Black Widow Feels
Because I have many Natasha feels of late, I have a drabble in which I have no idea where, when or what.
Russian Lullaby
Every night you hear her croon
a Russian lullaby.
Just a little plaintive tune
when baby starts to cry.
The girl’s sobs had quietened, her small body too tired to make any more tears, but Natalia didn’t stop stroking her hand over tangled, bloody hair. She wasn’t sure if the motion was comforting. Comfort was not something she was used to giving.
She was singing in Russian. The girl wouldn’t understand the words, but it was the only lullaby Natalia knew. It wasn’t even a real lullaby. She didn’t know where it had come from. None of the girls had known. For all they knew, it was as old as the Red Room itself. Natalia remembered it being sang to her the first night she’d lay, shaking in her bed; remembered singing it to the girls that came after her. Now, she was singing it to another girl, a normal girl, a girl who’d had a family and a clean, normal life stretched out ahead of her. She might have been first girl outside of the Red Room to ever hear it.
It was a small, fragile tune, designed to be hummed so low it could barely be heard. Like the small, fragile girls it was sang to, it had a hidden strength that spoke of endings and the hope for a future that was free.
Natalia sang it until the girl finally stilled beneath her hand, her small lungs releasing one last, frail breath.
Rock-a-bye, my baby.
Somewhere there may be
a land that’s free, for you and me
and a Russian lullaby.
Russian Lullaby
Every night you hear her croon
a Russian lullaby.
Just a little plaintive tune
when baby starts to cry.
The girl’s sobs had quietened, her small body too tired to make any more tears, but Natalia didn’t stop stroking her hand over tangled, bloody hair. She wasn’t sure if the motion was comforting. Comfort was not something she was used to giving.
She was singing in Russian. The girl wouldn’t understand the words, but it was the only lullaby Natalia knew. It wasn’t even a real lullaby. She didn’t know where it had come from. None of the girls had known. For all they knew, it was as old as the Red Room itself. Natalia remembered it being sang to her the first night she’d lay, shaking in her bed; remembered singing it to the girls that came after her. Now, she was singing it to another girl, a normal girl, a girl who’d had a family and a clean, normal life stretched out ahead of her. She might have been first girl outside of the Red Room to ever hear it.
It was a small, fragile tune, designed to be hummed so low it could barely be heard. Like the small, fragile girls it was sang to, it had a hidden strength that spoke of endings and the hope for a future that was free.
Natalia sang it until the girl finally stilled beneath her hand, her small lungs releasing one last, frail breath.
Rock-a-bye, my baby.
Somewhere there may be
a land that’s free, for you and me
and a Russian lullaby.