(no subject)
Atton calls her name.
(No answer.)
A strand of dark hair. The corner of a battered coat disappearing around the corner. A whispering sigh. Atton had heard that sigh before, as they sprawled out on a tower to stare down at sunset-lit ruins. She said she wanted to be an artist.
He’d heard it again, later that day. The last time.
Help me! Please!
Atton runs. Follows.
His footsteps pound in his ears - The drums of war, a monster’s roar and he can feel the hot breath behind him and hear the dripping from it’s fangs and the rush of air from it’s nostrils and ...
(Was this how she felt?)
... It’s scraping within the walls and breathing beneath the floor and wailing long and baleful with sleepy limbs thrashing sluggishly as jaws crash shut and gape open and eyes glare and something snaps and cuts and an impossibly long neck snakes outwards.
Gathering speed.
Atton’s powerless. Powerless again. Slow, weak, dull, poor (bad omen) - He never got there in time. He won’t get there in time again.
She turns another corner. Her hair shines under the beast’s row of blinking, harshly bright white eyes.
Atton follows. Charges through a heavy door ...
"Your spirit, as diseased as it is, refuses to allow you to give up, no matter what threats you face... and whatever wreckage you leave behind you."
... Into soft sunlight and gently roaming mists, with the monster’s breath and roar far behind him. She’s no longer fleeing, but wandering about, hands swinging.
Atton smiles, forgetting his worries and padding over to her to take one hand and turn her to face him, catching her in his arms as she tumbles.
”You’re a walking clich - ...” She looks up at him, her face mangled.
He was too late. Of course he was too late. He feels like his legs are going to give way as her broken body strains in his arms.
It hurts.
”Close your eyes.” He’s stumbling away and she’s following, voice gentle and liting. ”And count to ten. By the time you open your eyes again, the pain will be gone.”
Promise?
Something shiny glints in one hand. The corner of a jagged rip across her face twitches: ”I promise.”
The garden is lit up by blaster fire.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Atton jolts awake with a sharp cry that may be equal parts pain, frustration and despair. He clutches his shoulder, smoke rising through his fingers as he stumbles out of bed. He notes, distantly, that he's sweating, and that his eyes are wet. He wipes them with the back of his hand.
He lifts his hand away from his shoulder, sinking down to the floor and leaning back against the wall, peering at the wound. It's a burn from a blaster, all charred and torn flesh, and it hurts more than it should.
(No answer.)
A strand of dark hair. The corner of a battered coat disappearing around the corner. A whispering sigh. Atton had heard that sigh before, as they sprawled out on a tower to stare down at sunset-lit ruins. She said she wanted to be an artist.
He’d heard it again, later that day. The last time.
Help me! Please!
Atton runs. Follows.
His footsteps pound in his ears - The drums of war, a monster’s roar and he can feel the hot breath behind him and hear the dripping from it’s fangs and the rush of air from it’s nostrils and ...
(Was this how she felt?)
... It’s scraping within the walls and breathing beneath the floor and wailing long and baleful with sleepy limbs thrashing sluggishly as jaws crash shut and gape open and eyes glare and something snaps and cuts and an impossibly long neck snakes outwards.
Gathering speed.
Atton’s powerless. Powerless again. Slow, weak, dull, poor (bad omen) - He never got there in time. He won’t get there in time again.
She turns another corner. Her hair shines under the beast’s row of blinking, harshly bright white eyes.
Atton follows. Charges through a heavy door ...
"Your spirit, as diseased as it is, refuses to allow you to give up, no matter what threats you face... and whatever wreckage you leave behind you."
... Into soft sunlight and gently roaming mists, with the monster’s breath and roar far behind him. She’s no longer fleeing, but wandering about, hands swinging.
Atton smiles, forgetting his worries and padding over to her to take one hand and turn her to face him, catching her in his arms as she tumbles.
”You’re a walking clich - ...” She looks up at him, her face mangled.
He was too late. Of course he was too late. He feels like his legs are going to give way as her broken body strains in his arms.
It hurts.
”Close your eyes.” He’s stumbling away and she’s following, voice gentle and liting. ”And count to ten. By the time you open your eyes again, the pain will be gone.”
Promise?
Something shiny glints in one hand. The corner of a jagged rip across her face twitches: ”I promise.”
The garden is lit up by blaster fire.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Atton jolts awake with a sharp cry that may be equal parts pain, frustration and despair. He clutches his shoulder, smoke rising through his fingers as he stumbles out of bed. He notes, distantly, that he's sweating, and that his eyes are wet. He wipes them with the back of his hand.
He lifts his hand away from his shoulder, sinking down to the floor and leaning back against the wall, peering at the wound. It's a burn from a blaster, all charred and torn flesh, and it hurts more than it should.