allen // i swear we will stop spamming with them soon
Who: Allen
When: Tonight
Where: The wagon??
Rating & Warnings: PG for talk of murder and incest (so p much just PG for Allen)
He couldn't sleep. He lay on his back, eyes on the wooden ceiling of the wagon. His sister lay against him, warm, her breathing soft and steady. They'd made love again - made love, he thought, because however vulgar and twisted their relationship he couldn't stand the thought of fucking his Occia - and then she'd fallen asleep against him, a smile on her lips.
By all reason, he should be happy, Allen told himself. His sister was safe, his sister was happy, his sister loved him. Ahead of them stretched possibilities; they could begin a normal life together. It would be simple to convince their neighbors, wherever they settled, that they were husband and wife. They would be happy. And that was where Allen's thoughts caught: they would be happy.
He'd murdered. He'd sinned. He'd betrayed his God and stolen his wife. At every turn he had only tried to protect and nurture his sister, but even in good intentions he'd only broken her, defiled her, and ruined himself. He was not a person that deserved happiness. He was half-mad and frail. There was no guarantee, even far from Tyrol, that his madness wouldn't eventually consume him. More than ever, he regretted not admitting himself to a madhouse when he'd had the chance. He belonged there. Only there, or after his death, would his sister be protected from him.
He'd murdered. When he'd poured the phial down the first child's throat he'd told himself otherwise. He was his sister's executioner, his God's servant. Now... Moirine was not the Final Bride. She never had been. In his blind devotion he'd thought her perfect for his God, but now he realized she had only ever been perfect for him. He'd been in love with her before the Belief had ever spread. The lives he'd taken had been for nothing. Mothers he'd deprived of their children for a mad, false purpose. He didn't deserve happiness. He deserved justice. Execution. Relief.
Allen turned his head against the floorboards to look at his sister in the dim light. Could he leave her? Was he capable? His heart twisted at the thought; he'd promised, promised as he'd kissed her and held her that he wouldn't leave. She would try to follow him. Unless... unless she knew, Allen thought slowly, his throat tightening. Unless she knew what he was, what he'd done. Then, perhaps... she would let him go.
He should never have slept with her. He should never have kissed her. Just another way he'd broken what he'd tried to hold together.
When: Tonight
Where: The wagon??
Rating & Warnings: PG for talk of murder and incest (so p much just PG for Allen)
He couldn't sleep. He lay on his back, eyes on the wooden ceiling of the wagon. His sister lay against him, warm, her breathing soft and steady. They'd made love again - made love, he thought, because however vulgar and twisted their relationship he couldn't stand the thought of fucking his Occia - and then she'd fallen asleep against him, a smile on her lips.
By all reason, he should be happy, Allen told himself. His sister was safe, his sister was happy, his sister loved him. Ahead of them stretched possibilities; they could begin a normal life together. It would be simple to convince their neighbors, wherever they settled, that they were husband and wife. They would be happy. And that was where Allen's thoughts caught: they would be happy.
He'd murdered. He'd sinned. He'd betrayed his God and stolen his wife. At every turn he had only tried to protect and nurture his sister, but even in good intentions he'd only broken her, defiled her, and ruined himself. He was not a person that deserved happiness. He was half-mad and frail. There was no guarantee, even far from Tyrol, that his madness wouldn't eventually consume him. More than ever, he regretted not admitting himself to a madhouse when he'd had the chance. He belonged there. Only there, or after his death, would his sister be protected from him.
He'd murdered. When he'd poured the phial down the first child's throat he'd told himself otherwise. He was his sister's executioner, his God's servant. Now... Moirine was not the Final Bride. She never had been. In his blind devotion he'd thought her perfect for his God, but now he realized she had only ever been perfect for him. He'd been in love with her before the Belief had ever spread. The lives he'd taken had been for nothing. Mothers he'd deprived of their children for a mad, false purpose. He didn't deserve happiness. He deserved justice. Execution. Relief.
Allen turned his head against the floorboards to look at his sister in the dim light. Could he leave her? Was he capable? His heart twisted at the thought; he'd promised, promised as he'd kissed her and held her that he wouldn't leave. She would try to follow him. Unless... unless she knew, Allen thought slowly, his throat tightening. Unless she knew what he was, what he'd done. Then, perhaps... she would let him go.
He should never have slept with her. He should never have kissed her. Just another way he'd broken what he'd tried to hold together.