(no subject)
AU Future Fic Time!
Apologies to people whose characters I used w/o permission: Bex, Loads, Destiny & Lingerie. Extra special apologies to Bex and Lingerie.
Warning: Character death(s). Also as I hardly ever write sad stuff, this might not be any good. Fair warning, right?
*rereads* Oh, man, that's totally not as sad as it should be. I fail. Have to rework it sometime.
“Avada Kedavra.”
“No!”
He had to reach her. He climbed over the other bodies, who cared about them? There was no way she’d fallen. She couldn’t have. She was indestructible, and she was going to fight beside him forever. He didn’t care how much his leg was bleeding. It could barely feel it. The world was getting dark, and some strong arms were grasping at him, but he would make it to her.
It couldn’t be her, not Raegan. The girl who was so full of life, he’d honestly never considered that she could die.
He had almost reached her. His hand was mere inches from her face when they over powered him. Pulled him away. He couldn’t speak for screaming, couldn’t see her face. It couldn’t have been her. But it had to have been. And deep down, he knew it. That’s she’d been hit by the killing curse, and nothing, nothing he could do would bring her back.
He woke up in a cell. How cliché. O’Neill hated clichés. Someone was staring at him through the bars. He pushed his fingers through his grey hair and peered at his keeper. His head ached. He closed his eyes, and opened them again just as quickly.
Dirty blonde hair pooled around her face, lying among the dead…
He stood up, grabbed his temple, then sank to his knees, while his whole body shook.
“She’s not dead,” he said aloud, “she’s not, she can’t be, she’s not… dead.”
“She is,” said the man outside the cell, and his voice was familiar, “My muggle pet, she’s dead. Dead like Candace, like Cole, like my Danny… dead. And you and I, we’re still here.”
“Tristan,” O’Neill croaked. He couldn’t even bring himself to use the old nickname. Was he glad to see the other man? His old rival and adversary, the boy who never really became a friend, but couldn’t be thought of as an enemy.
“O’Neill,” Tristan answered, sitting down cross-legged outside the cell. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
He should’ve been pissed. And part of him managed to be affronted by Tristan’s platitude, by the fact that the man acted as though they were on the same team, when the bars between them clearly made such a thought impossible. He stayed silent for a long time. Then,
“Are they going to kill me?”
“No,” Tristan said, “I don’t think they will. Not right away at least. The Dark Lord wants to do it.”
“I’m flattered,” O’Neill said dryly.
Tristan smiled. Maybe the man wasn’t quite dead inside yet.
“You should be, he’ll likely make you a horcrux killing.”
“No,” O’Neill said, definitively. “He won’t be using me like that. I’ll kill myself, before I let him.”
“How?” Tristan asked, “you’ve got nothing to do it with.”
“I’ve got a wall and two legs. I’ll slam my head into it. Crack my skull, break my neck. Something,” he said, calmly. Talking about his own death used to make his stomach flop. Not now though, because he could serve his cause better dead. Besides, he couldn’t imagine fighting without her by his side.
“Messy, unreliable,” Tristan said, shaking his head, “don’t, please.”
“How many of us are gone now, Tristan?” O’Neill asked suddenly. “How many from our time at Hogwarts have died in this war?”
“Too many to count, I think,” Tristan said, shaking his head.
“Daci?” O’Neill asked quietly. He still cared for the charming girl he’d met during fifth year.
“No,” Tristan said, “not Daciana. Not Elanor. They’re as safe as I can keep them.”
“Good,” O’Neill said, surprised to find he meant it. Surprised that anything had meaning now. “You look after them. I don’t know what you’re doing here, or where your loyalties lie. I’ve never fucking known that, du Lac, but I believe you’ll do what you can for them.”
Tristan looked to the ceiling, and shook his head. There was a wide hallway behind him, where a cold looking blonde woman was standing. Pearline, who’d married into evil, was standing on the stair with an amused smile on her face. He loathed her.
“Go away,” Tristan yelled, and the woman’s smile widened as she shrugged and left.
“I couldn’t get to her,” O’Neill said, ignoring the encounter, “she’d already fallen, and I knew it was too late, but I had to get to her, Tristan, I had to.”
Tristan didn’t want to say that he had seen it all. He couldn’t admit that he was there, throwing aimless curses, half-heartedly pretending, could never admit that one of the hands dragging O’Neill away had been his own.
“If they left her there… I can’t… I can’t handle that,” he said, the anguish in his voice evident, a stark contrast to his usual irreverent tone. “If she’s just lying there, with so many other bodies…”
“That’s not her,” Tristan said, “she’s not there anymore. It’s just her body, O’Neill, you know that.”
“I need her,” O’Neill said, after a moment.
“I know you do,” Tristan said. He stood up.
“Where are you going?” O’Neill asked him.
“To get her,” Tristan said. “I can do that, make sure she’s buried somewhere, not forgotten.”
“Your side won,” O’Neill said, flatly.
“Yes,” Tristan turned to walk away. He didn’t have to explain the risk he was taking. The same sort of risk that he took for Daciana and for Elanor, and now he was taking one for O’Neill and for Raegan. He was bordering on… nobility.
“Hey, Tristan, you gotta do just one more thing for me,” O’Neill said, standing up, arms out to his sides.
“No,” Tristan said, assuming, “that I can’t do. If I let you go, they’ll know.”
“Not that,” O’Neill said, walking up to the bars.
“No,” Tristan said, realizing his mistake.
“Come on,” O’Neill said, “I was trying to escape. You had to do it.”
“No,” Tristan said, as his heart raced, “I couldn’t.”
“Come on, Pond Scum,” O’Neill said, his tone suddenly inflammatory, “you don’t even LIKE me.”
“Bullshit, O’Neill,” Tristan said, “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s a risk I can’t take.” And I’m scared, he thought, I don’t want to be the one to do it, I’m scared that I could never forgive myself.
“Please,” O’Neill begged, quietly. “I know I’m not getting out of here, and my soul won’t survive if my death helps that bastard.”
“Truly the courageous Gryffindor,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do this,” he admitted.
“Hey, I’m glad,” O’Neill joked. He stood and faced Tristan, eye to eye through the bars. “Please.”
Tristan shuddered. “How?”
“Doesn’t matter. Any way you can explain it.”
Tristan took out his wand.
“I don’t think you’ll feel anything this way,” he said quietly, stepping up to the bars. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door. O’Neill stepped toward him, and Tristan put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He could still see the grief in O’Neill’s eyes, but also the determination.
“Pond Scum,” O’Neill said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Tristan said, stepping aside.
O’Neill shrugged. So this is what it felt like when you were about to die. He stepped out of the cell, ran a few steps, just to make it look real.
“See you soon, Gunner,” he muttered under his breath.
Apologies to people whose characters I used w/o permission: Bex, Loads, Destiny & Lingerie. Extra special apologies to Bex and Lingerie.
Warning: Character death(s). Also as I hardly ever write sad stuff, this might not be any good. Fair warning, right?
*rereads* Oh, man, that's totally not as sad as it should be. I fail. Have to rework it sometime.
“Avada Kedavra.”
“No!”
He had to reach her. He climbed over the other bodies, who cared about them? There was no way she’d fallen. She couldn’t have. She was indestructible, and she was going to fight beside him forever. He didn’t care how much his leg was bleeding. It could barely feel it. The world was getting dark, and some strong arms were grasping at him, but he would make it to her.
It couldn’t be her, not Raegan. The girl who was so full of life, he’d honestly never considered that she could die.
He had almost reached her. His hand was mere inches from her face when they over powered him. Pulled him away. He couldn’t speak for screaming, couldn’t see her face. It couldn’t have been her. But it had to have been. And deep down, he knew it. That’s she’d been hit by the killing curse, and nothing, nothing he could do would bring her back.
He woke up in a cell. How cliché. O’Neill hated clichés. Someone was staring at him through the bars. He pushed his fingers through his grey hair and peered at his keeper. His head ached. He closed his eyes, and opened them again just as quickly.
Dirty blonde hair pooled around her face, lying among the dead…
He stood up, grabbed his temple, then sank to his knees, while his whole body shook.
“She’s not dead,” he said aloud, “she’s not, she can’t be, she’s not… dead.”
“She is,” said the man outside the cell, and his voice was familiar, “My muggle pet, she’s dead. Dead like Candace, like Cole, like my Danny… dead. And you and I, we’re still here.”
“Tristan,” O’Neill croaked. He couldn’t even bring himself to use the old nickname. Was he glad to see the other man? His old rival and adversary, the boy who never really became a friend, but couldn’t be thought of as an enemy.
“O’Neill,” Tristan answered, sitting down cross-legged outside the cell. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
He should’ve been pissed. And part of him managed to be affronted by Tristan’s platitude, by the fact that the man acted as though they were on the same team, when the bars between them clearly made such a thought impossible. He stayed silent for a long time. Then,
“Are they going to kill me?”
“No,” Tristan said, “I don’t think they will. Not right away at least. The Dark Lord wants to do it.”
“I’m flattered,” O’Neill said dryly.
Tristan smiled. Maybe the man wasn’t quite dead inside yet.
“You should be, he’ll likely make you a horcrux killing.”
“No,” O’Neill said, definitively. “He won’t be using me like that. I’ll kill myself, before I let him.”
“How?” Tristan asked, “you’ve got nothing to do it with.”
“I’ve got a wall and two legs. I’ll slam my head into it. Crack my skull, break my neck. Something,” he said, calmly. Talking about his own death used to make his stomach flop. Not now though, because he could serve his cause better dead. Besides, he couldn’t imagine fighting without her by his side.
“Messy, unreliable,” Tristan said, shaking his head, “don’t, please.”
“How many of us are gone now, Tristan?” O’Neill asked suddenly. “How many from our time at Hogwarts have died in this war?”
“Too many to count, I think,” Tristan said, shaking his head.
“Daci?” O’Neill asked quietly. He still cared for the charming girl he’d met during fifth year.
“No,” Tristan said, “not Daciana. Not Elanor. They’re as safe as I can keep them.”
“Good,” O’Neill said, surprised to find he meant it. Surprised that anything had meaning now. “You look after them. I don’t know what you’re doing here, or where your loyalties lie. I’ve never fucking known that, du Lac, but I believe you’ll do what you can for them.”
Tristan looked to the ceiling, and shook his head. There was a wide hallway behind him, where a cold looking blonde woman was standing. Pearline, who’d married into evil, was standing on the stair with an amused smile on her face. He loathed her.
“Go away,” Tristan yelled, and the woman’s smile widened as she shrugged and left.
“I couldn’t get to her,” O’Neill said, ignoring the encounter, “she’d already fallen, and I knew it was too late, but I had to get to her, Tristan, I had to.”
Tristan didn’t want to say that he had seen it all. He couldn’t admit that he was there, throwing aimless curses, half-heartedly pretending, could never admit that one of the hands dragging O’Neill away had been his own.
“If they left her there… I can’t… I can’t handle that,” he said, the anguish in his voice evident, a stark contrast to his usual irreverent tone. “If she’s just lying there, with so many other bodies…”
“That’s not her,” Tristan said, “she’s not there anymore. It’s just her body, O’Neill, you know that.”
“I need her,” O’Neill said, after a moment.
“I know you do,” Tristan said. He stood up.
“Where are you going?” O’Neill asked him.
“To get her,” Tristan said. “I can do that, make sure she’s buried somewhere, not forgotten.”
“Your side won,” O’Neill said, flatly.
“Yes,” Tristan turned to walk away. He didn’t have to explain the risk he was taking. The same sort of risk that he took for Daciana and for Elanor, and now he was taking one for O’Neill and for Raegan. He was bordering on… nobility.
“Hey, Tristan, you gotta do just one more thing for me,” O’Neill said, standing up, arms out to his sides.
“No,” Tristan said, assuming, “that I can’t do. If I let you go, they’ll know.”
“Not that,” O’Neill said, walking up to the bars.
“No,” Tristan said, realizing his mistake.
“Come on,” O’Neill said, “I was trying to escape. You had to do it.”
“No,” Tristan said, as his heart raced, “I couldn’t.”
“Come on, Pond Scum,” O’Neill said, his tone suddenly inflammatory, “you don’t even LIKE me.”
“Bullshit, O’Neill,” Tristan said, “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s a risk I can’t take.” And I’m scared, he thought, I don’t want to be the one to do it, I’m scared that I could never forgive myself.
“Please,” O’Neill begged, quietly. “I know I’m not getting out of here, and my soul won’t survive if my death helps that bastard.”
“Truly the courageous Gryffindor,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do this,” he admitted.
“Hey, I’m glad,” O’Neill joked. He stood and faced Tristan, eye to eye through the bars. “Please.”
Tristan shuddered. “How?”
“Doesn’t matter. Any way you can explain it.”
Tristan took out his wand.
“I don’t think you’ll feel anything this way,” he said quietly, stepping up to the bars. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door. O’Neill stepped toward him, and Tristan put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He could still see the grief in O’Neill’s eyes, but also the determination.
“Pond Scum,” O’Neill said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Tristan said, stepping aside.
O’Neill shrugged. So this is what it felt like when you were about to die. He stepped out of the cell, ran a few steps, just to make it look real.
“See you soon, Gunner,” he muttered under his breath.