Micro-fics - second batch - Highlander
Here are two more of the micro-fics -- Both Highlander this time.
As requested by idontlikegravy:
Forgiveness
For all that he had been a priest for many centuries by the time François Mitterrand was President of France, Darius never quite forgave him for the pyramid at the Louvre.
Sage
“What did you put in this time?” Methos sputtered as he took an incautiously large sip of the latest of Darius’ concoctions; Darius just smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Sunshine
Darius stepped out of the close confines of the small house on the mountain hillside and tipped his face up to the thin winter sunshine. The child would live.
Lemon
Darius smiled as he listened to the good woman who had the proud duty to polish the furniture in the sanctuary earnestly chide the young person assisting her this week: “Oh no, put that directly away; none of that modern chemistry in this parish. Lemon and beeswax, the good Father’s own recipe, plus plenty of elbow-grease is all that’s needed here.”
Gravestone
“I wish I had one of your infernal, inimitable brews to offer as a libation, old friend,” Methos said quietly as he uncorked the flask he had brought with him; a scent of apple and honey breathed out as he filled two glasses, sipped appreciatively from one and carefully poured out the other at the base of the gravestone. “You’ll have to make do with one of mine instead. You shall be missed.”
Read on AO3
As requested by
morgynleri:
Darius: truth, haunted, ocean, king, feral
Truth
“Truth. Truth is a wreath of pretty flowers, that smell bad,” Fitz declared, waving his glass for a refill.
Methos obliged, as Darius remarked with a twinkle, “Logic, not truth.”
Haunted
It amuses Darius somewhat that now St Julien’s truly is haunted, fewer people than before are willing to actually say so.
Ocean
Paris is far from the ocean, but for much the same reason that Methos dislikes sailing, Darius does not miss the open water.
King
Darius surveyed his opponent more closely than he did the board before moving his final piece into position to take the black king. “Checkmate. Now, Old Friend, perhaps you will tell me what is so amiss that I could beat you with that move.”
Feral
Feral creatures seemed to find Darius, cats and dogs seeking shelter in the churchyard, sustenance in the scant leavings in the narrow way behind the cloister. This wasn’t even the first time he’d been the refuge of an abandoned child, but it was the first time a (for all intents and purposes) feral adult had come to him. Then he looked closer, and realized he knew the man.
Read on AO3
This entry was originally posted at http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/219491.html, where there are currently
comments. Please comment there using OpenID.
As requested by idontlikegravy:
Forgiveness
For all that he had been a priest for many centuries by the time François Mitterrand was President of France, Darius never quite forgave him for the pyramid at the Louvre.
Sage
“What did you put in this time?” Methos sputtered as he took an incautiously large sip of the latest of Darius’ concoctions; Darius just smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Sunshine
Darius stepped out of the close confines of the small house on the mountain hillside and tipped his face up to the thin winter sunshine. The child would live.
Lemon
Darius smiled as he listened to the good woman who had the proud duty to polish the furniture in the sanctuary earnestly chide the young person assisting her this week: “Oh no, put that directly away; none of that modern chemistry in this parish. Lemon and beeswax, the good Father’s own recipe, plus plenty of elbow-grease is all that’s needed here.”
Gravestone
“I wish I had one of your infernal, inimitable brews to offer as a libation, old friend,” Methos said quietly as he uncorked the flask he had brought with him; a scent of apple and honey breathed out as he filled two glasses, sipped appreciatively from one and carefully poured out the other at the base of the gravestone. “You’ll have to make do with one of mine instead. You shall be missed.”
Read on AO3
As requested by
morgynleri:
Darius: truth, haunted, ocean, king, feral
Truth
“Truth. Truth is a wreath of pretty flowers, that smell bad,” Fitz declared, waving his glass for a refill.
Methos obliged, as Darius remarked with a twinkle, “Logic, not truth.”
Haunted
It amuses Darius somewhat that now St Julien’s truly is haunted, fewer people than before are willing to actually say so.
Ocean
Paris is far from the ocean, but for much the same reason that Methos dislikes sailing, Darius does not miss the open water.
King
Darius surveyed his opponent more closely than he did the board before moving his final piece into position to take the black king. “Checkmate. Now, Old Friend, perhaps you will tell me what is so amiss that I could beat you with that move.”
Feral
Feral creatures seemed to find Darius, cats and dogs seeking shelter in the churchyard, sustenance in the scant leavings in the narrow way behind the cloister. This wasn’t even the first time he’d been the refuge of an abandoned child, but it was the first time a (for all intents and purposes) feral adult had come to him. Then he looked closer, and realized he knew the man.
Read on AO3
This entry was originally posted at http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/219491.html, where there are currently
comments. Please comment there using OpenID.