Work Text:
There exist two souls who, by some possible miracle, curse, or mere fluke, find themselves inexplicably connected and attached.
One is of the light, beloved, blessed, and the other is of the dark, and it is unknown what they are and whether they are adored is unknown and if they are, it is unknown by whom.
They are pushed out into the world. They live and die, grow and falter, smile and cry, pray and curse, but these acts aren’t always consistent. One consistency that stays is that often they find each other soon enough.
This is their journey together.
.
.
.
.
.
Cain simply didn’t find it fair that Abel seemed to be the more beloved out of the two of them.
Did he not work hard enough?
Did he not pour as much effort into his field of work like Abel?
Did his existence only serve to lift Abel’s own?
There is blood now in the fields. The greatest sacrifice to the Lord in the clouds has been gifted. Abel lies still. He will not wake up ever again.
Cain cannot help but think that Abel will still say, “I understand and forgive you, brother.”
Tears run down Cain’s bloody face.
.
.
.
.
.
Eurydice does not blame Orpheus for his last minute betrayal.
Yes, he looked upon her.
Yes, he doubted her.
Yes, he casted her down once more into the cold darkness of Erebus.
But it was only because he loved her, too much even, to the point that it hurt him more than it did her.
She simply closed her eyes as she sunk back into the sleepy darkness, rivulets of tears running down her ghostly face.
Such a blessing, She thinks as she hears Orpheus’s broken cries and pleas, to rest in the wake of devoted grief and unyielding love.
.
.
.
.
.
Castor feels that his death was something that was long overdue, ordained even by the Fates themselves.
Despite dying, he felt strangely calm. He held little regrets. Really, there is only one regret.
“Damned Idas!” Pollux’s tears mix with the blood from Castor’s wounds, “Stay with me, Castor!”
But I can’t. Castor thinks, I’m not blessed like you are. I am not meant to be. It’s always been you.
Then he is asleep for a long while.
When he stirs at last, Pollux is beside him, less divine, more harrowed.
Castor found himself lovingly blessed.
Pollux regretted nothing at last.
.
.
.
.
.
Iago looks upon the lovely corpse of Desdemona and wishes he did not feel sick to his stomach.
She was a heaven-born angel. He was a hellfire-forged monster.
“I hate you.” He speaks, “Yet, I did adore you at least once.”
Maybe I still do.
“Do you think our bodies will be buried close?” She asks her ensign, “I would like you to join us, friend.”
“Our bodies may be close, but not our spirits.”
“Ah, but God is merciful. We will find each other soon enough.”
He snorts, “And then what?”
She smiles forgivingly, “I will pray for you.”
.
.
.
.
.
“Dearest Mordred!” The saintly youth looks up from where he’d been meditating in the chapel, “Are you alright?”
“Galahad,” The witch-raised bastard hisses, face red with humiliation as he was too weak to contain his tears, “I am afraid.”
Rushing to him, Galahad embraces him. Mordred leans in, his scent of sanctified oil and sunlit dewdrops comforting. He is the Eden Mordred is forbidden from, and it hurts.
“I wish I am not what I am.” Mordred sobs.
“I would miss you dearly.” Galahad murmurs.
“You should not.”
“Yet, I would anyway.”
Galahad prays.
The weight on Mordred’s shoulders lifts.
.
.
.
.
.
“Ever since you arrived…” Beast says solemnly to Beauty as the sun sets in the wintery evening, “I’ve felt happier.”
“I am glad.” Beauty replies, sincerity sparkling in their eyes like stars in the heavens.
“I thought you’d leave anyway. I’m sure you’d heard the rumours. You’ve seen for yourself. I am a monster. Were you not afraid?”
“Truth be told, when we first met, I was wary. But we were strangers back then. You are no monster. You are my love.” Beauty confesses.
Beast smiles.
Perhaps they would reach the light at the end of the tunnel soon enough.
.
.
.
.
.
Here they are, in the present, and still they are together in nigh sickening persistence.
Two souls, refusing to let go, or perhaps they cannot let go. Where one wanders, the other is soon to follow. Maybe there is no separating some souls.
Despite their trials and tribulations, here they stand atop a hill with an intertwining oak and linden tree at early dawn. One basks in the glow of the rising sun, the other rests in the shadow of the trees, marveling at their other half.
Their stories may not always be happy, but they’ll always have each other.