Done/Undone
by Krysia Korsakova
Disclaimer: Legal, boring bit. CC, FOX, Men in Grey Suits, you know the drill
Spoilers: Nope, no spoilers here.
Rated: Hmm, probably a T for dark themes.
Author's Notes: Ever wondered what a dying man might think? Well, this is my take on it. This will be weird and unbetaed so tread carefully and mind the shrubbery
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What's done cannot be undone. I heard that once, though I don't remember where. It may have been at church.
Yes, I went to church. Does that surprise you? Does it not fit your cosy little pigeonhole? Well, hell on that. Church sustained me since I was young.
If I ever was. I don't remember a time when I didn't have to be hard. But them's the cards.
Aces and eights. Dead man's hand, right? I couldn't tell you.
Only...
Only I get aces and eights every time I play poker. OK, so that's not much of the time but...I'm still here, right?
At least I'm alive. Shining pool in the moonlight. Is that my blood?
There's a cross there and an icon, but they're not really there. Just my imagination, because this is a back alley in the middle of a city. And it's the most beautiful alley I've ever seen...no sodium glare and no chain-link. White stone...I think I might be in New Orleans.
So far. Half a world away from Yaroslavl. But you wouldn't know...
Not far from Moscow, my town. Not near though, either. But the church stayed open, powerless. There was an icon, so beautiful and big, glowing all the colours of a life I would never know.
But I didn't know that then. Not when I knelt before it, not daring even to look at it directly, not when I sang the harmonies of glorious, mysterious death and not when I knew death. Sanctuary came.
Sanctuary comes in many different forms. Death is the greatest liberator, freeing us from the many burdens that press us so. There is, I think they said or was it the moon whispering madness, an angel. The Angel to sever the soul from the body at the point of death.
There came a rushing of mighty wings, or maybe it was just the waves in their eternal dance of oblivion. They care not that their lot is fleeting so why do we? The sea and New York...I'm so tired.
Perhaps I'll sleep now. Requiescat.
But the moon is full, a benediction in silver-blue. It shines on my hands, though they have grown dark and tainted. Grown? Faded. Once maybe they were bright and shining but I don't remember that.
The icon had blue, but that was lapis lazuli. Stone of ancient Egypt and I wished...oh, how I wished...that I would wake up anywhere but in my body. Can a child pray for death?
Well, perhaps not for death...an ending. Aces and eights...how does trash look so beautiful? White and black and even red I know...there should be...black and soft, spilling past my fingers.
So warm, and the night is cold. Plumes of dragonbreath joining frost, painted on boxes that are empty and ended. Less...breathe, but it hurts so, Mother, it hurts to...
Breathe.
Pain blossomed and in the past it is beautiful too. So much beauty, why did I never see it before?
Why, tell me why? I've never asked for anything before, not when aces and eights was something to long for...when I would have done anything to stop, to make an ending...survived. I survive, you know, everything they throw at me. Even when I had rather...
I never asked, so answer now. Just one more year to see my life, to see beauty and know your...The Little Match Girl died, didn't she, Mother? When she went to sleep. Like... Darkness followed sure as winter follows summer. Questions never get you anywhere.
Snow, and maybe I'm not South at all. I was always East, harsh and empty, blowing from Siberia to freeze tears. White melts in steaming black that should be red, and when it cools...Endgame.
I don't want to...aces and eights...aces and eights...a blanket of...die. Just one more hour - there may be days in an hour and I would see a sunrise.
See black properly red before I bid...flights of angels...not for me. A grave man, I, tomorrow...and tomorrow...
I used to dream about tomorrow, bright and matchless, incorruptible beyond...but tomorrow...went away. And never sun darken my day.
One more moment...I can't feel my heart...I don't think I ever did.
Who's there? The gun, an inch from my hand. It's so warm and my hand is frozen. Aces and eights and such bad luck, Mulder.
Thy lips are red...how did you manage that when my blood...
So many secrets to waltz from your life, as I waltz away from mine own.
Would I beg for life if my voice still sounded?
One more moment.
But last moments come and last moments go.
I must go too, Mulder, to freeze the tears of the Little Angels. But call me a cheat, that I might yet return to be the thorn in your side.
Yes, give me the warmth of your lips and your arms. Give me your tears, warm and molten, that they might burn the fear...burn the pain...give me your flame?
I see...oh, God, the dance of waves upon a shore and salt dusts my tongue. Grey and silver, but that disk of gold...
The sun rises.
END
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