Work Text:
Introduction
A cadaver lies on a cold metal table, rust creeping in at the edges, a reminder of where she came from, of where she can never fully leave, of where she returned, at first against her will, and then to live out the rest of her days.
The thrum of blood through her veins has long since ceased, the beat once unconfined by time signatures now silenced. Once regular, now nonexistent, a mundane occurrence, really. This was inevitable. Her fate remained unchanged.
Beside the body lay pieces of the girl's life, or perhaps crime scene evidence. They are impeccably kept, though, no splattering of DNA across them, no suspects to be found. Perhaps that means she did it to herself, her fault, as things often were. That, or the criminal runs free, and justice will not be served. How sad. Nothing to be done either way.
Figure 1. A bow. First place, perfection. It used to collect her hair, perfectly parted and swept out of the way, kept contained with a ribbon. Her father's robes tied the same way, and she'd imagined tying them so tight around her waist that she could no longer breathe, until she was simply chopped in two.
Figure 2. A conductor's wand. She was a leader, after all, whether she liked it or not. This is an extension of her arm and her command.
Methods
There is an incision like a necklace around her shoulders, then down the center of her abdomen, neat and pretty. A steady hand is important; precision is key.
Peeling back the layers of skin and muscle reveals a mess of viscera, packaged neatly away. There is nothing to hold it in now as it spills over the walls of her belly, obtrusive and uncontrolled. Her blood spills with resignation, no energy left to make a scene.
The sternum is easy to remove, the need to shield herself long since gone. The war has passed. Aren't these ribs getting in the way of her finally being allowed to breathe?
Results
The ribs, twenty-four in total. Twenty-four years she lived in Artimé, before the arrival of her father's second attempted heir.* Of course, some of those are false ribs; four, to be exact. Unfortunately, she was a teenager, too, once, and learning takes time. Childhood failures do not transfer credits. Thankfully, early graduation can be met through other means.
*He, unlike her, took to the role much more naturally. He did not fight the weight put on his shoulders. Sometimes she felt bad for it, letting him suffer so she didn't have to; neither of them wanted it, really, but someone had to step up.
Beneath the ribs, most of her organs are packed tight. They've stopped fighting for space and have settled into an uncomfortable truce, forced in close despite their differences. This is necessary for a body to continue functioning properly; their own opinions on the situation are moot.
The lungs mold the shape of her chest. Once upon a time they warped her with each breath in and out, but now they are still and empty and deflated, as though someone cast Evermore, Nevermore on them. She didn't know that spell. Someone—by requirement one of her wards—invented it right under her nose. She would've put a stop to that, if she had known. Violence begets violence, after all. The only way to stop the cycle from starting is by nipping it in the bud. Of course, the ball started rolling long before she was born, but it was her responsibility to slow it.
The heart should sit nestled between them, but it has been removed. Some would claim it belonged to them—one boy in particular; was he the one sitting outside shaking rocks out of his shoes? The one with the blue eyes and the blood on his hands and running from his mouth? Yeah, that one. Boys these days. Did no one teach him to clean up his messes?—but she would have disagreed. There is no autopsy for a feeling, and as it is absent, its effect is irrelevant.
Is this not the cause of death? No, no, she lived without it just fine. See where the aorta's healed over? Beautiful scar tissue, isn't it? This is an old wound.
That boy out there—blood, you said? Shouldn't he be investigated? No, he looks like a good kid. Blends in, doesn't make a scene. No point in asking him questions.
The liver is larger than some may expect, and more important than most give it credit for.
The gallbladder sits just below it, small and fragile. It's easy to miss, especially with that silly name. Do you know about the four humors? See all this yellow bile? They used to believe that an imbalance in one of the four would cause temperamental issues. Look at all this aggression, packaged up and hidden in here.
Hm? No, no, it's aggression. I'm sure it is. Take it from an expert. Did you see how much of a bitch she always was? Bossy. What an ego. Always the one in charge, always the most important person in the room, always the victim. Get a grip. Your father did this all for you. Your life is perfect. You don't have a right to be upset.
The stomach is nestled next to the liver, higher than some may expect. Really, the stomach does far less than one may expect; the intestines do most of the work while getting hardly any of the credit. There could be a comparison drawn here between her life and the relationship between her organs; the weight put on her shoulders without acknowledgement. Most people didn't even know she was the daughter of the head mage, before her aunt tried to kill her she was thrust more truly into the spotlight. She would deny this, too, though. Sometimes the curtains really are just blue.
The spleen serves to remove toxins from the body, filtering out the bad bits of the blood and purging them from her system. There is no room for worthless byproducts that can no longer be molded into a useable compound, and there is certainly no room for poison to fester and infect the rest of her.
The intestines are the main cause of the mess here. Careful, see the membranes holding them all coiled together? It's one big glob of disaster just waiting to happen. Falls apart as soon as any pressure is lightened, and now it's gotten everything else slick and stained. All seems normal, though… Just cut right here and dump it all in the waste bin.
The kidneys, like the lungs, come in a pair. How cute! She didn't, though. She had to bear the burden of the world all alone, oh, how cruel! No partner in all things to soothe her fears, no twin to battle with for the rest of her days, no magical animal companion to keep her safe. Perhaps this is the source of her incompleteness.
Carving everything else away leaves just the spine embedded in the wall of her back. A strong backbone is important to hold the body together, to keep your head up and back straight and shoulders set, to stand up and continue on each day. Cracking between each of the vertebrae, you can see where the spinal cord runs through and controls everything. The leader of the body that should have led everyone else. Hm. Not as impressive as I was hoping.
Discussion
A pair of hands is clapped, before the blood-soaked gloves are removed. Well, that's about it. See you tomorrow!
Wait, where are you going? We didn't even identify a cause of death.
Hm?
This is an autopsy.
What? No, no, this is a dissection. Who cares how she died? What matters is that she donated her body to the greater good. She's furthering the understanding of science!
But we didn't study anything? We were checking for abnormalities, to identify a cause—
Yes, and there were no abnormalities, correct? She was perfectly normal, everything in its place. All is right with the world. Come along now, I'll turn off the light on our way out.
What should we do with the body? These organs?
Oh, just toss 'em. Take a bone if you want, feed it to the dog outside, maybe? Is it cooked bones or raw bones that dogs shouldn't have? Oh, doesn't matter, he'll eat it either way. And the vultures'll take it if he won't.
The door clicks closed. She is a hollowed out husk, now, nothing more than a rotting cavity sitting on a rusty table in a dark room where all is quiet. Her face, covered as it is out of respect, will not be painted on any hospital doors; her body will not be buried and graced with flowers; her name will not be written among those who actually mattered. Her students may remember her; history, likely, will not.
References
Claire slammed a hand onto the off button of her alarm clock. It really was time for her to change the damn thing—the noise was hardly enough to wake her anymore.
Her room was quiet and dark, the sun still a few hours away from rising. It was a drag, getting up this early, but it left her time to wake up and get reacquainted with the world each day. She was less exhausted, in the end.
She greeted her blackboard with a yawn and a wave, then stumbled into her bathroom to get ready for the day. It was a weekend, so she had no classes scheduled, and she was long past her days of working in Artimé's hospital wing—Henry and the others had shooed her out and refused to let her return. They, like Quill, had few patients these days, allowing everyone to rest.
Like Quill. She was still getting used to living in the place; she'd only lived here a few weeks, and was still finding the adjustment difficult. Her house had quite a few Artiméan features, still, to keep her in touch with the mansion; she was still a teacher, after all. With Quill's magical update, it was far less tedious living everyday life than it had been when she had been growing up. Her house had running water, as much of it as she wanted; lighting and heat that didn't risk burning down the rotting building; meals that didn't feel like they'd constantly be her last; a colorful robe, stuffed in one of her cupboards, lying in wait for the day her life was no longer peaceful.
She splashed water onto her face, then planted her hands on the rim of the sink, leaning over it and listening to the water run. The sound of the pipes was different here than it had been in Artimé, a higher-pitched squeal underlying the sound of the water itself. Another thing she had to get used to.
If someone asked why she had moved to Quill, what would she tell them? That she liked the walk each morning? That Quill was quieter, more suited to the happy ending she wanted to settle into? That she was trying to keep herself open-minded?
In the handful of years since Quill was magically rebuilt, the place had seen a few changes, but not many. Despite Gunnar's best attempts, the citizens of Quill had insisted upon keeping the Purge, and everybody tried to agree that being sent to Artimé was the best outcome for the Unwanted children. They still tried to justify the boxes they sorted themselves into; if anything, they found it easier now more than ever. Sure, there was less strife, less grief, but something about allowing that to simply fester felt cruel.
Claire brushed her hair out of her face, gathering it behind her head and tying it in place with a ribbon, as she did every day. She took her time, as she always did, tying the bow neatly, the movements practiced. She remembered attempting it, time and time again, in her Artiméan bathroom, two mirrors set up so she could see what her hands were doing. Now she could do it blind, perhaps even in her sleep. Muscle memory was a remarkable thing.
She pulled on a shirt, pushing the buttons through each hole down the center, then situating the collar just right. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she had the strangest sensation of a half-remembered dream, just at the edge of her memory like it was on the tip of her tongue. She tried and failed to grab hold of it as she got dressed; typical of a dream, of course, but it annoyed her all the same. She used to write them all down, and had gotten pretty good at remembering them through that process, but she'd lost the habit years ago and kept forgetting to pick it back up again.
By now, the slightest bit of light had started up outside, and Claire snuffed out the candle burning on the table before opening the door. All was quiet outside, Quill sleepy and actually a little bit chilly for once. The rows of houses, now without the backdrop of the wall towering far above, was a sight she wasn't sure she'd ever get used to.
Maybe that was it, then? The change of scenery, even though she still knew each street by heart— After a lifetime of sameness and schedules, maybe that was the difference she wanted out of moving back here. Maybe she should've pinned down the reasoning before she got here. Maybe she didn't need a reason at all. She'd keep telling herself that.
They'd reordered the burial grounds beside the Ancients Sector recently, hadn't they? Gunnar had been telling her about it a few days ago, and it had slipped her mind until now. She knew the number of her father's grave by heart; she'd repeated it so many times after Alex had told her, but she hadn't visited it even once. I should go visit him today, she thought as the sun rose, unobstructed, on Quill.