Spoilers for season 3.
I was just watching the last episode and it really got me thinking...that and it's been forever since I've written anything.
Moments of Madness:
Silver.
The glint of a silver blade flashes in his peripheral vision and it is not without effort that he tears his eyes off her face and to the knife poised so steadily in her hands. Her face is set, determined; a pang of emotion cuts him at this, she is so familiar , so strong so...Claire and yet the glint in her eye reveals no kindness, no hope. Her once glowing aura now as dark as her hair.
He watches, fascinated as she lowers the blade to his skin with a bitter smile. He notes with a sick sense of satisfaction that her hands do not tremble as she brings the blade to his chest, ready to strike; he always knew she was strong. A flash of stinging pain brings draws his attention to his body, to his vulnerable position and yet at the same time he feels dethatched, like he is simply watching this chaotic, twisted scene from above. He is not meant to be here, at least not yet, not for another four years at least – and even then, there are so many variables, so many things that can change, that should change.
It is her voice that snaps him back to the present moment; he watches her face as she prepares to slice again.
"Thousands of people died Peter that was just one. I want you to feel it all"
His protest comes out as a strangled cry, what he can say to this girl, so familiar, yet so foreign in front of him. The blade pierces his skin again, drawing another red line across his chest. He does not feel it, too focused on her face, her eyes, the same shape, the same colour, but so cold, so lifeless. She is Claire; she is Claire – somewhere deep down she must be Claire.
"Claire..."
His voice comes out strangled, as if the words were stuck to his throat. The name seems foreign and hollow in the air, a vague memory of something that may never have existed – his reality now limited to the strike of a blade and the sound of her voice tallying of numbers.
"Claire?"
He repeats it her name, a mantra, a whisper, a question? Where are you? For a moment he senses rather that sees her stumble- the brief almost illusory feeling of the blade trembling in her hand. But then he sees her face harden, her eyes narrow; he feels her grip tighten and steady. He closes his eyes, trying to block out this cold, cold girl with the image of memory Claire, of bright hopeful memory Claire.
The next cut comes deeper and harder, there is a painful screeching noise in the air, and he is vaguely aware that it is coming from him. His eyes spring open as the blade slices again and her face looms above, a cold, cold stranger.
What has he done?
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