comment_fic 983-987: Avengers, original, SN
Title: give the pride to the lioness
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: post-Cap2 and spoilers for everything up till that point; just a spot of cussing
Pairings: all the canon background pairings, implied Nastasha/Clint & Steve/Bucky
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 830
Point of view: third
Prompt: The Avengers, Maria Hill, She doesn't know how Coulson dealt with these people. Herding cats doesn't even begin to cover it.
Drinks at the usual place, please, for the love of god, she texts Pepper. Someone is GOING TO DIE if I spend tonight sober.
Pepper replies promptly , I'll have the usual waiting.
Maria sighs into her hands. Fucking superpowered assholes, and fucking billionaires. And fucking Coulson for running off to be director and leaving her this - this debacle masquerading as Earth's mightiest heroes.
.
She, like everyone else born after WWII, grew up on stories of Captain America and his Howling Commandoes. It wasn’t till she was an adult working in covert ops that she began reading between the lines and realized the Captain America and his badass team couldn’t have possibly been as squeaky clean as the books made them out to be.
She spent most of her adolescence crushing on Bucky Barnes for his movie star looks and utter devotion to the determined shrimp that became Captain America. She grew out of it, of course, and all of the Commandoes and their Captain was just another part of history.
Steve Rogers, though. Wow. History doesn’t seem to remember how angry he is, and how adorable, and the way he can hold a straight face through anything.
.
Maria didn’t meet Natasha Romanoff until about a month after Barton brought her in. Coulson put in a good word, which was the only reason Romanoff didn’t disappear to never be seen again.
Based on the rumors and supposition, Romanoff was supposed to be the most dangerous woman in the world, even though she looked maybe 20 in the right light. That first meeting, though, convinced Maria that the rumors didn’t give her enough credit.
And Barton - Barton is a goddamned tragedy, but damned if he doesn’t make impossible shots every time. (That’s why, after the Battle of Manhattan, she tells him to go to ground and wait to be called in. He saved her life. He saved hundreds of lives because he could’ve made that attack on the Helicarrier go so much smoother. And if no one else wanted to see it, she knew it, and Fury knew it, and she wasn’t going to let him be scapegoated for any of that clusterfuck at all.)
.
Stark. Fucking Stark. The only reason she puts up with him because Pepper says he’s a good man at heart, even though he does his best to never ever show it.
But - he did fly a nuke through a portal, and he did take in every single SHIELD agent that needed sanctuary. So.
He’s got a goddamned heart. He’s still an insufferable jackass.
.
Bruce Banner, though. Dr. Banner she likes. He’s a soothing presence. He’s possibly the most dangerous person on the whole planet, but he tries so hard to not be threatening. And he’s got the best deadpan she’s ever seen.
.
Hooboy, Thor. Thor is… there are no words for Thor. At least Dr. Foster and Lewis have taught him to respect electronics because Stark’s rants about lightning got real old, real fast.
(And there’s no way he’s as stupid as he acts, but it is goddamned hilarious.)
.
On the whole, Maria thought she had everything in hand until a ghost followed Steve Rogers home. Yeah, Steve had been busy blowing up shit right and left and center, with another adrenaline junky following him, and Romanoff was riding herd on Barton (who had taken Maria’s order to hide far too well, and didn’t even call it in when he got shot in the goddamned gut, fucking Barton, you goddamned tragedy), and Fury was off the grid, and Coulson was trying to build SHIELD back up despite his own hero burning it down, but she had it all under control, she really did.
But Bucky fucking Barnes. What the ever loving fuck.
.
“It’ll be alright, Maria, I promise,” Pepper says soothingly, gesturing for refills. “You and I, we’ll make sure of it.”
“He just… he looks so sad,” Maria says into the absolutely gorgeous tablecloth. “And so young! Shit, Pepper, they’re both so fucking young, what is wrong with this world.”
She’s barely older than them, if you don’t count the years Steve spent frozen and - and whatever the fuck Hydra did to Barnes, but it’s just…
“Steve’s always lookin’ at him,” she says, “and he’s always lookin’ back, and it’s just so sad, Pepper, it’s so fucking sad, fuck, Hydra died too easy, I swear to God. And Pierce!” She slams the drink back and holds the glass out. “Pierce, that absolute bastard, he, he -”
She really thought she knew the worst of humanity, but Bucky Barnes’ entire existence has proved her wrong.
“I know,” Pepper says. “But they’ve got us looking out for them now, don’t they?” She nudges the refill over.
“As soon it’s all situated,” Maria says, looking around and leaning in, “Romanoff’s finding me a few of the Hydra bastards that are left. Wanna come?”
A lick of flame flares up in Pepper’s eyes and she smiles. “Darling, I’d love to.”
Original, gennish het, PG
Wordcount: 515
Prompt: Any, any, his/her heroes are Darth Vader, Lord Voldemort and the Grinch Who Stole Christmas
Note: I tried to make the Smiths kinda like the Addams family. Not sure how well that came across, though.
"Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith," Rosalinda says, "thank you for coming in to discuss Melanie's report. Please, take a seat." She gestures to the chairs she borrowed from the lounge for this meeting.
Mr. Smith is very tall with dark skin and he’s dressed in jeans and a nice shirt, tucked in, and there are work boots on his feet. Mrs. Smith, though - her skin is lighter, and her hair an unnatural shade of red, pinned up severely, and she’s in a very nice skirt suit that probably costs more than Rosalinda makes in a month.
Mr. Smith sits with a smile; Mrs. Smith's expressionless face makes Rosalinda swallow nervously.
"Ms. Kinnard," Mr. Smith says, "I have to admit I'm not sure why we're here. Mel talked about that paper for weeks. What’s the problem with it?”
Rosalinda blinks at him before glancing at Mrs. Smith, whose face is still blank of all expression. Is she on something?
“Mr. Smith,” she says after a moment, “your daughter wrote an eighteen page report -- eighteen pages, it was supposed to be maybe two, maybe-about how heroic Darth Vader, Voldemort, and the Grinch are.”
For fuck’s sake, Melanie is nine years old. Rosalinda had actually believed, up until about a minute ago, that one of the girl’s parents had written the report instead.
Mrs. Smith tilts her head and says, “Is this meeting meant to be about Melanie’s topic, then?”
“… yes?” Rosalinda answers because besides that, the paper had been flawless. For a nine year old. Melanie actually cited things.
Mrs. Smith rises to her feet. “Then we are done. I greatly enjoyed Mel’s research and the final product.” Her eyes are so cold. “Our daughter is a child, Ms. Kinnard. Next month, she’ll be sure that Morwen or Morgoth is the hero, and I will listen to whatever she says because children should be rewarded for thinking.”
“But, Voldemort?” Rosalinda asks weakly.
Mrs. Smith smiles. “From a certain point of view, wasn’t he the hero standing against the great evil known as Albus Dumbledore?”
Rosalinda just blinks at her. “What?”
But Mrs. Smith only turns to her husband. “Come along, dear,” she says. “We should take the girls out for a treat.”
“Of course!” he says brightly, standing up. “We have three,” he tells Rosalinda. “Has Mel mentioned her sisters?”
“No,” Rosalinda replies faintly.
“Yvonne is thirteen,” he says proudly, about half a minute from pulling out his wallet or phone to show pictures, Rosalinda thinks, “and Arianna just turned five.”
“Tyrone,” Mrs. Smith says. “Yvonne would like Smoothie King but Arianna wants Yogurtland.”
How does she know that, since they’re slowly meandering their way to the door? Rosalinda just furrows her brow, watching them go. They link hands at the door, and Mrs. Smith goes up on her tiptoes at the same moment Mr. Smith leans down for a kiss.
“What about Mel?” is the last thing Rosalinda hears either of them say as the door swings closed behind them.
Rosalinda just sits in her chair, staring at her hands. Finally, she asks, “What the fuck?”
Title: You’d think the gates of Heaven were open
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov.
Warnings: AU
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 575
Point of view: third
Prompt: Supernatural, any, Castiel the hunter meets the two angels Sam and Dean
Note: Castiel’s dad named his sons for the angels. The angels still exist, but their characters are completely different. If that makes sense. *hands*
"Hey," a man's voice calls. "Need a hand?"
Castiel glances up from the grave he's digging into to see two men, one quite a bit taller, watching him from across the cemetery. Neither of them appears to be law enforcement but it is night in a graveyard.
"No," he says after a moment, wishing Gabriel were with him instead of with Michael, dealing with the possession. (Honestly: a poltergeist and a demon in the same town in the same week? It lends credence to Dad's determination that the end of the world is soon.)
"Aww, that's cute," the shorter man says; it was his voice, earlier. "Isn't that cute, Sammy?"
The taller, (Sammy? His build defies the name.) says, "Your brothers are in trouble."
Castiel lets go of the shovel with his left hand, going for his gun.
"No need for that, kiddo," the shorter says. "We're here to help." He holds his hands up but all Castiel sees are shapes in the night and if his brothers are in trouble -- "Look," the man says. "We'll let you finish here. We'll be waiting by the car and then we'll go with you to deal with that demon, and then, when your brothers are safe, we'll all talk. How's that sound?"
It sounds like a decision Castiel should not make by himself. But if Gabriel and Michael are in trouble... "Fine," he says.
"Good," the shorter says firmly. "I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sam. We'll be by the car."
Castiel watches them turn and walk away. He then takes a deep breath and resumes digging.
…
Do you honestly think this is the best idea? Sammael asks as they lean against the mortal’s car.
I think with Dad fucked off to who knows where, it’s the only idea, Azrael says.
Sammael sighs heavily; to the west, a tornado billows up and Sammael dissipates it with a thought. The hosts will not be pleased, he warns.
Azrael laughs and beneath them, the ground shudders. With Dad gone, Azrael says, who have we to fear?
Once, there were four mighty angels, the greatest and highest of all Father’s works: Sammael, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel. And before even them, there had been the eldest, the Firstborn.
They think you’re caged, Azrael tells him. And they think me long dead. We’re the only game in town, now, and that’s how it’s gonna stay.
Once, there was a war in Heaven. It ended with Michael throwing Sammael into a cage and Sammael’s name stripped from him to be known only as Lucifer the Deceiver.
Sammael looks up at the sky, at the waning moon, and he says, Millennia caged for not wanting to love lesser beings more than my father. And now we must save them because he is gone.
Azrael laughs again, soothing the trembling earth with a thought. Will you join me, brother, on the pale horse?
Turning to look at him, at the vessel they crafted together, Sammael nods. There is much he owes Azrael, the only one to stay true, the one who dove into Hell and tore open the cage, the one who wove a spell so powerful only Father could see through it, if He chose - but Father has not chosen. Father is gone.
Father is gone, and everything ripe for the taking.
We’ve got work to do, Sammael says and Azrael’s grin is brighter than all the fires of Hell.
Title: the pale crone’s smile
Original, PG, het
Wordcount: 365
Prompt: any, any, Once the game is over, the King and the pawn go back in the same box. ~Italian Proverb
"Do you think they'd believe, if you told them?" the dark handmaiden asks, glancing up from the queen's hem. The thread is fraying; it is time to summon a seamstress.
The queen smiles at her. "Of course not, dear," she says gently. "Men never believe what women tell them. That is why, when the dust settles and the blood dries, we are victorious."
.
When the queen was still the princess of another land, before she was sold for half the territory and gold enough to fund three wars, she prayed for the strength to survive.
A goddess answered -- but it was not the one to whom she had prayed.
"Do you know me, child?" the pale crone asked.
"Yes," she murmured, lowering all the way to the ground, her forehead touching the dirt.
"Rise," the pale crone said, one finger touching the princess's hair. "Rise and know the greatest truth."
She rose to her full height, beneath a dark moon, and she smiled the pale crone's smile.
.
There is a queen wed to a king in a distant land. The king wages war against all of his neighbors but one. For that one, he need only wait; his father-in-law is growing old. His brother-in-law is weak-willed and flighty. Like a woman, he laughs with his council.
His wife hears him. She shares a glance with her dark handmaiden, a pale smile hidden on both their lips.
.
The pale crone has a dark sister.
Their sister, prayed to by most as the Great Mother, tells them, "This is a dangerous game you play. My husband grows impatient."
The pale crone cackles. "Is that not like a man?" She and her dark sister share a smile.
"It is a dangerous game," the dark sister agrees, blood on her teeth. "But we play to win.”
.
The king wages war on multiple fronts, and his gold is growing low. The people are unhappy -- their brothers and their sons and their husbands come home in fewer numbers all the time.
The queen prays on a moonless night, her dark handmaiden beside her, and she rises with the pale crone's smile and the shadow of blood on her lips.
Title: ever after
Original, gen, PG
100 words
Prompt: any, any, so much for my happy ending
She attends the funeral in a plain blouse and dark trousers, with her up prim and proper. She sits in the back and listens to the mourning. So many people are crying. She does not.
She joins the procession to where the body will be laid to rest. She waits until the last mourner has left, until the dirt has been poured, until the sun sets, until the moon rises. And then she kneels where there is yet no stone, only a simple marker, and she says, “How’s your happy ending, dear? I told you not to fuck with me.”
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: post-Cap2 and spoilers for everything up till that point; just a spot of cussing
Pairings: all the canon background pairings, implied Nastasha/Clint & Steve/Bucky
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 830
Point of view: third
Prompt: The Avengers, Maria Hill, She doesn't know how Coulson dealt with these people. Herding cats doesn't even begin to cover it.
Drinks at the usual place, please, for the love of god, she texts Pepper. Someone is GOING TO DIE if I spend tonight sober.
Pepper replies promptly , I'll have the usual waiting.
Maria sighs into her hands. Fucking superpowered assholes, and fucking billionaires. And fucking Coulson for running off to be director and leaving her this - this debacle masquerading as Earth's mightiest heroes.
.
She, like everyone else born after WWII, grew up on stories of Captain America and his Howling Commandoes. It wasn’t till she was an adult working in covert ops that she began reading between the lines and realized the Captain America and his badass team couldn’t have possibly been as squeaky clean as the books made them out to be.
She spent most of her adolescence crushing on Bucky Barnes for his movie star looks and utter devotion to the determined shrimp that became Captain America. She grew out of it, of course, and all of the Commandoes and their Captain was just another part of history.
Steve Rogers, though. Wow. History doesn’t seem to remember how angry he is, and how adorable, and the way he can hold a straight face through anything.
.
Maria didn’t meet Natasha Romanoff until about a month after Barton brought her in. Coulson put in a good word, which was the only reason Romanoff didn’t disappear to never be seen again.
Based on the rumors and supposition, Romanoff was supposed to be the most dangerous woman in the world, even though she looked maybe 20 in the right light. That first meeting, though, convinced Maria that the rumors didn’t give her enough credit.
And Barton - Barton is a goddamned tragedy, but damned if he doesn’t make impossible shots every time. (That’s why, after the Battle of Manhattan, she tells him to go to ground and wait to be called in. He saved her life. He saved hundreds of lives because he could’ve made that attack on the Helicarrier go so much smoother. And if no one else wanted to see it, she knew it, and Fury knew it, and she wasn’t going to let him be scapegoated for any of that clusterfuck at all.)
.
Stark. Fucking Stark. The only reason she puts up with him because Pepper says he’s a good man at heart, even though he does his best to never ever show it.
But - he did fly a nuke through a portal, and he did take in every single SHIELD agent that needed sanctuary. So.
He’s got a goddamned heart. He’s still an insufferable jackass.
.
Bruce Banner, though. Dr. Banner she likes. He’s a soothing presence. He’s possibly the most dangerous person on the whole planet, but he tries so hard to not be threatening. And he’s got the best deadpan she’s ever seen.
.
Hooboy, Thor. Thor is… there are no words for Thor. At least Dr. Foster and Lewis have taught him to respect electronics because Stark’s rants about lightning got real old, real fast.
(And there’s no way he’s as stupid as he acts, but it is goddamned hilarious.)
.
On the whole, Maria thought she had everything in hand until a ghost followed Steve Rogers home. Yeah, Steve had been busy blowing up shit right and left and center, with another adrenaline junky following him, and Romanoff was riding herd on Barton (who had taken Maria’s order to hide far too well, and didn’t even call it in when he got shot in the goddamned gut, fucking Barton, you goddamned tragedy), and Fury was off the grid, and Coulson was trying to build SHIELD back up despite his own hero burning it down, but she had it all under control, she really did.
But Bucky fucking Barnes. What the ever loving fuck.
.
“It’ll be alright, Maria, I promise,” Pepper says soothingly, gesturing for refills. “You and I, we’ll make sure of it.”
“He just… he looks so sad,” Maria says into the absolutely gorgeous tablecloth. “And so young! Shit, Pepper, they’re both so fucking young, what is wrong with this world.”
She’s barely older than them, if you don’t count the years Steve spent frozen and - and whatever the fuck Hydra did to Barnes, but it’s just…
“Steve’s always lookin’ at him,” she says, “and he’s always lookin’ back, and it’s just so sad, Pepper, it’s so fucking sad, fuck, Hydra died too easy, I swear to God. And Pierce!” She slams the drink back and holds the glass out. “Pierce, that absolute bastard, he, he -”
She really thought she knew the worst of humanity, but Bucky Barnes’ entire existence has proved her wrong.
“I know,” Pepper says. “But they’ve got us looking out for them now, don’t they?” She nudges the refill over.
“As soon it’s all situated,” Maria says, looking around and leaning in, “Romanoff’s finding me a few of the Hydra bastards that are left. Wanna come?”
A lick of flame flares up in Pepper’s eyes and she smiles. “Darling, I’d love to.”
Original, gennish het, PG
Wordcount: 515
Prompt: Any, any, his/her heroes are Darth Vader, Lord Voldemort and the Grinch Who Stole Christmas
Note: I tried to make the Smiths kinda like the Addams family. Not sure how well that came across, though.
"Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith," Rosalinda says, "thank you for coming in to discuss Melanie's report. Please, take a seat." She gestures to the chairs she borrowed from the lounge for this meeting.
Mr. Smith is very tall with dark skin and he’s dressed in jeans and a nice shirt, tucked in, and there are work boots on his feet. Mrs. Smith, though - her skin is lighter, and her hair an unnatural shade of red, pinned up severely, and she’s in a very nice skirt suit that probably costs more than Rosalinda makes in a month.
Mr. Smith sits with a smile; Mrs. Smith's expressionless face makes Rosalinda swallow nervously.
"Ms. Kinnard," Mr. Smith says, "I have to admit I'm not sure why we're here. Mel talked about that paper for weeks. What’s the problem with it?”
Rosalinda blinks at him before glancing at Mrs. Smith, whose face is still blank of all expression. Is she on something?
“Mr. Smith,” she says after a moment, “your daughter wrote an eighteen page report -- eighteen pages, it was supposed to be maybe two, maybe-about how heroic Darth Vader, Voldemort, and the Grinch are.”
For fuck’s sake, Melanie is nine years old. Rosalinda had actually believed, up until about a minute ago, that one of the girl’s parents had written the report instead.
Mrs. Smith tilts her head and says, “Is this meeting meant to be about Melanie’s topic, then?”
“… yes?” Rosalinda answers because besides that, the paper had been flawless. For a nine year old. Melanie actually cited things.
Mrs. Smith rises to her feet. “Then we are done. I greatly enjoyed Mel’s research and the final product.” Her eyes are so cold. “Our daughter is a child, Ms. Kinnard. Next month, she’ll be sure that Morwen or Morgoth is the hero, and I will listen to whatever she says because children should be rewarded for thinking.”
“But, Voldemort?” Rosalinda asks weakly.
Mrs. Smith smiles. “From a certain point of view, wasn’t he the hero standing against the great evil known as Albus Dumbledore?”
Rosalinda just blinks at her. “What?”
But Mrs. Smith only turns to her husband. “Come along, dear,” she says. “We should take the girls out for a treat.”
“Of course!” he says brightly, standing up. “We have three,” he tells Rosalinda. “Has Mel mentioned her sisters?”
“No,” Rosalinda replies faintly.
“Yvonne is thirteen,” he says proudly, about half a minute from pulling out his wallet or phone to show pictures, Rosalinda thinks, “and Arianna just turned five.”
“Tyrone,” Mrs. Smith says. “Yvonne would like Smoothie King but Arianna wants Yogurtland.”
How does she know that, since they’re slowly meandering their way to the door? Rosalinda just furrows her brow, watching them go. They link hands at the door, and Mrs. Smith goes up on her tiptoes at the same moment Mr. Smith leans down for a kiss.
“What about Mel?” is the last thing Rosalinda hears either of them say as the door swings closed behind them.
Rosalinda just sits in her chair, staring at her hands. Finally, she asks, “What the fuck?”
Title: You’d think the gates of Heaven were open
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov.
Warnings: AU
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 575
Point of view: third
Prompt: Supernatural, any, Castiel the hunter meets the two angels Sam and Dean
Note: Castiel’s dad named his sons for the angels. The angels still exist, but their characters are completely different. If that makes sense. *hands*
"Hey," a man's voice calls. "Need a hand?"
Castiel glances up from the grave he's digging into to see two men, one quite a bit taller, watching him from across the cemetery. Neither of them appears to be law enforcement but it is night in a graveyard.
"No," he says after a moment, wishing Gabriel were with him instead of with Michael, dealing with the possession. (Honestly: a poltergeist and a demon in the same town in the same week? It lends credence to Dad's determination that the end of the world is soon.)
"Aww, that's cute," the shorter man says; it was his voice, earlier. "Isn't that cute, Sammy?"
The taller, (Sammy? His build defies the name.) says, "Your brothers are in trouble."
Castiel lets go of the shovel with his left hand, going for his gun.
"No need for that, kiddo," the shorter says. "We're here to help." He holds his hands up but all Castiel sees are shapes in the night and if his brothers are in trouble -- "Look," the man says. "We'll let you finish here. We'll be waiting by the car and then we'll go with you to deal with that demon, and then, when your brothers are safe, we'll all talk. How's that sound?"
It sounds like a decision Castiel should not make by himself. But if Gabriel and Michael are in trouble... "Fine," he says.
"Good," the shorter says firmly. "I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sam. We'll be by the car."
Castiel watches them turn and walk away. He then takes a deep breath and resumes digging.
…
Do you honestly think this is the best idea? Sammael asks as they lean against the mortal’s car.
I think with Dad fucked off to who knows where, it’s the only idea, Azrael says.
Sammael sighs heavily; to the west, a tornado billows up and Sammael dissipates it with a thought. The hosts will not be pleased, he warns.
Azrael laughs and beneath them, the ground shudders. With Dad gone, Azrael says, who have we to fear?
Once, there were four mighty angels, the greatest and highest of all Father’s works: Sammael, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel. And before even them, there had been the eldest, the Firstborn.
They think you’re caged, Azrael tells him. And they think me long dead. We’re the only game in town, now, and that’s how it’s gonna stay.
Once, there was a war in Heaven. It ended with Michael throwing Sammael into a cage and Sammael’s name stripped from him to be known only as Lucifer the Deceiver.
Sammael looks up at the sky, at the waning moon, and he says, Millennia caged for not wanting to love lesser beings more than my father. And now we must save them because he is gone.
Azrael laughs again, soothing the trembling earth with a thought. Will you join me, brother, on the pale horse?
Turning to look at him, at the vessel they crafted together, Sammael nods. There is much he owes Azrael, the only one to stay true, the one who dove into Hell and tore open the cage, the one who wove a spell so powerful only Father could see through it, if He chose - but Father has not chosen. Father is gone.
Father is gone, and everything ripe for the taking.
We’ve got work to do, Sammael says and Azrael’s grin is brighter than all the fires of Hell.
Title: the pale crone’s smile
Original, PG, het
Wordcount: 365
Prompt: any, any, Once the game is over, the King and the pawn go back in the same box. ~Italian Proverb
"Do you think they'd believe, if you told them?" the dark handmaiden asks, glancing up from the queen's hem. The thread is fraying; it is time to summon a seamstress.
The queen smiles at her. "Of course not, dear," she says gently. "Men never believe what women tell them. That is why, when the dust settles and the blood dries, we are victorious."
.
When the queen was still the princess of another land, before she was sold for half the territory and gold enough to fund three wars, she prayed for the strength to survive.
A goddess answered -- but it was not the one to whom she had prayed.
"Do you know me, child?" the pale crone asked.
"Yes," she murmured, lowering all the way to the ground, her forehead touching the dirt.
"Rise," the pale crone said, one finger touching the princess's hair. "Rise and know the greatest truth."
She rose to her full height, beneath a dark moon, and she smiled the pale crone's smile.
.
There is a queen wed to a king in a distant land. The king wages war against all of his neighbors but one. For that one, he need only wait; his father-in-law is growing old. His brother-in-law is weak-willed and flighty. Like a woman, he laughs with his council.
His wife hears him. She shares a glance with her dark handmaiden, a pale smile hidden on both their lips.
.
The pale crone has a dark sister.
Their sister, prayed to by most as the Great Mother, tells them, "This is a dangerous game you play. My husband grows impatient."
The pale crone cackles. "Is that not like a man?" She and her dark sister share a smile.
"It is a dangerous game," the dark sister agrees, blood on her teeth. "But we play to win.”
.
The king wages war on multiple fronts, and his gold is growing low. The people are unhappy -- their brothers and their sons and their husbands come home in fewer numbers all the time.
The queen prays on a moonless night, her dark handmaiden beside her, and she rises with the pale crone's smile and the shadow of blood on her lips.
Title: ever after
Original, gen, PG
100 words
Prompt: any, any, so much for my happy ending
She attends the funeral in a plain blouse and dark trousers, with her up prim and proper. She sits in the back and listens to the mourning. So many people are crying. She does not.
She joins the procession to where the body will be laid to rest. She waits until the last mourner has left, until the dirt has been poured, until the sun sets, until the moon rises. And then she kneels where there is yet no stone, only a simple marker, and she says, “How’s your happy ending, dear? I told you not to fuck with me.”