Hm, where to begin . . . well, it has been a long time -as people who are kind enough to still follow my work know- since I have updated anything. University is difficult, but enriching and rewarding, and life is slightly more complicated and imposing. Another excuse as to why I do not update my fanfiction anymore is due to devoting time on a serious project; I have put much effort into an original novel - a psychological thriller depicting a school shooting- in addition to several blurbs here and there. Still, I detest leaving fanfiction unfinished, particularly when I have endings and chapters all filed away in the cabinent I call my head. So here I am, attempting my first published Royai, inspired by Chapter 101. That said, I will be dabbling in this fandom as well, for an OTP I wished I had written for sooner.
This vignette, as I call it, is meant to be vague, vicious, with many layers upon layers of implications and symbolism. But! This is written to interpret as you see fit. I have my ideas, and you will have yours. Whatever your take on the Royai relationship will likely bring to the forefront what you think of this piece. So please, no "I don't understand this"s reviews. If you read anything else of mine, this is consistent with my usual style anyway. Rated M for subtle implications of -insert inappropriate subject here-, though I may knock it down to T. Crossing my fingers.
She was a blank slate.
Then, he drew his coveted illustrations; sanity flown with a mind of its own.
You were a witness to incarnate and fire, and in the lackluster finale, listened to the bidding of your Queen.
At royalty in your filthy hands; thine eyes spurn equally filthy thoughts. Of wanting (knowledge) and wanting (power) and wanting (that which trusted her skin to your skin.)
Like an a cappella anemic, so she wavers under your touch, but no prideful song shall parade her triumph. Silence is her leitmotif.
You kept evil at bay for one more day, but she is forever entwined in daily life. Now, she will know nothing but your hell.
Honey-blood eyes will see past your pompousness, stress-induced obsessions; she will never view you as the resident prick. In the mind's eye, always clouded with fantasy, she will love you endlessly.
Here. The soul. The story told in the caverns of a broken heart. This is where you want her, want to take her, hold her, keep her, and imagine that she will complete this puzzle; all your edges will be sealed.
Here, poised at the jagged edges of your idealistic childheart.
And let us tell no lies: You would die to bring her here.
"You remember that clearly, Lieutenant?"
" . . . I do, sir."
Are you not daring, to hold such personal conversations in the workplace? This is what she inquires with her enchanting gaze; that sparkle is for you, no one else, and escapes the quick glances of other officers at work and play. The iridescence in her eyes is no reflection; so yes, she lives. Culpability is the specter with an insatiable vengeance. Together and torn, you wear gloves of blood, a prelude to history. Paralleling timelines of death that wrap you around one another, force minds and bodies too close.
But that pincushion of fear remains.
In the middle of the night, every night, two options ebb in scarred cerebrums: Lie together or die alone.
"Does it pain?"
"Quite the contrary," she responds, straightening a stack of nonsensical forms. As if this conversation was lighthearted, and words were merely office-filler, not full of implications and pain. "I hardly feel it, now. It does not interfere with my daily activities or duties."
Unfortunately, it's a burden on his heart, her mind. Physicality is irrelevant. Flesh mends.
Occupants of the room hold your breath and please try to stay silent. Lie to yourselves that you have no idea of what they've been through, (and you do not). This lurks beneath the surface every day in the office, disguised with commonalities and witty banter.
At long last, they are breaking. Can't hide, can't lie, can't handle.
"It was my doing, and unbecoming, Lieutenant."
"But it was necessary, and since this is quite an inappropriate subject to discuss—"
"It was a mistake—"
"There is no blame, here—"
"I took your back." Berating yourself, for what you have done. "Then I requested you watch mine. I will ask you, do you find that fair?"
Forgiveness is not your want; guilt reverberates.
"It had to be done—"
The click of a pistol grinds time to a halt. Comfortable in its owner's hands, the gaping barrel is trained on a burning cigarette; blue eyes are startled.
You watch them scurry away unprofessionally, but it does not matter. What does is this, here, now. But as she faces you with those eyes, so bloody, the shade of honey, weakness seeps into your marrow. Into your bones. One step behind, she follows you through fire, fog, and failure whilst never uttering disdain, only picking up the pieces of mistakes. Does she keep them in her pocket, you wonder, close to her?
Doesn't that hurt?
Why are we killing those we should protect?
You cannot face her harsh stare, or the young eyes that pleaded for the truth. Rough hands come up to meet your face, a pathetic curtain against what makes you weak. There is no answer.
Staring at the insides of your eyelids, you listen: Her strangled cry, the pistol's dull thud on the floor, and then another. Gently, in defeat, her head falls forward against yours; faces hidden from one another, from everyone else.
Elizabeth . . .
Leaning on one another to fill the silence.
Those moments are what you remember, as she is dying on the ground. Panic molests her eyes; what is she asking?
You should have left her behind, not allow her to trudge through hell for your sake. Because it has hit you that you are losing her; you will never see her again. You will never speak. Eat. Hold. Argue. Sigh. Smirk. You will never take her as you so wanted and maybe, if it didn't hurt too much, discuss a future redemption. That almost-happiness you desired?
She is dying on the ground.
It is in the red, don't you see? Like flames leap to life, blood is the latter; they are both fierce, and in this moment you have no strength to save either.
Screams echo from another place, and you cannot grasp that they are yours. Perhaps you wanted to keep her near so badly, you have ultimately created this.
"I've been ordered not to die, you see. . ."
There she goes, holding you in regard again.
You never answered her questions, when she gazed at you so long ago. When she wanted to know the truth.
You have realized why you kept her, why you gave your back to her; you had scarred hers, and etched sin onto a clean slate. A pinhole in your heart hides desire you have always forgone; she has one similar. Sunshine. Impulse. Hobbies. Conversation. Desire. Leisure. Normality.
A child's heart, wanting endlessly.
No lie can bring salvation: You brought her here to die.