(Lost) The rest is silence.

[akonken.livejournal.com]

The memory of the little grey mens' hands and instruments as they probed her, somehow lascivious. She was proud of herself when she pulled herself out of her reverie, remembered that it was the past and she was all right now, even though when she'd begun paying attention again she was left grasping at threads of conversation she didn't really understand at all.

And then "...There's a fairy on your bag," Nemoa said quietly. Rose looked down, and it was true. She'd forgotten, didn't even see the picture any more these days except as a flash of pink. She thought - but could never, ever say - about how the picture, about how the words "Wish you were here" had drawn her to the bag at first. She thought about how it had slowly faded - no, how it had been replaced by her life since - in her conscious mind, and had just become the thing in which she carried Spring's notebook and pen, and all the rest. Now she couldn't stop looking at the fey face, feeling slightly nauseated. Finally she turned it to face the other way. Tomorrow she would get a new bag.

And then the love between Adrianne and Galehaut, and Adrianne and Harper, and Rosie and Alex. It was too bright, too warm. She hadn't thought about that, hadn't realised it would be painful. She should have realised it was too soon to be happy for them completely.

And then Snaggle blaming Rosie for so much death. She was proud of herself again, briefly, when she'd asked him not to say that, but quickly defeated when he'd rightly told her he could say whatever he wanted.

And then Rosie herself, needing her to be happy and excited about a wedding that wouldn't come, to plan for it. Even Rosie had doubts, even she said that someone always dies before the wedding. But Rose tried her best to do what her sister wanted.

And then the argument about whether to kill the people who could see them, the rage from Mr Sleete blistering. It was always death. It was always death, and she couldn't stop it. She wrapped her hand around her knife, feeling a little soothed until people came over to try to make her feel better, to rescue her from the pain. It made it worse.

But then a thought suddenly struck her. She could stop it. Maybe. At least for a little while. She prayed to Spring, and felt him answer, felt him whisper in Mr Sleete's ear, saw Mr Sleete leave the room and return a few minutes later with a sandwich. She'd done it. It would be okay, at least for now.

And now. Now she is going to have dinner and see Hamlet with a friend she didn't realise until today that she had. She loves Shakespeare. She's always loved Shakespeare.

She wants to do this. The rest falls away.

[Requiem] Three words

[http://users.livejournal.com/_crimsonearth/]

( Because there's more to Darcy's life than pulling political puppet-strings and being frightened/seduced by everything Crone... )