Drabbletag 7: Mad Max: The Dag/The Keeper of the Seeds - rain
Title: Renewal
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Pairing: The Dag/The Keeper of the Seeds
Rating: G
Prompt: Drabbletag7, Mad Max: The Dag/The Keeper of the Seeds - rain
Word count: 250
Summary: The memory of the old world, the promise of the new.
On the second night in the desert, the Dag and the Keeper of the Seeds sit on the crest of a dune in the lantern-light, mapping satellites, talking in edged words and stories.
"Do you remember rain?" the Dag asks.
"Oh, I remember," the Keeper says. "Those days, rain was poison. Only safe water was that from underground."
Her face is leather-tough, but the skin of her fingertips against the Dag's arm feels like paper, something precious and delicate from a world long-gone. Her eyes cut sharper than knives.
"But you found the Green Place. Wasn't poison there," the Dag says, like saying it could make it true.
The Keeper gives her a cracked grin. "Was poison everywhere. Damage like that takes time to work itself out."
The Dag tries to smile back, against unexpected sorrow, and the Keeper's face seems to soften.
"I won't see it happen," she says, laying a hand against the Dag's chest, over her heart. "You might."
"I want to," the Dag whispers. In the near-dark, the Keeper's face holds the same beauty as the red rock canyon, scoured by wind and time, enduring still. On impulse, the Dag grasps her hand and holds it there, feeling the warmth of skin over bone; on impulse, she shifts toward that warmth, and says, "I want to know what it's like to feel clean."
The Keeper smiles, knowing, and draws her closer. That night, the Dag sleeps in another's arms, and dreams of storms returning.
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Pairing: The Dag/The Keeper of the Seeds
Rating: G
Prompt: Drabbletag7, Mad Max: The Dag/The Keeper of the Seeds - rain
Word count: 250
Summary: The memory of the old world, the promise of the new.
On the second night in the desert, the Dag and the Keeper of the Seeds sit on the crest of a dune in the lantern-light, mapping satellites, talking in edged words and stories.
"Do you remember rain?" the Dag asks.
"Oh, I remember," the Keeper says. "Those days, rain was poison. Only safe water was that from underground."
Her face is leather-tough, but the skin of her fingertips against the Dag's arm feels like paper, something precious and delicate from a world long-gone. Her eyes cut sharper than knives.
"But you found the Green Place. Wasn't poison there," the Dag says, like saying it could make it true.
The Keeper gives her a cracked grin. "Was poison everywhere. Damage like that takes time to work itself out."
The Dag tries to smile back, against unexpected sorrow, and the Keeper's face seems to soften.
"I won't see it happen," she says, laying a hand against the Dag's chest, over her heart. "You might."
"I want to," the Dag whispers. In the near-dark, the Keeper's face holds the same beauty as the red rock canyon, scoured by wind and time, enduring still. On impulse, the Dag grasps her hand and holds it there, feeling the warmth of skin over bone; on impulse, she shifts toward that warmth, and says, "I want to know what it's like to feel clean."
The Keeper smiles, knowing, and draws her closer. That night, the Dag sleeps in another's arms, and dreams of storms returning.