Fic: One Young Hand, One Old
Title: One Young Hand, One Old
Fandom: Vampire Diaries
Characters/Pairings: Elena, Katherine
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: TVD- Katherine, Elena- Dorian Gray
Written for: Bechdel Test Comment Ficathon 2.0
Disclaimer: All quotes taken from Oscar Wilde's novel Dorian Gray - I owe this man most of everything.
Summary:
Beauty is a form of Genuis - is higher, indeed, than Genuis, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned.
A cold, young, fresh hand brushed the cheek of an old woman. The chill made the sleeper shrink away, back into sleep, back into dreams of youth. Somewhere a fire crackled. Somewhere there was a memory of a fire crackling. Or perhaps it was the gentle humming and beeping of medical equipment that didn't make sense to either figure. It no longer mattered which.
The young hand drifted down the length of the sleeping form and found an old wrinkled hand buried in the bedclothes. The one was now clasped firmly in the other and a fresh face bent to press its cheek against the thin old collection of bones and skin.
An old, worn paperback novel now appeared in the space between the two figures, the younger chuckled and began to read aloud.
The people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect - simply a confession of failure.
Lined up on the bedside table, the dresser, the table-top, the window-sill, there are countless faces smiling out of glass and wood frames. The young hand wanders around the room, caressing a few of the frames, pausing and picking up others. There is a wistfulness to the collection and to the viewer - a recognition of a dozen lives. One image is placed just beside the sleeper, an image aged and yellowing, damaged by years of hands. An image of a young girl, with a pert hat perched on her head, long, curling hair falling over her shoulder. This image the waking figure ignores, walks past as if it weren't there.
"You have loved enough for many lives. We both have." The comment, feminine and soft, is sad without being bitter. There's a truth in the words that seem to go far beyond anything either figure has ever had the opportunity to grasp. Bright eyes stare out of an aging face, opened at these words. The figures exchange soft smiles.
For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of her soul that she was looking at. Vanity? Curiousity? Hypocrisy? ... She would destroy it. Why had she kept it so long? Once it had given her pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late she had felt no such pleasure. It had kept her awake at night. It had been like a conscience to her.
The younger moves slowly towards the younger, "Are you in pain?"
Only a slight nod, without hesitation and wide, staring eyes. They drift around the room at the pictures propped up, crowding each other out.
"They are all dead." The words carry no harshness, the younger figure knows the pain of that feeling more clearly than the old figure lying so still, so helpless between white sheets. A tear appears on the lids of the old woman and the younger brushes it away. The old eyes - so bright, so encased in wrinkles and pain and death - stare hard at the aging picture beside her.
The picture and the girl, so lithe and free, they are the same but not the same. They are all the same but not the same. Pictures of the other, echoes of something from before.
"Elena," a voice from the doorway makes the old woman start. The younger turns to her double and smiles, "Katherine."
"Elena, are you done? Can we go?"
Elena turns to the aging mirror of herself, "Are you done? Can we let you go?"
The old woman nods and the world turns black.
It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.
Not sure how I feel about the ending - any and all feedback welcome!
Fandom: Vampire Diaries
Characters/Pairings: Elena, Katherine
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: TVD- Katherine, Elena- Dorian Gray
Written for: Bechdel Test Comment Ficathon 2.0
Disclaimer: All quotes taken from Oscar Wilde's novel Dorian Gray - I owe this man most of everything.
Summary:
Beauty is a form of Genuis - is higher, indeed, than Genuis, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned.
A cold, young, fresh hand brushed the cheek of an old woman. The chill made the sleeper shrink away, back into sleep, back into dreams of youth. Somewhere a fire crackled. Somewhere there was a memory of a fire crackling. Or perhaps it was the gentle humming and beeping of medical equipment that didn't make sense to either figure. It no longer mattered which.
The young hand drifted down the length of the sleeping form and found an old wrinkled hand buried in the bedclothes. The one was now clasped firmly in the other and a fresh face bent to press its cheek against the thin old collection of bones and skin.
An old, worn paperback novel now appeared in the space between the two figures, the younger chuckled and began to read aloud.
The people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect - simply a confession of failure.
Lined up on the bedside table, the dresser, the table-top, the window-sill, there are countless faces smiling out of glass and wood frames. The young hand wanders around the room, caressing a few of the frames, pausing and picking up others. There is a wistfulness to the collection and to the viewer - a recognition of a dozen lives. One image is placed just beside the sleeper, an image aged and yellowing, damaged by years of hands. An image of a young girl, with a pert hat perched on her head, long, curling hair falling over her shoulder. This image the waking figure ignores, walks past as if it weren't there.
"You have loved enough for many lives. We both have." The comment, feminine and soft, is sad without being bitter. There's a truth in the words that seem to go far beyond anything either figure has ever had the opportunity to grasp. Bright eyes stare out of an aging face, opened at these words. The figures exchange soft smiles.
For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of her soul that she was looking at. Vanity? Curiousity? Hypocrisy? ... She would destroy it. Why had she kept it so long? Once it had given her pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late she had felt no such pleasure. It had kept her awake at night. It had been like a conscience to her.
The younger moves slowly towards the younger, "Are you in pain?"
Only a slight nod, without hesitation and wide, staring eyes. They drift around the room at the pictures propped up, crowding each other out.
"They are all dead." The words carry no harshness, the younger figure knows the pain of that feeling more clearly than the old figure lying so still, so helpless between white sheets. A tear appears on the lids of the old woman and the younger brushes it away. The old eyes - so bright, so encased in wrinkles and pain and death - stare hard at the aging picture beside her.
The picture and the girl, so lithe and free, they are the same but not the same. They are all the same but not the same. Pictures of the other, echoes of something from before.
"Elena," a voice from the doorway makes the old woman start. The younger turns to her double and smiles, "Katherine."
"Elena, are you done? Can we go?"
Elena turns to the aging mirror of herself, "Are you done? Can we let you go?"
The old woman nods and the world turns black.
It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.
Not sure how I feel about the ending - any and all feedback welcome!