Author's note: This is what happens when you read a book too many times. I couldn't really help it though. I love Emily of New Moon series, for some odd reason. Maybe it's because the last of the trilogy always gives me such bittersweet feelings. By the way, this occurs between the second-last and last chapter of the Emily's Quest, the third of the trilogy, after Ilse's wedding turns into a fiasco, and Teddy leaves for Montreal. Includes spoilers. Please excuse me if the characters are OOC. I'm terrible -;; this is written in … four-five different sections. The "Hers" refer to Emily, and the "His" refer to Teddy.

Disclaimer: Uh, no, I am not L. M. Montgomery because apparently, I'm still alive. : )

Purple

By soul release

I. Her

The mist of spring welcomed her as she lifted the latch and opened the window. How beautiful the world seemed! She was wont to exclaim. Almost fairyland.

Her eyes met the blossoming of crocuses, baby's breath, white lilies, and the myriad of flourishing colors in Cousin Jimmy's famed and much adored garden. In the distance, the Lombardies swayed to Wind Woman's gentle lullaby. It was a spring day meant for centaurs to gallop, fairies to frolic, and elves to sing their mystic songs.

For a moment, the sights touched her, and she almost smiled – that old alluring, secretive smile that had been dead for years. Her mother's smile.

Then the ephemeral feeling faded, like dust, and she resumed to her normal self, old, jaded, and not much of any use besides a literary spinster writing tales, an ambition that can only satisfy her wounded soul now, cluttered with the cobwebs and ashes.

How she wished beauty could fulfill the hunger in her once more! It used to, so pleasantly, and she remembered being captivated by mere anesthetic value, being enraptured by such dream-like glories. But no longer. Only writing gave her a little bit of hope, and little bit of love now and then, but that did not seem like it was enough to let her truly be … there.

The window was shut, bordering the world of wonders from her little shell of desert and graveyards. Her heart was still empty, a dead sea filled with longing and everlasting heartbreak.

II. His

The clock ticked, the cuckoo bird sang its song, and midnight arrived.

He stared at the canvas, wanting to paint something beautiful, something wonderful, something that would mean something to the world. Yes, he had always been this ambitious, always searching for more rainbow gold. His hands found the wooden handle of the much adored brush, the palette of hues. And slowly, he followed his heart and painted the strokes across the paper. The colours within the heartbeat.

Then stopped. The paintbrush fell to the floor in a dull clatter.

What was the point? He knew what would happen. Yes, he would paint something good, if not great. He was no egotistical, but he had some sense of pride and accomplishment, buried beneath a very weary and worn self. A girl with a sea of chestnut brown hair, and Grecian nose, and cream and rose complexion – he would paint all that with grace and ease - but the smile, the eyes, the pieces of the portrait's soul would still be hers. That soft, enthralling, utterly subtle smile. Those eyes of gray glass underlined with the ethereal purple, revealing mystic and magical insubstantial dreams, eternity and yonder.

Yes, he knew what would happen. The colors and minor details would be different, the style, the curves, the sense of grace, but he'd paint her all the same.

The clock continued to tick. The throb in his heart grew stronger, and he could feel himself collapse. Lord, he was so tired, so very, very tired; there was this sudden realization that he was slowly aging, going beyond youth, more and more distant from his beloved childhood and her.

He made a prayer that night, a solemn prayer etched with lovelorn yearnings, unrequited passion, years of waiting, and most of all, an eternity of frustration and forget-me-nots stained with earth crumpled up under his feet.

Let me forget her.

III. Her

The stairs creaked, and the wind thrashed against the window panes, the start of a storm. She woke up in a start, caught in realization and nightmare. Emily-in-the-glass stared at her wide-eyed, flushed with cold sweat, light glistening across her dark eyes. On the other side of the room, the clock slowly ticked to three o'clock, and a mess of unfinished poems cluttered her desk, surrounding her most cherished work Song of the River and a still revered Moral of the Rose.

And what was to become of her? She was almost thirty, still unmarried, feeding herself on characters too surreal, too imaginary that could not consummate her dreams no more. And Aunt Elizabeth, Cousin Jimmy, and Aunt Laura were all growing old, and cease to exist, she knew, with a dreadful pang to her heart. Yes, she knew what would happen, inevitably. What was to become of her? And soon, she also realized with startling despair, her precious New Moon would be desecrated and no longer be hers.

She felt so alone, so very alone. Almost everyone was gone, everyone she had loved and still did. Ilse was married, thriving happily in Charlottetown with Perry, whom she had heard was still climbing higher on the Alpine Path each new day. And him … him … he was gone … gone, and he had forgotten her … never, ever would return … gone …

Through the darkness, her hands groped for the candles kept in a little packet and lit one. The room was illuminated, a bit, by the flickering light. How peculiar, it all was, for light to be such a comfort. Its warmth bathed her skin with soft, radiant heat. A sigh escaped into the silence.

She tried to clear her thoughts.

No, she would not think of him. She wouldn't. He did not love her, he had forgotten her, so why should she be so stubborn at heart and never let go? Yes, he loved her once, but the love was dead. So she must forget, release such ridiculous feelings. Pride, dignity – those must be left intact.

Guided by the light, she crept up and sought for some pen and paper, willing to "write" her heart out. Maybe it'd soothe her. Maybe it'd alleviate her pain … maybe she'd forget, once caught up in her whirlwind of incorporeal worlds …

It never did. She never did.

IV. His

He could not sleep.

He shuffled from right to left, brushed his hair aside, and attempted to cool his thoughts with his cold fingers. But he could not. The thoughts burned for notice, raging on and on like without forgiveness, pulling him away from inner peace. It was almost four in the morning, and he was so tired, but he could not sleep. Insomnia was merciless. And she would be his hangman.

A steely breath was issued from the wind, brushing along the fir tree. Forget! Forget! How he prayed he could. He had to forget her.

After turning on the bed stand lamp, the room was gilded with soft gold. Slowly, he placed his cold feet into his slippers his Mother had made before her death. Oh, dear Mother. His hands were covered with paint, he suddenly realized, and thought it would be best to rid of them before they soil Mother's sheets.

He washed his hands carefully, brushing his fingers firmly against each other, watching the swirl of colors slipping into the sink, brushing away the thoughts surrounding a certain dark-haired beauty. His wintry, majestic star of silver and pearls. No, he would not think about her. No he would not. He would not. Hewouldnotwouldnotwouldnotwouldnotwould.

He thought of her ebony hair and beautiful purplish-gray eyes and her enthralling smile and her demure face and her fierce spirit and her immortal soul that would not be crushed by flame and that night in the Old John's house, where he just looked, peered into that haunting beauty of hers and realized that he loved her like he had never done before.

Why couldn't he forget her?

Why?

Why?

Why?

"Out damned spot! Out, I say!" From Macbeth

Then he knew.

Because the color purple was seared into him, like some unforgettable curse, terrible incantation, murmuring, murmuring with its lethal allure. Because the purple paint, splayed across his fingers, would not wash off despite the harshness of the vanilla soap.

And he needed her, and slowly fell to his knees, finally surrendered to that irrepressible fact.

V. His

He had bought one train ticket to Blair Water.

He was at Lofty John's bush right now, yes – right now – after so many years, so many memories. He was back. Back.

Slowly, he lifted his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

Two high. One low.

The End