[meme]
THE BEST OF TIMES...
Sharp comes the rain again, slicing up the beach, slashing at the barricades. The flames snarl back, showing their hackles and their tongues, their smoke-tails whipping in displeasure. He comes with the wind, storm-light and thunder, howling through the black tide of bodies that crash and break and reform in relentless attack.
At his back, the citadel gleams, bright and blue; to the flanks, the devil dogs, the burning hounds; in his face, the demented hordes. He lifts his hands to empty heavens and beckons down the lightning; in crimson arcs, in widening spirals, it writes his challenge on the air, in their ranks, through the maddening screams of defiance. Blood boils away to dust. Dead teeth chatter hollow laughter.
He draws a line of blasted glass in the sand, and bids them come. They oblige, on black wing and on red, ghoul-mouthed and cavern-eyed, armoured with corruption, armed with blackened souls twisted into their cadaver rags; with force and with fire he meets them in the thunder sound and the tumbling whirling world.
Torn naked then, and deeper than, but he stands, bloodied but he stands, and he fights, there, on the line and in the doorway and at all places between, on all the edges of creation. It is the age of Horus and in the allHere, in the allNow, he makes his stand. This far, he will tell them, and no further. Does not happen. Does not.
In his head, the softest kiss; between his hands, a thought given substance, twisting silver, a dragon made of love and joy. A weight against his shoulder, a wand at his side. He is not alone, not now, not ever; and so once more unto the breach, dearest friend, fire and hope and misquotes all. One more always. And always one more.
...THE WORST OF TIMES.
The sun shone brightly down out of a soft cloud dappled sky on the slow, lazy surf caressing the golden sands.
"Are you sure--" Mike tried.
"It's all been taken care of," Rosetta said.
"Okay." Mike nodded. "Because I could--"
"It's all fine," Rosetta said.
"Right."
Mike ran a finger absently along the bookshelf. Read that, and that, and that, and, yep, that one too. A cool breeze washed through the room, bringing the sounds of children laughing and playing, of cheerful conversation. If he opened his mind, he could hear Draco deep in discussion in his meeting and the happy noises of Free Elves hard at work making delicious lunches. Everyone was happy and active.
"Have you considered--" he tried.
Rosetta finally lifted her gaze from her book, to look up at him with affectionate exasperation. "Do you really have nothing better to do than constantly interrupt me?"
"No," Mike said sadly. "Nothing at all. Everything's perfect."
"Poor boy," she said dryly, and went back to reading.
Sharp comes the rain again, slicing up the beach, slashing at the barricades. The flames snarl back, showing their hackles and their tongues, their smoke-tails whipping in displeasure. He comes with the wind, storm-light and thunder, howling through the black tide of bodies that crash and break and reform in relentless attack.
At his back, the citadel gleams, bright and blue; to the flanks, the devil dogs, the burning hounds; in his face, the demented hordes. He lifts his hands to empty heavens and beckons down the lightning; in crimson arcs, in widening spirals, it writes his challenge on the air, in their ranks, through the maddening screams of defiance. Blood boils away to dust. Dead teeth chatter hollow laughter.
He draws a line of blasted glass in the sand, and bids them come. They oblige, on black wing and on red, ghoul-mouthed and cavern-eyed, armoured with corruption, armed with blackened souls twisted into their cadaver rags; with force and with fire he meets them in the thunder sound and the tumbling whirling world.
Torn naked then, and deeper than, but he stands, bloodied but he stands, and he fights, there, on the line and in the doorway and at all places between, on all the edges of creation. It is the age of Horus and in the allHere, in the allNow, he makes his stand. This far, he will tell them, and no further. Does not happen. Does not.
In his head, the softest kiss; between his hands, a thought given substance, twisting silver, a dragon made of love and joy. A weight against his shoulder, a wand at his side. He is not alone, not now, not ever; and so once more unto the breach, dearest friend, fire and hope and misquotes all. One more always. And always one more.
...THE WORST OF TIMES.
The sun shone brightly down out of a soft cloud dappled sky on the slow, lazy surf caressing the golden sands.
"Are you sure--" Mike tried.
"It's all been taken care of," Rosetta said.
"Okay." Mike nodded. "Because I could--"
"It's all fine," Rosetta said.
"Right."
Mike ran a finger absently along the bookshelf. Read that, and that, and that, and, yep, that one too. A cool breeze washed through the room, bringing the sounds of children laughing and playing, of cheerful conversation. If he opened his mind, he could hear Draco deep in discussion in his meeting and the happy noises of Free Elves hard at work making delicious lunches. Everyone was happy and active.
"Have you considered--" he tried.
Rosetta finally lifted her gaze from her book, to look up at him with affectionate exasperation. "Do you really have nothing better to do than constantly interrupt me?"
"No," Mike said sadly. "Nothing at all. Everything's perfect."
"Poor boy," she said dryly, and went back to reading.