Death, be not proud
Title: Death, be not proud
Author: Amata le Fay
Story: Crossfire (RP)
Flavor(s): Teaberry 19 (Death, be not proud, though some have called thee)
Toppings: Chopped Nuts (THIS WILL NEVER BE CANON)
Rating: PG13 for language
Word Count: 539 (125 of which are John Donne's)
Notes: Because why not make myself curl up in a corner and sob uncontrollably for the rest of the day?
His voice is loud and raw and criminal, a rough and primal and utterly tortured scream. His body breaks through the restraining arms of his comrades and rushes to the corpse of Silias Longwood, Death with a cruel, smug smile. How could he-how dare he-how-how-
“Wipe that grin off your flogamn face, you gucking whoreson.” The words are too cold, too calculated and calm for what he feels. Not even the hundred bullets emptied into the body's stomach come close to what he wants Death to feel. Death thou shalt die... No.. He doesn't get to die, he has to walk in this hell with his heart still beating when his world has been taken away, when there are no stars in the sky. He has to feel exactly how Javert feels, pain beyond anything he's ever known, pain enough to throw you off a bridge and spend the rest of your life falling, never hitting the ground, never ending the torment-no, death is too kind for Death.
“And if you do decide to jump, who would be here to stop you falling?”
Not you, now.
“Javert.” Mary Thatcher comes up from behind him. He riddles more bullets into Death's eyes, into his heart. “Javert, I'm sorry, but there's nothing we could have done.”
More bullets. The mouth now, and the hands. “Don't use those words.”
“What words?”
“I'm sorry.” The flogfucking fingers that clenched themselves around the knife. He will shoot them down to blood and bone. “Ninety-seven sorries. We never even made it to a gucking hundred!” Javert grabs Death's corpse and slams it against the wall, kicking and clawing at it until they drag him away again. “Three more sorries! THREE!”
Someone's breath catches a bit. He can hear their tears, even Charles singing under his breath, she once was a true love of mine. But they don't know. They don't know. They don't-
Her body. Her beautiful body is lying there, eyes open but dull and black, the stars in them gone forever. She died in agony, she died in pain and hopelessness when they all failed her, all her friends and all the love she ever knew did not save her. She shouldn't have been the one to confront Death, Javert would have longed to take her place. But she did, and now the brightest light in his world was gone.
She would have wanted him to live.
But she should have known that would not have been possible.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
-John Donne