For mornincamper

Disclaimer: The song 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square' and Torchword itself are, rather obviously I think, not mine!


Midnight. The clock's struck and it's too late to change anything. Like Cinderella at the ball, your time's up, only there's no glass slipper and Prince Charming can't exactly linger either. He'll be dead this time tomorrow and you aren't entirely sure if that makes it better or worse. You wouldn't admit to being rather indifferent about it but, well, it'd be easier if you didn't have to care.

Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know we two were so in love?

Sometimes you see them all, strung out in a fading line, everyone you've ever loved and lost (or as some of them would say, just lost, they don't see
love in the way that you do) You see them as they are forever committed to your memory, his startling blue eyes, her crimson skirts, one feature stands out for each, before they fade in black and white, not quite forgotten, but not how you always promised to remember them.

When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous

They take your hand, one at a time, each a ghost of dances past. They are stuck in limbo at that moment, as they re-enact each twirl, each spin, each precious heartbeat, then, before you can hold them close, before you can forget that this is all in your mind, before you can hope against hope that they will linger a while longer, they are
gone, gone, gone.

I still remember how you smiled and said,
`Was that a dream or was it true?`

You'd like to tell him that he was different, that you owed him that moment, but you don't think he'd quite understand and you don't want to ruin it. Maybe if you didn't know what would happen, if you weren't quite so attached to the present (future, whatever) then you'd go back, tell the truth this time. But that isn't really your style, is it?

Our homeward step was just as light
As the tap-dancing feet of Astaire

You like to tell each of them something about yourself, something different each time, but it's difficult with him because you can't have known him more than a few hours yet he's closer to you than you could ever have imagined. So you tell him that you don't have anyone (which you don't in this time, so it's not totally a lie) because if you can make him feel that special, even for a short time, maybe you aren't such a monster after all. He deserves it, he's a hero and you, well, you just want to feel that you did right by him, that you're worthy of his name.

And, like an echo far away,
A nightingale sang...