Blue Moon Fae

They didn't notice her, most of the time.

Most of the time, they called her insane. They whispered behind her back in the dark and called her names just out of earshot, things that they really-not-quite didn't mean for her to hear. They made her a running joke, a loony laughingstock, played cruel, petty pranks on her, hiding her things and assignments when she needed them, making her get zeroes and detentions for coming to breakfast in pyjamas because all her other clothes were gone.

Most of the time she didn't show it. She would smile, that pale, tired washed-out smile and sigh quietly, accepting her 'punishment', as it were. Her blue eyes would be tired and sad, but she refused to let them fill with tears, instead unfocusing them beyond the reality of this world. It was the price for being different and she paid it quietly, accepting.

that's just the way it is

Most of the time, she wouldn't be with them if she could help it. She would lie on the ground and watch the sky, her hair splayed behind her like a moonbeam, her white silk pillow, her blue eyes far away, singing softly to herself songs no one else ever knew. She walked the edge of the roofs, unaring if she ever fell, singing to herself and her eyes far away as the world spun crazily under her. She lay in the graveyard on her side, overtop graves of people she didn't know, watching flowers grow from their dust.

They didn't notice her, most of the time.

Most of the time she didn't care. She ignored them and existed only in her own mind and she didn't cry. She hadn't cried since her mother had died. Nothing really mattered to her; not school or them or protecting herself. Nothing had mattered for a very long time.

Most of the time she didn't think about that, though. Most of the time she listened--listened to the sky above her, listened to the clouds as they softly rustled together, listened to the sighing of the grass, listened to the whispers of the dead in their graves and the flowers that grew from them. Mostly she listened to the poems of the wind and the songs in her mind.

And she knew, someday, that she would lie beneath the earth, and that flowers would grow out of her grave, lovely violet irises, shy dark violets, bright periwinkle and cornflowers the shade of her eyes, and that they would all be violet and blue. She saw such things, sometimes, and she knew that they were true. Some were 'ifs'. Her, robed in black, hair falling around her face like a pale curtain to frame glowing red eyes, creatures of shadow springing around her feet. But never the one about her grave. It was always the same--a full moon shining on silver-gray stone and blue-violet flowers.

Water showed her things more often; if she sat still and listened to it softl, it gave up images--a dark haired boy and a red-eyed monster, sometimes, sometimes a great vast cliff of darkness where the only speck was a tiny candle flame. A battlefield under a stormy sky, blood running like rivers and bursts of flame; the same field, filled with dead bodies, with a man standing on it, watching it all as blood poured from his wounds, his green banner shredded.

She is the moon, Luna, and all the mystery of the moon is in her.

They still don't notice her, much. Teachers ask her about her grades, but she gives them no answer, and she's failing now but she doesn't care. This is not her life, not her time, she thinks dimly, and it is always silver twilight to her, the time of the moon where her mystic power reigns.

And, like the moon, she is slowly waning away.