black metal (peter, pg)
Third entry for 100foraslan, "crowns." :)
black metal
Peter; PG; Dark / 255 words
Author's Note: Post-PC angst. Peter goes to war.
black metal
Crowns and swords are made of metal. So are dog tags and guns.
The crown he wears - wore - presented him as High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia. High - High King Peter, Caspian had said, bowing low with his sword on the ground.
The dog tags he wears now identify him as P. T. P. Pevensie, he's called, but only when they bother to pay attention to him. The dog tags only important in death - no one looks at them otherwise, but he turns the metal between his fingers at night.
Swords are heavy, and work at his muscles. They fly through the air, he can hear them cutting the tension, the passion of battle. He can hear them crashing against skin and bone, red-wet. He tastes sweat and blood and victory on his tongue.
Guns are light, and rattle his bones when he fires. His entire body shifts a bit - he thinks something inside him changes each time - and he can only hear the cries of men. Damnit, Pevensie, aim better. He tries, but he can't. His vision is impaired by bright images, red blood and gray-black skies and brown mud. War.
Ancient symbols such as crowns and swords recall a time of knights and chivalry. Of honor.
Technology, guns and bombs, a symbol of progress. Progress be damned, he thinks. For this, and he pushes his boot further into the chest of the man below him, still breathing.
Chivalry is dead, and Peter dies with it.
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black metal
Peter; PG; Dark / 255 words
Author's Note: Post-PC angst. Peter goes to war.
black metal
Crowns and swords are made of metal. So are dog tags and guns.
The crown he wears - wore - presented him as High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia. High - High King Peter, Caspian had said, bowing low with his sword on the ground.
The dog tags he wears now identify him as P. T. P. Pevensie, he's called, but only when they bother to pay attention to him. The dog tags only important in death - no one looks at them otherwise, but he turns the metal between his fingers at night.
Swords are heavy, and work at his muscles. They fly through the air, he can hear them cutting the tension, the passion of battle. He can hear them crashing against skin and bone, red-wet. He tastes sweat and blood and victory on his tongue.
Guns are light, and rattle his bones when he fires. His entire body shifts a bit - he thinks something inside him changes each time - and he can only hear the cries of men. Damnit, Pevensie, aim better. He tries, but he can't. His vision is impaired by bright images, red blood and gray-black skies and brown mud. War.
Ancient symbols such as crowns and swords recall a time of knights and chivalry. Of honor.
Technology, guns and bombs, a symbol of progress. Progress be damned, he thinks. For this, and he pushes his boot further into the chest of the man below him, still breathing.
Chivalry is dead, and Peter dies with it.
Want to archive or list somewhere? Please comment. | Add dearestlilybean!