for challenge ... was it #7?
Hello!
I finally dragged my lazy behind to write something for this challenge. Now I'll do my best to try and make the "cut thinguie" work...
Title: (errr, I suck at titles...) Growing Shadows
Word count: 477
Who and what: guest star, the Scutum Silver Saint, happily going mad.
Warnings: none of any importance :)
It’s been a long summer day, as hot as it can get in a dusty place up in a mountaintop in the Greek summer. As the sun goes down, a myriad of shadows creep their way over one of the hills in Sanctuary, much like a ballet company at the sound of some unheard music. If we could hear the sound maybe there would be a soft crescendo now, as the figure of a man gets up only to kneel down a few meters away. Unbothered by the red light of the setting sun, a pair of eyes looks down and long delicate fingers pace over a warm stone.
"There is still light for a few more. Maybe I’ll find it today. Maybe…maybe I’ll be free today."
The same scene happens again and again, almost identical but for the changing light of the sun on the man’s long, untidy hair. The shadows merge with one another, and the first stars in the sky cast an uncertain light on the land below. Still, the tall figure can be seen against the darkened sky. Unable to see much anymore, the man takes longer each time he goes down on the now cool stones but he doesn’t seem to care.
"I just need to keep on looking, I’m sure it’s here, somewhere. I just need to find it and I’ll be free."
With bloodied fingers, the Scutum Silver Saint follows lines that time has almost erased from the tomb in front of him, while his mind travels back to the day when his first trainee died. In a night much like this, he sent the kid to climb one of the many cliffs in Sanctuary, oblivious to his cries and his pleas. In a night completely unlike this, he was so confident he was doing the right thing pushing the kid harder every day.
It wasn’t his fault the child had fallen off that cliff. It wasn’t his fault he broke his neck and died. It wasn’t his fault his hands were so cut and swollen because of the training earlier that day that he couldn't hold on to the rocks. Or maybe it was, and that’s why he kept on dreaming with those green eyes. Maybe it was and he should have buried the kid himself instead of having one of the soldiers do it. And now he would now where the tomb was. Now he could go and ask the boy to forgive him. The Pope had said he might feel better if he asked the kid for forgiveness.
"I’m sure it’s here, somewhere. His tomb, it must be here!"
From behind a passing cloud, the moon sheds its silvery light on the trainees’ cemetery. Long lines of small tombs, all nearly identical, seem to laugh at the maddened man who cries -haunted by the memory of a child who should have not died.
I finally dragged my lazy behind to write something for this challenge. Now I'll do my best to try and make the "cut thinguie" work...
Title: (errr, I suck at titles...) Growing Shadows
Word count: 477
Who and what: guest star, the Scutum Silver Saint, happily going mad.
Warnings: none of any importance :)
It’s been a long summer day, as hot as it can get in a dusty place up in a mountaintop in the Greek summer. As the sun goes down, a myriad of shadows creep their way over one of the hills in Sanctuary, much like a ballet company at the sound of some unheard music. If we could hear the sound maybe there would be a soft crescendo now, as the figure of a man gets up only to kneel down a few meters away. Unbothered by the red light of the setting sun, a pair of eyes looks down and long delicate fingers pace over a warm stone.
"There is still light for a few more. Maybe I’ll find it today. Maybe…maybe I’ll be free today."
The same scene happens again and again, almost identical but for the changing light of the sun on the man’s long, untidy hair. The shadows merge with one another, and the first stars in the sky cast an uncertain light on the land below. Still, the tall figure can be seen against the darkened sky. Unable to see much anymore, the man takes longer each time he goes down on the now cool stones but he doesn’t seem to care.
"I just need to keep on looking, I’m sure it’s here, somewhere. I just need to find it and I’ll be free."
With bloodied fingers, the Scutum Silver Saint follows lines that time has almost erased from the tomb in front of him, while his mind travels back to the day when his first trainee died. In a night much like this, he sent the kid to climb one of the many cliffs in Sanctuary, oblivious to his cries and his pleas. In a night completely unlike this, he was so confident he was doing the right thing pushing the kid harder every day.
It wasn’t his fault the child had fallen off that cliff. It wasn’t his fault he broke his neck and died. It wasn’t his fault his hands were so cut and swollen because of the training earlier that day that he couldn't hold on to the rocks. Or maybe it was, and that’s why he kept on dreaming with those green eyes. Maybe it was and he should have buried the kid himself instead of having one of the soldiers do it. And now he would now where the tomb was. Now he could go and ask the boy to forgive him. The Pope had said he might feel better if he asked the kid for forgiveness.
"I’m sure it’s here, somewhere. His tomb, it must be here!"
From behind a passing cloud, the moon sheds its silvery light on the trainees’ cemetery. Long lines of small tombs, all nearly identical, seem to laugh at the maddened man who cries -haunted by the memory of a child who should have not died.