Archive of Our Own ^beta

"You're staring," Margaret says, looking up from the journal she's writing in. They are on opposite sides of a gently swaying hammock, hidden neatly behind colorful curtains.

She is right of course, though Travis doesn't mean to. It is still strange looking at everything in shadow with eyes not meant to see in the dark. The flickering candlelight turns the edges of her skin, the wispy curls around her hairline, golden and brilliant as the rising sun. It makes him wish he was a painter, could trace it down, commit it to something that lasts longer than memory.

"Sorry. Was thinking of someone else." He doesn't realize that until he says it aloud. He does not yet know that that he is wrong.

She can tell that he still looks at her like she is a ghost. There is a wistful melancholy that sits behind his eyes, colors the amber in his irises.

"Do you think of her often?" she asks, but then realizes that that once in a blue moon thing happened where she spoke without thinking. "I'm sorry I— Of course you do. That was silly of me to ask."

"It's not silly," Travis assures her, sitting up. "But... Yes. Fairly often."

It used to feel like an open wound to think of her, like purposefully swallowing down boiling water. Oftentimes it would be easier, less painful to just pretend the wound wasn't there. Other times he felt he couldn't stop digging into it, like if he reached bone, the nerves would sting less. He had been told that the pain of grief was something that would fade with time. He thought they must have been lying. After meeting Margaret, this Margaret, it's much easier to think of her. It still hurts, of course, but it's closer to pressing on a healing bruise.

"Perhaps it was a perceived kindness of the lumins that I look like her to you," Margaret says into the silence.

"Perhaps. If I'm being honest, I don't quite remember what she looked like." Travis purposefully does not look at her, eyes following the moonlit clouds passing on the other side of the porthole window. "I remember she had curly dark hair, though I think yours is much longer. She..." he pauses, thinking. "She was shorter than me. She disliked sweet things. She had freckles all over." He glances over at Margaret. "Same eyes, though."

She does not yet know why it is so easy to picture the face of this other Margaret. He looks down as she takes his hand in both of hers. Her hands are warm. Travis has the fleeting thought that their hands look like they're made to be intertwined like this. He dismisses it just as quickly. He does not yet know that he was correct.

"Thank you for telling me," she says. She does not say that his story reminds her of a tale she's heard many times. Her favorite version was the one her mother told when she was very young. The way she put it, the Rusalka offered the lovers a kindness, allowing them to disappear into the river, away from those that wished to control them. She thinks that perhaps that is what the river guardian did with his Margaret. She does not voice that aloud. She does not yet know that she is more correct than she would have thought possible.

"I think she would like you," Travis says. "She had a knack for chasing after broken things, too." He does not yet know that it is simply in her nature.

He blinks away tears that threaten to fall. Margaret pretends she does not see it. He is grateful for her discretion.

"May I show you a magic trick?" Margaret asks him. Travis gives her a puzzled look, but nods. She smiles. "Though, I'll need a little more power that what I have in my reserves right now. May I get a little boost?"

She leans forward playfully, tilting her head in a way that would allow him to choose where to kiss, perhaps the cheek or the forehead. Travis meets her halfway, his free hand going to her chin to guide their lips together. 

The kiss isn't long, but it is warm and it is sweet. Travis once more tastes that last day of summer. Margaret does not yet have the words for it because she does not yet remember the feeling, but she tastes the first day of spring, the rays of warm sunlight that have become strong enough to cut through clouds.

Margaret's strings hum to a bright red glow, and she watches as they reflect in Travis's eyes as her spell takes place, opening his eyes to what she sees.

"Like the lines of the universe, people are connected to one another, through friendships, through promises," she flicks a pinkie and Travis can see the thread tied to his own thrum like a plucked bowstring, "even enemies can find themselves intertwined."

"Yeah, I've seen that happen," Travis mumbles, glancing in the direction of the bird stables.

Margaret rolls her eyes, but continues. "If it's strong enough, not even death will fray a connection. Even though she is gone where you cannot find her, she is still with you." The strings hum slightly stronger at that, as if they are laughing at what she does not know. "You swore a promise to yourself to live. If you ever find that difficult... Remember that you are living her life as well. Carrying her with you in your actions as if they were hers."

The glow of the threads fade as Travis's eyes turn glassy.

"You know, you're very good at this talking thing," he says. "Makes the rest of us look bad." 

Margaret laughs lightly and Travis tries to join her. He lets out a sob instead. It wracks through his body and he finds he cannot stop, can only cover his mouth to muffle the sound. Margaret leans in, let's his head fall on her shoulder. She does not siphon some the grief away like she would have if he were still a client, and yet she finds tears running down her cheeks as well. She does not yet know why she also mourns the death of someone she thinks is a stranger.

"Fuck," Travis says, after the sobs turn into whimpers into silent tears. "I really miss her." 

"I know, William," she breathes as a whisper. Margaret pulls him closer into a hug and he hesitates briefly before doing the same. They sit in silence for a long time, wrapped tightly in each other's arms.

"Do I have to pay you for this therapy session?" Travis mumbles into her neck, and Margaret is surprised at her own laugh.

"Hm, no. I consider this a conversation between friends." 

"Friends, huh? I'm gonna run out of fingers soon." 

"That is not a bad thing." They both know that her exasperation is feigned.

They do not move out of their embrace. Margaret leans back, letting the sway of the hammock lull them as they lay down. She cards her fingers through Travis's hair, and he lets out a deep sigh. They find themselves drifting off into peaceful sleep.

They do not yet know why they find such solace in each other's arms. 

They do not yet know so very many things. 

They will not know until they are unable to hold each other once again.