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Author's notes: Contains spoilers for "The Waiting Room" as well as "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg." This would have been poetry, except I lost my rhyming dictionary. Internal story note: The Philosopher's Stone was a mythical artifact sought by alchemists that had the power to transform baser metals into gold. |
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Treasure by Livia 05/27/99 |
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I don't know, can't think, not even breathing Way back when, when I first met Jim (my own Holy Grail, Philosopher's Stone) I thought of Stonehenge. I mean, I watched, and learned, and I was awed. The guy had his own Stonehenge, all in his head. Sun, moon and stars revolved around, and he stood still-- unreadable, untouched as stone, or so I thought. These cosmic answers just came to him-- the knowledge of good and evil, the strength to mete out justice-- immutable as stone, inevitable as sunrise. Over the years, I watched him use his powers, drawing them from somewhere inside, somewhere where truth lived. And I learned. God, did I learn. I mean, I know the man. I know he's not as solid as he looks-- I know how exactly calibrated he's gotta stay, to keep from falling apart. Yeah, I know exactly how much he doesn't like it when I barge in, throw my shoulder up against a monolith and push. They say Merlin moved those stones with words. I'm no wizard. Just a sleight-of-hand magician with clever hands and a couple good tricks. True confessions: if Jim had Stonehenge, I had a house of cards. Nothing wrong with that. It always worked before. Magic tricks impress people, and I could always deal myself a good hand-- and when I felt like it, I could just knock it over, pick up the pieces and build another. I wasn't hurting anyone. And then I met him... My little castle in the air had never had a cornerstone before, and somehow my paper and ink world gave way, in the face of the warmth of his heart, his hearth. And soon the man was my home. Magic tricks never impressed him, and I couldn't cheat him, and after a while I would've rather died. And then one day it all came tumbling down. It hurts so goddamn much, worse than dying-- but I shouldn't have been surprised. Three years is a long time for any house of cards to stand. They say they never sacrificed anybody there, at Stonehenge. They were wrong. He came so close to dying for what he was. And I put him there, flat on his back, exposed, on the altar stone. I never meant to... but I almost did the deed myself. The part that still scares me is how easy it would've been; just a flick of the wrist. A simple task for such clever hands. But I took his place, instead. Whatever gods love sacrifice, let them have my life, my heart. Not his. Not this time. I cut out my own heart because I love him, but it might as well have been my tongue. He won't ask and I can't speak, I can't tell him why. I can't play that card. I can't move mountains. Not by myself anyway. I'm not Merlin and I can't fuck around with that card. Who was it said "give me a place to stand, and a lever long enough, and I will move the world?" I have no place to stand, without Jim. He is my steady ground. I can barely get my bearings without him, the magnet in my compass. Maybe Merlin moved those stones with words, but I can't speak. I may never. My cousin the bookie once told me, never gamble more than you can afford to lose. I should have listened. Because I gambled myself and I lost myself, sacrificed my life for the man with the power of the Philosopher's Stone-- secret desire of alchemists, poor bastards, stumbling down a dead-end street of science-- He just smiled, and tossed a small black square through the air, and I was converted, transformed: my base metal, the brass ring I chose, transmuted into gold. I held a badge, my badge, in my hand, and stared. Gold and blue-- Jim's heart, his eyes. My sun, my sky. His smile was clear and warm. I don't deserve this... "I didn't do it for you," I tell him, later. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, toying with the badge-- Simon let me take it home-- and Jim's behind me, putting leftovers in the refrigerator. I hear him straighten, but don't turn to look. "Why, then?" "Molly." Yeah, I did it for love. But I also did it for Molly. And I don't doubt my decision. He comes around the table and sits down heavily, across from me. He remembers. Beautiful Molly, the lonely ghost only he could see. His reflection in the mirror. Well, I remember Molly too. And I don't regret my choice for a second. "She was his muse," I explain, slowly. "His subject, his inspiration, his lover. And then one day, he decided that his work and his fame were more important than her life, and so he killed her." I shake my head, and for the first time in what seems like years, feel the warm, defiant, familiar swell of pride. "When the shit hit the fan, Jim--" "You protected me," he affirms. My fingers curl around the gold in my hands. "I love you." I say hoarsely, looking away, and he reaches across the table and touches my face. Oh, god, am I crying? I'm not-- but I blink rapidly, startled, drawing away from his hand-- and then, goddammit, I am. I stand, pushing away from the table, but I have to get past Jim in order to get back to my room. But he stands too, just as quickly, and steps forward, wrapping me in strong arms. Way back when, when I first met Jim-- my Holy Grail, Philosopher's Stone-- I thought of Stonehenge. But now, here, wrapped in his arms, subsumed in his world, no longer knowing where I begin and where he ends-- "I'm sorry," he whispers into my hair. "I should have known..." --he is warm, very warm, and so very giving. It's killing me. "Let me go, Jim." "I love you, too--" His kisses steady and dizzy me, heal me and tear me apart. My badge lies on the table, forgotten. I may not deserve the fake gold shield. But I have labored hard to earn Jim's real and beating heart. I have quested for my treasure, I have given it all up and gotten more than I ever dreamed. God, I wanted him for so long-- but I could not bribe him, cheat him, push him. I could not offer illusion. I could only give my heart. [end] |