Copyright © 1997 By Sapphire Dove
Rating: PG or A, C & S (Ambiguous, Confusing and Symbolic).
Disclaimer: "La Femme Nikita" and everything related belongs to its producers and creators, I'm just glad that they share it with all of us, and hopefully they won't mind if we happen to find their genius inspiring.
Author's Note: (Post "Mercy") This is written in third person. In case you should feel confused while reading the below, just remember that "She" and "Pure" usually indicate Nikita, and that "His," "Tarnished," etc. will usually point to Michael. This will probably be a wee bit too weird, considering the jump I make in the center of the poem, but I hope you'll stick it out all the same.
Spoilers: Nothing direct, if you can wade through my noxious symbolism you might find some for "Mercy."
Without
Strength was ebbing and the light fading; the darkness that had always been within rose to claim her weary soul. She did not scream and she did not fight, for in that sable oblivion she recognized the mirror image of her heart's own mate, her soul's wounded counterpart. Bleeding not just the precious ruby liquid, which filled her veins and gave her life, but her hope, her desire, her will; none were worth anything if he would never be with her. . . So she did not run and she did not fear, for here was what she needed and she gave herself to the darkness willingly. . .
Oceanic eyes shield a rotting inner-being. Touched rarely by the elements that reside without its brick-hard wall, his heart was warmed only when she was near. It beat, perhaps unwillingly, only for her. His soul throbbed and screamed with the agony of awakened vitality whenever she would gaze into his eyes, but now, no more. . .
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Flames sparring in an obsidian void; they crackle and spark, seemingly dancing as they struggle. Leaping and blooming, they dim and flicker, shining sapphire and crimson from one moment to the next. Left to their own, these flames will come to realize the futility of their battle. They are of the same element; torrid and fierce, they are one, belonging only to each other. Together their flames will illuminate and destroy the nothingness that has claimed them, causing it to evaporate like some conjured nefarious vapor.
But there are other, terribly vicious and powerful elements who have designs on both. Who with gusting gale and freezing downpour manipulate the two, shaping them to fit their needs, not ultimately caring if one or the other should inadvertently be extinguished. Even going as far as to personally insure that their plots and consequential visions would not be endangered by the purer of the two flames. But be they fools, or be they too wise, those raven forces let events and last minute risks, colored with undeniable love, and the guiding hand of fate shield the precious flame from their horrendous onslaught of hissing wind and stinging rain. Taking form, the tarnished flame swelled with contained outrage and scathing emotion, and did the most wonderful thing that it could do for its companion, it let it go . . . free.
Sorrow gleams for both, though, despite belated deeds of goodness. The shadowy flame did not realize that true freedom for either, would exist only when they could be together. And so, the pure flame flickers, isolated, gasping for oxygen, for its reason to continue; dying. While the one that was left behind is smothered by the engulfing void; it alone cannot fend off the darkness. And the wind and the rain, sinister at their play and efficient with their work, close on their remaining spark, suffocating its fragile light . . .
And time stands still . . .
The fate of all is yet undecided . . .
And so we wait . . . for frigid janvier.