Mini-Fic: Memento
(AN: For the kinkmeme. To fill the prompt: "Rorschach always wears some piece of jewelry. What is it? And why? And where and how and who? Well, maybe not who. But all the rest of it please, anon.")
(Oh, yeah, I don't own Watchmen.)
He’d never worn jewelry before. Always seemed pointless and indulgent to him, a token of human vanity. Yet, it was not vanity that had compelled Rorschach to fasten the silvery chain behind his neck that evening, but something else. For that simple act would be his last concession to his humanity.
Finding the remains of Blair’s undergarments in the stove of the dressmaker’s shop was bad enough, for it was then that Rorschach was no longer certain he’d find her unharmed. He felt his stomach drop with the realization, but as he was about to press on with his search, he gave the stove a last cursory glance. It was then that he noticed a glint of metal within and reached inside the vessel to remove a necklace.
Charred by the flames of Grice’s furnace, the medal attached to the chain gave away no clues regarding the identity of the figure embossed upon it. That it was a religious medal of some sort Rorschach was sure, judging from its shape and size. He quickly inferred from the short length of chain that it probably belonged to the little girl and thrust the item into his pocket as he proceeded to a window to observe two dogs fighting over something…
The metal charm would be the only thing left of Blair Roche.
Profound emptiness enveloped his soul as he watched the flames lick the building above him. Lost in thought, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his trench when he remembered the tiny artifact within. Under the glow of fire, Rorschach inspected the medal once more, rubbing the silver briskly to remove the oxidation and soot. Soon a figure emerged in clarity on the face of the medal. Drawing upon his religious education at Charlton, he recognized the image as that of St. Roch, the patron saint of bachelors and those suffering from plague. The blots of his face shifted furiously as his fist tightened around the trinket. Also guardian of dogs.
The cruel irony of the coincidence sickened him. The little girl’s family must have had an affinity for the saint so closely associated with their surname, perhaps St. Roch was thought of as their ancestral protector. But little Blair had protection from neither man nor beast this night, and Rorschach, who had promised her parents her safe return, had utterly failed in his mission. He would never forgive himself, nor would he allow himself to forget the one he could not save. Rorschach could not shed tears for her, for that weakness had been squelched in his awakening this night, but what he could do was to honor the memory of the girl. He owed her that much. Obviously, the trinket had meant something to her.
Glancing at the medal one last time, his heart heavy, Rorschach drew the two ends of the chain about his neck…
Tucked safely under the collar of his dress shirt, the medal remained hidden from the prying eyes of the world, and as such, accompanied him during the hours he spent disguised as Kovacs. He removed the piece of jewelry for neither shower nor slumber, and during the night, as he tossed and turned in his bed, the necklace whipped back and forth over his body as though it were a part of some unconscious self-flagellation.
And yet, for all the pain it brought his already tortured mind, the medal also served as a reminder of his duty to the city’s innocents. He was unable to save Blair Roche, but dozens of other children would be spared similar fates because of the vigilante’s intervention. Rorschach felt the medal’s weight upon his chest with each blow he dealt to the heads of predatory men and knew the truth others could not bear to face: that honoring life came with a cost, and justice was a messy affair not for the weak. Yet, it was worthwhile, the only thing that mattered to him. For each time a shivering child gripped his gloved hand as he led them to safety, Rorschach knew there was hope, because there was life.
(Oh, yeah, I don't own Watchmen.)
He’d never worn jewelry before. Always seemed pointless and indulgent to him, a token of human vanity. Yet, it was not vanity that had compelled Rorschach to fasten the silvery chain behind his neck that evening, but something else. For that simple act would be his last concession to his humanity.
Finding the remains of Blair’s undergarments in the stove of the dressmaker’s shop was bad enough, for it was then that Rorschach was no longer certain he’d find her unharmed. He felt his stomach drop with the realization, but as he was about to press on with his search, he gave the stove a last cursory glance. It was then that he noticed a glint of metal within and reached inside the vessel to remove a necklace.
Charred by the flames of Grice’s furnace, the medal attached to the chain gave away no clues regarding the identity of the figure embossed upon it. That it was a religious medal of some sort Rorschach was sure, judging from its shape and size. He quickly inferred from the short length of chain that it probably belonged to the little girl and thrust the item into his pocket as he proceeded to a window to observe two dogs fighting over something…
The metal charm would be the only thing left of Blair Roche.
Profound emptiness enveloped his soul as he watched the flames lick the building above him. Lost in thought, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his trench when he remembered the tiny artifact within. Under the glow of fire, Rorschach inspected the medal once more, rubbing the silver briskly to remove the oxidation and soot. Soon a figure emerged in clarity on the face of the medal. Drawing upon his religious education at Charlton, he recognized the image as that of St. Roch, the patron saint of bachelors and those suffering from plague. The blots of his face shifted furiously as his fist tightened around the trinket. Also guardian of dogs.
The cruel irony of the coincidence sickened him. The little girl’s family must have had an affinity for the saint so closely associated with their surname, perhaps St. Roch was thought of as their ancestral protector. But little Blair had protection from neither man nor beast this night, and Rorschach, who had promised her parents her safe return, had utterly failed in his mission. He would never forgive himself, nor would he allow himself to forget the one he could not save. Rorschach could not shed tears for her, for that weakness had been squelched in his awakening this night, but what he could do was to honor the memory of the girl. He owed her that much. Obviously, the trinket had meant something to her.
Glancing at the medal one last time, his heart heavy, Rorschach drew the two ends of the chain about his neck…
Tucked safely under the collar of his dress shirt, the medal remained hidden from the prying eyes of the world, and as such, accompanied him during the hours he spent disguised as Kovacs. He removed the piece of jewelry for neither shower nor slumber, and during the night, as he tossed and turned in his bed, the necklace whipped back and forth over his body as though it were a part of some unconscious self-flagellation.
And yet, for all the pain it brought his already tortured mind, the medal also served as a reminder of his duty to the city’s innocents. He was unable to save Blair Roche, but dozens of other children would be spared similar fates because of the vigilante’s intervention. Rorschach felt the medal’s weight upon his chest with each blow he dealt to the heads of predatory men and knew the truth others could not bear to face: that honoring life came with a cost, and justice was a messy affair not for the weak. Yet, it was worthwhile, the only thing that mattered to him. For each time a shivering child gripped his gloved hand as he led them to safety, Rorschach knew there was hope, because there was life.