[1/2] Favoring Fire
Title: Favoring Fire (part one of two)
Rating/warnings: PG-13; violence and a few nondescript sex scenes (Tracy/Samhain). Also, a lack of quotation marks for no reason other than it seemed to fit. I don't know; it's almost midnight here.
Summary: Tracy has been waiting a long time for Samhain. Tag to 4.07, It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester
Note: My second fic for spn_coda_bingo. The prompt was Tracy; long time. Title is taken from Robert Frost's Fire and Ice. The second part of this should be up tonight or tomorrow.
Treva meets him on the night when the fires burn brightest in a last attempt to drive away the darkness. It will fail; it always fails, and she knows that there isn't much of a point to it besides pleasing a few rigid priests and priestesses. But the elders glare disapprovingly whenever she or another brings this up and murmur about no respect for tradition and losing the way of the old gods.
Still, right now she thinks that it's worth it, this ritual for the dying Earth, because otherwise the tall stranger wouldn't be sharing the fire with her.
Tell me your name, she says teasingly. I won't give it up.
He smiles at her with perfect white teeth. Samhain, he says.
That's a time and a fest, she answers. 't isn't fit for a man like yourself.
Good enough for the gods, good enough for me, he replies, and the way the fire catches his eyes makes them look strange and animalistic.
It's an old name, and you're a young man. Why hang on to something so outdated?
The old ways have power, he says in an almost chastising manner, but somehow she doesn't feel belittled or mocked like she does when her father says the same thing to her. When Samhain says it, she can almost believe it.
Have you that power, then? she asks slyly, daring to touch his arm.
He looks at her and smiles, and the way her heart speeds up is answer enough.
That night they go away from the fire and go into the darkness, coming together with a heat all of their own. In the distance the crackling of the fires mingles with their quickened breaths and soft gasps, and the normal noises of the land -the late bird calls and the wind rushing through the trees- have muted. For the first time since she was a child she feels the power that the night holds, as the ordinary world around her turns into something dark and magnificent.
When it's over they lie together and watch the flames burn lower and lower. The darkness will take over soon; it always does.
Treva turns to Samhain when a single spark is glowing and most of the shadowy figures have long since departed. Where are you from?
Somewhere very far, he replies. The first star of morning has just become visible in the gray sky, shining dimly through the smoke and the trees.
Will you be back?
He rolls over onto his side. Even in the dimness she can see the sweat that slicks his sculpted chest, traces of the sleepless night. Will you wait, Treva?
Of course, she says. She can wait a day, a month, a season for him to come back.
Samhain smiles. Then be faithful and I will be.
She laughs and doesn't consider that he's serious until she returns from getting a drink from the brook and find that he's gone.
***
A year later Treva gives in to her father's wishes and pledges herself as an apprentice to the high priestess. There are whispers on the wind of a new religion gaining in the south, and she's found that the traditions have begun to sit right with her after all.
Samhain hasn't come back, and part of her wonders if he was one of the faeries. It would explain the lack of a real name, she reasons, and the way he was able to draw her in as soon as he met her. No man has been able to do that since.
***
The high priestess teaches her all the rituals that she needs to know; the good ones, the holy ones. At night she studies the old, dark ways with men with black eyes who find her and tell her his name. It's their key, and it's how she eventually comes to know what to do.
***
When the priests come they beg her to repent, telling her gruesome stories of blackened souls and disappointed fathers. In return, she tells them about her gods, and how important it is to keep them pleased.
They turn to threats about hellfire and eternity. She smiles and relates to them the most gruesome successes that her people ever had in battle.
***
Treva's people start to turn away from her, one by one. She comes to the time where she knows that an apprentice should be selected, but no one steps forward, and no fathers shove their daughters to the sacred path.
She doesn't mind. She guards her secrets too carefully to want to pass them on.
***
Samhain comes, and she's the only one who burns a fire. At the point when the sky is the darkest and the stars are the brightest she walks away from the field and into the woods.
There's one grove that everyone avoids; even the missionaries have been overcome with that one superstition. They say it's Fey-touched, and that to enter means that you'll be taken away to a world of frail perfection that you never can leave.
No one else has seen the prisoner there, the handsome man bound to the tree. As far as they're concerned, he was dragged off on a tragic hunt.
She cups his chin and raises the knife, relishing the terror in his eyes. "You'll be the third that we've lost in three days. And to think, 'tis all for a ritual that might not even work."
Treva thinks that she hears the big man scream when she slits his throat, but it's hard to be sure with the gag over his mouth.
***
The body isn't his, but it's Samhain; it has to be. It has his eyes and it has his kiss.
We don't have much time, he says. It's too early.
Too early for what? she wants to ask, but she knows he won't answer, so instead she says, Then we should make the most of it.
He smiles and says We should, and in the distance she can feel an energy building, something strong and evil. Soon they block out their stars; black and dark and thick, like the smoke from her fire, but with a greater energy; a stronger passion. It has the wildness of fire, but at the same time it's exactly the darkness that the night seeks to drive off.
She shudders as the sensation overcomes her and she loses herself to the rabid dance of Samhain's army. She becomes his consort; the high empress of destruction, and it fulfills her more than anything she ever has done.
In the midst of it all, she asks him if she can be this forever. The madness is addictive; she can't go back to the old ways. The three men she killed is proof enough of that. That, and the pleasure that she takes from all the destruction they're causing isn't something that can be tastes only once. She knows this inherently.
He cups her chin and kisses her roughly. No.
I need this, she whispers, almost ready to beg. Let me come. Let me stand by your side.
Hell isn't your place. Not yet. I need you here, little witch. You'll come for me when the time is right. He shudders with a spasm of pain, not ecstasy, and she can tell that the dance won't last much longer.
How will I know, though? she asks desperately.
Wait, he says, and the demons that swirl around them seem to be very far away. Wait and be loyal, Treva.
***
She wakes up in the grove, alone. The sharp smell of smoke is in the air, coming in from a source close by. It isn't from her bonfire, she knows that.
A short walk brings her to the ages-old center of life for her clan, where she surveys the destruction impassively. There's nothing left in the village now, least of all anything that would inspire her to stay.
Treva turns and walks away, heading northward with her pack of dark-magic relics. She's got a long time to wait, and she might as well make some use of it.
Part II here
Rating/warnings: PG-13; violence and a few nondescript sex scenes (Tracy/Samhain). Also, a lack of quotation marks for no reason other than it seemed to fit. I don't know; it's almost midnight here.
Summary: Tracy has been waiting a long time for Samhain. Tag to 4.07, It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester
Note: My second fic for spn_coda_bingo. The prompt was Tracy; long time. Title is taken from Robert Frost's Fire and Ice. The second part of this should be up tonight or tomorrow.
Treva meets him on the night when the fires burn brightest in a last attempt to drive away the darkness. It will fail; it always fails, and she knows that there isn't much of a point to it besides pleasing a few rigid priests and priestesses. But the elders glare disapprovingly whenever she or another brings this up and murmur about no respect for tradition and losing the way of the old gods.
Still, right now she thinks that it's worth it, this ritual for the dying Earth, because otherwise the tall stranger wouldn't be sharing the fire with her.
Tell me your name, she says teasingly. I won't give it up.
He smiles at her with perfect white teeth. Samhain, he says.
That's a time and a fest, she answers. 't isn't fit for a man like yourself.
Good enough for the gods, good enough for me, he replies, and the way the fire catches his eyes makes them look strange and animalistic.
It's an old name, and you're a young man. Why hang on to something so outdated?
The old ways have power, he says in an almost chastising manner, but somehow she doesn't feel belittled or mocked like she does when her father says the same thing to her. When Samhain says it, she can almost believe it.
Have you that power, then? she asks slyly, daring to touch his arm.
He looks at her and smiles, and the way her heart speeds up is answer enough.
That night they go away from the fire and go into the darkness, coming together with a heat all of their own. In the distance the crackling of the fires mingles with their quickened breaths and soft gasps, and the normal noises of the land -the late bird calls and the wind rushing through the trees- have muted. For the first time since she was a child she feels the power that the night holds, as the ordinary world around her turns into something dark and magnificent.
When it's over they lie together and watch the flames burn lower and lower. The darkness will take over soon; it always does.
Treva turns to Samhain when a single spark is glowing and most of the shadowy figures have long since departed. Where are you from?
Somewhere very far, he replies. The first star of morning has just become visible in the gray sky, shining dimly through the smoke and the trees.
Will you be back?
He rolls over onto his side. Even in the dimness she can see the sweat that slicks his sculpted chest, traces of the sleepless night. Will you wait, Treva?
Of course, she says. She can wait a day, a month, a season for him to come back.
Samhain smiles. Then be faithful and I will be.
She laughs and doesn't consider that he's serious until she returns from getting a drink from the brook and find that he's gone.
***
A year later Treva gives in to her father's wishes and pledges herself as an apprentice to the high priestess. There are whispers on the wind of a new religion gaining in the south, and she's found that the traditions have begun to sit right with her after all.
Samhain hasn't come back, and part of her wonders if he was one of the faeries. It would explain the lack of a real name, she reasons, and the way he was able to draw her in as soon as he met her. No man has been able to do that since.
***
The high priestess teaches her all the rituals that she needs to know; the good ones, the holy ones. At night she studies the old, dark ways with men with black eyes who find her and tell her his name. It's their key, and it's how she eventually comes to know what to do.
***
When the priests come they beg her to repent, telling her gruesome stories of blackened souls and disappointed fathers. In return, she tells them about her gods, and how important it is to keep them pleased.
They turn to threats about hellfire and eternity. She smiles and relates to them the most gruesome successes that her people ever had in battle.
***
Treva's people start to turn away from her, one by one. She comes to the time where she knows that an apprentice should be selected, but no one steps forward, and no fathers shove their daughters to the sacred path.
She doesn't mind. She guards her secrets too carefully to want to pass them on.
***
Samhain comes, and she's the only one who burns a fire. At the point when the sky is the darkest and the stars are the brightest she walks away from the field and into the woods.
There's one grove that everyone avoids; even the missionaries have been overcome with that one superstition. They say it's Fey-touched, and that to enter means that you'll be taken away to a world of frail perfection that you never can leave.
No one else has seen the prisoner there, the handsome man bound to the tree. As far as they're concerned, he was dragged off on a tragic hunt.
She cups his chin and raises the knife, relishing the terror in his eyes. "You'll be the third that we've lost in three days. And to think, 'tis all for a ritual that might not even work."
Treva thinks that she hears the big man scream when she slits his throat, but it's hard to be sure with the gag over his mouth.
***
The body isn't his, but it's Samhain; it has to be. It has his eyes and it has his kiss.
We don't have much time, he says. It's too early.
Too early for what? she wants to ask, but she knows he won't answer, so instead she says, Then we should make the most of it.
He smiles and says We should, and in the distance she can feel an energy building, something strong and evil. Soon they block out their stars; black and dark and thick, like the smoke from her fire, but with a greater energy; a stronger passion. It has the wildness of fire, but at the same time it's exactly the darkness that the night seeks to drive off.
She shudders as the sensation overcomes her and she loses herself to the rabid dance of Samhain's army. She becomes his consort; the high empress of destruction, and it fulfills her more than anything she ever has done.
In the midst of it all, she asks him if she can be this forever. The madness is addictive; she can't go back to the old ways. The three men she killed is proof enough of that. That, and the pleasure that she takes from all the destruction they're causing isn't something that can be tastes only once. She knows this inherently.
He cups her chin and kisses her roughly. No.
I need this, she whispers, almost ready to beg. Let me come. Let me stand by your side.
Hell isn't your place. Not yet. I need you here, little witch. You'll come for me when the time is right. He shudders with a spasm of pain, not ecstasy, and she can tell that the dance won't last much longer.
How will I know, though? she asks desperately.
Wait, he says, and the demons that swirl around them seem to be very far away. Wait and be loyal, Treva.
***
She wakes up in the grove, alone. The sharp smell of smoke is in the air, coming in from a source close by. It isn't from her bonfire, she knows that.
A short walk brings her to the ages-old center of life for her clan, where she surveys the destruction impassively. There's nothing left in the village now, least of all anything that would inspire her to stay.
Treva turns and walks away, heading northward with her pack of dark-magic relics. She's got a long time to wait, and she might as well make some use of it.
Part II here