79 – marigold – Dear Apollo, My Love Is Like The Marigold's – No Sleep Beauty

[no-sleep-beauty.livejournal.com]

Title: Dear Apollo, My Love Is Like The Marigold's
Fandom: N/A (original fiction)
Prompt: 079. Marigold
Warnings: Implied one-sided femslash, murder, suicide reference
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 614
Summary: A devotion without limit; so intense that she would destroy herself to protect the one she loved.

For each bruise that blossomed on face or arms or chest. For every cut that split fragile skin. For every tear caused by every harsh word and thoughtless action. I suffered too. I suffered a pain that can’t be understood by shallow feelings. It’s the agony that comes from watching a beloved thing, given to another, be destroyed by hands that did not deserve it. That beloved thing is…the heart of the one you love. There once was a woman like me. A nymph who, for devotion to a god, killed her rival in love. Clytie. She is perceived as the murderess of true love. Cruel enough to betray her own sister, who was loved by her lover. Wasn’t Clytie’s love true? I can understand well her feelings now, as I stand here above him. The moon and the stars are floating atop his face; an infinite sky intertwined with the image of his finite face. He is resigned to his fate. That much I can see in the way he has closed his eyes and turned his gaze away from the effervescent moon that watches death. This is the extent of my tragedy; that even now I can feel him arousing envy in me for I have not yet resigned myself to my own future. This is why the tears come on. This is why there are tremors racing down the arms that root him to the bottom of his watery coffin. Even the moon is rolling in his grave with him, reflecting itself steadily on the surface of the lake’s surface. In my life, I wanted nothing more than to love her as he was given the chance to love her. And to be loved by her as he so freely was. But even though she always had warmth enough for me, her heart was his and his alone. This stroke was painful, but not fatal. It was he who delivered the final blow in that same instant in which he began to turn his anger on her. To, like a child with a toy, tear apart she who held him dear above all, she whom I held dear above all, was not a punishment I could endure. There are those who, like spring time, love with a gentle heat from which contentment can always swell. But it’s to winter that lovers like I should be likened. Could I explain to him to ferocity of a love in winter? He, who would tear off a butterfly’s wings simply because he could. The powerful and consuming winter, that brings violent winds and covers everything without mediation, and whose beauty is readily overlooked for its danger. There is happiness in spring, but only a select few can find joy in winter. I love her. She loved you. You would have ruined her world. So, for her sake, I will destroy both of ours first. That is the source of the smile that curls his lips as he passes into the hands of a life beyond this one. That smile that rises with his limp body to the water’s surface, like the tilt of the crescent moon. He was well aware of the souvenir that he took with him to his death: her love. She will hate me when she knows what I have done. If only I could lessen my feelings enough to deny her the comfort that despising me would bring, I would take my life like I had his. There was once a woman like me. A nymph, who for love of a god, killed the sister who would break his heart. Dear Apollo, won’t you turn me into a marigold too?