A/N: I've had this dancing about my head for ages; I've just couldn't ever be bothered to write it down. I've loved this song since the first time I heard it, so I hope all of you enjoy it as well. I wrote this thinking of Ezra, so keep that image in mind as you read it. :D
Disclaimer: The song "Shape of my Heart" belongs to Sting and no one else. Nor do I own the Magnificent Seven, the inspiration for this fic.
They Do Not Understand
He deals the cards as a meditation, and those he plays never suspect. He doesn't play for the money he wins; he doesn't play for the respect.
Some are blatant--standing close, leaning--so obvious, bordering on rude. Some are subtler--sitting back, glancing--a quick peek here, a slight glare there. All with the same goal; to observe the master at work as he sits, calmly, cards in hand...the lord of the game.
They stare--some with distain, some with disgust, some with outright hate; others, with open curiosity, awe, and wonder. Though each different in its intent, all--in the end--are the same; for they do not understand.
"Good evenin', gentlem'n, ladies." A slight shifting of posture, clothing discreetly adjusted, a light touch to ensure all is in place. "Might ah interest one of you in a game of chance?"
He deals the cards to find the answer; the sacred geometry of chance. The hidden law of a probable outcome; the numbers lead a dance.
Hands dance over the table, nimble fingers flipping, turning, shuffling. When touched, the cards move as if by magic--here one moment, gone in the next.
Entranced, they stare avidly; all previous emotions of disgust, hate, disdain and disapproval--all fade in the face of such mastery.
They drift closer, almost unconsciously, still wary, yet urged forward by an unseen force compelling them to observe...to experience...to learn. As they watch, they begin to realise how privileged they are to see this-- this work of art. And yet...
Still, they do not understand.
I know that the Spades are the swords of a soldier; I know that the Clubs are weapons of war; I know that Diamonds mean money for this art, but that's not the shape of my Heart.
"A good playa', you say? Well, good sir, ah always did enjoy a challenge. Come, sit down, and bring yore friend; there is always room fore more."
Space is made, people are seated--the game begins.
He may play the Jack of Diamonds; he may play the Queen of Spades. He may conceal a King in his hand, while the memory of it fades.
"A spectacula' win, mah friend; it appea's that lady luck has smiled upon you this day. Shall we see how long yore luck chooses to last?"
The money on the table disappears; cards are dealt, money changes hands, and the entire process begins once again.
I know that the Spades are the swords of a soldier; I know that the Clubs are weapons of war; I know that Diamonds mean money for this art, but that's not the shape of my Heart.
What is, to some, merely a game--a pastime, an amusement with which to wile away idle hours--for him... it is a lifeline. It is his life force, that which keeps him alive, that which is a part of his very being.
They are his solace, that which grounds him, comforts him--these little slips of paper, so delicate, so fragile--these are what hold him together. With them, he can express himself, and display the hidden workings of his heart.
They are his soul--for without them, he would be nothing more then an empty shell; like his heart, they are essential to his survival in a world SO cold. He would not have survived this long without them. They are what he shows to the world; they are the hidden face, the mask that hides and shelters him. Hidden, but so obvious if one would but look.
But they do not.
For although what they are is obvious, and what is hidden behind them even more clear, they will not, CANNOT, see. For--still--they do not understand.
And if I told you that I loved you, you'd maybe think there's something wrong. I'm not a man of too many faces; the mask I wear is
"Why, dea' lady, do be seated, do be seated! You have arrived just in time fore the next round. Seven card stud, deuces and one-eyed Jacks wild."
Cards are shuffled in expert hands; money appears and bets are made, emotions hidden well in some, others displayed for all to see. Those last are the first to go--even in the end, they do not understand.
Those who speak know nothing, and find out to their cost; like those who curse their luck in too many places, and those who fear are lost.
"Don't worry, mah dea' lad; ah am certain you will have betta' luck in the next round. Luck has a curious way of changin' hands. Shall we play again?"
A gold tooth flashes, hands move at lightning speed, and cards are dealt once more.
I know that the Spades are the swords of a soldier; I know that the Clubs are weapons of war; I know that Diamonds mean money for this art.
But that's not the shape of my Heart.
When it finally ends--when they finally drift away, money spent, interest dimmed, no longer entranced by the dancing hands of the master--some are happy, some are sad, some are satisfied, and some are angry. So is the way of luck with those who dabble in the game of chance.
And yet, despite it all--despite having experienced the joy, the wonder of the cards, the thrill of the game--STILL they do not understand.
They will never understand.
But that's not the shape—the shape of my Heart.
Please be sure to leave a review! They encourage and inspire me like you wouldn't be able to imagine. - Achillies