FICLET: "New Moon" (Tom/Minerva, PG-13)
Title: "New Moon"
Pairing: Tom/Minerva
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Rating: PG-13
Length: 300 words
"New Moon"
I think everything has passed away. Love and home, safety and passion- lost. I struggle to see through the darkness, but it reigns supreme, a new moon without a promise of birth. It's a strange thing, the new moon. At once it is both gone and more there than ever.
I turn in my bed and find only emptiness. Cold sheets where there should be warmth and touch and him. Like the serpent on my skin, I become chilled, slowly growing numb in the barrenness of cotton and down. And it’s so easy to lay here, to lose myself in memory and hope, both equally without substance yet seductive whispers of what could be again. I know it never will be, but they are my last connection to him, to us.
Did I fail him so readily? Or have I failed myself? I should I have spoken sooner. Or maybe not at all. Stood beside him. Stopped him. Fought, surrendered, begged, demanded. Something that was right.
I turn with a faint creak that is either the mattress below me or the complaints of young bones too soon kept immobile. I should rise, feed my body though I do not hunger. I should wash and walk and breathe. But everything out there will be saturated with his touch, and at least here I can imagine that the weight of the fading quilt above me might be his caress. Or more easily that I dream the solitude which I lie in. I shall wake soon to the light streaming in the window which will be clean again. I shall turn my face away from the light and meet his gaze.
All I must do is lie.
And so I do. In bed and to myself. He’s not returning.
And neither am I.
Pairing: Tom/Minerva
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Rating: PG-13
Length: 300 words
"New Moon"
I think everything has passed away. Love and home, safety and passion- lost. I struggle to see through the darkness, but it reigns supreme, a new moon without a promise of birth. It's a strange thing, the new moon. At once it is both gone and more there than ever.
I turn in my bed and find only emptiness. Cold sheets where there should be warmth and touch and him. Like the serpent on my skin, I become chilled, slowly growing numb in the barrenness of cotton and down. And it’s so easy to lay here, to lose myself in memory and hope, both equally without substance yet seductive whispers of what could be again. I know it never will be, but they are my last connection to him, to us.
Did I fail him so readily? Or have I failed myself? I should I have spoken sooner. Or maybe not at all. Stood beside him. Stopped him. Fought, surrendered, begged, demanded. Something that was right.
I turn with a faint creak that is either the mattress below me or the complaints of young bones too soon kept immobile. I should rise, feed my body though I do not hunger. I should wash and walk and breathe. But everything out there will be saturated with his touch, and at least here I can imagine that the weight of the fading quilt above me might be his caress. Or more easily that I dream the solitude which I lie in. I shall wake soon to the light streaming in the window which will be clean again. I shall turn my face away from the light and meet his gaze.
All I must do is lie.
And so I do. In bed and to myself. He’s not returning.
And neither am I.