Note: This ficlet isa response to the 100 (underscore) situations challenge community on livejournal. I encourage everyone who can to join. It's really neat. You get a list of words, and write something in response to each one. The prompt for this fic is the word "fall".
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It was the passage of time that she feared the most.
Each warm, fragrant summer seemed to flicker by like the unwavering beat of a butterfly's wing, leaving an eternity of frosted roses and chilled fingers in its place. Even now, that self-same chill was entering from the tips of her fingernails, working steadily up to the palms of her hands, and, eventually, she knew that it would suffuse her entire body, leaving her as cold and weary as the dreariest winter night.
Nevertheless, she continued to fight. Valiantly, steadily, hopelessly, she threaded her fingers through the dirt, fumbling among the lilies, as if by devoting her entire attention to the pursuit of weeds she would manage to protect the flowers against the grasping, destructive reach of the fall. But even the weeds were sluggish and tired from the chilled soil, and she found herself with nothing to do but vainly attempt to pass her body warmth on to the precious buds.
It was a struggle she went through every year, but the ache she felt now seemed even more acute. Life was altering irreversibly, and that contemptible thief Time was to be blamed. Each biting breeze was an insult, each fallen petal a personal affront. It was time that changed all and complicated all, and she worked the soil vigorously, tirelessly, determined to retain at least one flower, to keep at least one thing from the clutches of her enemy.
She felt him standing over her, but ignored him. Somehow, she fancied him as immovable as Father Time himself. However, Time was immortal. They were not.
Patient, understanding, he stood over her like a silent sentinel—just as he had done for so long as she had any desire to remember. Saying nothing because he knew that she was not ready to listen, doing nothing because he knew she would not accept his help. Merely watching, waiting for the inevitable moment in which she would finally surrender and accept defeat in characteristically sore fashion.
That moment came, as it always must, signified by slumped shoulders and hastily dried tears, and her achingly chilled hands left tracks of dirt on her wind-reddened cheeks. Even as that moment came, he was already acting. He was on the hard ground beside her, gently soothing the tension from her body just as he would a wounded horse or fox or cub, or anything else that happened across his path.
As gentle fingers wiped her face clean, it seemed somewhat amusing that, for once, it was his roughened hands that remained pristine while her dirt-caked palms clung desperately to his coarse jacket.
When she spoke, it was of the persecution of Time.
"Why must things forever be changing?" she asked helplessly, much like the little girl that he used to know so well. "Why can't things just stay as perfect as they are right now?"
The sadness and the hope and the idealism of his reply echoed in those wonderful eyes, dark like the sky over the moors—dark like that hated jacket he was wearing.
"Time is'na the enemy, Mistress Mary. The lilies that you've been fussin' over so have seasons, and so do we. So far along we've been livin' in the spring and summer, tucked away nice and safe in your garden. The last few months, we've been feelin' the fall creepin' in. It's turnin' ta winter now, an' tha's for sure. But wintertime don't last forever. Soon your pretty lilies'll be bloomin' pretty as a picture, an' just where you left 'em. And then it'll be summer again, and everythin'll be nice as before. Only nicer, on account of we've seen how drearywinter can be."
Mary sniffled quietly, and nuzzled her face against his coat, ignoring the bite of the buttons as they pushed into her skin, and the scratch of the wool as it scraped her face.
He kissed her forehead before he set her away, gentle as always. He smiled tenderly over his shoulder, the brass buttons of his new uniform gleaming in the fading sunlight as he walked away after one last kiss.
"And you just remember this, Miss Mary. Flowers bloom in the wintertime, too. And they're the strongest flowers that can be, because they can stay pretty an' sweet even when th' snow's fallin' harder than ever. Don't you forget to notice them while I'm gone."
And, just like that, he was gone. The wind kicked up harder than before, and Mary could swear she saw storm clouds on the horizon. But she didn't cry.
Gently, lovingly, she pressed a kiss to each remaining lily. Then she tucked the dirt in securely around each stalk, and whispered a prayer for each bulb to stay snug and secure in the soil until the summer sun found its way back to the moors.
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Note: This is the first angsty fic that I've ever written, and it didn't start out that way at all. Somehow, though, I like where it ended up a lot better than where it started.Despite the angstiness, I think thatI managed togive it a sort of hopeful and optimisticfeel too.
This is the first Secret Garden I've ever done. Please let me know if you think I shoulddo more of them, and if you have any suggestions. I love feedback, good or bad. The only bad review is no review.:)