challenge 53 ~ new
Author: Missmai_chan
Fandom: Virginia Woolf's 'To The Lighthouse'
Pairing: Lily/Mrs Ramsey
Rating: General
A/N: I have never seen this litpair done, so I shall. Hurrah for firsts!
Word Count: 274 (alright, it is a little over - but I couldn't shave any more words. I love the pairing too much! *sobs*
All of time was here now, in Lily's hand, tiny and feathery and fine and (if she admitted it to herself, for it was a hard truth to face, especially with Mrs Ramsey above her, so very soft) very limited in malleability.
She wondered if she might slightly fold this moment away so that always, into the distance of the brimming, spilling lights of her future, she might remember it and be only happy for it and not sad. She would rather fade herself, like a wraith, than allow the image (captured now like a bee in a jar) of her face, Mrs Ramsey, above her so soft, to be made into some slow putty to clog the pores of memory.
And if a memory might be tucked away into the hem of one's mind at all it might not be what one thinks it to be in many years. Kisses might be remembered that never took place; tea in the sun that was really in shade and so on. Flights of running on the beach towards Mrs Ramsey, towards the grey of her felt cape, towards the inevitable firmness and warmth of her mouth, might become confused.
'Dear, dear darling - your face is too vexed with thought,' Mrs Ramsey whispered chidingly against Lily's face, flurries of hot breath on her chin, immeasurably small gales that her skin might feel to be tornadoes.
And weren't they? Lily understood the sense under it all. This was a tornado. She was in the eye and would pass from the eye, but until then, she had Mrs Ramsey at her breast. Secure, and beautiful, and real.
Fandom: Virginia Woolf's 'To The Lighthouse'
Pairing: Lily/Mrs Ramsey
Rating: General
A/N: I have never seen this litpair done, so I shall. Hurrah for firsts!
Word Count: 274 (alright, it is a little over - but I couldn't shave any more words. I love the pairing too much! *sobs*
All of time was here now, in Lily's hand, tiny and feathery and fine and (if she admitted it to herself, for it was a hard truth to face, especially with Mrs Ramsey above her, so very soft) very limited in malleability.
She wondered if she might slightly fold this moment away so that always, into the distance of the brimming, spilling lights of her future, she might remember it and be only happy for it and not sad. She would rather fade herself, like a wraith, than allow the image (captured now like a bee in a jar) of her face, Mrs Ramsey, above her so soft, to be made into some slow putty to clog the pores of memory.
And if a memory might be tucked away into the hem of one's mind at all it might not be what one thinks it to be in many years. Kisses might be remembered that never took place; tea in the sun that was really in shade and so on. Flights of running on the beach towards Mrs Ramsey, towards the grey of her felt cape, towards the inevitable firmness and warmth of her mouth, might become confused.
'Dear, dear darling - your face is too vexed with thought,' Mrs Ramsey whispered chidingly against Lily's face, flurries of hot breath on her chin, immeasurably small gales that her skin might feel to be tornadoes.
And weren't they? Lily understood the sense under it all. This was a tornado. She was in the eye and would pass from the eye, but until then, she had Mrs Ramsey at her breast. Secure, and beautiful, and real.