I Know Places (Taylor Swift Imagines) (GxG)

She is All My Power

The grand hall is silent, save for the echo of your footsteps against the marble, the quiet drag of your breathing as the guards shove you forward. You refuse to kneel. You won't give her that when her empire has stolen everything from you. But when you lift your gaze---when your eyes finally meet hers---something inside you tightens like a snare.

Taylor Swift---the immortal queen, the untouchable ruler, the woman who has haunted your dreams and your past lives alike---stands above you, draped in power like a second skin. The crown on her head gleams like it was forged from the bones of fallen kings, and her eyes---those ancient, aching eyes---are locked onto yours with something dangerously close to reverence.

Like she's been waiting for you.

Like she's had you before, and lost you.

Again. And again. And again.

And just like that, the war doesn't feel so simple anymore.

"You," she breathed, her voice soft and . . . almost affectionate. For a moment, just a flicker of a second, she looks afraid.

You should hate her. You should spit at her feet, curse her name, should swear on the blood running through your veins that you would never bow down to her, and laugh as you're dragged off to be burned at the stake.

But she takes a step forward, a single step, and it happens---the pull. The weight of a thousand lifetimes, crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Memories stir just beneath your skin, flickers of hands tangled in silk, of lips pressed to fevered skin, of a voice---hers---whispering your name like a prayer.

"Kill me," she murmurs, so softly only you can hear. "If that is what you were born for, then do it now, and let me die at the hands that have touched me in ways no one else has."

The guards' protests die in your ears as she gives you her own sword in place of the one taken from you.

The hilt is cold between your fingers, embedded with diamonds and a carving of something you refuse to admit is the shape of your name in her writing. 

Your hands tremble. Your soul remembers. And that is the worst part of this all.

The sword feels heavy in your grasp. Not from its weight, not from the gleam of its deadly edge, but from something far worse.

From knowing it has never been used against her before.

From knowing you have never been able to do it before.

And the worst part? She knows that, too.

Taylor stands before you, her chin lifted in defiance, but her breath---barely there---betrays her. Her fingers twitch at her sides, as if she wants to reach for you, as if muscle memory still tells her that she can.

"You think I won't?" you ask, but the words don't hold as much venom as you want them to.

Her lips curve---not into a smirk, not into the cold, cruel smile you've seen her wear in battle. Something sadder. Something softer.

"I think you have tried," she murmurs, "so many times before."

A sharp breath catches in your throat, because suddenly, you are drowning. Drowning in the weight of her words.

The memories slip through the cracks.

You see yourself standing in another throne room, this same blade pressed to her throat.

You see her eyes, wild and pleading---not for mercy, but for you.

You blink, and you are somewhere else---your hands cupping her face as she presses herself into you, gasping your name like it's a sacred thing, like it's something worth worshiping.