DV fic: Crossroads
Title: Crossroads
Rating: Gen
Synopsis: Thomas waits for something very important to happen.
Thomas stood at the crossroads and waited, lingering on the glittering white sand, knowing that what he saw was merely an image. A metaphor.
He waited.
It was neither cold nor hot, he never hungered or felt thirsty, he had no need but one: to step forward, to move beyond the metaphor surrounding him. But still he fought it. He would not go.
He would not.
***
I will be here forever. I will stand here and feel nothing, know nothing, want nothing. I will be lost forever.
His foot twitched and he almost took a step as panic welled up inside of him. But no, oh no. Something within him held fast.
***
There were times he wept: arms wrapped tightly around himself, eyes red, tears glistened in beard.
***
Alone.
***
Thomas closed his eyes and heard the beating of the drum. It reminded him of his heartbeat and then it was his heartbeat and he could taste it in his mouth.
It tasted of autumn apples: crisp and tart and firm.
When he opened his eyes, he could still hear it.
It made him sad.
***
"Where are we?"
Thomas turned his head and smiled at Francis. He was older than Thomas remembered; there was grey in his hair and deep lines around his eyes and mouth. "We're at the crossroads."
"The crossroads?" Francis looked startled. "You're dead."
"You should know, you're the one who had me beheaded."
Francis's eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed silently, in shock.
Thomas took pity on him and took his hand. "It doesn't matter. We have a choice, Francis. We must choose a direction. Where shall we go?"
He stared into Thomas's eyes, unflinching, gazing at the truth there. Understanding, perhaps, for he squeezed Thomas's hand. "You choose, Thomas. This is your expedition, not mine."
Thomas smiled and led him forward.
Rating: Gen
Synopsis: Thomas waits for something very important to happen.
Thomas stood at the crossroads and waited, lingering on the glittering white sand, knowing that what he saw was merely an image. A metaphor.
He waited.
It was neither cold nor hot, he never hungered or felt thirsty, he had no need but one: to step forward, to move beyond the metaphor surrounding him. But still he fought it. He would not go.
He would not.
***
I will be here forever. I will stand here and feel nothing, know nothing, want nothing. I will be lost forever.
His foot twitched and he almost took a step as panic welled up inside of him. But no, oh no. Something within him held fast.
***
There were times he wept: arms wrapped tightly around himself, eyes red, tears glistened in beard.
***
Alone.
***
Thomas closed his eyes and heard the beating of the drum. It reminded him of his heartbeat and then it was his heartbeat and he could taste it in his mouth.
It tasted of autumn apples: crisp and tart and firm.
When he opened his eyes, he could still hear it.
It made him sad.
***
"Where are we?"
Thomas turned his head and smiled at Francis. He was older than Thomas remembered; there was grey in his hair and deep lines around his eyes and mouth. "We're at the crossroads."
"The crossroads?" Francis looked startled. "You're dead."
"You should know, you're the one who had me beheaded."
Francis's eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed silently, in shock.
Thomas took pity on him and took his hand. "It doesn't matter. We have a choice, Francis. We must choose a direction. Where shall we go?"
He stared into Thomas's eyes, unflinching, gazing at the truth there. Understanding, perhaps, for he squeezed Thomas's hand. "You choose, Thomas. This is your expedition, not mine."
Thomas smiled and led him forward.