(no subject)
Drowning
by whereupon
Supernatural: Lisa/Dean, spoilers through 6.02, PG, 750 words.
On fairy tales for girls.
As a girl she imagined herself a sea-witch, a temptress on the shoreline, powerful and half-mad. She had a kind of lover in those days, men and not a few women, sheathed in leather and scarred with battles she'd never seen and could only imagine. She told herself stories about who she would become, and all of the sunsets and sunrises she would watch from distant shores, and then one day she woke up and she was someone who taught yoga at the women's health center on the corner of 27th and Hawthorne and was raising a son all by herself and who no longer had time for mythology and legend. She woke sometimes with a few fragments of Greek smudged like red clay and the tear-scent of salt behind her eyes, but they were forgotten quickly, washed away by the thin grey pre-dawn light and her son crying in the next room.
One day a man she'd loved many years before, when she was still just a girl, appeared again on her doorstep. He'd come to say goodbye, she learned, and he would do it again a year later. The third time he returned to her, he was wrecked with grief, and he told her that he had come to stay, to live with her if she would have him, for he had nowhere else to go. Her illusions about the glamour of battle had long since fallen away; she, too, had tasted sacrifice and had been scarred by it, but she let him in, because she loved him still and because she knew that there was a right thing to do, and a wrong, and though she no longer really believed that she was living in a story, she wanted to believe that she was the kind of person who would do what was right. She took care of the man, and she took care of her son, and eventually she began to tell herself a new kind of story, one in which her son would have a father and she would sleep curled beside someone warm and strong, who loved her, who would shelter her body with his every night for the rest of her life, if she wanted.
But the man was distant, and sometimes dreamed about terrible things, though he would never tell her what they were. One day he came to her and he asked her for her blessing, and for a gift; he asked her to tie him to her, so that he would not have to leave, and so that he could always keep her safe. The chain he held out for her approval was of the finest filigreed silver, so thin that she almost could not see it, and she wanted with all her heart to say yes, to keep him with her always, but she had been wise for a long time by then, and she knew that the chain that looked light as ashes now would not always be so; it would tighten like a noose around him, and as it did, the love that the man felt for her would begin to die and he would grow colder, until one day he would wake up and there would be nothing of him left.
She knew this, though he didn't yet, and she made the decision that he could not. She rested her hand against his cheek, and she told him that she could not be his jailer, that he was not hers to bind. For a moment his shoulders slumped, and then he smiled, and she knew, as her heart broke once more along a fracture she'd thought healed for good long ago, that though she'd broken the spell and granted his freedom, in this story, she was not the hero, for this story was not hers. Still, she asked the man to return, if he could, and she told him that she would wait for him, because she knew how these sorts of things were meant to go, and because, though she was used to a bed unshared by another, her dreams for her son were harder to discard. The man promised her that he would, and then he went away to war, and she went to wake her son for school and wondered if Penelope had been a sea-witch once, and if so, if she had ever once stopped dreaming of the ocean; if she too had known this feeling like cool, dry tiles beneath her feet and her throat stoppered with dust.
by whereupon
Supernatural: Lisa/Dean, spoilers through 6.02, PG, 750 words.
On fairy tales for girls.
As a girl she imagined herself a sea-witch, a temptress on the shoreline, powerful and half-mad. She had a kind of lover in those days, men and not a few women, sheathed in leather and scarred with battles she'd never seen and could only imagine. She told herself stories about who she would become, and all of the sunsets and sunrises she would watch from distant shores, and then one day she woke up and she was someone who taught yoga at the women's health center on the corner of 27th and Hawthorne and was raising a son all by herself and who no longer had time for mythology and legend. She woke sometimes with a few fragments of Greek smudged like red clay and the tear-scent of salt behind her eyes, but they were forgotten quickly, washed away by the thin grey pre-dawn light and her son crying in the next room.
One day a man she'd loved many years before, when she was still just a girl, appeared again on her doorstep. He'd come to say goodbye, she learned, and he would do it again a year later. The third time he returned to her, he was wrecked with grief, and he told her that he had come to stay, to live with her if she would have him, for he had nowhere else to go. Her illusions about the glamour of battle had long since fallen away; she, too, had tasted sacrifice and had been scarred by it, but she let him in, because she loved him still and because she knew that there was a right thing to do, and a wrong, and though she no longer really believed that she was living in a story, she wanted to believe that she was the kind of person who would do what was right. She took care of the man, and she took care of her son, and eventually she began to tell herself a new kind of story, one in which her son would have a father and she would sleep curled beside someone warm and strong, who loved her, who would shelter her body with his every night for the rest of her life, if she wanted.
But the man was distant, and sometimes dreamed about terrible things, though he would never tell her what they were. One day he came to her and he asked her for her blessing, and for a gift; he asked her to tie him to her, so that he would not have to leave, and so that he could always keep her safe. The chain he held out for her approval was of the finest filigreed silver, so thin that she almost could not see it, and she wanted with all her heart to say yes, to keep him with her always, but she had been wise for a long time by then, and she knew that the chain that looked light as ashes now would not always be so; it would tighten like a noose around him, and as it did, the love that the man felt for her would begin to die and he would grow colder, until one day he would wake up and there would be nothing of him left.
She knew this, though he didn't yet, and she made the decision that he could not. She rested her hand against his cheek, and she told him that she could not be his jailer, that he was not hers to bind. For a moment his shoulders slumped, and then he smiled, and she knew, as her heart broke once more along a fracture she'd thought healed for good long ago, that though she'd broken the spell and granted his freedom, in this story, she was not the hero, for this story was not hers. Still, she asked the man to return, if he could, and she told him that she would wait for him, because she knew how these sorts of things were meant to go, and because, though she was used to a bed unshared by another, her dreams for her son were harder to discard. The man promised her that he would, and then he went away to war, and she went to wake her son for school and wondered if Penelope had been a sea-witch once, and if so, if she had ever once stopped dreaming of the ocean; if she too had known this feeling like cool, dry tiles beneath her feet and her throat stoppered with dust.