Varian x Reader Oneshots

She's Still Dancing, Isn't She Papa?

"Papa?" I whispered, the darkness engulfing us, so I can only guess where he is.

"Yes, Estelle?" He replied, his gloved fingers running themselves through my hair.

"What was she like?" I asked, laying my head on his shoulder. The point of his sheath dug into my side slightly, but I still leant closer, letting my brown locks mingle with his raven ones. The sky was littered with small stars, but one shone the brightest, just above us.

"Your mother was quite special, sweetheart," Papa replied, his voice laced with nostalgia and happiness. In the torchlight I could barely make out the hint of a smile, his face youthful despite the years that had been thrown at it.

"She used to dance, you know, under stars just like these," he said, and I chuckled.

"Papa, these are the same stars," I corrected, and he shook his head.

"No, hers were brighter, somehow," he sighed, moving his arm around my shoulders. I shifted on the log, and moved closer to him still, clinging to the last family I had.

"She used to dance, and when she danced, the whole world stopped and stared at her. Her dress flew in the wind and I remember watching with the biggest grin. She attracted so much attention, even though we were on the run, but she always managed to distract them," Papa recalled, his voice heavy and deeper than before, the slow slosh of chemicals the backing track to his story.

"They never looked at her face?" I asked, and Papa laughed.

"They were so mesmerised by her face, their brain didn't work. It's scientifically proven, you know. It happened to me quite frequently."

-

-

"Varian! Come dance with me!" She laughed, her dress twirling around her feet as she blew like a daisy in the wind.

Varian, years removed from under his eyes, stood by a large tree, a shadow covering his features. He watched, watched his friend and wife frolic in the flowers, making them look small and insignificant compared to her.

"I'm okay watching from here," Varian said, and she pouted.

He would regret that, years later, regret that he didn't hold her close and swing her round.

Moments missed.

"Spoilsport," she teased, her tongue poking from her lips, lips that Varian wished more than anything he could capture with his own. Lips that provided the poetry of life, lips that powered the clockwork inside of him. Clockwork that was now rusted, and stuck, and forgotten.

Her feet twirled and hid behind the long grass, her shoes discarded by her boyfriend, the momentum she had built causing her hair to fly behind her.

She was beautiful, and shone bright. Her stomach, considerably swollen, but not for much longer, only added to her grace. She was like a nymph in the forest, carrying the seed of life. She caused the world to turn.

And then she caused it to stop.

"Honey!" Varian rushed forwards, cradling the head of his wife in his hands. He wore gloves that day; he would never touch her again.

"She's coming," she breathed, cradling the bottom of her stomach in her hands, beads of sweat dripping down her pristine skin, her eyes wide with the pain of childbirth.

-

-

"Don't leave me," Varian sobbed, his hair wet from effort and his face streaked with the tears that plead for her life.

Cradling the baby in the nook of his arm, Varian pawed at his wife, desperately trying to bring her back. Her eyes were open, and glass, the joy of her child frozen still in them.

Frozen forever in them.

"Please," Varian cried, his voice quiet and broken, and his energy gone. She didn't move as he shook her arm; she didn't cry out from his grip.

Only the baby did, her small face sticky with the blood that killed her mother, her small arms reaching out towards the sky, the sky that sported a new shining star.

"Please."

Varian's broken pleadings were lost.

She was lost.

He was lost.

-

-

"She's still dancing, isn't she Papa?" I imagined, staring up at the brightest star in the sky. She seemed to smile at me.

"I imagine so," Papa sighed, the crackling of a man who lost everything present and shattering in his voice.

"What did you do? When she died," I asked, wary of his fragile feelings. I felt his large blue eyes settle on me.

"I ran, far away, with you," Papa said, "and I left her under the flowers, close to the earth."

He looked down at our feet.

"She's here, isn't she Papa?" I smiled, and Papa tightened his arm around me.

"She is, moonlight, she is," he said, smiling too.

I grasped his hand, pulling the gloves from his worked fingers, and pulled him from his seat.

"Estelle," he cautioned, and I shook my head.

"Dance with me, Papa," I asked.

I spun, and he spun, his movements sudden and unsure, following the lead of myself, who was also unsure. Yet, I was so sure that this was right.

I felt the flowers beneath my worn shoes, the long grass tickling my bare ankles. I felt my Papa's feet more than once on my own, heard his silent swears as he did so, and heard his mute happiness surround me.

And then he pulled me close to him, the soft stubble on his chin brushing against my cheek. He shook, finally at rest; finally able to move.

"She would be so proud of you, Estelle," he cried, and droplets of tears mixed with my own.

And in the moment,

I could have sworn that the star shone a little brighter.