Disclaimer: I must assure you I would love to own the movie, or the man whose story it told. But alas, no such luck.

A/N: I was sick, and this sort of popped into my mind and stayed there until I wrote it. I would love to know what you think of this, reviews are vital. Leave them. My beta is grounded, and will correct these as soon as she is able.

Fey:

I've been ill for seven days now. It is terrifying. I know I am dying. That is not the part that scares me. I am used to it. I got used to dying. To the slow and gradual attack of illness and all its wastefulness. I simply adjusted to wasting away. And that terrifies.

I do not know when it happened. Somewhere along the way I stopped realizing how heavy my lungs were, and how much each breath pained me. I stopped noticing the heavy rattling cough when it came around.

Every once in a while there's the jolt: this isn't how you're meant to be. It is always gone almost as quickly as it comes. The fey glimpses of realization have been my informants. They tell me how close I am to my imminent death.

The doctor comes and goes. He thinks he is making progress. I ignore him. I will take his medicines, they will do no good. He is useless to me. Only one visitor matters: Alexander.

Wry, nervous. He paces the room staring at my ever-palling form. His voice is always unnaturally weak, almost shaky as he constantly tries to reassure me I will live. Every time, I just smile at him and nod, making casual comments to confirm his proclamations. He needs reassurance more than I.

I have seldom lied to him before. This time, I will not burst his pleasant bubble of denial, and I will let the doctor–Whose name I have not bothered to memorize–continuously fortify it. Footsteps down the hall. Who will it be? Sad that I have no one to gamble with. Gods! My lung refuse to fill with air. Realization. Fey, fey, fey.

I hate those moments. They break my peace. Like an informant letting a ruler know of secret stirs of rebellion. I reach over casually towards the wine goblet on the small table besides me. One sip–And I feel the powder hit the back of my throat. A sweet Roxane...I see you have resolved to end my time on this earth all the sooner and cloak yourself in the guise of illness. Alexander will blame you dear girl. He does not believe in natural death.

The door swings open. Without looking up I know it is him. The footsteps hold the precise, even measure and perfect restraint his have when he is tense. Poison in my veins. Do not cry too hard for me sweet boy. Never forget my Alexander, grief makes one so much more suspicable to death.

Fey is realization. Not so much mine, as yours.

A/N: What do you think? I'm no reader of minds, nor am I wise enough to simply know my own opinion and let it be enough. Tell all.