Timestamp Fic: In the Flash of Morning Light (SPN/AtS Crossover)
Here's a drabble (of almost 400 words) in reponse to a comment on my Timestamp Meme post. Someone wanted a Vamp!Winchester fic set between my AtS/SPN Vamp!Winchester fics Sight and Circle.
Here it is.
She is the first to know - intuition, more than Sight, acting as her guide. She feels a chill when she should be warm; the weight of the air in a breezy room. She senses the wrongness in the world in a way that she never has before.
And that is how she knows that this time is different. This time her strange sort of knowing is meant for more than keeping her separate from the other slaves, in her own hut right near the main house.
This time she barricades her door at night. Burns her best white candles - has Adelandi’s boy fetch her moss and pine and snake root. Her fear is so sharp and powerful even Master can see it. And he doesn’t say anything when she takes to wearing her incense around her neck, tossing it behind her steps as she shuffles between the kitchen and the woodshed.
Since she was a girl, the visions have come in snatches of thought and memory - rising off of people like smoke off of water.
Now they come in the form of a man. With a young face and wrong-old eyes. Saying, “Mississippi,” with a lilt in her name and Master’s blood on his lips.
They come in the flash of morning light off of fangs and there isn’t even time to scream.
She’s gone in a smile, a blink, a snarl. And then the thing that’s murdered her looks to his companions, spread out around the fancy, blood-splattered parlor room.
“A serpent in her pocket. The birdie should have been more swift to sing,” murmurs the odd-minded one in the corner, as the eldest pets her hair.
“Well, Samuel, I’ll give you this,” says the large one, embracing her killer. “I am enjoying the Americas. Let’s not rush through them. We’ll stay here awhile before we go find our friend the friar, hmm?”
She thinks of friends - of fathers. Of children with dirty white faces and big, warm eyes. With futures waiting to swallow their souls like small plums - nothing left but pits and sorrow.
When her thoughts are all that’s left of her she lets go of the world and prays that hope will find its way into it somehow.
[ end. ]
Here it is.
She is the first to know - intuition, more than Sight, acting as her guide. She feels a chill when she should be warm; the weight of the air in a breezy room. She senses the wrongness in the world in a way that she never has before.
And that is how she knows that this time is different. This time her strange sort of knowing is meant for more than keeping her separate from the other slaves, in her own hut right near the main house.
This time she barricades her door at night. Burns her best white candles - has Adelandi’s boy fetch her moss and pine and snake root. Her fear is so sharp and powerful even Master can see it. And he doesn’t say anything when she takes to wearing her incense around her neck, tossing it behind her steps as she shuffles between the kitchen and the woodshed.
Since she was a girl, the visions have come in snatches of thought and memory - rising off of people like smoke off of water.
Now they come in the form of a man. With a young face and wrong-old eyes. Saying, “Mississippi,” with a lilt in her name and Master’s blood on his lips.
They come in the flash of morning light off of fangs and there isn’t even time to scream.
She’s gone in a smile, a blink, a snarl. And then the thing that’s murdered her looks to his companions, spread out around the fancy, blood-splattered parlor room.
“A serpent in her pocket. The birdie should have been more swift to sing,” murmurs the odd-minded one in the corner, as the eldest pets her hair.
“Well, Samuel, I’ll give you this,” says the large one, embracing her killer. “I am enjoying the Americas. Let’s not rush through them. We’ll stay here awhile before we go find our friend the friar, hmm?”
She thinks of friends - of fathers. Of children with dirty white faces and big, warm eyes. With futures waiting to swallow their souls like small plums - nothing left but pits and sorrow.
When her thoughts are all that’s left of her she lets go of the world and prays that hope will find its way into it somehow.
[ end. ]