where fairytales begin, g, no warningssweetwatersongOctober 27 2014, 02:34:50 UTC
"Where the hell are we supposed to go?" He asks, staring at the dark woods around them, the reaching branches and black shadows and the moon that is just beginning to rise above the horizon.
"Clint." She steps forward, takes his hand and folds her fingers around his. At her touch he falls silent and turns to look at her, helpless and raging and the line of his jaw tight with a tension that will break him if he does not release it.
Natasha looks down at their joined hands, studying the twining interplay of graceful flesh and sturdy bones, and lifts them up to waist-level.
Between their palms, generated by the life-blood in their veins and the hearts that beat, beat, beat away even in the midnight forest, a light begins to grow.
She looks back at him, the glow spilling out to touch the curve of her cheekbone as the moon illuminates the gnarled and grasping fingers of the trees, and smiles. Just the slightest bit, just the softest gentling of the skin that is too pale and sharp against her blood-red lips, but as true and kind a smile as any woman was ever capable of.
"We'll find our way out," Natasha tells Clint, the old ways of the woodcutters and wolf-trappers held in the dark of her eyes, the warmth of her hand. She does not say, We will find our way, because the story expects them to seek and to leave. But he studies her face, he knows her thoughts, and his hand tangled with hers tightens in gratitude. They need not search for a twisted path out of this forest.
Re: where fairytales begin, g, no warningsshenshen77October 27 2014, 21:28:11 UTC
Lovely, just lovely! Your imagery is wonderful, and I love the thought of them always being able to deal with anything that comes their way, just as long as they're together. Thanks so much!
Re: where fairytales begin, g, no warningssweetwatersongOctober 28 2014, 02:45:40 UTC
I'm actually really glad you liked it; I wasn't sure where it was going, and once it was done I stared at it for a bit before deciding to post anyway. So thank you for reading it, and finding something there to enjoy. :)
"Clint." She steps forward, takes his hand and folds her fingers around his. At her touch he falls silent and turns to look at her, helpless and raging and the line of his jaw tight with a tension that will break him if he does not release it.
Natasha looks down at their joined hands, studying the twining interplay of graceful flesh and sturdy bones, and lifts them up to waist-level.
Between their palms, generated by the life-blood in their veins and the hearts that beat, beat, beat away even in the midnight forest, a light begins to grow.
She looks back at him, the glow spilling out to touch the curve of her cheekbone as the moon illuminates the gnarled and grasping fingers of the trees, and smiles. Just the slightest bit, just the softest gentling of the skin that is too pale and sharp against her blood-red lips, but as true and kind a smile as any woman was ever capable of.
"We'll find our way out," Natasha tells Clint, the old ways of the woodcutters and wolf-trappers held in the dark of her eyes, the warmth of her hand. She does not say, We will find our way, because the story expects them to seek and to leave. But he studies her face, he knows her thoughts, and his hand tangled with hers tightens in gratitude. They need not search for a twisted path out of this forest.
They can stay here, and make it their own.
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