Fiction - "Through a Glass, Darkly" (PG-13)
Disclaimer: The picture is not mine, and of course, neither is the title. The story on the other hand is, and any similarity to any other story not my own is coincidence.
Title: Through a Glass, Darkly
Rating: PG-13; rated for adult concepts
Summary: The Goddess contemplates...
Author's Notes: The Morrigan is a Celtic Goddess, and frankly, She is complicated, right down to the fact that sometimes she is a Triple Goddess, and She goes by many different names. Most often though, she is associated with death in battle, war, prophecy, warriors, strife, and fertility. She also plays a role in the stories of Cu Chulainn, the Irish hero, wherein She offers him her love and he rejects Her(bad move buddy *wry grin*)
Oh and Morden A'waer is just a character I made up.
This was written as a part of a picture/fiction meme that I never completed so this has just been sitting around on my computer; thought I'd share it.
Morrigu crossed her arms and braced them lightly on the tarnished silver mirror. She observed the battle unfolding before her with a quiet disinterest. After all, She was only watching because Morden A'waer had asked Her to.
The much younger god was easily pleased with the efficient brutality that man had brought to the art of warfare. The chemical weapons, the smart bombs, the cold, vicious simplicity of battle with a deliberately faceless enemy; Morden was fascinated with it all, and She supposed that she couldn't quite blame him. After all, he had never seen the glory of Cu Chulainn in battle, or tasted the delicious prayers of the dying warrior as he faced down a blood enemy. He had never plucked the eyes from the fallen to glimpse the dark beauty of death, or wandered the fields of blood with the crow women, prizing free the spoils of war. He had never felt the passion that could be found in true battle.
Morrigu sighed, tempted to turn away, and would have, if not for Her promise to watch. Instead, She shifted her arms down and crossed them under Her bare breasts, seeking some kind of warmth since the conflict before Her generated no heat. Almost idly, She contemplated bringing Her hand into the skirmish, but then thought better of it. It might have been worth it if She could be confident that Morden would rage and roar over the inference, but She knew that he would not; he didn't have that kind of passion. Morden was as cold and simple as the conflicts he favored.
The Morrigan sighed once more. It was worse than futile to long for glories past. Cu Chulainn was long dead and punished, the bodies of the Red Branch moldered in their graves, and all was gray and dull.
“Damn...”
Suddenly, violently, She pulled the mirror to the ground, savoring the heavy ring of tarnished silver hitting, and then cracking the marble tiles at Her feet. She sighed in frustrated desire, the petty violence of her action doing nothing to ease the burning ache within her breast.
“Damn...”
Almost idly, she turned her gaze back to the cold battle that played out still upon the mirror at her feet. She casually weaved her hand over the mirror's surface and the scene easily changed to show a battle long past over and won.
“What are you doing?” She chastised herself with a weary, old voice. “Weeping over pleasures long gone like some ancient whore bemoaning the loss of her maiden youth.”
She shook Her head the scene changed once more back into Morden's battle. With another disheartened sort of wave, she gestured her crows forward, sending them to collect the dead from the field; no one there deserved Her personal attention; none were worthy to receive that honor, none fired Her blood.
Carefully, She returned the mirror to its place upon the wall.
“Damn it all...” She swore softly and turned her back on it all...
Title: Through a Glass, Darkly
Rating: PG-13; rated for adult concepts
Summary: The Goddess contemplates...
Author's Notes: The Morrigan is a Celtic Goddess, and frankly, She is complicated, right down to the fact that sometimes she is a Triple Goddess, and She goes by many different names. Most often though, she is associated with death in battle, war, prophecy, warriors, strife, and fertility. She also plays a role in the stories of Cu Chulainn, the Irish hero, wherein She offers him her love and he rejects Her(bad move buddy *wry grin*)
Oh and Morden A'waer is just a character I made up.
This was written as a part of a picture/fiction meme that I never completed so this has just been sitting around on my computer; thought I'd share it.
Morrigu crossed her arms and braced them lightly on the tarnished silver mirror. She observed the battle unfolding before her with a quiet disinterest. After all, She was only watching because Morden A'waer had asked Her to.
The much younger god was easily pleased with the efficient brutality that man had brought to the art of warfare. The chemical weapons, the smart bombs, the cold, vicious simplicity of battle with a deliberately faceless enemy; Morden was fascinated with it all, and She supposed that she couldn't quite blame him. After all, he had never seen the glory of Cu Chulainn in battle, or tasted the delicious prayers of the dying warrior as he faced down a blood enemy. He had never plucked the eyes from the fallen to glimpse the dark beauty of death, or wandered the fields of blood with the crow women, prizing free the spoils of war. He had never felt the passion that could be found in true battle.
Morrigu sighed, tempted to turn away, and would have, if not for Her promise to watch. Instead, She shifted her arms down and crossed them under Her bare breasts, seeking some kind of warmth since the conflict before Her generated no heat. Almost idly, She contemplated bringing Her hand into the skirmish, but then thought better of it. It might have been worth it if She could be confident that Morden would rage and roar over the inference, but She knew that he would not; he didn't have that kind of passion. Morden was as cold and simple as the conflicts he favored.
The Morrigan sighed once more. It was worse than futile to long for glories past. Cu Chulainn was long dead and punished, the bodies of the Red Branch moldered in their graves, and all was gray and dull.
“Damn...”
Suddenly, violently, She pulled the mirror to the ground, savoring the heavy ring of tarnished silver hitting, and then cracking the marble tiles at Her feet. She sighed in frustrated desire, the petty violence of her action doing nothing to ease the burning ache within her breast.
“Damn...”
Almost idly, she turned her gaze back to the cold battle that played out still upon the mirror at her feet. She casually weaved her hand over the mirror's surface and the scene easily changed to show a battle long past over and won.
“What are you doing?” She chastised herself with a weary, old voice. “Weeping over pleasures long gone like some ancient whore bemoaning the loss of her maiden youth.”
She shook Her head the scene changed once more back into Morden's battle. With another disheartened sort of wave, she gestured her crows forward, sending them to collect the dead from the field; no one there deserved Her personal attention; none were worthy to receive that honor, none fired Her blood.
Carefully, She returned the mirror to its place upon the wall.
“Damn it all...” She swore softly and turned her back on it all...