The Longest Night

by Ileadacharmedlife (Farmgirlwriter)

Summary:

"Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy,
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absense, darkness, death: things which are not."

From: "A Nocturnal upon St Lucy's Day" by John Donne

***

It's midwinter night, and Lucy can't sleep.

Notes:

• In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the 10 Days To 1K collection.

Podfic is here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/66462529

 

Prompt:

 

regret

 

 

I was the happy child. Mum recalls when I was young, how I laughed as I bloodied my knees, so Jamie wouldn't cry.

 

Our family's happiness rested on my shoulders. I had to be happy so they could be sad, could be angry, could let it all out. My mother never held back. She was always loud―when she felt something, she let us know. Jamie was the same. They worried about him constantly: his stutter, his grades, his video games. When he didn't get into Watford, it practically broke them.

 

(Have they cast spells to find me, or are they too angry? Have Mum and Dad argued over me, as they did over Jamie? Could this drive them apart?)

 

I was the easy child. All laughter, no tears.

 

Where am I now?

 

Deserting them...

 

Tonight's the solstice. I haven't seen my family in months. Christmas approaches without celebration; I didn't even sent a card.

 

I promise myself it's temporary. They'll understand when the baby's born. Maybe not at first. But everyone loves babies, right? I'm sure they'll love ours. How could they not? I love him so much already.

 

Inside, I feel a touch small as butterflies, light as moths, a brush, a tickle― he's so active, so curious. Our sweet child!

 

I wrap a blanket closer around my shoulders. Davy heats the cottage with magic. Merlin knows where he gets it from. It only goes so far― keeps us alive, but never feels warm.

 

I sit in an old rocking chair Davy scrounged from somewhere. The attic, maybe? I burn a candle I found in the back of a drawer. I read, but my mind strays from the page. Words go through me and leave no impression behind.

 

Instead, I watch snow drift outside the window. Snow means winter, dark, and chill. Midwinter is bleak― like the song. The shortest day, the longest night. It's hard to believe light will return. Past sight of other houses, here at midnight with Davy sleeping on the cot, I feel alone in the world.

 

I should be full, but I'm empty. I should be happy about our son― But the future feels blank as a landscape hidden under a veil of snow. Endless questions swirl through my head― Is this baby the Chosen One? What does that mean? Are the prophecies right? What if they're wrong?

 

(What have we done?)

 

When Davy and I walked into town, I was so tired I felt like death.

 

Davy sat by me, held my hand, fussed with my hair. He bought me a sausage roll and a paper cup of tea (He cares―see?)― and forbade me from walking without him.

 

(Never without him. Anywhere.)

 

I stole a book. About childbirth.

 

That's how I know I'm nearing the second trimester.I rub my belly where our child is growing. I'll be showing soon enough.

 

I would've left money― I wanted to! But Davy won't allow that. Money's tight, and I can't work. I can barely feed the chickens, or scrape together the will to shower. I spent half of the past months in bed, or with my head over a toilet bowl, heaving.

 

Instead I snuck the book into my purse while everyone's attention was fixed on Davy. He was more alive than I've seen him in years. He used to drive people away. Now he has the same fire, but it's crackling, burning, where before he was smolder and smoke. The spark finally lit, and people listen.

 

I sigh, and look at his sleeping face. Even in moonlight, he looks vital and alive.

 

I have Davy, always close. I have my child, growing inside me. But I've never felt more desolate.

 

I'm separated from them by a veil that words can't pierce. Davy sees his bright future, his Greatest Mage. His plans, schemes, hopes and desires― Never me. Never just me. His body isn't being taken apart. He's not keeping vigil on Midwinter Night, unable to sleep, filled with doubt and despair. He's waxing as I'm waning.

 

Maybe every expectant mother feels this way― dying, so new life can come. Sometimes it seems I have an enormous secret― one so huge it could crack open the world, shake it down to its roots and build it up new. (Is this the Revolution Davy longs for?) At other times it's an ending, a cataclysm, a dreadful finality.

 

And oh, the joy is there, but so is the crushing emptiness.

 

My book lists early symptoms― tender breasts, nausea, fatigue. Those happened, of course. But first, my magicfaded. I woke up and couldn't cast a cliche.

 

Words used to flow easily. I chattered away from the time I was two. Mum said Jamie was slower to speak because he was always listening to me. (I felt guilty for years. Did my words suck up all the space and leave no room for his?)

 

Now, I feel the weight of having no words. I don't know if that's normal for a mage― Mitali would know, or my mother. I miss them so badly it hurts.

 

Pregnancy is easier by the thirteenth week― so I hear. (The waxing of the moon, the turning of the year.) Energy returns, nausea goes away.

 

I'm still stuck in midnight.

 

My life was so full, so chaotic. Full of rugby, homework and sharing jokes with Mitali. My brother practicing his drumset, Mum bustling about baking, dad quiet in the corner with The Guardian and mug of Darjeeling.

 

Now everything is still. The calm around me presses like a smothering blanket.

 

I have nothing to give, but more is demanded. My self will be the first to go― my brain and sinews, muscles and skin, my life's blood, my very bones― drained, deadened, and at the last there will be no whisper left of me. I'm dismantled piece by piece, devoured, dislocated.

 

(Dying?)

 

I only cry when no one hears; I'm crying now.

 

Tears splash down in rivers, so many I could drown.

Notes:

Y'all, you don't even know how long this 1000 word fic took me to finish!! I wrote it several months ago, but it didn't feel quite done, so I set it aside. Then I pulled it out again for this fest, and I literally cut it in half-- the original draft was 1,873 words!! Amazingly enough, I think I kept just about every concept, but in a much shortened form.

I found the John Donne poem when I was searching for midwinter poetry, and I was amazed at how well it fit Lucy's situation! It's a beautiful and bleak meditation about grief and loss.

A big shout out to Cati (sillyunicorn) and Rory (mostlymaudlin) for organizing this fest! I was able to pull several ideas out of wip purgatory and finally be done with them, and for that I'm very grateful. The word count limits were challenging, but it also feels like the correct form for these fics to take. I have a few other concepts I wanted to try, so we'll see if I finish another drabble or two before the fest is over, but I'm not going to promise anything.

Also a big thank you to Jess (you-remind-me-of-the-babe) who read an earlier version of this fic <3, and to anyone who's been reading these fics here or on Tumblr--thank you for coming on this journey with me! I appreciate you all very much

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of 10 days to 1k