Work Text:
Time is a fleeting thing, not really existent. What will be is just a suggestion and whatever was is just that, a memory. What was, when was, who was. And she hates it because what came later is still here, the consequences of decisions already made, the still fresh ashes in the fireplace long abandoned, the half-folded dress thrown haphazardly on the armchair, and the rumpled sheets.
The signs were there but the person was not, and she hates it.
Hates how everyone tip-toes around the subject, hates how it seems as if nobody remembers, hates how easy it is for some people to bounce back — a new teacher, new colleague, new deputy — hates the time they lost, the years they could have had, the circumstances that tore them apart. She hates how everyone around her seems to forget and how at the end it all isn’t even real, because it looks like it is.
But it isn’t, not anymore. Not since that night she called, and called, and nobody answered. Not since that night she arrived here faster than she should’ve possibly been able to, and opened that door as if it was merely an obstacle, a divide and not something giving them privacy in those rare moments they spent drowning in each other’s presence, arms, breaths. Giving that privacy to her in those moments she couldn’t quite bring herself to recall. The door she’s now standing in.
And even so, she remembers. She remembers how the journey was getting harder, visits more sporadic, calls cut short by bursts of coughing. How she begged her not to fly there, and how she needed to refrain from saying something improper for that conversation, how she barely restrained herself from rushing to that school, blast the door open and run through that threshold, anyways
She doesn’t dare cross it now that she knows there’s no one here, even though it doesn’t look like it. The bed is still unmade, the perfume on the vanity unlidded, an open book laying face down near the pillow, the cat toys abandoned in the corner. It looks lively, a bit gloomy but lively, frozen in time, peaceful. She has no wish of disturbing that peace, not after the last night she spent there — with her lover’s head in her lap, retching coughs raging through her every few inhales, lungs collapsing on themselves and her body shivering in tremors. She knew then, and she thinks she did, too, that that was it, that once they closed their eyes, only one of them would see sunlight again.
The more time she spends thinking about it, the more certain she becomes that she must have known it was bound to happen, that she was running on borrowed time and that once the clock struck midnight there would be no escaping the debt that had been growing every minute. That soon she’s gonna abandon that dress-up party everyone calls ‘life’ and disappear into the night, leaving behind only a crystal of remembrance — a mystery for the thinking, a tear for the grieving, a part of herself for her.
She wishes things were different. She wishes they didn’t waste almost thirty years ignoring each other, pretending they didn’t observe the other from afar. She wishes they didn’t need almost two years to fix the bond they had tried to forget so many times. She wishes they had more time, more meaningful time, more memorable time. More time for each other, alone, somewhere quiet, somewhere only theirs. If only things were different…
But they weren’t and she needs to face the reality. Hecate’s gone, has been for the past few months and she has to get a grip, look ahead and move on, trying not to get swallowed by guilt and memories.
She’s still seeing her, visiting in her dreams, talking about life no longer spinning its threads, gazing at the stars no longer lighting up her path, waiting with the tray no longer filled with food. She remembers her smile, bright although rare, reserved only for her. Looking at the vanity, she sees Hecate sitting there with that stiff posture and uncertain expression, sees herself approaching slowly, retrieving the brush and softly letting down the mass of locks, brushing her fingers through the silky strands and massaging the delicate skin of her scalp. She watches the ever-present frown disappear, melted by a relaxed look overtaking the witch's features.
She sees it all as she looks at the white furniture and wonders, not for the first time, if she really should've gone there now, if it isn’t too soon for her to be here. Yes, Ada invited her, yes, her own school is empty for the holidays, and yes, she didn’t have anyone else to celebrate it with, not anymore, though she’s fairly certain her current appearance doesn't exactly imply any festive spirit she might be expected of having, but she certainly doesn’t feel up for reminiscing. Or she might have been expected if it wasn’t for the empty seat at the table.
It haunted her, that seat, the one she used to sit in, the one she observed the girls from, the one she offered her during one of those unexpected visits she gave her. The one that is to remain empty for as long as anyone remembers. The one she sat next to this morning and cried. The one that’s the reason she didn’t show up to dinner and ignored Dimity’s worried ‘Why don’t you eat?’ after she failed to touch what the witch saved for her. The one she still sees, clear as day, before her eyes — with a body pressed against the backrest, straight as a line, draped in black and laced around the waist, throwing her suggestive looks and barely-there smiles over the cup of tea in her hand.
A body weakening with every spell, every lesson, every marked paper. A cup that trembled more and more with every beverage. Looks growing more fatigued as the summer drew closer to its end, smiles no longer relieved but pained and more strained with every passing hour.
There was no cure, no help, not at that stage. They both knew it and yet it didn’t change what she felt now.
She spent every moment she could at her lover’s side, tending to, holding through and whispering sweet nothings. In the end it wasn’t enough. They both knew it wouldn’t be but it still hurt, waking up the next morning and not feeling the heartbeat, she grew so fond of, drumming underneath her fingers. It hurt even if she was aware, as she drifted to sleep listening to the uneven breathing, that she wouldn’t find it ever again.
That morning seemed so perfect. The sun shone just right. There was a light breeze flowing in through the open window and everything felt so quiet, so peaceful. And as she looked at the witch laying next to her she knew she finally found peace, too. The usual frown disappeared, twitching in her hands stilled, expression no longer pained, body fully succumbing to rest — this time forever.
And her whole world stopped moving just as the heart she was entrusted with did. And it just hurt.
So fucking much.
The start of new semester didn’t fill her with happiness, sharing stories about her pupils wasn’t as relieving, hearing about other people’s endeavours didn’t spike her curiosity as much. Halloween wasn’t a magical celebration anymore, the tree lighting wasn’t so joyful this year, and the Christmas market Ada wanted to take her to seemed like too much of an effort not worth putting. Because even if Hecate was never one for useless pleasantries, she wasn’t here to say so anymore, to decline her offer of doing something silly, to remind her they have responsibilities. She wasn’t here anymore, even if her last months were filled with Pippa telling her to let it be, Hiccup and don’t push yourself for my sake.
And she despises it — the way life works, the way it has to end, the way nothing’s gonna be as it once was. She was once but she’s not gonna be anymore.
She feels the already familiar pressure building behind her eyes as she gazes upon the room once more. Tears were never something Pippa was ashamed of but the last few months were overwhelming even for her. She knows she has to be strong, at least for now. The annual celebrations are starting soon and she has to look somewhat presentable when she wakes up. If she even falls asleep in the first place.
She glances to the side at the old grandfather clock standing near the wall in front of the bed. It is, was almost a family heirloom with the way it was being inherited from mother to mother for so many decades. Maybe that’s why Hecate treasures it so much.
Treasured. But then again she always had a knack for pendulums.
Pippa doesn’t know how long she stands there but eventually as the minutes tick by, she eyes the cherished timepiece on her neck again, its cold, sleek surface warm from the way she’s been clutching it the whole time.
Five past midnight. Almost there.
The witch looks up, glancing around the room with a pained expression. She doesn’t want to touch anything but she knows she’ll have to take Hecate’s things before she leaves. She sees it in Ada’s eyes anytime she catches her observing from across the room. The girls are too curious, the school prone to trouble and the board too strict, the belongings too precious, too priceless and irreplaceable to just leave here. No matter how much Pippa wants to believe otherwise, she’s gonna feel better if she has them near herself.
That’s a problem for another day, though.
On shaking legs Pippa takes the black robe hanging on the bathroom door and cradles it in her hands for a moment. She brings it up to her face, silk smooth beneath her fingers as she buries her nose in the fabric still smelling of the woman whom it once adorned. Not for long.
She knows putting it on will only make the faint pine scent disappear faster but she doesn’t bring herself to care as she slips into it. She needs the comfort today.
The walk down the halls was never quiet in their youth. There was always something happening — a joke, a quick revision session, new gossip or whispers about new hideout spots and weekend plans, if not hushing and giggling as they heard the teacher passing by. Now it’s completely silent. Even the castle itself doesn’t dare disrupt the remorseful quiet of grief that fell upon the despondent. The forlorn herself definitely doesn’t seem inclined on changing that as she descends the archaic staircase leading to the main hall. Palms brushing against the rough surface of the wall, she takes each step cautiously, mindful of the slippery floor as the sound of her light footsteps against freezing tiles echoes through the corridor.
It’s precisely fourteen minutes past midnight when she finally stands in front of the thoroughly decorated Christmas tree. As if frozen in time Pippa gazes upon the branches, her eyes reflecting the faint light of candles burning inside every bombshell — one spark for every teacher, student, familiar involved in the celebrations.
They used to come here at that exact same time every Christmas Day and look for each other’s fire. Now the light she always sought isn’t there. It never will be.
Lanterns of life they’re called. She only sees darkness of misery.
It’s devastating how rapidly things can change, how the unthinkable can suddenly turn inevitable with one sentence, how something so joyous becomes sorrowful with a flick of fate’s wrist. They barely found each other again and they needed to say goodbye before they even properly began. Alone, loved, and alone once again.
“I thought I’ll find you here.” A voice cuts through the silence unexpectedly, startling the witch and making her ragged breath hitch. She turns on her heel, wiping her eyes frantically, drying the tear tracks on her cheeks with her sleeve. Gosh, when did she start crying? “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
Gwendoline Bat stands before her in a simple, dark nightgown and sleepers, gray hair falling in a halo around her face, framing her features and accentuating the soft smile she gave her. There is something in her eyes, that centuries-old wisdom, that makes Pippa pause in its understanding. She has a distinct feeling the older woman already knows everything the younger is too afraid to name out loud.
“I…” The witch falters, voice breaking and catching in her throat. Pippa brings a hand to her lips, desperately trying to rein the sobs in despite the earlier reassurances.
There’s a bout of silence as they stare at each other, broken only by the distressed's uneven breathing. Seconds pass before Gwen takes a few steps closer.
“I found her here once, you know? About a decade ago. Told me you used to do that as girls. I always wondered why you stayed with her every winter even though you didn’t know why she had to.” Pippa can’t bring herself to look at the witch as she says it. If she notices her tight grip on the robe, she doesn't comment on it. “You wrote poems together. She still did after you left, you know? I think… it’s about time this one is answered.”
With that a piece of parchment lands in Pippa’s palms and before she can react in any way, the woman is already gone. She stares at it for a long moment, speechless and thorn, debating whether to read it or not. The idea of Hecate continuing the tradition during those years spent alone…
She unfolded the paper.
If I die my friend
Don’t cry don’t fret
Too sweet are thee
For tears for screams
And if I die
Today in a while
Only regret I’ll bear
The secret in my grave
‘ll be how precious you’ve been
To me all these years
For even through hate
My apathy your pain
Heart’s constantly pulling
And memini tui
“I remember, too…” Pippa whispered, cradling the words to her chest and finally letting the tears fall freely. “Always.”
______________________
When I die my love
Can I stay in your hold?
Will you wait there for me
Like you did all these years?
And once I’m away
Unknown is the day
No regret I’ll bear
For I’ll still love you there
Know how precious you’ve been
To me all these years
And feel the things we’d felt
For I’ll see you again
My heart's never forgetting
Love please memento mei