Some more Easter Egg fics
Final clutch of Easter Egg short fics!
Gimli chortled in pleasure at the thought of showing the elf what hospitality really meant.
"None of that flowers-in-salads nonsense here," he said jovially. "My cousin will give us real food - flagons of cool, foaming ale, meat roasted on the bone --"
"I keep telling you," Legolas said, rolling his eyes and tucking one stray strand of silver blond hair neatly back behind a delicately pointed ear. "I'm a vegetarian."
Gimli looked at him in disapproval. No wonder elves were dying out, he thought.
Mary remembers her son as a baby, how he was born in deepest winter, and needed to be wrapped in layer upon layer of her cloak against the cold. He had been small and helpless, and she had fallen in love, utterly and immediately. For all too short a while he had been all hers, and then suddenly he was a growing lad, learning a trade and the life of a man claimed him.
Now he has been claimed by something bigger, something more than she can understand. She rocks back and forth, fingers clenched tight so that she will not scream with grief and rage. The legionary soaks a sponge in water and raises it on a stick to touch her son's lips. It is a false mercy, giving the dying the strength to last a little longer in agony.
He opens his eyes and sees her. His eyes are distant, as if he sees things for the first time and cannot comprehend them, the way a baby looks upon the world. Mary feels the tears on her cheeks, but is silent before the Romans.
They are killing a rabble-rouser. All she sees is her baby boy.
"And then, after the Jehovah's Witnesses fled in defeat, I went out to get a nice spot of lunch and got buttonholed by evangelists right on the doorstep of the restaurant," Crowley said, pulling his dessert out of angelic arm's-reach. "I told them I was less interested in hearing about the lamb that died for my sins than I was in hearing about the lamb that died for my lunch, and ended up having to explain in great detail and words of very few syllables indeed exactly why their textual interpretations were so incredibly wrong-headed."
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale muttered, seeing whole new vistas of repair work open out before him.
"Oh, stop looking so tragic. I was purely factual and truthful in what I said. I can cite Scripture to my purpose, you know. It's not my fault there are so many stupid people in the world."
"It's the translations," Aziraphale said in annoyance. "Some of them are so hideous. Honestly, I don't know why people can't dedicate a few years to learning the original languages, it would make things so much easier."
"It'd make our jobs easier, you mean," Crowley said, scooping up the last of his orange sorbet before Aziraphale got away with another spoonful. "Anyway, who wants to spend ages learning some boring old language?"
"Who wants to have to depend on something like the Good News version?" Aziraphale said grumpily, ordering a single espresso.
"Heh. Yeah, that's one of mine," Crowley sniggered.
Aziraphale glared at him and changed his order to a large Irish coffee.
"Dinner's on you, then."
Banner climbed down carefully from the donkey cart on which they had made their journey, and watched Gregg speak slowly and clearly to the driver who frowned, smiled, then tipped his hat over his eyes and seemed to go to sleep.
"I have told him we shall be some time, and shall return after we have eaten our lunch," said Gregg, lifting the basket in which the lady of the house in which they were staying had packed them a simple lunch.
"Are you sure he understood you, Gregg?" said Banner, whose experience with the non-British troops at the Crimea some years previously had left him with little but the wish that the whole world spoke English.
"Oh, yes," said Gregg cheerfully. "The forms of the language are not so very different, I am sure, and I was most careful to speak clearly."
"Well, then," said Banner, "let us be off to see whatever heap of ancient stones has caught your attention this time." He smiled to show he was but jesting, for his dear friend felt at times that his love for the ancients was a source of annoyance to Banner, although that was in no way the truth. He looked about and, at Gregg's direction, led the way through the hot day, his gait impaired now by no more than a slight limp.
"How hot it is!" said Gregg after a little, pausing to wipe his face. "Perhaps we should have waited till the morning to come here."
"Nonsense," cried Banner gaily. "We must see every heap of stones you have on your list, who knows if we shall ever be here again? Give me the basket, Gregg, I shall carry it a while."
"Ah!" ejaculated Gregg after another minute, "there, by those trees!"
Banner stood looking at the statue of the lion on its plinth, thinking to himself that it looked rather more like a dog than a lion, though such a statement would never cross his lips, for Gregg could hear no wrong about the ancients and would feel moved to defend them at all costs and at great length. Gregg sighed deeply as he looked upon the lion, turning away slightly to dab at his eyes under the pretext of wiping his face.
"Such heroism," he murmured in a voice that seemed not intended to be easily heard.
"Come, let's see what we've been given to eat," said Banner kindly, thinking he should refrain from making any military judgement on the men at whose tomb they stood, for his friend preferred the heroism to be found in his books to sober military assessment. He sat, a little awkwardly, on the hot grass and smiled as Gregg sat close by him, cheerful once more. Inside their basket was bread and cheese, some handfuls of grapes and figs, and a flask of the rough wine produced in the region. They ate happily, and Banner lay back to rest, tugging Gregg down with him. "A little nap before we go back to the cart," he said, "will refresh us both."
He woke what seemed mere moments later, to find himself alone. Rising to his feet he wandered around the statue, calling, "Gregg?" That gentleman stood at the other side, and jumped with apparent guilt as Banner came upon him.
"I thought you were asleep," he said.
"I woke just now -- why, Gregg," said Banner. "What is the matter? Oh! You have cut yourself!"
Gregg brushed his tears away. "It is nothing," he said in embarrassment, his low voice showing clearly that he had been weeping. "You will think me so silly, Banner."
Banner took his hand and looked critically at the cut on his friend's thumb, thinking that it appeared worse than it was in reality. "What? Tell me."
"Their love for each other meant they never shirked in battle," said Gregg quietly, "for fear their dearest friend would despise them. They all died together - I was just overcome, thinking of them lying here."
"I do not think you silly," said Banner. "Did you get a splinter in your thumb?"
"That is why you will think me silly," said Gregg, blushing. "The ancients believed that shades gained strength and sustenance from blood, and so I - well --"
Banner looked at him, keeping the smile firmly from his face. "Why, Gregg," he cried, "and you a minister of the Church of England! Come now, I am merely teasing you. Give me your hand, Percy." So saying he took Gregg's hand, taking the pricked thumb in his own mouth to ensure the cut was cleaned, then wrapping his handkerchief about it. "An honourable war-wound," he said, smiling openly.
"John, I --" started Gregg, blushing at his own pagan behaviour.
"I will never despise you, for anything you do," said Banner firmly, and kissed him. "We may not make up an army, but we shall never fail." He laughed at Gregg's expression. "What, man? Do you think I pay no attention to your discourses on what we shall see here?"
"I am very glad of your love and friendship, John," said Gregg, his eyes damp with tears once more.
"Good. For you shall never be free of them," said Banner. "Do not weep, dear boy. I shall feel I have made you sad."
"Not sad, no," said Gregg, and put his arm about his friend's waist. They stood there, looking upon the tomb of the brave warriors whom they had come to visit in companionable silence, leaning upon each other, until it was at last time to make their adieus, and they walked, slowly and smiling at each other, back to the waiting cart.
Gimli chortled in pleasure at the thought of showing the elf what hospitality really meant.
"None of that flowers-in-salads nonsense here," he said jovially. "My cousin will give us real food - flagons of cool, foaming ale, meat roasted on the bone --"
"I keep telling you," Legolas said, rolling his eyes and tucking one stray strand of silver blond hair neatly back behind a delicately pointed ear. "I'm a vegetarian."
Gimli looked at him in disapproval. No wonder elves were dying out, he thought.
Mary remembers her son as a baby, how he was born in deepest winter, and needed to be wrapped in layer upon layer of her cloak against the cold. He had been small and helpless, and she had fallen in love, utterly and immediately. For all too short a while he had been all hers, and then suddenly he was a growing lad, learning a trade and the life of a man claimed him.
Now he has been claimed by something bigger, something more than she can understand. She rocks back and forth, fingers clenched tight so that she will not scream with grief and rage. The legionary soaks a sponge in water and raises it on a stick to touch her son's lips. It is a false mercy, giving the dying the strength to last a little longer in agony.
He opens his eyes and sees her. His eyes are distant, as if he sees things for the first time and cannot comprehend them, the way a baby looks upon the world. Mary feels the tears on her cheeks, but is silent before the Romans.
They are killing a rabble-rouser. All she sees is her baby boy.
"And then, after the Jehovah's Witnesses fled in defeat, I went out to get a nice spot of lunch and got buttonholed by evangelists right on the doorstep of the restaurant," Crowley said, pulling his dessert out of angelic arm's-reach. "I told them I was less interested in hearing about the lamb that died for my sins than I was in hearing about the lamb that died for my lunch, and ended up having to explain in great detail and words of very few syllables indeed exactly why their textual interpretations were so incredibly wrong-headed."
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale muttered, seeing whole new vistas of repair work open out before him.
"Oh, stop looking so tragic. I was purely factual and truthful in what I said. I can cite Scripture to my purpose, you know. It's not my fault there are so many stupid people in the world."
"It's the translations," Aziraphale said in annoyance. "Some of them are so hideous. Honestly, I don't know why people can't dedicate a few years to learning the original languages, it would make things so much easier."
"It'd make our jobs easier, you mean," Crowley said, scooping up the last of his orange sorbet before Aziraphale got away with another spoonful. "Anyway, who wants to spend ages learning some boring old language?"
"Who wants to have to depend on something like the Good News version?" Aziraphale said grumpily, ordering a single espresso.
"Heh. Yeah, that's one of mine," Crowley sniggered.
Aziraphale glared at him and changed his order to a large Irish coffee.
"Dinner's on you, then."
Banner climbed down carefully from the donkey cart on which they had made their journey, and watched Gregg speak slowly and clearly to the driver who frowned, smiled, then tipped his hat over his eyes and seemed to go to sleep.
"I have told him we shall be some time, and shall return after we have eaten our lunch," said Gregg, lifting the basket in which the lady of the house in which they were staying had packed them a simple lunch.
"Are you sure he understood you, Gregg?" said Banner, whose experience with the non-British troops at the Crimea some years previously had left him with little but the wish that the whole world spoke English.
"Oh, yes," said Gregg cheerfully. "The forms of the language are not so very different, I am sure, and I was most careful to speak clearly."
"Well, then," said Banner, "let us be off to see whatever heap of ancient stones has caught your attention this time." He smiled to show he was but jesting, for his dear friend felt at times that his love for the ancients was a source of annoyance to Banner, although that was in no way the truth. He looked about and, at Gregg's direction, led the way through the hot day, his gait impaired now by no more than a slight limp.
"How hot it is!" said Gregg after a little, pausing to wipe his face. "Perhaps we should have waited till the morning to come here."
"Nonsense," cried Banner gaily. "We must see every heap of stones you have on your list, who knows if we shall ever be here again? Give me the basket, Gregg, I shall carry it a while."
"Ah!" ejaculated Gregg after another minute, "there, by those trees!"
Banner stood looking at the statue of the lion on its plinth, thinking to himself that it looked rather more like a dog than a lion, though such a statement would never cross his lips, for Gregg could hear no wrong about the ancients and would feel moved to defend them at all costs and at great length. Gregg sighed deeply as he looked upon the lion, turning away slightly to dab at his eyes under the pretext of wiping his face.
"Such heroism," he murmured in a voice that seemed not intended to be easily heard.
"Come, let's see what we've been given to eat," said Banner kindly, thinking he should refrain from making any military judgement on the men at whose tomb they stood, for his friend preferred the heroism to be found in his books to sober military assessment. He sat, a little awkwardly, on the hot grass and smiled as Gregg sat close by him, cheerful once more. Inside their basket was bread and cheese, some handfuls of grapes and figs, and a flask of the rough wine produced in the region. They ate happily, and Banner lay back to rest, tugging Gregg down with him. "A little nap before we go back to the cart," he said, "will refresh us both."
He woke what seemed mere moments later, to find himself alone. Rising to his feet he wandered around the statue, calling, "Gregg?" That gentleman stood at the other side, and jumped with apparent guilt as Banner came upon him.
"I thought you were asleep," he said.
"I woke just now -- why, Gregg," said Banner. "What is the matter? Oh! You have cut yourself!"
Gregg brushed his tears away. "It is nothing," he said in embarrassment, his low voice showing clearly that he had been weeping. "You will think me so silly, Banner."
Banner took his hand and looked critically at the cut on his friend's thumb, thinking that it appeared worse than it was in reality. "What? Tell me."
"Their love for each other meant they never shirked in battle," said Gregg quietly, "for fear their dearest friend would despise them. They all died together - I was just overcome, thinking of them lying here."
"I do not think you silly," said Banner. "Did you get a splinter in your thumb?"
"That is why you will think me silly," said Gregg, blushing. "The ancients believed that shades gained strength and sustenance from blood, and so I - well --"
Banner looked at him, keeping the smile firmly from his face. "Why, Gregg," he cried, "and you a minister of the Church of England! Come now, I am merely teasing you. Give me your hand, Percy." So saying he took Gregg's hand, taking the pricked thumb in his own mouth to ensure the cut was cleaned, then wrapping his handkerchief about it. "An honourable war-wound," he said, smiling openly.
"John, I --" started Gregg, blushing at his own pagan behaviour.
"I will never despise you, for anything you do," said Banner firmly, and kissed him. "We may not make up an army, but we shall never fail." He laughed at Gregg's expression. "What, man? Do you think I pay no attention to your discourses on what we shall see here?"
"I am very glad of your love and friendship, John," said Gregg, his eyes damp with tears once more.
"Good. For you shall never be free of them," said Banner. "Do not weep, dear boy. I shall feel I have made you sad."
"Not sad, no," said Gregg, and put his arm about his friend's waist. They stood there, looking upon the tomb of the brave warriors whom they had come to visit in companionable silence, leaning upon each other, until it was at last time to make their adieus, and they walked, slowly and smiling at each other, back to the waiting cart.