(no subject)
The door shuts behind her and Fiona falls to her knees. It's a beach at sunset, the sand cold against her fishnet-covered knees and the air around her cool. She drops the guitar-case and the bag, sits back on her feet and just stares up at the clouds. Not saying anything, not really moving, not doing except stare and trying to control her ragged, almost sobbing breathing.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Hürrem. Her daughter, dead for thousands of years. Hürrem, 'the laughing one' who had rarely laughed, rarely smiled; such a serious little girl she had been. But beautiful. A mother's love, maybe, for her mop of dark red hair and her brown skin and her serious, liquid black eyes. A mother's love for her child, her baby girl to whom she had read and played and treasured those rare, laughing smiles.
Of all the things I should've said / That I never said.
All the things we should've done / That we never did.
All the things I should've given / But I didn't
Hürrem. Whose father hadn't been able to stand the loss and his wife's grief (yes, I was married once, long ago. I was a wife, a mother. Is that really so hard to believe?) and who had fled to a forgotten war to die a forgotten death, and left Fiona alone in a strange Shadow. She had since made that Shadow home, as much a a home as any place other then Amber could be. Maghrib, a land of sand and scrolls and the cleanness of the desert. The land of her daughter's grave, which she never ever forgot. It was hard to, impossible to. The city had changed, as had the landscape, but she lived with children. And sometimes when their laughter drifted through the window, Fiona couldn't help but close her eyes and remember.
Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.
And he had taken her form. Wrapped himself up in it, turned himself into that little girl with the serious eyes and the mop of always-messy red curls and god he had even smelt like her. Sounded like her, moved like her, but it was the scent that had done it. The scent, and the feeling of those small hands on her knees, wanting to be picked up and hugged, and those eyes wondering what she had done wrong, why had she made Mama cry...
Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away
Fiona hugs herself, arms around her (empty) stomach and that's when she starts to sob. Quiet at first, nothing but tears sliding down her face, but then she remembers Hürrem dying. She remembers bathing her daughter's face and just watching her die and being able to do nothing, nothing at all. Watch helplessly and pray to whatever was out there, if anything, that Hürrem would survive.
Of all the things we should've said / That were never said.
All the things we should've done / That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me / all the things that I should've given
But I didn't
She remembers the stillness of her daughter's body, how light it felt in her arms, and she starts to cry on the lonely beach. Rocking back and forth and just sobbing - almost as if she thinks that if she cries long enough, loud enough, hard enough, her child might come back.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Hürrem. Her daughter, dead for thousands of years. Hürrem, 'the laughing one' who had rarely laughed, rarely smiled; such a serious little girl she had been. But beautiful. A mother's love, maybe, for her mop of dark red hair and her brown skin and her serious, liquid black eyes. A mother's love for her child, her baby girl to whom she had read and played and treasured those rare, laughing smiles.
Of all the things I should've said / That I never said.
All the things we should've done / That we never did.
All the things I should've given / But I didn't
Hürrem. Whose father hadn't been able to stand the loss and his wife's grief (yes, I was married once, long ago. I was a wife, a mother. Is that really so hard to believe?) and who had fled to a forgotten war to die a forgotten death, and left Fiona alone in a strange Shadow. She had since made that Shadow home, as much a a home as any place other then Amber could be. Maghrib, a land of sand and scrolls and the cleanness of the desert. The land of her daughter's grave, which she never ever forgot. It was hard to, impossible to. The city had changed, as had the landscape, but she lived with children. And sometimes when their laughter drifted through the window, Fiona couldn't help but close her eyes and remember.
Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.
And he had taken her form. Wrapped himself up in it, turned himself into that little girl with the serious eyes and the mop of always-messy red curls and god he had even smelt like her. Sounded like her, moved like her, but it was the scent that had done it. The scent, and the feeling of those small hands on her knees, wanting to be picked up and hugged, and those eyes wondering what she had done wrong, why had she made Mama cry...
Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away
Fiona hugs herself, arms around her (empty) stomach and that's when she starts to sob. Quiet at first, nothing but tears sliding down her face, but then she remembers Hürrem dying. She remembers bathing her daughter's face and just watching her die and being able to do nothing, nothing at all. Watch helplessly and pray to whatever was out there, if anything, that Hürrem would survive.
Of all the things we should've said / That were never said.
All the things we should've done / That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me / all the things that I should've given
But I didn't
She remembers the stillness of her daughter's body, how light it felt in her arms, and she starts to cry on the lonely beach. Rocking back and forth and just sobbing - almost as if she thinks that if she cries long enough, loud enough, hard enough, her child might come back.