(no subject)
Editing the writing post, because I can. Writing.com version, and since I like having more than one archive:
Title: A little dream of you.
Genre: Fantasy, emotional, slightly dark. Genres are so not helpful.
Words: 1,112.
Summary: All stories come to an end. Letting go is another matter.
A little dream of you
It was always dark here.
Footfalls echoed thickly, muffled as if by cloth, as the man moved forward. It had been disconcerting once, the way the dull sound of his boots was out of time to his movement, the heavy blackness wrapping his senses more completely than any true night ever had, but repetition breeds the familiar. He’d been here before. In a way, he supposed he always was.
A click, right on the edge of hearing, and a cone of light opened out into the blackness, highlighting the small round table and cushioned chairs that sat in the centre of the brightness. The sudden furniture wasn’t so much illuminated as very suddenly there, like a shifted page in a flick-book. He’d learned not to care about that either, and moved his out-of-time footsteps towards the scene.
He paused on the edge of the light, noting for the thousandth time how the brilliance didn’t leave its cone. Another step forward, and a gloved hand appeared, followed by an arm and boots below, as the heavily-garbed man melded out of the darkness, shedding his cloak and sitting down in one smooth movement. There was a large, softly steaming tea-pot on the table, and two slightly chipped mugs.
Another footstep, soft as whisper, and the man looked up as she stepped into the cone of light, the thick black air draining away as if she were surfacing from some dark liquid. She looked the same. Hair scraped back a little severely, the ponytail cutting a rule-straight tail down her back, only a shade or so darker than the pale shirt she wore, high-collared and buttoned to the throat. She didn’t look at him, yet, but sat down silently and reached for the pot.
"Why do we do this?" He hadn’t meant to speak, but for once the words slipped his guard.
The first stream of tea steamed into its mug.
"You ask that every time." Her voice was the same. Like it used to be, before.
"You’ve not answered yet." His left hand trembled, leather creaking softly as his fingers twitched. She stopped pouring and set the pot down slowly. She didn’t look up.
"What would you like me to say? If it’s forgiveness, I can’t give it, and you don’t want it. We always knew - "
"I know," his snap was hard, and he looked down, glaring accusingly at the table’s pitted surface. "That’s…"
"Not the point?"
"No." He stopped, and sagged, the anger draining out of his stance. "It’s not. We all knew. Know, if honestly is the game of the day, even if things are a bit different now."
"I’ll say." She laughed. Quietly, but it was there. "You’re doing quite well, I hear." There was a scrape as she reached over and pulled the second mug towards her, picking up the pot again.
"Hah," he snorted, but the sides of his lips twitched, slightly, as he looked back up again. "It’s not like we thought it’d be, all this. We’re over three hundred strong now, you realise?"
The pot clunked down again, and she pushed the second mug towards him, smiling.
"Three-hundred, from three. Log-tastic."
"Geek puns. Wonderful." He accepted the mug, the warmth spreading through the thin leather to his fingers, and he stared down at the steaming surface. There was silence for a moment.
"You’d like it. I mean, some of them are bloody useless, and there’re some funny ideas floating around, but… it’s working. Really working."
"Without me?"
"No."
There was another smile on her lips when he looked up, a different one from before, and she leaned forward. Her fingertips stopped an inch away from his, flat on the table. He didn’t move, staring at the hand as if it were something alien.
"…yes." It was surprisingly hard to say, and he shook his head, trying to somehow shake his thoughts back onto a sensible track. "Yes, it’s working. Without you. Without me, for a bit. They did well."
"You taught them well."
"And you," he snapped back. "They haven’t forgotten - "
"But they will." And then she looked at him.
Her eyes were blue. They’d been blue before, at the end, as the blood soaked into his gloves. Her fingers slid closer.
"How many of them remember the before? How many remember me, compared to what I became?"
"That wasn’t you."
"It became me." She sat back, and pushed a thin strand of near-white behind her ear. "And now more come, to what we built, to you, and I’m a memory, a fear, a story to be whispered about in the night. What did I do? Does it matter? It’ll change, it always does, until I’m nothing more than a nightmare and a name on a stone."
"I won’t let that happen." His fist clenched again, hard enough for the nails to dig into his palm through the leather. When she laughed, the sound bit deep.
"Yes, you will. You already killed me once. Now you’ve got to let me die."
It was getting dark again. He looked up, clenched fists pressed painfully hard into the tabletop.
"You’re not a monster."
She stood up, smoothly pushing the chair back into place, and put her empty mug down.
"You never finished your tea."
"Dammit!" He stood up, sending the chair flying backwards, and brought his hands down so hard that the table rocked violently. "Would you have done different? With everything on an express-train to hell, everything, and it was me at the wheel?"
Pain in his chest, the skin bubbled like hot wax, as around him the world came apart in fire and brilliance and a beauty so harsh it stripped to the bone. The floor buckled, fractured in a glacier’s death throes, and above it all she laughed, high and clear. Tearing it all apart, for the joy of the thing, even as he lunged -
The cone of light was fading. She was fading, the liquid darkness flowing back up around her, as the little table and chairs melted away.
"What would you have done?" The words, an intended yell, came out strange, muffled, as the sound drained away. He fought, like he always did, as the light shrank, darkness flooding back in, and the last thing he saw was her face, an ivory mask with blackness pooling in the eyes.
"What had to be done. But it was never going to be me. We knew."
A click, right on the edge of hearing, and the light vanished.
Everything vanished, like it always did.
These days, his fists seemed always to ache when he woke up. He wasn’t sure why.
Bad dreams, perhaps.
Title: A little dream of you.
Genre: Fantasy, emotional, slightly dark. Genres are so not helpful.
Words: 1,112.
Summary: All stories come to an end. Letting go is another matter.
A little dream of you
It was always dark here.
Footfalls echoed thickly, muffled as if by cloth, as the man moved forward. It had been disconcerting once, the way the dull sound of his boots was out of time to his movement, the heavy blackness wrapping his senses more completely than any true night ever had, but repetition breeds the familiar. He’d been here before. In a way, he supposed he always was.
A click, right on the edge of hearing, and a cone of light opened out into the blackness, highlighting the small round table and cushioned chairs that sat in the centre of the brightness. The sudden furniture wasn’t so much illuminated as very suddenly there, like a shifted page in a flick-book. He’d learned not to care about that either, and moved his out-of-time footsteps towards the scene.
He paused on the edge of the light, noting for the thousandth time how the brilliance didn’t leave its cone. Another step forward, and a gloved hand appeared, followed by an arm and boots below, as the heavily-garbed man melded out of the darkness, shedding his cloak and sitting down in one smooth movement. There was a large, softly steaming tea-pot on the table, and two slightly chipped mugs.
Another footstep, soft as whisper, and the man looked up as she stepped into the cone of light, the thick black air draining away as if she were surfacing from some dark liquid. She looked the same. Hair scraped back a little severely, the ponytail cutting a rule-straight tail down her back, only a shade or so darker than the pale shirt she wore, high-collared and buttoned to the throat. She didn’t look at him, yet, but sat down silently and reached for the pot.
"Why do we do this?" He hadn’t meant to speak, but for once the words slipped his guard.
The first stream of tea steamed into its mug.
"You ask that every time." Her voice was the same. Like it used to be, before.
"You’ve not answered yet." His left hand trembled, leather creaking softly as his fingers twitched. She stopped pouring and set the pot down slowly. She didn’t look up.
"What would you like me to say? If it’s forgiveness, I can’t give it, and you don’t want it. We always knew - "
"I know," his snap was hard, and he looked down, glaring accusingly at the table’s pitted surface. "That’s…"
"Not the point?"
"No." He stopped, and sagged, the anger draining out of his stance. "It’s not. We all knew. Know, if honestly is the game of the day, even if things are a bit different now."
"I’ll say." She laughed. Quietly, but it was there. "You’re doing quite well, I hear." There was a scrape as she reached over and pulled the second mug towards her, picking up the pot again.
"Hah," he snorted, but the sides of his lips twitched, slightly, as he looked back up again. "It’s not like we thought it’d be, all this. We’re over three hundred strong now, you realise?"
The pot clunked down again, and she pushed the second mug towards him, smiling.
"Three-hundred, from three. Log-tastic."
"Geek puns. Wonderful." He accepted the mug, the warmth spreading through the thin leather to his fingers, and he stared down at the steaming surface. There was silence for a moment.
"You’d like it. I mean, some of them are bloody useless, and there’re some funny ideas floating around, but… it’s working. Really working."
"Without me?"
"No."
There was another smile on her lips when he looked up, a different one from before, and she leaned forward. Her fingertips stopped an inch away from his, flat on the table. He didn’t move, staring at the hand as if it were something alien.
"…yes." It was surprisingly hard to say, and he shook his head, trying to somehow shake his thoughts back onto a sensible track. "Yes, it’s working. Without you. Without me, for a bit. They did well."
"You taught them well."
"And you," he snapped back. "They haven’t forgotten - "
"But they will." And then she looked at him.
Her eyes were blue. They’d been blue before, at the end, as the blood soaked into his gloves. Her fingers slid closer.
"How many of them remember the before? How many remember me, compared to what I became?"
"That wasn’t you."
"It became me." She sat back, and pushed a thin strand of near-white behind her ear. "And now more come, to what we built, to you, and I’m a memory, a fear, a story to be whispered about in the night. What did I do? Does it matter? It’ll change, it always does, until I’m nothing more than a nightmare and a name on a stone."
"I won’t let that happen." His fist clenched again, hard enough for the nails to dig into his palm through the leather. When she laughed, the sound bit deep.
"Yes, you will. You already killed me once. Now you’ve got to let me die."
It was getting dark again. He looked up, clenched fists pressed painfully hard into the tabletop.
"You’re not a monster."
She stood up, smoothly pushing the chair back into place, and put her empty mug down.
"You never finished your tea."
"Dammit!" He stood up, sending the chair flying backwards, and brought his hands down so hard that the table rocked violently. "Would you have done different? With everything on an express-train to hell, everything, and it was me at the wheel?"
Pain in his chest, the skin bubbled like hot wax, as around him the world came apart in fire and brilliance and a beauty so harsh it stripped to the bone. The floor buckled, fractured in a glacier’s death throes, and above it all she laughed, high and clear. Tearing it all apart, for the joy of the thing, even as he lunged -
The cone of light was fading. She was fading, the liquid darkness flowing back up around her, as the little table and chairs melted away.
"What would you have done?" The words, an intended yell, came out strange, muffled, as the sound drained away. He fought, like he always did, as the light shrank, darkness flooding back in, and the last thing he saw was her face, an ivory mask with blackness pooling in the eyes.
"What had to be done. But it was never going to be me. We knew."
A click, right on the edge of hearing, and the light vanished.
Everything vanished, like it always did.
These days, his fists seemed always to ache when he woke up. He wasn’t sure why.
Bad dreams, perhaps.