seething eyes, and his fingers falter.
While he reaches back for his food, she leaves the table, and now the bread, which tasted so dry and bland before, is like a rock in his mouth. Every mouthful he swallows leaves stones in his heart, dust in his throat, and he pushes the rest of his plate away, walking upstairs.
...
Sabrina trembles in her bed, as dreams plague her. Dreams of shouting, of roaring dragons, of bloodied pink wings. And then there is the swish of wind, and she's thrown back into the world.
Running to the bathroom she retches into the toilet, dry heaves and shakes. When she's done, she leans on the sink, and stares at herself in the mirror. Pale skin, tired eyes, a green nightshirt barely clinging onto thin shoulders.
A green nightshirt. Green. Green! She clenches her eyes shut as tears slide down, as she runs back to her room and screams into her pillow. I hate him. I hate him! She is so furious, so so furious, her heart beats so hard against her ribs it hurts, blood rushes to her face as her fists clench. In that moment fury roars to life in her like fire, and emotion returns to her body at last.
But in an instant it is gone, and she slumps to the bed in a heap; she drops the pillow and curls up under the duvet.
She doesn't hate him. Not anymore.
It happened so long ago that all it does now is exhaust her, the fire in her has long since gone out. But without it, without her anger, she doesn't know what to do. She's been angry for so long, raged and cursed and yelled at him for so long that without it, she is lost. Inside she cannot think, cannot feel, inside she is numb, and so all she does is act. All she does is glare, and fight.
Because how can she tell him? To tell him would mean to expose herself again, pull herself away from her shield, and she fears that if she does some arrow will come whistling towards her, strike her down, strike her so that the pain comes back in all its horror.
She can already feel the tearing in her throat (is that why it's so tight?), the blood on her fingers (is that why they're so wet?), and she knows she can't take it.
So outside she bares her teeth, and secretly, she cries.
...
Snowflakes spiral down from the sky, the first fall this year. He had always loved the snow, always loved the fun you could have with it, even admired its beauty every once in a while (not that he would ever admit it).
Now, as they swirl slowly down, caught by the accompanying breeze so that they spin in a thousand circles, he allows the first glimmer of a grin to show.
One falls on his cheek, his bare hand, his exposed neck, though he does not feel their chill. Instead, he feels the rush of heated blood (of guilt), which surges through him almost constantly, slow for a second, and he exhales in relief.
She crunches outside, and glares fiercely at him.
Suddenly, he can feel the snowflakes, on his Everafter skin, and now they're so cold they're hot, so hot they burn.
She goes back inside.
He melts.
...
They breathe deeply, lungs heaving, crouching behind a desk. In the doorway there is a couch barricaded against it (the door has long since fallen off) and outside the old abandoned house there is the drum of footsteps and raised voices. A sheathed dagger lies between them, all they have left to defend themselves.
"We're going to die." Puck says, calmly.
She doesn't reply, only stares at the space above the couch, constantly on the alert for danger.
"You're not scared?"
No reply.
He sighs. "Of course you're not. Not even now, when we're outnumbered a hundred to one."
She runs a hand through her hair, and shifts into a more comfortable position.
"Still not going to talk to me? Don't you understand that we're going to die?"
She turns, and looks at him. "Talk about what?" she says, finally, in an almost bored tone "There is nothing to talk about."
He's taken aback by her response. Taken aback and angry. How can she not care about this? His voice shakes. "There is."
"What is it?" Her voice is flat and cold.
"You know damn well what!" He shouts suddenly.
"What?" The facade breaks, the fire roars "What is it? Why don't you just tell me instead of playing around?!" She shouts back.
"It's Daphne!"
"What about her?"
"She's gone!"
"I know that!"
"You're not!"
"I know that too!"
"Then why are you still angry?!"
"Because it's your fault she's dead!" She jabs a finger at him, like a knife.
He falls silent.
"You know I didn't have a choice." He whispers, at last.
"You had a choice. You had an easy choice." Her voice is low, and barely-controlled.
"It wasn't easy." His words are clipped, his voice is tight, the anger is beginning to return.
"Obviously not, or you would have chosen the right one."
He jumps up, red-faced. "I did choose the right one!"
She leaps up as well, fists clenched. "You chose me!"
"That was the right one!"
"Choosing to save me over Daphne was not the right one!"
"I was injured! I could only carry one!"
"So why me?"
"Because I chose you!"
"You still haven't told me why!"
"Because— Because— Because I'm selfish!"
"What's that supposed to mean?!"
"It means I didn't want to lose you!" He slams a fist down on the desk; it shakes. Shakes like his voice, as the truth comes out. "It means I chose you over Daphne because I love you more than I loved her! I love you, you get it? I love you!" He turns harshly, and kicks the wall. "I love you so much that I can't live without you, that I would rather Daphne died than you! Because I'm selfish like that, alright? Do you get it now?! It's because I'm selfish, and I want you more than I want Daphne!" His voice breaks, and he turns to her, breathing heavily.
She only looks back at him, with no change in expression, though there is a shimmer in her eyes, and they are slightly wetter than normal.
"Do you?" He repeats, desperately louder.
She takes several deep breaths, and doesn't reply for several minutes.
At last, she speaks. "Puck I-" But before she could finish there is a sudden crack and she falls to the ground, an arrow through her neck, tearing her throat as her sentence is cut short, her voice is cut off. Blood pools around her hair as she chokes, red wet fingers scrabbling to that terrible wound, words and thoughts and feelings dying in her.
"What the-" Puck whispers, stock-still.
Finally, her body grows slack, her eyes roll and glaze over, and she stops moving.
Puck stares at the body, frozen, unable to see what is so clearly happening.
She's dead, no she's not, yes she is!
There is a cry of victory from the doorway.
He whips round and there is an archer perched on the couch, an arrow already nocked to his bow.
The fairy acts at last. Seizing the dagger with lightning speed, he pounces at the man, as a second arrow whistles towards him.
There are two screams, one of fear and one of fury.
One is cut off.
To be perfectly honest, I only wrote this story for the ending. The rest is kind of just build-up. What'd you think of the ending, by the way? Good? Bad? Wanted to punch me in the face? Didn't care? Tell me what you think, I am genuinely interested. I might write a happy oneshot next, since I seem to be writing a lot of sad ones. Anyway, thanks for reading, and please review.