comment_fic 1096 - 1100: HL, Marvel/HL, HP, DCU
Title: wreathed with sky
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Shana Abe
Warnings: references to violence/murder
Pairings: Kronos/Methos
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 375
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, someone unexpectedly turns into a were-bird
If you live long enough, you tend to develop... abilities. ‘Long enough,’ being, of course, beyond three thousand years or so. It is not an easy goal to attain, and most of the old ones have long since fallen. Luck, unfortunately, tends to trump experience. Also, no matter how the body fares, the mind may grow tired. And while knowledge will travel with the quickening, skills do not.
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod takes Caspian’s head, but while Caspian was ancient, he had never mastered the art. Kronos had, but his quickening chose his brother over the impudent child. Cassandra’s art was her beguiling and commanding voice, rather than Methos’ and Kronos’ own. He has wondered, in the years since they all separated, if he had in some way influenced Kronos’ ability. He’ll never know, now, even as he cradles Kronos’ and Silas’ quickenings close. Cassandra and MacLeod shout at each other but Methos does not listen.
Cassandra leaves. MacLeod tries getting close to Methos, but Methos cannot stand his nearness, not with his brothers dead, and so he flees, leaving his sword where it falls, and ignoring how MacLeod shouts for him.
When he is outside, he leaps and takes to the sky. He once taught Kronos to fly while Caspian bathed in the surf and Silas checked over the horses for his own peace of mind before he himself would take his other form of a wolf and patrol. Any horses they had for any length of time grew to recognize Silas’ other form and ceased reacting. That day, when Kronos took to the air for the first time, the horses paid no attention to Silas at all.
Methos taught Kronos to fly, to hunt, to blend into the scenery so that others would think them only birds. If only Kronos had paid more attention -
But though Kronos was ancient, he did not learn all the lessons.
He flies now, though, and Silas, too, and Methos finds some measure of peace.
(There are so few now, old enough to know. And so few of the young ones will live long enough. It is not recorded; Methos will not allow it to be. Some secrets must be learned through experience or not at all.)
Title: everybody knows the fight was fixed
Fandom: Highlander/Marvel movies
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Leonard Cohen
Warnings: spoilers for Cap2, ignores Avengers2
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 200
Point of view: third
Prompt: any. any. my way or the highway
“Look, let me explain this in the simplest way possible,” the man says, pausing to smile. It’s a creepy smile, showing most of his teeth, and his body is loose, relaxed. Ryan’s seen Captain America fight, though, so he knows being relaxed means nothing.
“You have contained back there someone under my protection,” the man continues, still smiling, “and I’ve come to reclaim him. You can either remove yourself or be removed, entirely up to you.” He’s completely accentless, and his hand is now on the - hilt of a sword? What the fuck?
“He’s the Winter Soldier,” Ryan says, because that should say it all - the man’s a traitor, and a monster, and while the various governments argue, the Winter Soldier is going to stay in his cage. Even if Captain America is raising a fuss about it. Who is this guy anyway?
“And I am Death.” The words are said simply. Plainly. While Ryan blinks at him, the man looks past him. “You’ve tripled the guards,” he murmurs. “Smart. But nowhere near enough.”
The man drops the smile, the genial attitude for, “You see, I once promised to take him in, when he finally got away.”
And he moves.
Title: beyond the eastern hills
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: Violence/death/cannibalism
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 520
Point of view: first
Prompt: any. any. salt the earth
There existed once a people beyond the eastern hills. Which land? It matters not. That is not the point - listen. Be silent and listen. Do you understand?
Good.
As I said, they lived beyond the eastern hills. They were proud. Rightly so, for there were none better with horses, and travelers came from far and wide to trade for their gemstones, for their weapons. Horses they trained had no equal. They were rich and content, and so very proud. They were sure they were the best in all the world.
The world, as I am sure you are aware, child, is quite the large place. Stories traveled of the people beyond the eastern hills, who dared proclaim themselves the mightiest. It caught attention.
Once, there were those who would have said it caught the attention of gods. Perhaps they were gods; perhaps they were not. But they wore the mantle of god-kings, who destroyed far more lands than they ever ruled. You know the names? Say them.
Yes… Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death. The people beyond the eastern hills claimed they had no peers and no betters, and where does pride go?
Of course, it goes before a fall.
Sometimes, when the gods of destruction rained down their fury from horseback, they left survivors. Some they took as slaves, some they left to further the legend.
The people beyond the eastern hills had so survivors at all. Not the oldest of the wisewomen, not the youngest babe in arms. They had proclaimed themselves better than the gods and the gods struck them down for the daring of it.
War took many of the weapons, for there were none finer. Famine butchered the corpses for meat. Pestilence roamed his way through the houses and shops, seeking bright gems purely because they were beautiful. And Death… Death watched the horses, yet unbroken, panicking at the smell of blood.
“See something you like, brother?” Pestilence asked him.
“That one,” Death said, pointing at the only completely white horse in the pasture.
“Then that you shall have,” Pestilence told him.
When they left, animals had already begun feeding. The city burned. The next travelers spread the story, of the people beyond the eastern hills. They said the city was cursed - spirits wandered there, never at rest, screaming and crying for mercy. Families never reunited for no rites were said. Word spread of the gods’ anger.
Who were they, the people beyond the eastern hills? Ah, that is the point, you see. There is no record of them anywhere. They never existed, did they? They are struck from history. The weapons were destroyed long ago. The gems are lost. The bones have long turned to dust. That lovely pale mare - perhaps she bred and bore foals, who bred and bore foals. Maybe that is the only thing left of the people beyond the eastern hills.
Do you understand, child? You asked the mark I left on the world. I am history itself, and I choose who is remembered and who is forgotten. Leave me in peace now, and I might remember you.
Title: to my arms you are forever lost
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Margaret Sayers Peden
Warnings: child death, grief, covering it all up
Pairings: Petunia/Vernon
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 470
Point of view: third
Prompt: Harry Potter, any, the world where the Dursleys accidentally killed Harry Potter before he ever had the chance to go to Hogwarts
Petunia's only consolation is that it was an accident. The boy i - was just so quiet, tucked away neatly in the cupboard. With her darling Diddums and Vernon so loud, it was surely an easy thing to miss.
Weeks passed before she remembered that he'd surely need water, and to eat, too, and she is just thankful, now, that Vernon was already at work and Dudley was napping upstairs, because when she opened the cupboard -
She wept for Lily's son, she truly did, and then she went for towels to wrap him in, and she closed the cupboard door, went upstairs, and cradled her own son close, waiting for Vernon to come home.
Petunia told him, “We have to move.” She put Dudley down in his playpen, led Vernon to the cupboard, and opened the door.
“Oh, Christ,” Vernon said.
.
(In the tumultuous weeks after Voldemort’s defeat, Albus Dumbledore’s attention was required by many people for many reasons. When he finally checked on Harry Potter, it was far too late.
Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley become Victor, Penelope, and David Smith. Victor is an accountant, Penelope a volunteer at the local librarian, and David a somewhat quiet child. The neighbors don’t ever come to know the family very well, but there is something solemn about the Smith’s. They don’t talk about anything before.
Albus Dumbledore informs no one that the Potter boy died. He merely claims that the boy is being trained somewhere and turns his attention to Neville Longbottom.)
.
(Magic is an amazing thing, and so is the will to live. But it was dark in the cupboard, and Harry still suffered from the aftereffects of the attack, and he knew they were gone, all the warm people who loved him - in truth, he survived much longer than many others would have, his magic keeping alive even as dehydration sapped away at him.
Magic is an amazing thing, but he died long before his aunt remembered him.)
.
(When Harry Potter does not owl his acceptance, Minerva checks the list and does not see his name. His name appeared when he was born and would disappear for one reason alone.
“Oh, Merlin,” she breathes, covering her mouth with a hand. “Oh, please no.”
She bypasses Dumbledore entirely to go to the Dursley house.)
.
(Sirius Black still escapes Azkaban. Voldemort still attains a new body with the help of a few loyal servants. Hogwarts still falls.
Neville Longbottom faces Voldemort at the cost of both their lives, and Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood, too.
What no one ever learns is where Harry Potter is buried.
Or, well. Eventually, a pair of muggle schoolchildren playing in the local woods finds it, and it causes quite a stir, but no one in the magical community ever hears of it.)
Title: Everyone was always to blame
Fandom: DCU animated
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Warnings: references to Jason’s backstory
Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 150
Point of view: third
Prompt: DCU, any/any, I warned you before that I could've told you I was mean. You were so sweet and I was lonely so I let you hold me.
Razor blades and glass shards can't ever be soft, and this kid is so brilliant, so strong, Jason knows he’s got to have known better, but it's not like he ever warned him. Not like Jason was gonna do the smart thing - not like he ever has.
Once, Jason was the good guy (he thinks? maybe?) but now, now he's just a dead man walking, dead man laughing and fucking, blowing shit up like he was blown up, and every single moment above the ground hurts like a crowbar and jagged laughter, like a mad cackle as the countdown goes 3 2 1.
3 2 1, he thinks as Timmy-boy smiles at him, as Bruce glares, as Dick tries giving him advice, as Alfred sighs.
He misses -
He's going to destroy Tim and he's going to enjoy it because maybe -
Broken things like broken things, don't they?
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Shana Abe
Warnings: references to violence/murder
Pairings: Kronos/Methos
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 375
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, someone unexpectedly turns into a were-bird
If you live long enough, you tend to develop... abilities. ‘Long enough,’ being, of course, beyond three thousand years or so. It is not an easy goal to attain, and most of the old ones have long since fallen. Luck, unfortunately, tends to trump experience. Also, no matter how the body fares, the mind may grow tired. And while knowledge will travel with the quickening, skills do not.
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod takes Caspian’s head, but while Caspian was ancient, he had never mastered the art. Kronos had, but his quickening chose his brother over the impudent child. Cassandra’s art was her beguiling and commanding voice, rather than Methos’ and Kronos’ own. He has wondered, in the years since they all separated, if he had in some way influenced Kronos’ ability. He’ll never know, now, even as he cradles Kronos’ and Silas’ quickenings close. Cassandra and MacLeod shout at each other but Methos does not listen.
Cassandra leaves. MacLeod tries getting close to Methos, but Methos cannot stand his nearness, not with his brothers dead, and so he flees, leaving his sword where it falls, and ignoring how MacLeod shouts for him.
When he is outside, he leaps and takes to the sky. He once taught Kronos to fly while Caspian bathed in the surf and Silas checked over the horses for his own peace of mind before he himself would take his other form of a wolf and patrol. Any horses they had for any length of time grew to recognize Silas’ other form and ceased reacting. That day, when Kronos took to the air for the first time, the horses paid no attention to Silas at all.
Methos taught Kronos to fly, to hunt, to blend into the scenery so that others would think them only birds. If only Kronos had paid more attention -
But though Kronos was ancient, he did not learn all the lessons.
He flies now, though, and Silas, too, and Methos finds some measure of peace.
(There are so few now, old enough to know. And so few of the young ones will live long enough. It is not recorded; Methos will not allow it to be. Some secrets must be learned through experience or not at all.)
Title: everybody knows the fight was fixed
Fandom: Highlander/Marvel movies
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Leonard Cohen
Warnings: spoilers for Cap2, ignores Avengers2
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 200
Point of view: third
Prompt: any. any. my way or the highway
“Look, let me explain this in the simplest way possible,” the man says, pausing to smile. It’s a creepy smile, showing most of his teeth, and his body is loose, relaxed. Ryan’s seen Captain America fight, though, so he knows being relaxed means nothing.
“You have contained back there someone under my protection,” the man continues, still smiling, “and I’ve come to reclaim him. You can either remove yourself or be removed, entirely up to you.” He’s completely accentless, and his hand is now on the - hilt of a sword? What the fuck?
“He’s the Winter Soldier,” Ryan says, because that should say it all - the man’s a traitor, and a monster, and while the various governments argue, the Winter Soldier is going to stay in his cage. Even if Captain America is raising a fuss about it. Who is this guy anyway?
“And I am Death.” The words are said simply. Plainly. While Ryan blinks at him, the man looks past him. “You’ve tripled the guards,” he murmurs. “Smart. But nowhere near enough.”
The man drops the smile, the genial attitude for, “You see, I once promised to take him in, when he finally got away.”
And he moves.
Title: beyond the eastern hills
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: Violence/death/cannibalism
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 520
Point of view: first
Prompt: any. any. salt the earth
There existed once a people beyond the eastern hills. Which land? It matters not. That is not the point - listen. Be silent and listen. Do you understand?
Good.
As I said, they lived beyond the eastern hills. They were proud. Rightly so, for there were none better with horses, and travelers came from far and wide to trade for their gemstones, for their weapons. Horses they trained had no equal. They were rich and content, and so very proud. They were sure they were the best in all the world.
The world, as I am sure you are aware, child, is quite the large place. Stories traveled of the people beyond the eastern hills, who dared proclaim themselves the mightiest. It caught attention.
Once, there were those who would have said it caught the attention of gods. Perhaps they were gods; perhaps they were not. But they wore the mantle of god-kings, who destroyed far more lands than they ever ruled. You know the names? Say them.
Yes… Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death. The people beyond the eastern hills claimed they had no peers and no betters, and where does pride go?
Of course, it goes before a fall.
Sometimes, when the gods of destruction rained down their fury from horseback, they left survivors. Some they took as slaves, some they left to further the legend.
The people beyond the eastern hills had so survivors at all. Not the oldest of the wisewomen, not the youngest babe in arms. They had proclaimed themselves better than the gods and the gods struck them down for the daring of it.
War took many of the weapons, for there were none finer. Famine butchered the corpses for meat. Pestilence roamed his way through the houses and shops, seeking bright gems purely because they were beautiful. And Death… Death watched the horses, yet unbroken, panicking at the smell of blood.
“See something you like, brother?” Pestilence asked him.
“That one,” Death said, pointing at the only completely white horse in the pasture.
“Then that you shall have,” Pestilence told him.
When they left, animals had already begun feeding. The city burned. The next travelers spread the story, of the people beyond the eastern hills. They said the city was cursed - spirits wandered there, never at rest, screaming and crying for mercy. Families never reunited for no rites were said. Word spread of the gods’ anger.
Who were they, the people beyond the eastern hills? Ah, that is the point, you see. There is no record of them anywhere. They never existed, did they? They are struck from history. The weapons were destroyed long ago. The gems are lost. The bones have long turned to dust. That lovely pale mare - perhaps she bred and bore foals, who bred and bore foals. Maybe that is the only thing left of the people beyond the eastern hills.
Do you understand, child? You asked the mark I left on the world. I am history itself, and I choose who is remembered and who is forgotten. Leave me in peace now, and I might remember you.
Title: to my arms you are forever lost
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Margaret Sayers Peden
Warnings: child death, grief, covering it all up
Pairings: Petunia/Vernon
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 470
Point of view: third
Prompt: Harry Potter, any, the world where the Dursleys accidentally killed Harry Potter before he ever had the chance to go to Hogwarts
Petunia's only consolation is that it was an accident. The boy i - was just so quiet, tucked away neatly in the cupboard. With her darling Diddums and Vernon so loud, it was surely an easy thing to miss.
Weeks passed before she remembered that he'd surely need water, and to eat, too, and she is just thankful, now, that Vernon was already at work and Dudley was napping upstairs, because when she opened the cupboard -
She wept for Lily's son, she truly did, and then she went for towels to wrap him in, and she closed the cupboard door, went upstairs, and cradled her own son close, waiting for Vernon to come home.
Petunia told him, “We have to move.” She put Dudley down in his playpen, led Vernon to the cupboard, and opened the door.
“Oh, Christ,” Vernon said.
.
(In the tumultuous weeks after Voldemort’s defeat, Albus Dumbledore’s attention was required by many people for many reasons. When he finally checked on Harry Potter, it was far too late.
Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley become Victor, Penelope, and David Smith. Victor is an accountant, Penelope a volunteer at the local librarian, and David a somewhat quiet child. The neighbors don’t ever come to know the family very well, but there is something solemn about the Smith’s. They don’t talk about anything before.
Albus Dumbledore informs no one that the Potter boy died. He merely claims that the boy is being trained somewhere and turns his attention to Neville Longbottom.)
.
(Magic is an amazing thing, and so is the will to live. But it was dark in the cupboard, and Harry still suffered from the aftereffects of the attack, and he knew they were gone, all the warm people who loved him - in truth, he survived much longer than many others would have, his magic keeping alive even as dehydration sapped away at him.
Magic is an amazing thing, but he died long before his aunt remembered him.)
.
(When Harry Potter does not owl his acceptance, Minerva checks the list and does not see his name. His name appeared when he was born and would disappear for one reason alone.
“Oh, Merlin,” she breathes, covering her mouth with a hand. “Oh, please no.”
She bypasses Dumbledore entirely to go to the Dursley house.)
.
(Sirius Black still escapes Azkaban. Voldemort still attains a new body with the help of a few loyal servants. Hogwarts still falls.
Neville Longbottom faces Voldemort at the cost of both their lives, and Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood, too.
What no one ever learns is where Harry Potter is buried.
Or, well. Eventually, a pair of muggle schoolchildren playing in the local woods finds it, and it causes quite a stir, but no one in the magical community ever hears of it.)
Title: Everyone was always to blame
Fandom: DCU animated
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Warnings: references to Jason’s backstory
Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 150
Point of view: third
Prompt: DCU, any/any, I warned you before that I could've told you I was mean. You were so sweet and I was lonely so I let you hold me.
Razor blades and glass shards can't ever be soft, and this kid is so brilliant, so strong, Jason knows he’s got to have known better, but it's not like he ever warned him. Not like Jason was gonna do the smart thing - not like he ever has.
Once, Jason was the good guy (he thinks? maybe?) but now, now he's just a dead man walking, dead man laughing and fucking, blowing shit up like he was blown up, and every single moment above the ground hurts like a crowbar and jagged laughter, like a mad cackle as the countdown goes 3 2 1.
3 2 1, he thinks as Timmy-boy smiles at him, as Bruce glares, as Dick tries giving him advice, as Alfred sighs.
He misses -
He's going to destroy Tim and he's going to enjoy it because maybe -
Broken things like broken things, don't they?