|Nothing Gold Can Stay
Author: theSoundofLiterature PM
What if nothing worked out as it should have? What if Rachel DID marry Finn?Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Quinn F. & Rachel B. - Words: 774 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 3 - Published: 04-13-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8019346
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Uhmm…I really have no idea where this came from. I was stuck in another whirlwind of Robert Frost (which happens often haha)…and this sort of came out. It's kind of sad, sorry about that. But just practicing, I'm in finals so I probably won't have updates for IT or WASTWT until everything settles down.
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leafs a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
~ Robert Frost
Nothing Gold Can Stay
You stare at all of the empty wine glasses and bottles of Chardonnay that litter the marble countertops of your frail fortress. A corkscrew lies somewhere nearby, and you reach for it with lithe fingers, watching the cool metal play against the pale cells of your skin.
Did you know that metal and wood hold at equal room temperature?
You exhale deeply, letting your fears and your failures emit themselves via a short gust of relief. It is only temporary, this feeling of freedom. It dissolves into the air just as the glasses in your hands clank next to the open-mouthed kitchen sink; they are swallowed whole underneath your honeyed glare.
Did you know that honey never spoils?
Your eyes turn to the clock on the far wall, it is untouched and gaudy; simple in its superiority adjacent the beige upon which it rests. There is no second hand, it is that simplistic in nature – radiating the mystery of this life that has undoubtedly become your own. It mocks you with its false dials and invisible hands, letting you know in silent pleas that this is all that your life will attain. This is all that you will ever be, Quinn Fabray. And you believe it. You believe time, like a cruel beggar, and you let him play the chords of your insecurities like a familiar tune. Bach perhaps…or maybe Mozart.
Mozart may have had Tourette's you know?
You stare out of an office window, into the decaying blackened leaves of winter. They clutter your small garden with their dregs and their debris, and you wish them leave. Winter is not for solace, it is a place where your happiness has always failed you. And this year, this season…you are once again not failed, as you stare blankly into the parchment enclosed within your familiar hands. It turns lightly within your palm, and you study the ink. The flow of calligraphy as words map out terribly between your eyes…and for yet another year, you are reminded of all the ways in which you haven't succeeded.
Calligraphy: from the Greek words Kallos: beauty, and Graphe: writing…
You remove a new parchment nonetheless; it stands in stark contrast to its predecessor. The pen in your hand is a deep black, and you shiver as your words wind themselves across the traces of the page….
"My Dearest Rachel,
perhaps you were never mine…
and yet you remind me year by year.
And this time, for the first time…my heart is on my sleeve,
For you to see exactly how you shatter me.
For you will always be my gold.
And for another year,
I must bid you adieu.
Happy Anniversary Mrs. Hudson…
La stella più luminosa nel cielo, per sempre la mia ragazza d'oro.
And as you seal this letter into a matching envelope, you sigh as you watch the wax burn beautifully onto the fold, the seal marking it forevermore. You tuck this piece of your heart squarely into the bottom drawer of your office desk, where six almost identical ones of similar fashion rest, un-awakened; one for every year that this reality has broken you. Their sixth anniversary, and the wounds still linger, running deep like an eroded canyon. And you wonder if you'll ever get over Rachel Berry…
Probably not, not completely. You see a beautiful owl perch atop the sycamore tree in your vast yard, and all that comes to mind are tragic words printed onto the membrane of your flesh for all to see, and for you to keep. Robert Frost and broken dreams, seasons never changed…for it is always winter here it seems.
Welsh gold is one of the rarest forms of Gold in the world…
"So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay…"
And you agree with him, a sad smile tweaking your lips. For you…
Gold is all but gone...