Archive of Our Own ^beta

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten Miraculous lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my atelier door.

"Tis just Nathalie," I muttered blearily, "tapping at my atelier door—

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate flying butterfly flitting upon me.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books a cease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Emilie—

For the rare and radiant lady whom the angels name Emilie—

Nameless here until I can merge Plagg and Tikki.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple akuma

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"Tis Nathalie entreating entrance at my atelier door—

Or Adrien entreating entrance at my atelier door;-

This it is and nothing more."

Soon my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Nathalie," said I, "or Adrien, truly I implore you to leave;

The fact is I am busy, and so annoyingly you came rapping,

So frustratingly you came tapping, tapping at my atelier door.

And I don't really have time for you"—here I opened wide the door.

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming, dreams of Wishes no mortal ever dared to Wish before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Emilie?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Emilie!"—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the atelier turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "Surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what there is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-

Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flit and flutter,

In there flew a stately Duusu of the magical days of yore;

Not the least show respect made she; not a minute slowed or greeted she;

But, with the regalness of lord or lady, floating above my atelier door—

Floating above a bust of Plutarch just above my atelier door—

Floated, and floated, and nothing more.

Then this purple bird, ignoring my sad fancy and smiling,

With the large-eyed and crazed decorum of the countenance it wore.

"Though thy power be strong and useful, thou," I said, "are sure no coward,

Crazy bird and ancient Kwami wandering from the extradimensional sea!"

Quoth the Duusu "Nevermore. Now feed me."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear say so plainly,

Though its answer had little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no currently living human being

Ever yet was 'blessed' with such a creature above his atelier door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his atelier door,

With such a saying as "Nevermore."

But Duusu, floating lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one phrase, as if her soul in that one phrase she did outpour.

Nothing farther then she uttered—not a feather did she flutter—

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow Nathalie will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the Kwami said "Nevermore. Now feed me."

Startled at the stillness broken by a reply so belligerently spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is only insanity

Caught from its unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed faster and faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore."

But Duusu still ignored all my sadness.

Around I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of Kwami, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this insane bird of yore—

What this crazy, ancient, magical, and annoying bird of yore

Meant in saying "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose crazy eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated over,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating over,

Emilie shall sit upon, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

A familiar presence brought forth by a Kwami power used without master.

"Wretch!" I cried, "thy powers hath lent thee—by these powers thou hath sent me

Spite!—spite and pain from thy memories of Emilie!

Begone, begone this awful ghost of the lost Emilie!"

Quoth the Duusu "Nevermore. Now feed me."

"Kwami!" roared I, "thing of emotion!—magic still, if bird or god!—

Whether fate-sent, or whether coincidentally tossed thee here,

Desolate yet, this empty mansion enchanted—

In this home by grief haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there ever relief from this pain?—tell me—tell me!"

Quoth the Duusu "Nevermore. Now feed me."

"Kwami!" roared I, "thing of magic!—unsure still, if bird or monster!

By the emotion that you represent—by the magic we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, the creation of Adrien,

If the loss of a sainted maiden whom the angels name Emilie—

If her loss—the loss of Emilie—could ever be redeemed?"

Quoth the Duusu "Nevermore. Now feed me."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, standing—

"Get thee back into the Miraculous and the extradimensional shore!

Leave no purple plume as a token of the lie thy hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! Quit floating above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart! And take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Duusu "Nevermore. Now feed me."

And Duusu, never leaving, still floating, still floating

On the pallid bust of Plutarch just above my atelier door;

And her eyes have all the visage of a pyscho that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light over her streaming throws a shadow on the floor;

A shadow that, just as Shadow Moth, just as my soul

Shall be lifted—Nevermore!