I seem to be on a fic writing roll...
AN: Written for linebyline prompt "came out in the wash". No title, genre seems to be fantasy and I have no idea where this is going.
She can't just magic this away. She can't just let the stain come out in the wash- it won't. No matter how much she scrubs, no matter how much the visible stain fades, the stain on her soul will always be there. She killed someone. The blood will always be on her hands, even after she scrubs it, even after she burns the clothes she is wearing - she can never wear them again.
She feels his presence behind her; doesn't need to turn around to know he's there, leaning against the door, watching her. Waiting for her. He's done this before, he knows what it's like. She continues scrubbing her hands and the shirt, not caring that her hands are red, that the shirt is nearly stain free.
It doesn't matter.
"You'll hurt yourself," he finally speaks with a gentle, soothing voice. Doesn't he get that it's the point? That if she bleeds, it will maybe, hopefully, somehow cover the blood on her shirt, her hands, her soul?
"This isn't the way to cope," he suddenly is behind her, his hands grabbing her waist, pulling her against him in an embrace. "He was going to kill you- and our child with you. You did the right thing."
Then why does she feel so dirty? Why does she feel so defeated, even though she is clearly the victor? After all, she is alive and the wizard is not and there is no going back. She is safe- her child is safe. All should be well.
But it isn't. And suddenly she can't hold it back anymore, the waves of despair and exhaustion and worry and guilt overtaking her, reducing her to a shaking, sobbing pile of something that used to be innocent and human- but no longer is.
She can't just magic this away. She can't just let the stain come out in the wash- it won't. No matter how much she scrubs, no matter how much the visible stain fades, the stain on her soul will always be there. She killed someone. The blood will always be on her hands, even after she scrubs it, even after she burns the clothes she is wearing - she can never wear them again.
She feels his presence behind her; doesn't need to turn around to know he's there, leaning against the door, watching her. Waiting for her. He's done this before, he knows what it's like. She continues scrubbing her hands and the shirt, not caring that her hands are red, that the shirt is nearly stain free.
It doesn't matter.
"You'll hurt yourself," he finally speaks with a gentle, soothing voice. Doesn't he get that it's the point? That if she bleeds, it will maybe, hopefully, somehow cover the blood on her shirt, her hands, her soul?
"This isn't the way to cope," he suddenly is behind her, his hands grabbing her waist, pulling her against him in an embrace. "He was going to kill you- and our child with you. You did the right thing."
Then why does she feel so dirty? Why does she feel so defeated, even though she is clearly the victor? After all, she is alive and the wizard is not and there is no going back. She is safe- her child is safe. All should be well.
But it isn't. And suddenly she can't hold it back anymore, the waves of despair and exhaustion and worry and guilt overtaking her, reducing her to a shaking, sobbing pile of something that used to be innocent and human- but no longer is.