drabbles: SN and "Tin Man" - PG
Dec. 5th, 2007 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfTitle: a god in ruins
Fandom: “Tin Man”
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Emerson.
Warnings: spoilers for the show
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 275
Point of view: third
It isn’t easy, after, at all, to get her life back. Dejii is the only one who remotely trusts her; even Dad flinches from her sometimes. Mom can barely look her in the eye.
The people call for her arrest, her trial and execution. She would let them have it, but Dejii refuses.
“I just got my sister back,” she says, blue eyes solemn and sad. “I’m not giving her up without a fight.”
The kingdom has been torn apart enough, shattered and broken by war. She is weary of it.
Dejii asks once, as they’re curled on a warm, soft bed, buried beneath homespun quilts, making up for fifteen lost years.
“What was it like?” Her voice is young, a barely-there murmur.
“It was dark,” she answers, searching for words. “Cold. Lonely. I saw some—she’d let me out, just for a moment. But I couldn’t… I could never…”
“Shh,” Dejii soothes. “It’s alright.”
She is ashamed of the tears and she presses her face into Dejii’s smooth, pale neck.
It is not easy, not at all. But the people see their savior-princess with her sister and the light from their clasped hands is beautiful.
Forgiveness is slow, but steady. The witch left her mark, but the princesses’ light is cleansing.
Dejii brought her back and led her home. After being in the cold, dark prison of her mind for so long, Dejii’s sunshine is a balm.
She heals. She will never rule—the people will not allow it. And she is content with that.
Azkadelia does not want a throne. She wants only a quiet lake, bright sunshine, and her sister’s gentle touch.
Title: the blackest dirge
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.
Warnings: future!fic
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 350
Point of view: third
It is a cold day, and so innocently bright. He hasn’t been topside since he was twelve. He shivers, pulling his jacket close.
“Come,” the Master says over his shoulder. “I didn’t bring you here to linger—only to prove that it’s done.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies quietly, and follows.
The sunlight is faint, but there. He is unused to such gentle warmth and gazes up in wonder. The Master doesn’t mind; he also looks, face serene. He is shocked at such a soft expression on the Master’s face, but he says nothing.
“Tell me,” the Master commands as they walk, shoulder to shoulder. Few are as tall as the Master; down below, such size has given him much prestige. “What are you expecting?”
He thinks; the Master will not want a quick answer. He will want something of substance.
“A memorial,” he finally answers as they turn the corner. The large iron gates rise above them, deep black in the fading sunlight. “Something worthy of—” He does not say the name. Uttering the name is forbidden of all Master’s folk.
The Master pauses and turns to face him. “You may speak his name,” the Master tells him, reaching out to touch his face. The Master’s hand moves down his cheek to curl around his neck. “You and I alone can.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replies.
The Master turns and leads the way, his long coat billowing in the chilly breeze.
They set foot in the black marble tomb, one word inscribed in gold on the side. Above the ground is a coffin, large and glossy brown.
“He was a good man,” the Master says. “The best ever born.” He smiles, caressing the mahogany wood.
“I know,” he answers, daring to reach out and trail his fingers along the coffin.
“I miss him,” the Master murmurs. “I miss him so much it burns.”
As he follows the Master from the mausoleum, he looks back to read the word: Dean.
“Come, Ben,” the Master says. Before he can respond, the Master adds, “And I’ve told you—call me Uncle Sam.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-06 03:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-06 07:52 pm (UTC)