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tamingthemuse2014-02-15 10:11 pm
moriwen1.livejournal.com) wrote in tamingthemuse2014-02-15 10:11 pm
Entry tags:
Prompt 395 - Broken Soul - In the Grip of Winter - Moriwen1 - Original
Title: In the Grip of Winter
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Broken Soul
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: He doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t even take a deep breath. He’s not going to die. It won’t much hurt.
He waits for something else to make the choice for him, because he thinks, the choice being made, he could bear it. Could bear anything, everything, so long as he doesn’t have to himself be the instrument of--
But he can’t, he realizes. Can’t bear this -- can’t bear to see everything he’s ever had, everything he’s ever wanted, slipping from his grip like water or sand, trickling out, counting the seconds--
No, he can’t.
Cassandra--
“Cassandra,” he says, and it’s him saying it, his voice, his choice, and he chooses this. “There’s only one way out. There’s only ever been one way out of this room.”
He sees it in her eyes, sees the exact moment when she understands. And oh, he loves that about her, that she understands his words and comprehends his thoughts. And she doesn’t misunderstand, because it’s not death he means, and if she’d been one iota less than she is in any measure she might have thought that.
What he means is much, much worse.
As a group, they don’t look so big. The moment he starts to settle on one, though, it seems to inflate, almost to loom. He’ll try to look for a smaller one, a juvenile maybe, something that maybe he can beat -- but it’s not good, each seems huger than the last. The one he finally chooses is a bloated monster, a purplish sheen to its scales, and he thinks it’s smirking. Maybe it is. He doesn’t know if they can think like people.
The carapace is slippery under his fingers. He’s pushing aside his cloak, struggling to pull up the unfamiliar tunic, and then Cassandra’s hand is on his chest.
“No,” she says, her voice almost a whisper like she’s trying not to cry. “Back, not front.”
“But the priestess--”
“Is different. Still her inside, only it can make her stop and start. Hurt her, help her. Don’t do this, Steel, you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I know it,” he says. “I’ve seen them. Going through the countryside. Like dolls.”
“Steel.” It’s not even a protest. It’s just his name.
“It’s the only way out. It won’t take you, will it, not after what you-- Like you said, I’ve seen the scars.”
“Steel.”
“I have to,” he says, and goes back to struggling with his tunic.
Cassandra rolls her eyes, takes hold of the fabric behind his neck and yanks. It chokes him for a moment, but then the cloth rips jaggedly down his back. He shrugs it off his shoulders, and the garment falls to his hips and hangs.
The dragon in his hands chirps and hisses.
“Cassandra,” he says, desperate. A cry for help. Tell me not to do what I’m doing. Tell me there’s another way. Tell me it’s not worth it.
“Steel,” she says, but it’s still just his name.
He doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t even take a deep breath. He’s not going to die. It won’t much hurt.
He reaches around behind his shoulderblade, and, stretching a bit, places the dragon on his back.
He feels his soul break.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Broken Soul
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: He doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t even take a deep breath. He’s not going to die. It won’t much hurt.
He waits for something else to make the choice for him, because he thinks, the choice being made, he could bear it. Could bear anything, everything, so long as he doesn’t have to himself be the instrument of--
But he can’t, he realizes. Can’t bear this -- can’t bear to see everything he’s ever had, everything he’s ever wanted, slipping from his grip like water or sand, trickling out, counting the seconds--
No, he can’t.
Cassandra--
“Cassandra,” he says, and it’s him saying it, his voice, his choice, and he chooses this. “There’s only one way out. There’s only ever been one way out of this room.”
He sees it in her eyes, sees the exact moment when she understands. And oh, he loves that about her, that she understands his words and comprehends his thoughts. And she doesn’t misunderstand, because it’s not death he means, and if she’d been one iota less than she is in any measure she might have thought that.
What he means is much, much worse.
As a group, they don’t look so big. The moment he starts to settle on one, though, it seems to inflate, almost to loom. He’ll try to look for a smaller one, a juvenile maybe, something that maybe he can beat -- but it’s not good, each seems huger than the last. The one he finally chooses is a bloated monster, a purplish sheen to its scales, and he thinks it’s smirking. Maybe it is. He doesn’t know if they can think like people.
The carapace is slippery under his fingers. He’s pushing aside his cloak, struggling to pull up the unfamiliar tunic, and then Cassandra’s hand is on his chest.
“No,” she says, her voice almost a whisper like she’s trying not to cry. “Back, not front.”
“But the priestess--”
“Is different. Still her inside, only it can make her stop and start. Hurt her, help her. Don’t do this, Steel, you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I know it,” he says. “I’ve seen them. Going through the countryside. Like dolls.”
“Steel.” It’s not even a protest. It’s just his name.
“It’s the only way out. It won’t take you, will it, not after what you-- Like you said, I’ve seen the scars.”
“Steel.”
“I have to,” he says, and goes back to struggling with his tunic.
Cassandra rolls her eyes, takes hold of the fabric behind his neck and yanks. It chokes him for a moment, but then the cloth rips jaggedly down his back. He shrugs it off his shoulders, and the garment falls to his hips and hangs.
The dragon in his hands chirps and hisses.
“Cassandra,” he says, desperate. A cry for help. Tell me not to do what I’m doing. Tell me there’s another way. Tell me it’s not worth it.
“Steel,” she says, but it’s still just his name.
He doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t even take a deep breath. He’s not going to die. It won’t much hurt.
He reaches around behind his shoulderblade, and, stretching a bit, places the dragon on his back.
He feels his soul break.