Trophy (fic)
Title: Trophy
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: PG
Word Count: 366
Characters/Pairings: Sylar
Disclaimer: Don’t own.
Spoilers/Time Line: 'One of Us, One of Them'
Summery: A trophy of mercy, is a trophy no more
Author’s Notes: I tried to fill a prompt albion1919 gave me but it didn't really work out and I got this instead. also un beta'd
PROMPT TABLES Un_love_you prompt # 22 "I hate myself"
Sylar receives a package in the mail. It's waiting for him when comes into the office in the morning. He pauses when he sees the writing on the front, mouth becoming dry as he stares at it for a while.
The words 'From Mother' were stamped on the side.
'Notmymothernotmymothernotmymother' he counts the seconds to break the stream of contentiousness. The handwriting was different than what he had known before. He picked up the envelope and shook it in his hands. The something inside scrapped against the box.
The box had a white envelope attached. Inside was a small note written in Angela's scribe, it simply read:
She left this behind. Said she didn't have a use for it anymore.
I thought you might like have it.
-Angela
He sat down behind his desk, ripped it opened and dumped it's contents out into his hands. The sensation hit him so fast he didn't have time to think, but he have time enough to scream.
Memories; sharp and crushing, rushed into him raping his mind. He crumpled to the floor pushing the away with his powers. There were tears in his eyes, his heart pounded in his chest and his breath caught in his throat.
Born in the dirt ... dug out and forged. So much fire, so many hands, the heat of flame and fever and hotly whispered prayers.
The blaze of a fire as a house burned in the night ... sunlight blaring on sun boiled skin ... of sweat of fingers of love ...
Death and plenty of it. So much, so many, but clearer ... Old men hunched over their instruments, young mothers lie in the dirt, children's feet sticking out of the door ways ... their shoes had a very little shine left.
And fingers worked over, worried over, prodded, grasped, clenched so hard that sunlight seemed a stranger. Lips kissing metal and skin and the element slid across perspiration while its chain caught in the creases of a new wet darkness.
Then the light, the blinding light and blood, blood, blood. How it seeped into every crevice.
His hands shook as they cradled his head. The gold cross dropped from them, clattering to the floor. He fell over onto his side and sobbed.