Post by magenellofgalla on Feb 16, 2013 12:48:30 GMT 10
Title: Late Realizations
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,467
Prompt: #2 Roger/Cythera
Summary: She'd never been that important, until things were too late.
A/N: I tried with the angst, I truly did. I hope that I got it, even a bit. I think that rhymed... Anyhow, Happy (late) Valentine's Day~! I hope you enjoyed it, and I also hope you enjoy this fic ♥ Warning (I think?): Character Death.
Roger sat, cross-legged, across the ballroom from the ash blonde he was scrutinizing. He was holding a glass of wine that was just brushing against his bottom lip.
“Are you going to drink that or make love to it?” Jonathan of Contè joked.
Cythera, being glided across the dance floor by yet another partner, looked at Roger. He looked away, casually sipping some wine. “Pardon?”
“What’re you looking at anyways?” He swept his eyes across the room. Roger didn't notice the change of words.
“Oh. Have you met her? Cythera of Elden. She just arrived this morning.” He sought out the girl that he’d just been marveling at. “She’s quite a beauty, isn’t she?” His interests had piqued once he’d seen all the knights and squires crowding the girl. For some reason, he wanted to have the girl that everyone else wanted to desperately. He already had Delia; she was the girl that he was controlling. But that was different.
Jon let out a whistle of approval. “Yes, I’ve met her. You’re right about her looks. Prettiest face I’ve ever seen.” The prince looked at his cousin. “Hey.” He nudged his shoulder. “Why don’t you go ask her to dance?”
Roger gave a light chuckle. “I will. But later, once this one’s finished.”
Soon enough, the man twirling her around let her go with a kiss to the hand and a soft smile.
“Well, then. Go right ahead.” Jon pushed him gently, grinning. Roger laughed, and walked towards Cythera. She was wincing as she whispered to her companion. He didn’t really know her friend’s name, and paid little attention to it.
When he made it there, he greeted her with a warm, brilliant smile. “Good evening, young lady.” He observed that her eyes were azure blue, much like his own.
Cythera shut her eyes tight, and opened them again. “Good evening, Duke Roger. It’s wonderful to meet you, but I really must go. Perhaps next time, we may speak again.” With that, her friend escorted her out the ballroom door, an arm around her shoulders.
Roger blinked at her as she scurried through the room. Did she really just… leave him like that, after he greeted her a good evening? That couldn’t be. That didn’t happen to Roger. “I suppose that she was a bit pale, but…” The duke mumbled and let himself fall into a nearby chair.
He sighed. “Next time. We’re sure to dance next time.”
Next time didn’t come soon. It took its sweet, sweet, time to arrive in Roger’s life. For two consecutive nights, she left the ballroom early. And then for a week she didn’t even attend dinner. He started to wonder what happened.
Finally, he got up and asked her to dance directly after dinner. As courtesy dictates, she accepted and they got into the beat of a waltz.
“How has your stay at the palace been, my lady?” Roger asked, a gentle smile on his lips.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. He must’ve known that she’d’ve been sick of the question by then. “It’s been spectacular. The scenery is simply beautiful.”
“I’ve… seen that you don’t tend to stay in the ballroom long after dinner. Would it be intruding if I asked you why?” He was pushing triggers a bit too early. He knew that right after he let the words flow from his mouth. But he was curious, and that was enough.
Her blue eyes widened, her face turning white under her make-up. “I, I suppose it’s because I’m not fond of staying awake so late at night.”
“You believe in ghosts, my lady?” Nothing could hide the amusement in his voice.
She turned red. “My mother kept telling me stories when I was little to keep me from wandering. Old habits die hard; I believe that’s how it goes.”
They continued chatting about the weather, but not really going much farther than her favorite color—blue—and her favorite flowers—blue bells.
One dance. That was all he got before she had to leave once more. But she continued to intrigue him.
It didn’t take much long for Gareth the Younger to start courting the girl. That didn’t bother Roger that much, especially since he discovered her condition: anemia. That had been her real reason for leaving the ballroom early, and it certainly explained why she looked like she had no makeup although her skin was quite white. He had things to conceptualize. The plan would need patience, brilliance, and it’d need several years. He couldn’t worry about such things. Besides, he had Alex and Delia. Cythera soon faded from his mind.
All his planning failed, in a way. He was killed by Alan—no that’s not right—Alanna, Jon’s squire. But he had a fallback. Fake death.
During his time in the tomb, which was in fact an incredibly long time, he got to thinking of a new plan. He also started to think of plans gone wrong before, romances, people, pawns. Months passed and he found his mind wandering to Cythera. The girl he became infatuated with for a mere month, and passed by. He remembered childish excuses, and sweet, small details in her character.
More than anything, he wondered where everything—everyone—would be once he rose from the dead.
Once he arose, he forgot all about her. She wasn’t a significant piece in his life, really. Nothing more than a bystander. What’s more was that everyone—including her—kept away from him. Then again, he wouldn’t blame them; he really was planning something. But then his plans truly disappeared. He died… again. He didn’t go in to another false death, no he couldn’t do that again. He became something different. A ghost, a being that was tethered to the real world by task or a specific thing.
That was when he started to regret. He felt disappointed in what became of him. He wanted something more. He thought that he deservedsomething more. He met other ghosts, but at first refused to speak with them at all. He was a duke! He couldn’t converse with ghosts. It took him a long while to realize that they were all the same: dead and worthless and pathetic. That was when his depression came in.
His mind was inked with sorrow, and his heart injected with pain. He was nothing. And what’s worse was that he had nothing he could do about it. It took him near forever to come to terms with his fate. He had to fulfill a goal, and only then could he move on to the Peaceful Realms. But he had quite a problem. His goal was to be all-powerful. He couldn’t exactly fulfill that. He had to accept that he would forever be a ghost.
He roamed the castle’s hallways and catacombs, scrutinizing everything. He wondered what he’d do in situations told by gossips. He wondered what he’d do if he could do everything again.
One day, lady Cythera came to mind. He found out that she’d married Gareth the Younger. It figured that she would; Gary had always been a lady’s man. She was still quite beautiful, although Queen Thayet was much more so. But he didn’t want Thayet. A filthy Jian Wilima princess from Sarain. Besides, he decided that his cousin’s taste in women was far from suitable.
The duchess was sitting in the study when Roger spied on her, relaxing with a cup of tea. She was waiting for Gareth to finish something for the King. She sighed wistfully. It had already been an hour. She certainly was patient. Cythera closed her eyes for a moment, a hand over her forehead. Now was his chance! He took out a bouquet of daisies with a note attached--he'd prepared it earlier-- and placed it on the desk in front of her. Once she opened her eyes again, she saw the flowers. Despite being uneasy about the source, she seemed to appreciate it.
“Daisies…?” she wondered aloud, picking up the bouquet. “Hidden love…” She blushed and looked at the note, which said:
You are the reason that I live
Your beauty’s as radiant as the sun
I have lots of love to give,
But you are my only one
With love,
your secret admirer
Soon after, Cythera’s husband came in. His hands and clothes were stained with ink, and he was holding a heavy stack of papers. “What’s that?” he asked as he put down his burden.
“Daisies. I don’t know who they’re from, though…” She gave a sad pout.
Roger cackled, having mixed feelings about being invisible. It was good that no one could hear or see him, but he somehow wanted to take credit for it.
Gary laughed, and kissed his wife. “Perhaps we’ll find out one day.”
Cythera frowned; she obviously didn’t appreciate his lack of support. But things went on anyways.
Roger had planned this all to be a one-time thing. Something for his poor, bored heart to make himself occupied, but he should’ve anticipated his tendency to fail. He found himself noticing little details in the duchess. She had a delicate nose, high cheek bones. She had flawless skin, save for a mole on her right cheek (but in his opinion, that made her look more beautiful.) He noticed the little specks of black and grey in her eyes. And despite being dead, he found himself… attracted.
Once or twice, he’d found her reacting to the words that he said. Like, “I wish you could see me,” or “I wonder if I can touch you.” And on more than one occasion, he has knocked something over to make her incredibly skeptical. It didn’t help her sanity much, but he liked seeing her reaction. He also wanted to see her; he wanted to be near her. There wasn’t much else he could do, nor was there anyone to stop him from doing as he pleased.
A night came when Gareth had been away for an incredibly long time, and Cythera had to stay at the palace without him by her side when the moon would come. He had been walking through the halls when he’d heard light sobbing through her door. This was another wonderful opportunity for Roger.
The blonde was asleep when he entered her room uninvited. He left another bouquet of stock and tulips on the bedside table for her to see when she awoke. That was sure to make her happier. He didn’t quite know what made him desire for her welfare, but it made himself feel more at ease.
Instead of going down to the lower city to spy on drunkards, like he usually did, he let himself lay beside her on the double bed. He could sleep—however odd that was to him. Ghosts didn’t require sleep, so why was he able to do it? But he found that sleep was boring, despite it being a relaxing pastime.
Roger reached out to her hair, and was surprised to be able to feel it. He took a lock of ash blonde hair between his fingers, and reveled in the sense of being alive. When he closed his eyes, he could’ve swear that his body was warm and that this person beside him loved him and acknowledged him.
He lay there for a long time, until Cythera started to stir. She grumbled. She was clearly asleep still. “Are you back?” Her hands went out to search for another body. She found one.
Roger froze. She could touch him. Why was that?
“You’re so cold…” She scooted over to wrap an arm around him.
He cringed. What was happening?
“I missed you so much.”
He gave a small chuckle. It was more like a puff of amused air escaping his mouth. He decided to put an arm around her as well. Things like this never happened to ghosts.
“I missed you too.”
That was a mistake.
Cythera opened her eyes, alarmed. “You’re not Gary.” Her flight was delayed, but she soon scrambled out of the bed. She took the blanket with her, in an effort to cover herself, since she was only in a night gown.
He had to admit that she was beautiful even though she’d just woken up. But those three words hurt him. You’re not Gary. They were true. Oh, how he envied the brown-haired desk knight. His face twisted into anguish.
“Are you…” Her brows furrowed in confusion, hate. And her breathing started to catch up with her heartbeat. “Duke Roger?” She grabbed a flask by the table and threw its contents on the thing.
It felt like acid, not water, and he deduced that it was holy water. He swore aloud, and flailed off the bed.
She walked around to look at him and sighed in relief. “He’s gone…”
Roger sat up, offended. “I’m right here!” The duchess didn’t reply. He hadn’t felt so hot in years, nor had his eyes well up with tears like these. In frustration and distress, he stood and kicked the bed, making her scream in a high-pitched manner. Good, he thought. Although he regretted making her upset. He also opened the door and shut it hard on his way out.
Never had he been so hurt. Then again, never had he been in love like that. With an ache to hold her, touch her. And when he’d finally gotten the chance, she pushed him away. He massaged his chest. Did ghosts have hearts to hurt? Did they have moisture for tears?
And the worst thing was that she’ll walk around as if nothing happened, as if she hadn’t broken a heart at all. She’d walk and talk and laugh and kiss with Gareth—not Roger. And he’d be forced to withstand seeing them.
He realized, as he was walking through the halls and sobbing, that he would never get what he wanted. His plans would always just crumble. And perhaps it was time to let go. It was time to stop hoping. Why was it that all these emotions came after he’d died? Maybe it was to spite him, and it was working.
He’d wander around aimlessly, reminiscing about being alive and able to do astonishing magic and tasks. He’d wail like a banshee at night, and he’d scare her for not noticing him. Then he’d leave flowers in the morning out of guilt. It was a terrible cycle, and it was wearing him out. He hoped that maybe his essence would just fade. He wished that he could move on! His goals were all gone, what was keeping him here now? He wanted to die, again. He wanted to make things end. He saw a noose and wondered if he could. But as everything fails, he soon found out.
He couldn’t.