My Fairy Queen Anne

i can't breathe without you (but i have to)

Saturday arrived much faster than Anne would've preferred.

"Anne, why aren't you ready yet?" Marilla reprimanded. The woman was already in a plain black dress with her hair pulled back into its usual strict knot, although her face looked especially pinched in it lately. It had no embellishments, just a plain long sleeved top piece with a straight black skirt, no ruffles or poofs in sight.

"It's a funeral service, we're not meeting the Queen," she muttered from her bed. She hadn't been sleeping well in days. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Matthew's sickly face draining of all color and feeling, his pink tinted skin turning ashy, warm embrace turning cold and hard and gone forever. 

"I'll thank you to show some respect!"

Anne lolled out of bed grudgingly, rubbing her eyes (unsuccessfully) to hide the bleariness and weariness that the past few days had contributed. Marilla's face softened when she saw Anne's gaunt face and coarsely matted hair, tired eyes usually bright blue and now swollen bloodshot from unwanted tears that only spilled during nightmares and dark circles marring the undersides. The blue seemed all the more striking on her dark demeanor now, making her seem more like a skittish, wide-eyed animal than a fairy like her Gilbert compared her to. 

"Rachel and I made a dress for you because I know you don't have any black long skirts. It is in your wardrobe."

Once Marilla exited the room, Anne threw open her closet doors lazily and quickly saw the black dress that stuck out like a sore thumb. Any other day, she would have been just chuffed to have such a dress. It was truly very beautiful, long sleeved with the most tragically understated puffed sleeves and a cinched skirt with delicate ruffles and tiny Chantilly lace adornments. When she was younger, she might've had a tragical fantasy about being a beautiful maiden weeping dramatically over the grave of her truest love, her elegant dress sprawled out beneath her feet and auburn hair draped over her face.

Instead, she took it out of the closet numbly, slipped it on, and did none of the usual preening. Her hair was bristly and matted from days of neglect, so she ran a brush through it half heartedly and pulled half of it out of her face with a white spotted black ribbon.

Climbing down the stairs slowly, she saw Marilla waiting on the couch for her, staring out the window forlornly. She dabbed at her sky blue eyes with a lace trimmed handkerchief. She heard her daughter descending the stairs and her watery eyes turned to Anne.

"Rachel was right. This dress becomes you," Marilla sniffed sadly. Anne had never seen Marilla in this state. It seemed so unlike calm, collected, and unfeeling Marilla to tear up, to be so fragile, a condition usually for Anne. Now it seemed the roles were reversed. Marilla was falling apart with every breath, and Anne was suppressing it, a dull ache eating her from the inside out.

It did look gorgeous on Anne's lithe figure, the jet black flowing like a waterfall and pooling at her feet, cinched with a belt of black silk and faux pearl. It seemed like the perfect dress to be draped over somebody's grave and weeping. She never thought it would be her most kindred spirit's headstone.

"We should get going," Anne deadpanned, avoiding the subject entirely. Marilla stood up shakily, reaching for the girl's hand. Using the other for support, the two women walked to the family graveyard together.

People started to pour in, all clad in their best black numbers. One thing was clear; every single soul in Avonlea mourned Matthew Cuthbert. Though many had problems with his sharp sister and free spirited daughter, no one could deny that he was a kind and unproblematic man. He would be sorely missed and loved by each person in the town.

The service started with the Reverend bowing his head solemnly, starting the sequence of strung together words flowing fluidly from his mouth. To Anne, they were simply that, just words, none of them good enough to express her sorrow.