Title: La mort et tous de ses amis, Prompt 24-Choices, Timothy Speedle/Horatio Caine, CSI Miami
Title: La mort et tous de ses amis...
Fandom: CSI Miami
Characters: Timothy Speedle/Horatio Caine
Prompt: 24 - Choices
Word Count: 1052
Rating: FRAO
Warning: Not really required.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just playing with 'em, promise to return 'em when I'm done. French translations courtesy of silentflux
Author's Notes: This story is told from Speed's PoV and is based around the song 'Viva la Vida' by Coldplay,
and inspired by a manipulation of the painting
'The French Revolution'
Victor Schnetz
(1787-1870)
Combat Before the Hotel de Ville
July 28th 1830
which is made by the awesome Froggy and found if you click on the word here - remember to give her some love!
~Paris, December 1830~
The sunlight was cold. Nothing escaped it.
It crept in through the threadbare curtains and crawled its way across the floorboards, picking out the dust and grime.
Autumn had come and gone and I'd barely noticed. It would soon be Christmas.
At least a little winter snow would hide the stark and dirty corners of this city for a while. It would be pretty.
For a while.
I'm not sure I can look on it any more.
One more choice; one I can make freely at least.
I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own
So why do I stay?
I ask myself that every morning when I wake to the silence of yesterday, and the cold sheets that once were warm with my lover's scent.
Such passion.
Its memory sparks the blood. I had never imagined a love so potent.
Not with another man.
I'll never find that again, should I travel to the ends of the earth in searching it out.
It was for once. For all.
My father would surely have disowned me had seen us together in abandonment.
But I think I stay because I feel them still, in the air. I sense them near me.
My Comrades.
I hear them. I hear their hearts beating for France.
For justice.
Liberty.
Ah, Liberty. The ever spirited Marianne. Such a cruel mistress for those without money, or power, or hope.
I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemies eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"
We had thought we would live forever.
Our idealism the driving force that kept us standing against the canons, and facing the guns.
We would change the world.
And for a while we surely did, but power is a heady thing. Like fine wine in excess, it steals the wits.
And makes fools of the wise.
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand
So many had fallen.
The streets had run with blood.
Some days I can still smell it; hear it gurgling in the gutters, see it shining on the cobbles.
Perhaps it stains me still, only I can no longer see it with these eyes...
But back then it hadn't seemed to matter.
It was meant to be worth the struggle.
I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
Once you know there was never, never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world
But still I live.
I alone.
From amongst so many gone to God, why me?
Why me?
The mistakes had been mine.
So does fate keep me here to mock what I'd dreamed of and keep me longing for the only soul I've ever loved?
It must be Sunday. I hear the church bells.
The days are starting to blur.
Had I the strength of spirit I'd dress and go sit in the pews with the faithful, imagining the piety of the priest as a cloak I could hide behind.
Or so Horatio had once sounded to my ears when he stood before the congregation where a stranger now would stand.
I fell in love with him then, right there in his own church. His voice so rich with certainty and hope and faith.
And my love never ended.
Not even when he died in my arms on that day of judgment.
It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People could not believe what I'd become
Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?
But I had never listened.
Not to my father, or those fine teachers he brought from England who would educate his 'young Timothy' with their canes across my backside if I failed them.
And I never listened to Horatio.
Yet he had known it would end in fire.
I believed myself destined for greatness only to find that now I sit in a room that reeks of old tobacco smoke and stale beer from the inn below.
Hubris.
Mockery.
And no one comes to my door as once they did.
For weeks I hid myself away, surviving on bread and hard cheese and Mme. de Bouchard's wine dregs, fearing my part in our grand revolution would be discovered, and I would end my days at the hands of those whose ignorance alone has granted them the right to bear arms against the people.
But no one came for me.
I had been forgotten.
I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
And that was when I ruled the world
Still, in truth I am not forgiven, because I cannot forgive myself.
I lead those men to their deaths.
I alone.
For France.
How foolish of me to believe in ideals no man can bear on his own weak shoulders.
How dare I trust myself to be what I am clearly not?
Horatio had said I read too much. He would tease me for the books that litter my small abode.
A little learning at all is a dangerous thing in these times.
Why now do I begin to finally understand the truth of that?
Why now, when all is lost? When there is nothing left for me in Paris but les fantômes de la passé?
Hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
I know Saint Peter will call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world
Challenge Chart
Fandom: CSI Miami
Characters: Timothy Speedle/Horatio Caine
Prompt: 24 - Choices
Word Count: 1052
Rating: FRAO
Warning: Not really required.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just playing with 'em, promise to return 'em when I'm done. French translations courtesy of silentflux
Author's Notes: This story is told from Speed's PoV and is based around the song 'Viva la Vida' by Coldplay,
and inspired by a manipulation of the painting
'The French Revolution'
Victor Schnetz
(1787-1870)
Combat Before the Hotel de Ville
July 28th 1830
which is made by the awesome Froggy and found if you click on the word here - remember to give her some love!
~Paris, December 1830~
The sunlight was cold. Nothing escaped it.
It crept in through the threadbare curtains and crawled its way across the floorboards, picking out the dust and grime.
Autumn had come and gone and I'd barely noticed. It would soon be Christmas.
At least a little winter snow would hide the stark and dirty corners of this city for a while. It would be pretty.
For a while.
I'm not sure I can look on it any more.
One more choice; one I can make freely at least.
I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own
So why do I stay?
I ask myself that every morning when I wake to the silence of yesterday, and the cold sheets that once were warm with my lover's scent.
Such passion.
Its memory sparks the blood. I had never imagined a love so potent.
Not with another man.
I'll never find that again, should I travel to the ends of the earth in searching it out.
It was for once. For all.
My father would surely have disowned me had seen us together in abandonment.
But I think I stay because I feel them still, in the air. I sense them near me.
My Comrades.
I hear them. I hear their hearts beating for France.
For justice.
Liberty.
Ah, Liberty. The ever spirited Marianne. Such a cruel mistress for those without money, or power, or hope.
I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemies eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"
We had thought we would live forever.
Our idealism the driving force that kept us standing against the canons, and facing the guns.
We would change the world.
And for a while we surely did, but power is a heady thing. Like fine wine in excess, it steals the wits.
And makes fools of the wise.
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand
So many had fallen.
The streets had run with blood.
Some days I can still smell it; hear it gurgling in the gutters, see it shining on the cobbles.
Perhaps it stains me still, only I can no longer see it with these eyes...
But back then it hadn't seemed to matter.
It was meant to be worth the struggle.
I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
Once you know there was never, never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world
But still I live.
I alone.
From amongst so many gone to God, why me?
Why me?
The mistakes had been mine.
So does fate keep me here to mock what I'd dreamed of and keep me longing for the only soul I've ever loved?
It must be Sunday. I hear the church bells.
The days are starting to blur.
Had I the strength of spirit I'd dress and go sit in the pews with the faithful, imagining the piety of the priest as a cloak I could hide behind.
Or so Horatio had once sounded to my ears when he stood before the congregation where a stranger now would stand.
I fell in love with him then, right there in his own church. His voice so rich with certainty and hope and faith.
And my love never ended.
Not even when he died in my arms on that day of judgment.
It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People could not believe what I'd become
Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?
But I had never listened.
Not to my father, or those fine teachers he brought from England who would educate his 'young Timothy' with their canes across my backside if I failed them.
And I never listened to Horatio.
Yet he had known it would end in fire.
I believed myself destined for greatness only to find that now I sit in a room that reeks of old tobacco smoke and stale beer from the inn below.
Hubris.
Mockery.
And no one comes to my door as once they did.
For weeks I hid myself away, surviving on bread and hard cheese and Mme. de Bouchard's wine dregs, fearing my part in our grand revolution would be discovered, and I would end my days at the hands of those whose ignorance alone has granted them the right to bear arms against the people.
But no one came for me.
I had been forgotten.
I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
And that was when I ruled the world
Still, in truth I am not forgiven, because I cannot forgive myself.
I lead those men to their deaths.
I alone.
For France.
How foolish of me to believe in ideals no man can bear on his own weak shoulders.
How dare I trust myself to be what I am clearly not?
Horatio had said I read too much. He would tease me for the books that litter my small abode.
A little learning at all is a dangerous thing in these times.
Why now do I begin to finally understand the truth of that?
Why now, when all is lost? When there is nothing left for me in Paris but les fantômes de la passé?
Hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can not explain
I know Saint Peter will call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world
Challenge Chart