A finished writing at last!
So, someone mentioned tables to me via IM a couple hours ago and I took the liberty of backtracking to the one I remembered seeing here. The Monthly Challenge? Which no one responded to. I felt bad, and in my guilt, vowed to do something written for it.
Amazingly, I managed to fulfill it. Two ficlet/drabble-type things. One-shots each, not really connected to each other. I'm taking it as a sign that I'll be able to finish some more written stuff in the (hopefully near) future.
They're...both kinda angsty. >>;;
+Title: Inheritance
+Author: Izzi
+Pairing/Characters: Harry, Bob's skull.
+Rating: PG-13
+Book or TV-verse: TV
+Summary: Harry muses on things post-"self-defensing". Response to 14. Inheritance
+Warnings: Angst.
+Word Count: 326
Harry stared at the satchel he’d taken from Morningway Estate, fingers ghosting around the velvet edges that were cinched closed with thick cord. He knew what was inside, but he was reluctant to open it. It had fallen into his possession as soon as Justin Morningway stopped breathing. An inheritance that a part of him had always looked forward to-that same part now writhed, sick and cold in his stomach. He was in no hurry to meet a quiet disapproval from stormy green eyes he’d looked to time and time again for guidance.
It had been several days, how many he’d lost count of, they had all blurred together after the hiding and the trial. The dark looks of disbelief and hatred merging onto faces, even on those, he was sure, who had defended him. Lately, he’d spent a long time staring into the mirror, looking for a visible sign of the change in him. That dark stain on his soul that he knew was there. He’d fulfilled his childhood promise, though not perfectly, but it was close enough that he’d kept himself up at night, wondering how much “self-defense” it had been.
"I’m gonna find it, and when I do...I’m gonna rip its heart out."
The blur between man and monster was easy enough to make what with Justin giving no denial about being involved in his mother's death, and the pressure had landed on whatever deformed black thing lived in Morningway’s chest. But that monster had bled blood that he shared, however faintly. Taking a life with Black Magic, letting his hated grow in his veins to do it--the sinister thrill that went through him as his uncle gasped his last breaths. That feeling, the dark joy that using the Black had given him… The thought that followed sent shivers down his spine, hand retracting away from the skull as if it were a hot poker.
Perhaps that was the real inheritance.
+Title: Presences
+Author: Izzi
+Pairing/Characters: Bob, unnamed souls.
+Rating: PG-13
+Book or TV-verse: TV
+Summary: "There’s no freedom in there, Harry. Not for me. Listen; in my life my sins were considerable. There are things, on the other side, presences, that love me not at all." Response to 16. Whisper. Bob's time outside in Things That Go Bump.
+Warnings: Angst.
+Word Count: 294
He’d departed into the darkness as if it were nothing more than a thick wall. He’d gone through enough of them that it didn’t daunt him. For a moment, all there was were black shadows. Then sound filtered in. Whispers. The voices were unclear, inconsequential for his mission. He merely had to find the outside.
Minutes passed and he had found no outside. The darkness had faded enough that he could see forms, and faintly familiar faces appeared, their mouths moving in speech that still never rose above a breath. His Name on their lips, their fingers outstretched like claws, beckoning him to join them, to receive torment as they would have it, for daring to steal their lives to restore one.
The sheer number sent a tremble through his soul. Surely there hadn’t been that many. Surely he would remember that many bodies, that many souls... They crowded around him still gasping and breathing words he could barely hear but knew all too well. Murderer. Necromancer. Thief.
The curses they flung seared him, sending jolts of pain he hadn’t felt since he’d died. He knew now, where he was. But it was not the relief he had hoped it to be, no forgiving Winefride or old friends granting him peace. Just faces and voices and pain. He was better off damned to his skull, bound to serve an owner who treated him more like an irritable friend than any other. An owner, he now remembered, who was stuck inside with a murderer and wardens who did not care for him at all. He could not let Harry down. Hrothbert turned his back on the figures, closing his eyes and walking until the whispers faded into silence, and the tug on his geas returned.
Amazingly, I managed to fulfill it. Two ficlet/drabble-type things. One-shots each, not really connected to each other. I'm taking it as a sign that I'll be able to finish some more written stuff in the (hopefully near) future.
They're...both kinda angsty. >>;;
+Title: Inheritance
+Author: Izzi
+Pairing/Characters: Harry, Bob's skull.
+Rating: PG-13
+Book or TV-verse: TV
+Summary: Harry muses on things post-"self-defensing". Response to 14. Inheritance
+Warnings: Angst.
+Word Count: 326
Harry stared at the satchel he’d taken from Morningway Estate, fingers ghosting around the velvet edges that were cinched closed with thick cord. He knew what was inside, but he was reluctant to open it. It had fallen into his possession as soon as Justin Morningway stopped breathing. An inheritance that a part of him had always looked forward to-that same part now writhed, sick and cold in his stomach. He was in no hurry to meet a quiet disapproval from stormy green eyes he’d looked to time and time again for guidance.
It had been several days, how many he’d lost count of, they had all blurred together after the hiding and the trial. The dark looks of disbelief and hatred merging onto faces, even on those, he was sure, who had defended him. Lately, he’d spent a long time staring into the mirror, looking for a visible sign of the change in him. That dark stain on his soul that he knew was there. He’d fulfilled his childhood promise, though not perfectly, but it was close enough that he’d kept himself up at night, wondering how much “self-defense” it had been.
"I’m gonna find it, and when I do...I’m gonna rip its heart out."
The blur between man and monster was easy enough to make what with Justin giving no denial about being involved in his mother's death, and the pressure had landed on whatever deformed black thing lived in Morningway’s chest. But that monster had bled blood that he shared, however faintly. Taking a life with Black Magic, letting his hated grow in his veins to do it--the sinister thrill that went through him as his uncle gasped his last breaths. That feeling, the dark joy that using the Black had given him… The thought that followed sent shivers down his spine, hand retracting away from the skull as if it were a hot poker.
Perhaps that was the real inheritance.
+Title: Presences
+Author: Izzi
+Pairing/Characters: Bob, unnamed souls.
+Rating: PG-13
+Book or TV-verse: TV
+Summary: "There’s no freedom in there, Harry. Not for me. Listen; in my life my sins were considerable. There are things, on the other side, presences, that love me not at all." Response to 16. Whisper. Bob's time outside in Things That Go Bump.
+Warnings: Angst.
+Word Count: 294
He’d departed into the darkness as if it were nothing more than a thick wall. He’d gone through enough of them that it didn’t daunt him. For a moment, all there was were black shadows. Then sound filtered in. Whispers. The voices were unclear, inconsequential for his mission. He merely had to find the outside.
Minutes passed and he had found no outside. The darkness had faded enough that he could see forms, and faintly familiar faces appeared, their mouths moving in speech that still never rose above a breath. His Name on their lips, their fingers outstretched like claws, beckoning him to join them, to receive torment as they would have it, for daring to steal their lives to restore one.
The sheer number sent a tremble through his soul. Surely there hadn’t been that many. Surely he would remember that many bodies, that many souls... They crowded around him still gasping and breathing words he could barely hear but knew all too well. Murderer. Necromancer. Thief.
The curses they flung seared him, sending jolts of pain he hadn’t felt since he’d died. He knew now, where he was. But it was not the relief he had hoped it to be, no forgiving Winefride or old friends granting him peace. Just faces and voices and pain. He was better off damned to his skull, bound to serve an owner who treated him more like an irritable friend than any other. An owner, he now remembered, who was stuck inside with a murderer and wardens who did not care for him at all. He could not let Harry down. Hrothbert turned his back on the figures, closing his eyes and walking until the whispers faded into silence, and the tug on his geas returned.