FIC: Noli Me Tangere (Carnivale, J/I, Four Vignettes)
Title: Noli Me Tangere
Author: Drea
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Well, it depends on who the story is being told by. Squint one way, you'll probably find incest. Look sideways and you'll find abuse. And if you cross your eyes, you'll get violence.
Spoilers: "Damascus, NE" for part one. "The River" for part two. And the whole damn series for parts three and four. Ergo, if you have not seen up to "New Canaan, CA", don't go reading this.
Disclaimer: Dan Knauf is way more talented than I am. He created this toybox, HBO (unfortunately) owns the toybox, and I'm just playing around with the toybox. I'll clean up when I'm done, I promise.
Notes: Title and quotes are from Sir Thomas Wyatt's "Whoso list to hunt", which was written a good 600 years before I was born.
Summary: A trinity of men know that Iris Crowe has always been untouchable. Always.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part One - Varlyn Stroud
Hands off.
Four decades of that perverse refrain ringing like a siren in his head. Calling him closer. Warning him away. Coaxing him to drop his guard and reminding him that even the walls of Jericho came crashing down. Damning him to perdition. Damn him for always wanting the unattainable. Damn him.
No. Damn her.
Damn her for being the impervious goddess - the stainless high priestess with the piety of a saint and the soul of a sinner. Her voice could soar to the heavens all it wanted, but there was no denying the malice lurking in her eyes whenever he came too close. She would never voice it, of course, but it crept out, bleeding black into her liquid gaze.
It ran in the family, of course. But while the darkness closing in on Justin filled him with awe, her irises drained him of all strength.
He'd never been frightened of a woman, any woman. Could reduce them to tears with a snarl and a bravado-fueled posture born of childhood practice. Could leave them shaking in their panties (real silk and lace, unheard of and much unexpected) by a mere glance. Not her. He'd never encountered a woman like her before.
But Iris Crowe was no mere woman.
~*~*~*~
Part Two - Tommy Dolan
Keep away.
It was the one ultimatum he'd been given upon his acceptance into the inner circle. Justin was a forgiving man, but there were certain things he would not tolerate. Had even given him a short list.
And going anywhere near his sister was at the top of the list.
Everything in him wanted to scream that it wasn't fair - that he had a right to court the woman. That they'd had something special during those uncertain days when Justin was nowhere to be found. She'd laughed with him, flirted with him, and generally showed more than a bit of interest in return.
But then Justin had returned, and Iris hadn't looked back.
He had tried to reason with Justin. But it was plain from the start that Iris was the one thing on which Justin would not compromise. He supposed that's how it was when you only had one person in the world on which to rely on completely.
She'd told him the story herself, after all. How a young Justin and Iris were orphaned in a foreign country, and left with adoptive parents. Like a story right out of a fairytale, or the Bible. But wasn't there something in that precious Bible of theirs about a time for everything?
Autumn was a good time for change.
~*~*~*~
Part Three - Justin Crowe
Thou shalt not.
She was the light of his world and the bane of his existence, housed in one (terriblewonderful) soul. Bridging the gap between sacred and profane, and they’d always had one foot in each world. Walking the knife-edged line between them.
He hadn’t meant to fall. But visions of men hanging upon trees eventually replaced their city on a hill. The blast of false suns drowned out a whispered promise (my nahodims'a v etom vmeste). And the daughter of man had finally driven him away from the child of God.
He never should have presumed to forgive her when he couldn’t even forgive himself. Seventy times seven, and still it wasn’t enough. For every man who so much as looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.
And he had never been able to stop looking.
Not at Apollonia. Not at Celeste. Not even (Lord, forgive him) at Sofie. And once upon a time, not at Iris, either.
Vashi podbityye glaza oslepl'ayut Vas.
They always had. Blinded him to murder, rape, wrath, and a thousand other sins he’d tried to shove under a bushel. And they’d blinded him to her as well.
It took sickle and dagger to slice it away and make her shine diamond-bright once again. Only by losing everything could he regain what had always been his. She would be by his side for always.
For he would rule in hell, and she would be his queen.
* my nahodims'a v etom vmeste - we will build it together
** Vashi podbityye glaza oslepl'ayut Vas - your black eyes blind you
~*~*~*~
Part Four - Iris Crowe
Untouched.
Always and forever, save by him. It was one of her greatest triumphs - and one of her greatest sins (what did his black eyes see in her?).
What did anyone see in her? She saw nothing but him - had never been able to see any forest but that one, and no tree but theirs. Her brother eclipsed everyone, and she’d learned to navigate the shadows long ago. Had woven and stitched herself into them so thoroughly, indistinguishable from the black of his cassock.
And cast aside just as easily.
His betrayal of her had arrived with no warning. No dreams of cornfields, no visions of fiery crosses, no prophecy or foresight of any kind to warn her that they were no longer in this together. Just small cuts made by his razor-sharp tongue (inherited and whittled under her tutelage). Tempered, of course, by the way his eyes were still drawn to her. By the reflexive sigh of her name (buried under and in the unhinged screams of those-who-could-never-be-her) when he came. The possessiveness of her he’d never abandoned (still abandoning her anyway).
Abandonment. Her father. Her mother. Rose. And now Justin.
But never again. She would not be left behind, would not be placed upon the altar of sacrifice once again. Not by herself, and not by anyone, Justin included.
For she’d tried and tried to forge her own path - paved not wide and with good intentions, but narrow enough for only two. Built from the shards of broken dreams, sand from a riverbank, and blood drawn from her own veins. But it hadn’t held. It had broken under the strain of misuse, of neglect. Broken by his roots and branches and those three words he’d ceased to say (you are forgiven, not ya tebya lyublu anymore).
She’d watched this time as he’d fallen once more. Tearing off after the boy into the cornfield, sins laid bare and bloody for the entire world to see. The Knights had tried to lead her back to safety, but she had to see, had to know, what was happening between her brother and that boy. Impossibly she was seeing it (had she already seen it?) - flashes of lightning (the boy’s hair, Benjamin, son of God’s right hand), echoes of thunder (Justin’s voice, left hand of God), and the shadow cast by a scarecrow (she’d never been this terrified for him). She’d never not known if he was alive or dead.
And they were supposed to be in this together, after all.
Let Stroud rant and rail and disgust her all he liked. Let Dolan’s betrayed eyes haunt her for the rest of her days (which wouldn’t be long). For what did anything at all matter if Justin was gone?
He was going to bring hell to earth?
So be it.
She was thoroughly damned already.
Author: Drea
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Well, it depends on who the story is being told by. Squint one way, you'll probably find incest. Look sideways and you'll find abuse. And if you cross your eyes, you'll get violence.
Spoilers: "Damascus, NE" for part one. "The River" for part two. And the whole damn series for parts three and four. Ergo, if you have not seen up to "New Canaan, CA", don't go reading this.
Disclaimer: Dan Knauf is way more talented than I am. He created this toybox, HBO (unfortunately) owns the toybox, and I'm just playing around with the toybox. I'll clean up when I'm done, I promise.
Notes: Title and quotes are from Sir Thomas Wyatt's "Whoso list to hunt", which was written a good 600 years before I was born.
Summary: A trinity of men know that Iris Crowe has always been untouchable. Always.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part One - Varlyn Stroud
Hands off.
Four decades of that perverse refrain ringing like a siren in his head. Calling him closer. Warning him away. Coaxing him to drop his guard and reminding him that even the walls of Jericho came crashing down. Damning him to perdition. Damn him for always wanting the unattainable. Damn him.
No. Damn her.
Damn her for being the impervious goddess - the stainless high priestess with the piety of a saint and the soul of a sinner. Her voice could soar to the heavens all it wanted, but there was no denying the malice lurking in her eyes whenever he came too close. She would never voice it, of course, but it crept out, bleeding black into her liquid gaze.
It ran in the family, of course. But while the darkness closing in on Justin filled him with awe, her irises drained him of all strength.
He'd never been frightened of a woman, any woman. Could reduce them to tears with a snarl and a bravado-fueled posture born of childhood practice. Could leave them shaking in their panties (real silk and lace, unheard of and much unexpected) by a mere glance. Not her. He'd never encountered a woman like her before.
But Iris Crowe was no mere woman.
~*~*~*~
Part Two - Tommy Dolan
Keep away.
It was the one ultimatum he'd been given upon his acceptance into the inner circle. Justin was a forgiving man, but there were certain things he would not tolerate. Had even given him a short list.
And going anywhere near his sister was at the top of the list.
Everything in him wanted to scream that it wasn't fair - that he had a right to court the woman. That they'd had something special during those uncertain days when Justin was nowhere to be found. She'd laughed with him, flirted with him, and generally showed more than a bit of interest in return.
But then Justin had returned, and Iris hadn't looked back.
He had tried to reason with Justin. But it was plain from the start that Iris was the one thing on which Justin would not compromise. He supposed that's how it was when you only had one person in the world on which to rely on completely.
She'd told him the story herself, after all. How a young Justin and Iris were orphaned in a foreign country, and left with adoptive parents. Like a story right out of a fairytale, or the Bible. But wasn't there something in that precious Bible of theirs about a time for everything?
Autumn was a good time for change.
~*~*~*~
Part Three - Justin Crowe
Thou shalt not.
She was the light of his world and the bane of his existence, housed in one (terriblewonderful) soul. Bridging the gap between sacred and profane, and they’d always had one foot in each world. Walking the knife-edged line between them.
He hadn’t meant to fall. But visions of men hanging upon trees eventually replaced their city on a hill. The blast of false suns drowned out a whispered promise (my nahodims'a v etom vmeste). And the daughter of man had finally driven him away from the child of God.
He never should have presumed to forgive her when he couldn’t even forgive himself. Seventy times seven, and still it wasn’t enough. For every man who so much as looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.
And he had never been able to stop looking.
Not at Apollonia. Not at Celeste. Not even (Lord, forgive him) at Sofie. And once upon a time, not at Iris, either.
Vashi podbityye glaza oslepl'ayut Vas.
They always had. Blinded him to murder, rape, wrath, and a thousand other sins he’d tried to shove under a bushel. And they’d blinded him to her as well.
It took sickle and dagger to slice it away and make her shine diamond-bright once again. Only by losing everything could he regain what had always been his. She would be by his side for always.
For he would rule in hell, and she would be his queen.
* my nahodims'a v etom vmeste - we will build it together
** Vashi podbityye glaza oslepl'ayut Vas - your black eyes blind you
~*~*~*~
Part Four - Iris Crowe
Untouched.
Always and forever, save by him. It was one of her greatest triumphs - and one of her greatest sins (what did his black eyes see in her?).
What did anyone see in her? She saw nothing but him - had never been able to see any forest but that one, and no tree but theirs. Her brother eclipsed everyone, and she’d learned to navigate the shadows long ago. Had woven and stitched herself into them so thoroughly, indistinguishable from the black of his cassock.
And cast aside just as easily.
His betrayal of her had arrived with no warning. No dreams of cornfields, no visions of fiery crosses, no prophecy or foresight of any kind to warn her that they were no longer in this together. Just small cuts made by his razor-sharp tongue (inherited and whittled under her tutelage). Tempered, of course, by the way his eyes were still drawn to her. By the reflexive sigh of her name (buried under and in the unhinged screams of those-who-could-never-be-her) when he came. The possessiveness of her he’d never abandoned (still abandoning her anyway).
Abandonment. Her father. Her mother. Rose. And now Justin.
But never again. She would not be left behind, would not be placed upon the altar of sacrifice once again. Not by herself, and not by anyone, Justin included.
For she’d tried and tried to forge her own path - paved not wide and with good intentions, but narrow enough for only two. Built from the shards of broken dreams, sand from a riverbank, and blood drawn from her own veins. But it hadn’t held. It had broken under the strain of misuse, of neglect. Broken by his roots and branches and those three words he’d ceased to say (you are forgiven, not ya tebya lyublu anymore).
She’d watched this time as he’d fallen once more. Tearing off after the boy into the cornfield, sins laid bare and bloody for the entire world to see. The Knights had tried to lead her back to safety, but she had to see, had to know, what was happening between her brother and that boy. Impossibly she was seeing it (had she already seen it?) - flashes of lightning (the boy’s hair, Benjamin, son of God’s right hand), echoes of thunder (Justin’s voice, left hand of God), and the shadow cast by a scarecrow (she’d never been this terrified for him). She’d never not known if he was alive or dead.
And they were supposed to be in this together, after all.
Let Stroud rant and rail and disgust her all he liked. Let Dolan’s betrayed eyes haunt her for the rest of her days (which wouldn’t be long). For what did anything at all matter if Justin was gone?
He was going to bring hell to earth?
So be it.
She was thoroughly damned already.