Firefly - Giselle Interlude: Come Little Children
Title: Come Little Children
Series: Giselle
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Disclaimer: I do not own.
Beta-Reader: Thanks go to the amazing revdorothyl.
Character/Pairings: River, The Academy
Rating: R
Warnings: Series, BDM.
Notes: This was inspired by the song Come Little Children from Disney's Hocus Pocus.
Summary: A moment's reflection of the forty-nine children buried in the Academy's backyard.
Come Little Children
I’ll take thee away
Into a land of Enchantment
Come little children
The time’s come to play
Here in my garden of magic
Forty-nine little bodies all buried in a row. They lie under the rose bushes, fast asleep, along the wall of the inner yard that had once been their playground.
Forty-nine little bodies. All little boys and girls who never aged a day past fifteen.
All bright-eyed and glorious when they entered through the walls, they never came back out.
Letters to parents and siblings, to grandparents and aunts and uncles, to cousins and dear old friends still leave the Academy compound every Friday, for that is mail day. Letters describing their studies, their activities, their new-found friendships that shall last a lifetime (and did) are passed into the postmaster’s hands and delivered to those who do not know they should be in mourning.
The lilies have yet to be gathered.
White drapes have yet to be hung over the house.
Colour has yet to be purged out of the home.
The family has yet to mourn the dead.
Each week they receive a letter to bring joy to any mother’s heart as she traces her child’s well-known hand.
Two phone calls per week, squeezed in between breaks in the school schedule. Breathless voices gasp out the lesson of the week, children’s gossip (who had what for lunch, who pulled whose hair, who like likes someone else).
Forty-nine voices all trapped in a box, all extracted from still throats.
Just one at first, but you know what they say about little lies.
They grow and they grow, and soon you can’t stop lying.
Forty-nine small bodies fertilize the soil for the roses.
Forty-nine children who never reached adulthood.
Their eyes have been pressed shut even as their voices still laugh and stain the air with their bright colours.
Little bodies that forgot how to breathe after their brains had been reprogrammed. Little bodies that were led quietly to their graves. Forty-nine ruined resources.
Resources that will never be reported on.
Children who will never be mourned.
They sleep under the roses of their playground, later -- the training ground. Only one child had trained in that yard, and she is gone now.
Gone to fly among the stars.
Gone to grow up.
There is a little patch in the corner that has been dug out for her. The years pass, and the worms, plant roots, and dust make it their home. The little hole in the ground made especially for the one that got away.
She was what they all should have been, and failed to be.
She’ll no longer fit in that grave, for she’s grown and spread her wings.
She’s grown up.
There is no place for her in the children’s garden.
Forty-nine children sleep under the roses and none of them want her for their team.
She has grown up and forsaken childhood. She’s lost her place among them.
She is the only one of them mourned. She, who still lives.
Series: Giselle
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Disclaimer: I do not own.
Beta-Reader: Thanks go to the amazing revdorothyl.
Character/Pairings: River, The Academy
Rating: R
Warnings: Series, BDM.
Notes: This was inspired by the song Come Little Children from Disney's Hocus Pocus.
Summary: A moment's reflection of the forty-nine children buried in the Academy's backyard.
Come Little Children
I’ll take thee away
Into a land of Enchantment
Come little children
The time’s come to play
Here in my garden of magic
Forty-nine little bodies all buried in a row. They lie under the rose bushes, fast asleep, along the wall of the inner yard that had once been their playground.
Forty-nine little bodies. All little boys and girls who never aged a day past fifteen.
All bright-eyed and glorious when they entered through the walls, they never came back out.
Letters to parents and siblings, to grandparents and aunts and uncles, to cousins and dear old friends still leave the Academy compound every Friday, for that is mail day. Letters describing their studies, their activities, their new-found friendships that shall last a lifetime (and did) are passed into the postmaster’s hands and delivered to those who do not know they should be in mourning.
The lilies have yet to be gathered.
White drapes have yet to be hung over the house.
Colour has yet to be purged out of the home.
The family has yet to mourn the dead.
Each week they receive a letter to bring joy to any mother’s heart as she traces her child’s well-known hand.
Two phone calls per week, squeezed in between breaks in the school schedule. Breathless voices gasp out the lesson of the week, children’s gossip (who had what for lunch, who pulled whose hair, who like likes someone else).
Forty-nine voices all trapped in a box, all extracted from still throats.
Just one at first, but you know what they say about little lies.
They grow and they grow, and soon you can’t stop lying.
Forty-nine small bodies fertilize the soil for the roses.
Forty-nine children who never reached adulthood.
Their eyes have been pressed shut even as their voices still laugh and stain the air with their bright colours.
Little bodies that forgot how to breathe after their brains had been reprogrammed. Little bodies that were led quietly to their graves. Forty-nine ruined resources.
Resources that will never be reported on.
Children who will never be mourned.
They sleep under the roses of their playground, later -- the training ground. Only one child had trained in that yard, and she is gone now.
Gone to fly among the stars.
Gone to grow up.
There is a little patch in the corner that has been dug out for her. The years pass, and the worms, plant roots, and dust make it their home. The little hole in the ground made especially for the one that got away.
She was what they all should have been, and failed to be.
She’ll no longer fit in that grave, for she’s grown and spread her wings.
She’s grown up.
There is no place for her in the children’s garden.
Forty-nine children sleep under the roses and none of them want her for their team.
She has grown up and forsaken childhood. She’s lost her place among them.
She is the only one of them mourned. She, who still lives.