ancient lions .

COURTYARD (introduction - first draft)

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 01:01:01 GMT

Title: Courtyard
Genre: Fantasy
Rating: Will get a higher rating in later parts, but this excerpt is PG/Angry Green Wombat

Notes: This is a teaser of one of the stories that I've been writing. The characters, universe, etc. are all mine, so please do not reproduce anything without permission. I'm hoping to add it chapter by chapter here as I complete it. This will hopefully make me work on it a little more, (Ha!) and will allow for feedback.

Summary: The journey of a young dryad whose inability to change her form forces her to abandon the home she knew and seek out a new purpose in life.

I was thirteen years old when I realized I'd never belong.

Keilan had learned how to Shift, changing his arms into beautiful laurels, his legs into delicate brown bark and I was speechless and in love. It was wonderful, the change, and I wanted it so badly that I would clench my teeth and dance in the dark woods, arms up to the looming canopy of my ancestors, begging them for the gift, willing my own body to accept it. I knew, if only they could hear my pleas that they would grant me the same honor and I would take my place among my people—as a true child of the ancestors.

But it never came to me.

Months passed and the Grove became an unhappy place. I was mocked and ridiculed for my unchanging body, left isolated, abandoned by those who had once been my friends—my equals. Keilan spent more and more time in the woods speaking Brambletongue with the others from our tribe, leaving me in a state of misery that drained my soul of feeling. I felt betrayed by my body, by my skin and all the parts of me that could not become what Keilan had become, what all other children in the village had become. Alone and ugly, I no longer ventured into the woods at night, nor into the village during the day.

Beautiful Mother touched me with her rose-blooming fingertips, the thorns of her nails scratching below my chin in a familiar way. She would be an Elder soon and so the change was stronger in her than the others—taking away her features without her knowledge. Now and then I would catch her half changed and jealousy would rise up like a bile in my throat before I had time to quell my selfishness. Soon she would not be my mother but an Ancestor and when she left I would truly be alone, for my mother was the only one who could love me—who did not look at me and see a mistake. And for that I loved her and would always love her.

The others forbade me near the inner sanctum of the Grove when I turned fourteen for my form was unsightly to them, and to our Ancestors, and therefore not permitted. I spent my days by the riverside when I could or on the black rocks making ambrosia bread with my mother until the sun set. Some days I would stay there long after nightfall when the rocks grew cool from the shadows and the stars could be counted. I dreamt of a world among those stars, of a place where people would accept me, where I would not be alone. I would sleep against the stone and dream of men who liked me, of the pretty words they would speak to me. Awaking was harder on these nights, filled with the sharp bitterness of returning to a world that despised me.

When I was fifteen, I told my mother I was leaving.

She cried for me as mothers do when they know they cannot hold on to their children, but she did not ask me to stay—she knew it would be a wasted and useless request and thus better left unspoken. I packed a few meager belongings and kissed her gently. Roses bloomed across her spine and she wept long after I had walked away.

I did not know where I would find myself.

For the first time in my life, I felt fear and excitement pool in my stomach.

Icons (Respost)

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 15:43:17 GMT

This is a post featuring the more recent two batches of my icons. To view all my older ones, please visit lucem, which from now on will serve only as an archive.

Rules for icons:

I ask that you do not hotlink, because bandwidth theft is lame.

Credit is a must, in any shape or form, but in the comment/keywords is nicest.

Don't edit my icons in any way; just because I don't put text on an icon, doesn't mean you can.

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[01-06] : v for vendetta [film]
[07-14] : trigun
[15-18] : slayers
[19-20] : red eye
[21-00] : loveless
[22-29] : drakenguard

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[01-22] : stargate atlantis
[23-28] : x-1999/tokyo babylon
[29-33] : secret of nimh

Three Things Sarah Lost In Finding Herself (Sarah/Jareth, Sarah/OC, PG)

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 14:49:24 GMT

Title: Three Things Sarah Lost In Finding Herself
Paring: Sarah/OC, Sarah/Jareth
Rating: PG/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not my universe. Just borrowing.
Notes: For the longest time, I've wanted to write something for this pairing, but nothing I did seemed right. Then one night I couldn't sleep, so I wrote instead. I hope you like it -- it cost me a good night's rest.
Subnotes: For Nadia, who liked my stories, even when I didn't.

First posted on 19 August 2008.

She was twenty-three when she met the man she knew she’d spend her life with. He’d introduced himself in the University bookstore while she was picking out textbooks, and he’d commented on one of the poets she needed to read. From there they’d hit it off. She had coffee, dinner, and then breakfast with him -- she was happy.

He was a handsome man, and she loved touching him constantly -- his hair (sandy blonde), and also his hands (callused slightly, from playing the guitar). He gave her silly nicknames and called her every night before bed to ask about her day. She would comb her fingers through his hair when he got headaches, or hum songs to him as he was falling asleep.

It occurred to her that she’d become a part of him -- or maybe, he of her -- and it was strangely comforting to know that there was someone in the world she needed. But it was also painful sometimes. She had dreams where he died or went away and she would wake up with her stomach knotted and her eyes teary. She never told him this.

After two and a half years of dating, he bought her a ring, and asked her to stay with him always. She thought she might be too young to be married, but accepted, and they moved into an apartment together three months later.

Six months after that, they were married.

●

When she felt the first kick, her heart raced; she woke up in a panic, grabbing for his hand, telling him to place it on her tummy. They remained huddled and awake for hours, just listening and feeling for signs of life within her, wondering how much longer their little daughter would make them wait. Sometimes they’d talk to her, even though they knew she could not hear them.

Her father would play her songs on his guitar, sometimes making up new lyrics so that she would know he loved her, although they hadn’t met yet. Her mother would tell her stories about fairies, and goblins, and all sorts of magical creatures that children ought to know about.

When she was born, she was their sunshine. Her hair grew in a pale morning gold, and curled itself around her face like vines. Everyone said she was beautiful, and her parents would agree with them.

Then one day, she got a cough.

They buried her in a small cemetery on a hillside and stayed with her until the sun set.

●

He told her that she reminded him too much of her.

He said it hurt him everyday to look at her, and remember what was lost.

He left one night and never came back.

●

Sarah drove her small car off the edge of the hillside cemetery some three days after. The rescue workers managed to pull her from the wreckage, and doctors did all they could to keep her alive from several severe injuries. She slipped into a coma during surgery from the head trauma, and fell into her dreams.

That’s when he came to her.

Hello, Sarah.

He was taller than she remembered him being, still beautiful with his silver-blonde hair and the sharp eyes of neither blue, nor brown. He stood before her in a void of black like some figure in a dream, dressed in robes that might be considered solemn by his usual tastes, and bearing an expression of graveness that she could barely stomach to see.

He waited for her in the dark, standing perfectly still as though he’d been carved of stone, but she made no effort to move to him. Her legs felt heavy and stiff, and her stomach was knotted and sore. She felt ugly, sick, and so very tired.

It is done. You do not have to stay here anymore.

I don’t have anywhere else to go.

Of course you do, Sarah. There are two choices before you even now.

He held up his hands, and there was no magic as there had been before -- no tricks of light, or shinning crystal balls, or peaches that could send her into dreams of dancers and masquerades. There were only two hands, each one palm up as though waiting to be filled with something, like the hands of a beggar.

He offered his right hand.

They could save you, he said. You could awaken, and everything will start again. You will go back into the world as you are, to re-experience it. You will live until it is your time to die, and perhaps there will be happiness, or perhaps not.

Then, he offered his left hand.

Or, you could come with me, and perhaps there will be happiness, or perhaps not.

She looked at him with her eyes red and wet; misery lurched its way up from her stomach into her throat. She felt as though the world had gotten a little smaller, as though the darkness had wound itself tightly around her like a noose.

She asked, Would either choice give my daughter back to me?

What’s done, is done.

For a long while, she sat in the darkness sobbing quietly. He said nothing and offered her no comfort, nor did he urge her to make a decision. It seemed like he had all the time in the world to wait for her to choose, and if she decided to spend it crying, then she could. It was a comfort in itself.

Afterwards, she pulled her legs up so that she could rest her cheek against her knees. She thought about things for a long time, and soon the pain and fatigue of her body lessened until she could stand. She looked at him from across the void, and his eyes were unchanging -- betraying nothing. The choice was hers alone.

Okay, she said. I’ve made up my mind…

●

Toby awoke at three in the morning with a horrible feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach. His wife awoke shortly after he did -- jarred into consciousness when the phone rang. She watched her husband answer it, and listened to the one-sided conversation, and when it was over he hung up the phone and cried.

His sister had died today.

In her sleep.

La Valse (Wolfwood/Vash, PG)

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 14:45:45 GMT

Title: La Valse
Paring: Wolfwood/Vash
Rating: PG/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: At first, I thought this fic needed more, but then I realized I liked it just like this. A short, day-to-day happening in the life of..., etc. type fic. I seperated Vash from Knives, so it's not dark for once.
Subnotes: La Valse. French for "the waltz".

First posted on 04 May 2008.

DAWN:

“You know, I’ve been in bad situations before, but they only get this bad when I’m with you.”

There is a bullet lodged in his left shoulder. Two shots have gone clean through his right knee, leaving his leg useless. Most of his blood is pooled somewhere in the room, and some of it is splattered against the wall behind them. Yet even so, Nicholas Wolfwood is -- miraculously —- still capable of being an asshole.

He’d already finished off their water, eaten the last of the food, and passed off all the blame; Vash finds himself bleeding quite heavily from the hole in his stomach, barely able to stay conscious, and the scapegoat for every one of the other man’s many woes and injuries.

Wolfwood snorts indignantly. “If they don’t kill you, I think I might.”

Maybe it’s because he’s still reeling from the last bullet wound. Or maybe it’s because he’s lost enough blood to be delirious. Whatever the reason, Vash feels happier here, slumped and dying against Nicholas Wolfwood, then he’s ever felt anywhere else.

Through parched and bloody lips, Vash manages to crack a grin. “Sshh… respect your elders…”

“Fuck off.”

DUSK:

“Damn, damn, damn!”

“Are you hit?”

“No, I’m out of cigarettes.”

“. . . . ”

MIDNIGHT:

The window is open -- not by choice, but because someone shot the hinges off the left side and shattered the glass panels into sand during the last attack; Wolfwood has already decided that, whoever is responsible is going to get a bullet right between the god dammed eyes because it is, frankly, too fucking cold at night to have the window open.

Vash passed out from blood loss an hour ago; Wolfwood is pretty positive that he’ll wake up eventually.

It had been a quick retreat deeper into the old, rickety house, but it had been a successful one and that was really the only highlight to the day so far. Depressing, since Nicholas Wolfwood had intended to get drunk today, and turning himself into a final resting place for several .45 caliber bullets and wooden splinters had not been in the scheduling.

The house -- or rather, what is left of it -- is surrounded on all sides; the entire front room had been stormed and shot to pieces when the mob had decided that waiting was out of the question and had chosen instead to deploy the armored machine gun.

Wolfwood sighs. “You know what, Spikey?”

Vash -- still unconscious -- does not respond.

Wolfwood continues regardless; “... I don’t think I like you anymore. Not that I ever really did -- no offense, but you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, you know.” He thumbs a stray wisp of blonde hair with absentminded habit, lingering just-too-long at the arch of the eyebrow. “As soon as I can, I’m turning you in for cash and a get-out of-jail-free card, understand?”

Though there is no blatant acceptance of this suggestion, Wolfwood pretends that the little moan slipping over the gunman’s tongue is an approval of his plan.

DAWN:

They leave no corpses in the wake of their miraculous escape -- Vash’s doing, not Wolfwood’s. He’d been willing to litter the ground with their insides after the hell they’d been put through all for a stinking bounty, and part of him regrets not even teaching one of them a decent lesson.

Vash limps a little way ahead of him, nursing the leg that’s a little too beaten up to respond properly, humming something under his breath as though he is a child. Twenty minutes ago he’d almost single-handedly taken out ten armed men without any ammo to speak of, but you wouldn’t think that by looking at the idiot now. Wolfwood couldn’t see it himself, and he’d be present during the affair.

“You’re strange,” he says, lighting a fresh cigarette “... but you know that, don’t you?”

Vash laughs; the effort reopens his wounds, but it’s worth it.

Illumination (Sheppard/McKay, PG)

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 14:38:16 GMT

Title: Illumination
Paring: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: There are reasons why Lils and I are not permitted to watch SGA together: we hallucinate. This fic was basically prompted by what we thought we heard Sheppard say. Forgive my poor attempt at making this half-decent, as it was written rather late in the night. Or, more specifically, early in the morning.
Subnotes: Watch out for character death, angst, and a failed attempt at being stylish.

First posted on 11 April 2006.

"Together for one second we are light." - Gwendolyn MacEwen

He cannot see; nothing else exists outside the flash of the Stargate, outside the intense pulse of the blood pumping through his veins. Shouting throbs across the airwaves, dragging shivers down his back, down his legs, and he thinks he might loose control of them -- just for a moment.

They are coming and he can’t breathe; he’s forgotten how.

I can’t. I can’t. It’s a dead-man’s confession, a final confession -- the last he will ever make. His feet are rooted as trees curled around the very core of the earth, twisted together and bound. He cannot move. He will not move.

(They are woven and tight, knitted together -- their legs crisscrossed, their minds melted from the heat of their love making. There are no words for what they have touched together, no words for what they have given to each other, but Rodney calls it ‘insight’ and he likes to think it’s an accurate title for it. You’ll be the death of me, he says one night, speaking into the pillow they share. The only answer is John’s steady beating heart.)

Rodney, says John. He thinks for a moment that there are more words but they fail him, like his heart is failing him... beating out of time, dripping from the wounds that are everywhere. He bleeds out language and life -- soon there will be neither left inside of him.

But Rodney does not move and bears that hopeless, stubborn look.

I can’t, I can’t.

(They take him away and John swears it will be the last thing they ever do. His fingers flex and his eyes are dark and gold-rimmed, sharp and cruel like the eyes of the Wraith -- like the eyes of a hunter. He knows what he should do, what he must do, but he won’t -- he can’t. His men depend on him but this will be the day he lets the down. Change of plans, he says far-too-calmly. They’ve got Rodney.)

They won’t make it -- either of them. The gate is open and it calls out, but they will not escape to it -- this is as far as they can go. This is The End. Rodney looks up at the blue waves shuddering in the distance, his eyes catching their light -- magnifying it -- and John watches the changing colors dance across his cheeks like firelight.

Rodney, he murmurs. The shouts and cries have become the air now, choking out the oxygen, and neither he nor Rodney can hear anything outside the foreign tongues shrieking in the distance. In the dark, in the wild stillness, the only thing that brings comfort is the bright ring of light that is too close and too far from them, pulsing like a heart.

(John breathes out and Rodney -- who is always too close -- breathes in.)

John wishes he could feel his legs, just to know that they’re there. He wishes he could feel his fingers, just to know that they’re there. He wishes Rodney would listen, would leave, would get the hell out of here like he was told to, just so all this foolishness isn’t wasted.

But he doesn’t. Somehow, John knew he wouldn’t.

(Something rips through him, tears him open, but his feet are still running and he trusts them to take him further. The others are safe, they know what to do and how to get back; John can be unreasonable, just this once. This is for Rodney, he tells himself. This is for that stubborn, noisy, egotistical bastard that snores after sex. His body carries him, weak-kneed, but it carries him, and Rodney is so close -- so close -- that he can feel him in the darkness. All he has to do is cut him free, get him out, and it will all be over. You can rest when you’re dead, Sheppard. Somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll have to wait that long.)

He could leave, if he wanted to; his feet are working and he still has a clip in his sidearm, but Rodney takes one last, long look at the gate and sits down instead. He lies in the grass, head close to John’s, cheek settling in the warm pool of blood where their pillow should be. He keeps his eyes open and he watches the man beside him; John watches back, breathing.

In those last few moments of visibility, their eyes are connected.

Then the gate sparks out.

Memoria (Sheppard/McKay, PG-13)

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 14:35:15 GMT

Title: Memoria; or, Three Weeks After
Paring: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG-13/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: Totally inspired by Lily's fic, which broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. A piece to calm myself while I wait for her to finish the sequel which will---hopefully---make my woobie feel better. This fic is Post-Conversion, so spoilers, obviously. (Also, I was playing with style---I do that a lot though, so nothing new.) Be gentle, as this is my first Atlantis fic ever.

First posted on 24 January 2006.

He sleeps, he wakes, his skin itches and peels. He eats what the IV pumps into his blood, he drinks whatever he can swallow, he says whatever can be pushed past his flaking lips. He gets sick and coughs and draws in air unevenly. He has fits from the medication, fits from the virus dying in his system, fits from the unbelievable itch that’s left behind when the deep blue skin flakes away and leaves him raw.

Sometimes there are visitors, sometimes there are doctors, most of the time there is white noise and the unbroken pulse of his heartbeat on the monitor. Beep beep beep beep -- all normal. Sometimes Teyla is there, sometimes Ronon, usually it’s Elizabeth -- she practices her bedside manner. Rodney stays away.

Despite everything, the memories won’t leave him.

When he does nothing else, he remembers.

When there is nothing else, he remembers.

He wishes he didn’t.

I.

It feels like flying, like shooting fire up his veins, like getting caught and getting fucked and licking battery acid up with his tongue; it’s all electric shocks and pumping blood and power trips that last a hundred years. He takes a breath; the chemistry burns its aftertaste in his throat.

It doesn’t scare him, even though it should, even though he wishes it did -- sort of. He’s sky high and turned on and awake at last, suddenly seeing, suddenly knowing that there is something out there in the universe and by god it’s me. He’s something newer than lightning, something charged with electric currents and stolen adrenaline.

He wants a test drive.

But Elizabeth stares at him, watches him with concern and duty, and he knows, he can practically taste the warning on her tongue. She’s not going to let him go; but maybe he’ll make her.

II.

He sees Teyla and remembers: hot Sundays spent in the backseat of the family car, broken windows and the thrill of getting caught, satin candy lipstick, casino night, black leather, neon, Xena: Warrior Princess. She sways in step with him, sentient and wild, all-knowing and so dense he could chip a tooth trying to bite into her.

He doesn’t bite; he sucks her tongue right out of her mouth instead.

She’s startled and afraid and he thinks Breakfast is served, but something pulls him back, dusts him off, drives the fever out of him. He sees Teyla and remembers: boundaries. Hesitation ties his tongue, knots it, and he reaches for clarity, for the control, picking out her name from his mind like a weed.

Teyla, he says.

She’s already leaving.

III.

McKay is all petulance and submission and tense lines of poetry; he struggles and kicks but the deeper meaning eludes, the deeper feelings suppress and repress and repress until there’s nothing but mass hysteria. The empty space between them is filled with oxygen and John inhales it in one breath, greedy like a newborn, before sucking McKay in too, drawing him close and near.

This is what you want, he says.

It’s an order.

~~FIN~~.

Three weeks after John Sheppard is hospitalized --

three weeks after the pain gave in after the voice in his head stopped telling him to fucking kill them all after he could breathe after he could think after the high died after he could look at himself in the mirror and see part of himself after he could after he could after after three fucking weeks

-- Rodney Mckay steps through the infirmary door.

There are no words spoken, no efforts made to console or question, no blame passed or thrown; uneven breathing, tense glances, guilt -- nothing else exists. John bites at his tongue, chews on the inside of his lip; he remembers. Rodney panics, because that’s what Rodney does. That’s how Rodney accepts a situation.

There’s pressure on John’s chest -- he remembers: guilty. He doesn’t remember why.

"Carson said," a pause; Rodney tests his voice for stability, carefully -- like a scientist. He doesn’t clear his throat -- the sound could break him, break this moment, break this courage. He’s quiet, he waits, he studies. "Carson said, you don’t remember."

"I..."

(John remembers: wanting.)

It’s difficult; Rodney breathes -- steady, in out in out -- turning his head away for a moment, just to clear it. He's not a coward, no matter how much he wishes he was. He can do this because it has to be done. This is something that needs to be fixed; Rodney’s good a fixing things.

(John remembers: stopping.)

"... I didn’t." he says.

"No, you didn’t." but I wanted you to. The words hang in the air, suspended as if by fingertips -- no other chances, had to take you as a monster or not at all -- and John remembers: quiet looks across the conference table, little moments of kindness that are out-of-character, unspoken friendship, acts of bravery that don’t fit, that don’t add up -- I’ve never asked you for this before, but I think I’ve earned that. Trust me.

"Rodney."

(This is what you want.)

"It’s alright."

Rodney breathes.

And breathes.

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