[Fic] [Round 12] - A Study In Futility - PG-13
Author: Clorinda
Characters/Pairing: Cheri, Raven
Word Count: 1467
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: NONE
Prompt: Quote: "Apparently that isn't his/her natural hair color after all."
A Study In Futility
By Clorinda
Apparently, colour does make all the difference.
I
Earth: Buried In Time
The years had come and the seasons had changed. Men had left as suddenly and violently as they had appeared. Dan Hiri was dead. Cheri had been in mourning since the first time he stole out of their bed, and she did not remember to shed more tears. Now she was widowed a third time: the first time by death, the second by fate, and now by abandonment: by a man with flashing eyes and a fiery grin and blond hair who had left her with a young child and gone far away. But the past was something Cheri had buried with a heavy shovel and under a bed of cement.
And of course she was lying to herself again.
A sane woman who wanted to stay sane would have simply torn up that letter in green ink that said:
"Cheri,
You must have wondered what became of me after I so suddenly disappeared from your life and your brother's after your coronation.
I am worn by travel, but my spirit (and homesickness, I must confess) has prevailed over my wandering instincts, and I long for home, and something more. I missed you so much in these years, my darling, that I would not miss the opportunity to see you again."
That was as far as she read, quelling her own yawns and "wandering instincts," but she finally succumbed to distraction and rang the bell for the maid to bring in the new additions to be made to the Maou's wardrobe.
But that letter remained on her polished, ornate writing table, held down by a paperweight so that it would not deliberately blow itself out the window. It remained there for three hours, before Cheri couldn't stand it anymore.
She ran back to the study, yanked open the drawer (nearly pulling it straight out of its groove), snatched up monogrammed letterpaper and a quill and poured out the whole sugar-pot into a carefully-crafted reply.
The answer came, somewhat dryly:
"I see my four-page epistle to your beauty and grace has won over your ego, rather than any lasting affection you might have once had for me. I will be happy to come; please expect some difference in the man you once knew."
To which, she had hastily scribbled, (calligraphy and joined-up writing be damned):
"That's the only thing I remember you by: flattery to my ego."
II
Fire: Burnt
In a field of daisies, he came to their rendezvous on foot, and he had left behind his military uniform. In his frill-cuffed white shirt and cobalt trousers, he looked eons younger, like a youth graduated from his studies, a dashing prince on the day of his coronation. Facially, he remained the same: alert, watchful, and yet uncertain all the time, and his eyes flicked across the field, eager and hesitant to meet her.
A field of daisies. She had told him that a long time ago: they had been children, playing in the royal garden by the flower beds. She was sitting on the grass, as neat and dainty as a princess, as Raven kneeling behind her, threaded white primroses through her hair. Suddenly, irrelevantly, she'd said: "I want to get married in a field of daisies one day."
So she made him come today in a wilderness of flowers where colours flew like brush-strokes on canvas. She sat on the open ground, the sun in her hair and the breeze lifting her spirits. Her gown floated around her in swirls and layers of rich, silky wine-coloured fabric, and her bare, unadorned white skin shimmered over the low-flung collar. She knew she was provoking all that she shouldn't be, in him, and she knew it and she was viciously glad. A goodbye from Cecilie von Spitzweg was a farewell from the Maou; no played with, no one broke her rules.
He held himself like a man walking to his own execution: the firm rippling muscles beneath the thin shirt betrayed his unfamiliarity and his apprehensiveness.
"Raven!"
His name was like a lilt on her lips, like the song she would never sing to him. She was so self-assured, composed, regal and even further away than what she had been on her coronation day.
She stood, alone and proud, arms open, waiting to catch him in an embrace of welcome, and he was half-tempted to walk into those arms, but he dropped on one knee and kissed the hem of her dress instead.
Her fingers were in his hair, threading through the satiny locks almost experimentally. "Oh my," Her speculative voice teetered on the brink of a laugh. "I used to think you were a double black. But … apparently that isn't your natural hair colour after all."
The loyal subject and pining lover kneeling at her feet was a stark, shining platinum blonde.
III
Wind: Swept Away
Neither of them had thought to bring any food, or even any gifts. They sat side-by-side on the grass, gazing at the flowers swimming in the ocean of colour all around them, exchanging the occasional glances. The suddenly companionable silence did not need any words.
"Why did you come?" she said softly. "Really?"
He'd have been mad not to expect this question. He'd thought about it on the journey, and had managed to compose a decent answer. "I felt as if I had to," he said slowly. Composed speech did not come to his lips. "I couldn't stay away."
He turned his head to look at her- only to find her piercing green eyes trained on him. He began to falter before the brief flash of scorn in those eyes. "I had asked for something, Raven," she said quietly. "I had asked you to protect Stoffel, to stay with him. Couldn't you do even that for me?"
"I'm - I'm sorry-"
"Oh never mind, these things don't matter-" The airy cheerfulness in her tone would have been gratifying but for its falseness.
The cool breeze blowing around them picked up velocity and the mercury dropped by a few notches. "Storm coming," she murmured, gazing upwards. He couldn't take his eyes off her, but his whole body felt like it was trembling.
"I love the rain. The smell of the earth, the glistening leaves, running to the shade of the closest tree, watching the world all around be enveloped in a haze and cloud … don't you like the rain too, Raven?"
He didn't answer.
Their hands lay so carelessly close. Cheri's fingers had reached out and wrapped themselves around his. After that, he just couldn't have been expected to find his voice again, could he?
IV
Water: Tears
As they stood up to leave, the storm struck.
Rain began to fall, slowly, pitter-patter, then thrsshh, then in a rush that soaked them both to the skin faster than they could move. If Cheri was crying, he couldn't tell. The rain streamed down her cheeks, rolling past the bridge of her nose, turning black with mascara that dripped on the low collar of her dress. He had the feeling that something was slithering down the back of his neck, too.
"Oh, look."
Her face was contorted in a grimace, half-laughter, half-pain, and she pointed a quivering finger at him. Raven stared back, bemused, but she lifted his hand and pressed it to the back of his head. He pulled his hand away like a man in a daze, staring at it: his palm was a ghastly golden colour.
The dye was washing out.
She giggled softly, and it petered into a quiet laugh. "Wow, apparently that isn't your natural hair colour either."
Raven didn't say a word, staring dumbly at her. He didn't know what to say, surprised that the ruse had her fooled for so long. Cheri's curls were becoming flattened into waves plastered around her bare throat (smudged with mascara) and shoulders. Her shining emerald eyes held him in a trance, even as her wet, icy cold hands cupped his cheeks.
"What were you thinking, Raven?" she murmured. "That I would take you if you were blond? That you'd be the replacement for some lost lover I might have fancied?"
He tried to shake his head, but she held him firmly. His throat felt dry, and as he opened his mouth, salty rain fell on his tongue. "Just a kiss," he rasped. "It was all I wanted. Ever wanted."
"This?" she whispered, so softly that he almost didn't catch it. Her hands painfully squashed his cheeks, before she suddenly let go, pressing her lips to his instead. She tasted of the salty rain and the metallic taste of blood and of the bitterness and melancholy that coursed through her veins. Her hands gripping his shoulders felt like they wanted to break his bones; her very proximity was like fire.
It was not a passionate gesture. Raven stood like a scarecrow, frozen and numb with cold and like a put-out fire. He pressed his lips firmly together, refusing to yield, and he felt Cheri's sorrow on his skin this time, and out of nowhere his right hand was rising to thumb away those tears. She collapsed against him, heaving with sobs, frail in the voluminous dress that didn't suit her, and his arms were around her, holding her with the tenderness and love of wasted years. His name came brokenly to her lips, his name, the names of all her lost lovers and loved ones, and the tears rose up in him, clogging his throat, but he could barely breathe: she was crushing him to her, but if he was going to die like this, out of shame and misery and love, he was glad to lay down his worthless life for her selfishness.
That was all that he could do, all that he was good for.
-- finis --