[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
For Kit and Saffron.

I dream in the Spring
In Autumn I dream
My love for you bears me up
Your love brings the strength I need
To heal and protect.
[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com
There are women and there are women; the quick, hot connection and the long, slow bond of love. There is love and desire and friendship, and then there is... her.

We never found a good word for it, but I feel it more keenly now that she's around less. It's not that I miss her, because... well, honestly I don't; I can't miss her when a part of her is inside me every day. The absence of her, with that part still here in me, is something more painful than any missing; it's something else I don't have words for.

Something happened to us a long time ago. I honestly don't know how long; that's just one of the things that Arcadia hides from you. Somewhere between the stable and the thorns; on one of those night when a kitten lapped at my blood to keep warm enough to stay alive, or in the tearing pain of escape, something about us mingled. Now, when she isn't here I feel that something stretch; the further she is, the more it hurts.

It's Christmas Eve. Maggie is dozing on my shoulder, her breath warm on my throat, but the ache in my chest won't ease up. It's been a few months since Ciara has been around and the pain is intense. It's not constant, but comes in waves, often rushing at me when I least expect it. In the yard and in the kitchen; working in the barn or playing football in the park. Pain often hits me like that, although I try not to show it. Right now, there's no real reason to hide, so I pull gently away from Maggie and go to the kitchen, where I can let the tears fall.

But then the tightness begins to ease; the tension starts to unwind and I smile.

I walk to the back door, open it and say: "Hello, Kitty."
ext_20269: (Character - Venice Parrot)
[identity profile] annwfyn.livejournal.com
"Don't you want a hero?" he asked.

He, by the way, was the man in my bed. I can't remember his name. Big guy, looked like a cat half the time. I wasn't sure if I wanted to fuck him or poison him. Maybe both. But anyway, he was there, mostly naked, with his hands all over me talking about heroism.

I wanted to scream at him. I almost did. I don't know what I'd say, but Jesus I wanted to say it. What is there to say?

"I had a hero, and I threw him away. I kicked him out of my house because he felt like a threat to the man I loved, and then he went away and died on me. So what would I do with another?

No, that's not what I wanted to say.

The man was still touching me. His hands were warm and his touch soft, but last night he choked me almost to unconsciousness, like Rex used to do. Rex was the reason I got rid of my hero, of course. Because nothing was allowed to compare with him.

"Don't you want a hero?" he had asked and now he was looking at me like he expected an answer. What else could I say?

"Of course I want a hero! I want my hero, big and stupid and gorgeous. I want him to call me his princess, and make me feel bright and clean and fresh and new. I want a hero - no - I want one particular hero and I want him so badly it hurts."

I wanted to scream and I wanted to cry and I wanted to do and say all the things I never said to Moorcroft when he was alive, because I was too damn stupid and too damn scared. Of course, I didn't.

The man - the scary-sexy-horrible man in my bed ran a hand up my thigh without thinking about it. His eyes were still on me so I gave him one of my brightest and most dazzling smiles.

"What on earth would I do with a hero?" I said.
[identity profile] lucara.livejournal.com
Last Inverness game was flashback central for Alex...

Masks )
[identity profile] lucifermourning.livejournal.com
One of the servants brings her the dress (but she knew it would be the silver one). Long, floating, layers shifting around each other, shimmering and insubstantial.

The guests arrive and she drifts in and out, smiling, greeting them, making them comfortable. Everything is beautiful (of course it is).

There is music. She loves the music, she can feel her body instinctively starting to sway, the ball joints in her shoulders and hips shifting to the rhythm.

He claps His hands (she knew he would) and the room falls silent. He speaks a few words and a space clears. The music changes tempo and she steps forward to dance. She knows each beat before it’s played – her timing is perfect (of course it is). She meets His eyes and He smiles slightly. Her heart hammers with the joy of it. She doesn’t need to follow His gaze, she knows what (who) He wants. A hundred subtle shifts, nothing obvious (of course), but they know it to. There are two of them tonight (beautiful, of course) and all her little movements tell them, call them as the tempo increases. Her dance is a promise, light, quick movements, exposing her legs as the dress swirls. Everyone can see the promise, but only they know that it is a promise to them.

Finally it ends, the evening drifts on. She speaks to them a little, her heart hammering in anticipation. She must be the hostess as well but the moments when she leaves them she imbues with a secret smile of regret and promise. Her anticipation builds, desire growing in her as the hours drift by. She is impatient for the others to leave (but never lets on, of course).

They don’t need to be invited to stay. She guides them to His chambers and the night rewards the waiting, with His pleasure, and hers, and theirs. When they depart the next morning it is with the sweetest of kisses and smiles.

The gate closes behind them and suddenly she realises what she’s done. She doesn’t have to look at Him to know His anger, or His suffering. To have seduced His guests, as though His love was insufficient? Forced Him to go along with it, for fear of offence, so as not to let them know how shameful her actions were? She staggers as she turns to Him and falls to her knees. His face is a perfect composition of rage and hurt – He doesn’t need to say a word.

The blow falls with no warning, and she feels the cracks form down the side of her face. She is grateful. Another one slams her into the marble and part of her arm shatters, falling across the floor in pieces. If this can in any way relieve His suffering and make restitution for the wrong she did Him, she has no complaint.

It goes on a long time.

When it is over, He leaves her. She uses her remaining arm to collect the pieces. She will need to replace many parts.

Later, when she is in the workshop, carefully painting her new hand, she feels Him leave. He’s still to angry to say goodbye.

Much later, as she carefully fits a new eye into place, there is a feeling in her mind, like a clearing fog. It leaves only confusion. The truest fact in her life is her love for Him.

So why does it feel so very much like hate?
[identity profile] akonken.livejournal.com
They say time passes (I know they say it, but don't remember who they are or why they say it or what they mean, and still I want to go back to them), but I am passing through time, more slowly than I passed through the floor, and it is like quicksand, which isn't quick unless it is the sands of time and what is time except what I am passing through.

Countless times I've tried this, countless times to GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT NEVER COME BACK OUT OUT OUT but I never get out, I always get tired and he always follows until he finds me and takes me back to the cool cave and puts me back inside until I am cool not like a cucumber or like a customer but like something else entirely because I am something else entirely and he is something else, all right. But not this time, I think like I always think and am always wrong but not this time, no sir, this time I will GET OUT even if passing through time is so much effort and I have been here for so long that when I GET OUT I will be so old I will crumble into dust like Rip van Winkle or Lot's wife or the sand that blows in my face to get me to turn around and give up but I won't give up, I won't ever give up until I GET OUT and if I crumble into dust when I GET OUT then I won't have to see him ever again won't have to be in the dark won't be kept and can blow in the wind that's not like this wind that whispers where I am and works in cahoots with him and won't let me go.

I will GET OUT if it's the last thing I do, and it may be the last thing I do because I have been here forever and I haven't had any food or water or sleep or love except the obsessive love of the tyrant (if someone ruling only one other person is a tyrant and I say they are) who trapped me and I don't like that kind, I want the kind they gave me, the people I need to GET OUT for, the them I don't remember but can't stop thinking about, the them who should hate me but won't, and I'll give it back to them, and they'll give me food and water and sleep and they will keep me safe even if I am dust because that's love and this is bullshit and I can't stand it any more, I don't care if I'm tired this time, I don't care if I push myself like a panicked horse until I collapse and die, I have to I have to I have to and this time you can't stop me.

The land is working against me, and it isn't even being subtle about it any more; the sand's in my eyes mouth nose and throat, the wind's in my hair, the scrub is scrubbing me and I bleed and I weep and I suffocate






Jun. 15th, 2012 09:57 pm
[identity profile] nadriel.livejournal.com
He dreams. The same dream he has periodically.

He is standing in front of two mirrors. When he looks into the first, he sees a cheerful man in a top hat, surrounded by friends, despite his quirks. It's an appealing picture, until the dreamer realises that the man he is in this picture is contented with little tricks and minor magics.

He turns to the second, and a slight shudder goes through him as he recognises the figure in that image. It was how he looked when he was another person, a man wearing a cloak of raven feathers, carrying a staff bound with fell power. He has mighty magics at his command, and this time is not bound to the whim of a creature of Fae. But he is alone, his power and uncloaked nature having driven off all who would call him friend.

The first image turns to look at him and says, "Choose. Choose me, and the end to your loneliness. What worth power if you cannot enjoy it?"

The second image turns to look at him and says, "Choose. Choose me, and the power you once had, unfettered by any rules that you do not choose to accept. Ultimately, those others will turn from you anyway when they realise your true nature. Forget them and embrace the path to power completely, not this half-life you currently live."

As he always does, with an effort of will, the dreamer dismisses both images.

He says to himself, "I will find the third way..."

As he wakes, though, he worries that he might not find a third way. And in that case, which choice should he make...
ext_20269: (Mood - bedtime bear/sleepy)
[identity profile] annwfyn.livejournal.com

Two mewling infants
Tied by blood in life and death
Torn apart by steel.


It’s been said of man
Only one loyalty counts
The rest are trivial.


Water on my skin
I never knew I could glow
Washed clean of my sins


I stand in a stream
Watching it move ever on
Twisting back and forth.


writing_shadows: (Default)

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