[drabble(ish): sparky]
hope is the thing with feathers
pretty much breaks away after 'Lifeline' and doesn't look back.
can you tell I don't like season 4?
angst + hope because I appear to be incapable of anything else
404 words
this was supposed to be a drabble for luxuria_oceanus for a set of poetic prompts she issued at spark_daily a loooong time ago. going through the great big folder of fic that languishes on my hard drive, I realized it was never posted. Sorry Ani *blushes*
‘Hope is the thing with feathers,’ he remembers, standing on a familiar balcony under skies that are still foreign to him. It seems like a lifetime ago- once upon a time they’d stood here together, on another planet so it wasn’t exactly here, but close enough. Just one more time when they'd only barely cheated disaster. She'd quoted Emily Dickinson at him and said that hope never leaves and that was why they couldn't give up. He'd believed her then, back when things were so remarkably simple and desperately confusing in the same breath; and there was still hope even when their lives were hanging in the balance. She believed there was hope, and he'd believed in her long enough to trust that she was right.
She used to come to this balcony more than any other person in Atlantis, and by unspoken agreement now that she's… not here- most people left it to sit in silence and wait for her. Except for him. Because he still comes to this place every day right around now. And since she's not here to see it, he watches the sunsets for her and counts the days.
It's the sixty-seventh day, the sixty seventh sunset- and not many people know how long it's been off the top of their heads- when a milky white feather drifts along the breeze and lands at his feet. It's impossibly perfect and he wonders what kind of bird it was from and if she would like it and if she even likes birds, and he remembers standing here when she wouldn't give up. On him, on this city, on the lives she’d promised to protect.
When the last rays of sunlight leave the sky he knows it's time to leave again. Tomorrow will be another day spent much like this one, running the city, trying to learn everything he possibly can about them- but mostly, trying to bring her home. He pauses to pick up the simple white feather on his way back inside. He thinks he'll show it to her when she gets home, and the simple words she spoke way back then become something living, tangible, real. He’s going to bring her home.
and sweetest in the gale is heard; and sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm.
-Emily Dickinson
pretty much breaks away after 'Lifeline' and doesn't look back.
can you tell I don't like season 4?
angst + hope because I appear to be incapable of anything else
404 words
this was supposed to be a drabble for luxuria_oceanus for a set of poetic prompts she issued at spark_daily a loooong time ago. going through the great big folder of fic that languishes on my hard drive, I realized it was never posted. Sorry Ani *blushes*
‘Hope is the thing with feathers,’ he remembers, standing on a familiar balcony under skies that are still foreign to him. It seems like a lifetime ago- once upon a time they’d stood here together, on another planet so it wasn’t exactly here, but close enough. Just one more time when they'd only barely cheated disaster. She'd quoted Emily Dickinson at him and said that hope never leaves and that was why they couldn't give up. He'd believed her then, back when things were so remarkably simple and desperately confusing in the same breath; and there was still hope even when their lives were hanging in the balance. She believed there was hope, and he'd believed in her long enough to trust that she was right.
She used to come to this balcony more than any other person in Atlantis, and by unspoken agreement now that she's… not here- most people left it to sit in silence and wait for her. Except for him. Because he still comes to this place every day right around now. And since she's not here to see it, he watches the sunsets for her and counts the days.
It's the sixty-seventh day, the sixty seventh sunset- and not many people know how long it's been off the top of their heads- when a milky white feather drifts along the breeze and lands at his feet. It's impossibly perfect and he wonders what kind of bird it was from and if she would like it and if she even likes birds, and he remembers standing here when she wouldn't give up. On him, on this city, on the lives she’d promised to protect.
When the last rays of sunlight leave the sky he knows it's time to leave again. Tomorrow will be another day spent much like this one, running the city, trying to learn everything he possibly can about them- but mostly, trying to bring her home. He pauses to pick up the simple white feather on his way back inside. He thinks he'll show it to her when she gets home, and the simple words she spoke way back then become something living, tangible, real. He’s going to bring her home.
and sweetest in the gale is heard; and sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm.
-Emily Dickinson