500 Words - A Divergence: "Oceans"
Apr. 18th, 2004 01:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caraigI plan on re-doing the last one, but this one seemed to want to be written. It... really strongly wanted to be written. Maybe because I've been listening to the above song a bit much. Doesn't mater that the song is written in the original Fremen(!), the whole cinematography with it was really nice. I believe the translated title of the song is, "Yet Does She Live," or "Still She Yet Lives."
This is a bit of an unusual style, but I hope it works. Because it's part of something larger which hasn't really been written fully yet -- a fanfic, actually -- I removed the names and any references to places or events. I don't know, but it makes it... well, judge for yourself, and comment freely, please.
She barely remembered being carried out of the waters. Arms carried her, strong arms, but she did not remember whose they were. They were not his. That was all that mattered.
They told her what had happened, the airship crashing, sending flaming debris over half the beach. A crash impossible to survive, and yet they had tried, for two days and nights, to find any survivors. They found none.
She listened, nearly silently, numb and mute. He had been aboard it. And now he was gone. There had been times before, in their travels, when she had thought him dead, but he had always returned, somehow. A short, short time of anguish and worry, and then he would be there, smiling and apologetic, as was his way. But not this time. If he had survived, then surely... surely by now....
They gave her a place to sleep and some privacy. For the first day should could not bring herself to move from the cot. Someone would bring her food, and each time she heard a footstep beyond the curtain she would tense, her heart rising into her throat in expectation. She would look up, expecting to see him in the doorway... but it would only be one of her hosts, bringing some food and water to her. She would close her eyes, and drift off again into the numb haze of disbelief.
* * *
He spoke to them about what had happened. His voice calm, professional, urgent, making suggestions as to what might happen next, giving instructions for their next move. He appeared as he always had been: strong, unassailable, determined.
But those who knew him saw a little deeper, just deep enough. The flat tone of voice, the slowed movements of his hands, the ember in his eyes. They knew he mourned. They saw. She had died and he felt her loss more dearly than any other in this long, hard struggle.
They would sometimes see him, after a long day's work, sitting at the meeting table, staring at nothing, his gaze lost in the past that seemed just beyond the walls of the room. And every so often a faint smile from memory's kiss, to be quickly followed, when the present drew him back, by the cooling ember in his eyes fading just a little more.
He fought, still, as fiercely as any of them, as strongly as he ever had. But there was no longer any joy in victory, no longer any accomplishment. The quiet, confident smile of a jobwell done was no more. And they knew it was gone because the one who would share that smile with him was dead.
* * *
The third day, she walked from the small room, and though her feelings were still numb they spoke with her, and she began to talk with them of what had happened and what needed to be yet done. Rebuilding would take years, decades, and even then there was still much work to be done here.
This was not her home, not truly anyway. And even though the beach had been cleared still she would find herself looking out over it, out across the rich blue ocean. And then after a time she would turn away, and tell herself to not look again.
There was much work to be done here, and so they taught her their way of blades. She did not train out of vengeance; she could not feel even that much. He would not have wanted that, not him. But it was enough, if even to finish the work they had started so very far away.
She drew herself, if unswervingly, into the daily rote. In time she was going out deeper into the island, helping them to excoriate the plague that had almost brought their world crashing down. Mercy? She still knew the word; and often enough she would show it. But it merely did not occur to her. The look in her eyes was not ruthlesness, it was not a thirst for revenge. But neither would she shed tears, nor would anyone hear sobbing from her, and had not in the time she had been with them.
Except at night, in her small room, where she kept a candle burning. Once in a while someone would pass her, and the curtain would be parted enough for them to see her looking at the candle. And only once in a while, the flickering light of the candle would reflect from the faint lines upon her cheeks.
* * *
And through the ruins of past ages their own war continued to be fought, and he was there, as always. When victory seemed a bare hope, he would struggle the harder, and then it would again be in their grasp. Those who knew, wondered how long he would be able to keep up the fight, for every passing day, every passing week, every passing year his eyes grew cooler and less bright. He would speak of how the cause had been greater than them, greater than the both of them (and they knew of whom he spoke) and that was what kept him going. They wanted to believe him. But each day reminded him of the loss, and how in the end he could not even put his grief to rest, could not even bury a body with an oath to see the sun rise on a better world, someday. Perhaps, once, he had held some kind of hope. But hope, in the days and sometimes weeks of fighting, was abraded away, until the dust that remained was scattered on the winds of memory.
* * *
In even the longest years, wars that have lasted eternities may yet be won, and if not won then respite gained. And in time she returned to the place where it began, upon the battered plain where once nothing grew and now a few strands of grass pushed their way up through the hard dirt. She had forced herself to come here, to remember and put to rest her past, the hurt she had carried for years. It was time to rest. It was time.
She sat upon the barrow, looking out accross the rumpled plain at the grand city that had held so much joy and pain and promise for so long. The towering spires and walls that had seemed not nearly large enough for them. They had come here to watch the city as it was bathed in the light of the rising sun, gleaming gold and ivory in the new day's light, to sit there and just talk and laugh, and have hope for the coming days.
So long after the struggle had started, to have it come to an end should have been a relief. But he could not bring himself to find the great joy he had once thought he would have. The loss... so long ago it had been, and still so fresh in his thoughts. All the more so was it in his mind, for this was somethign that they should have shared. They had looked forward to it for so long, strove for it, and now... there was only him. He could not ignore those who had come so far with him, and he did not; but their own cheers were muted in his presence, and he felt the pall he brought around him smother their relief and happiness. And so he came to this place, out of the city that had witnessed their triumph.
After so long, the tears came fresh anew, blurring her vision. Everything cast in ripples as the rush of emotion overwhelmed her, and no matter how long she had held it inside it was if she had lost him but yesterday. Here, in this place they had shared, she could imagine him again, stepping out of the gates of the city as if to join her.
For the first time in years, his throat constricted, and the sorrow came anew. For against the golden light of the rising sun he thought he saw her, in the place they would sit once as they were wont to do, as if she were awaiting him already.
(finis)
This is a bit of an unusual style, but I hope it works. Because it's part of something larger which hasn't really been written fully yet -- a fanfic, actually -- I removed the names and any references to places or events. I don't know, but it makes it... well, judge for yourself, and comment freely, please.
She barely remembered being carried out of the waters. Arms carried her, strong arms, but she did not remember whose they were. They were not his. That was all that mattered.
They told her what had happened, the airship crashing, sending flaming debris over half the beach. A crash impossible to survive, and yet they had tried, for two days and nights, to find any survivors. They found none.
She listened, nearly silently, numb and mute. He had been aboard it. And now he was gone. There had been times before, in their travels, when she had thought him dead, but he had always returned, somehow. A short, short time of anguish and worry, and then he would be there, smiling and apologetic, as was his way. But not this time. If he had survived, then surely... surely by now....
They gave her a place to sleep and some privacy. For the first day should could not bring herself to move from the cot. Someone would bring her food, and each time she heard a footstep beyond the curtain she would tense, her heart rising into her throat in expectation. She would look up, expecting to see him in the doorway... but it would only be one of her hosts, bringing some food and water to her. She would close her eyes, and drift off again into the numb haze of disbelief.
* * *
He spoke to them about what had happened. His voice calm, professional, urgent, making suggestions as to what might happen next, giving instructions for their next move. He appeared as he always had been: strong, unassailable, determined.
But those who knew him saw a little deeper, just deep enough. The flat tone of voice, the slowed movements of his hands, the ember in his eyes. They knew he mourned. They saw. She had died and he felt her loss more dearly than any other in this long, hard struggle.
They would sometimes see him, after a long day's work, sitting at the meeting table, staring at nothing, his gaze lost in the past that seemed just beyond the walls of the room. And every so often a faint smile from memory's kiss, to be quickly followed, when the present drew him back, by the cooling ember in his eyes fading just a little more.
He fought, still, as fiercely as any of them, as strongly as he ever had. But there was no longer any joy in victory, no longer any accomplishment. The quiet, confident smile of a jobwell done was no more. And they knew it was gone because the one who would share that smile with him was dead.
* * *
The third day, she walked from the small room, and though her feelings were still numb they spoke with her, and she began to talk with them of what had happened and what needed to be yet done. Rebuilding would take years, decades, and even then there was still much work to be done here.
This was not her home, not truly anyway. And even though the beach had been cleared still she would find herself looking out over it, out across the rich blue ocean. And then after a time she would turn away, and tell herself to not look again.
There was much work to be done here, and so they taught her their way of blades. She did not train out of vengeance; she could not feel even that much. He would not have wanted that, not him. But it was enough, if even to finish the work they had started so very far away.
She drew herself, if unswervingly, into the daily rote. In time she was going out deeper into the island, helping them to excoriate the plague that had almost brought their world crashing down. Mercy? She still knew the word; and often enough she would show it. But it merely did not occur to her. The look in her eyes was not ruthlesness, it was not a thirst for revenge. But neither would she shed tears, nor would anyone hear sobbing from her, and had not in the time she had been with them.
Except at night, in her small room, where she kept a candle burning. Once in a while someone would pass her, and the curtain would be parted enough for them to see her looking at the candle. And only once in a while, the flickering light of the candle would reflect from the faint lines upon her cheeks.
* * *
And through the ruins of past ages their own war continued to be fought, and he was there, as always. When victory seemed a bare hope, he would struggle the harder, and then it would again be in their grasp. Those who knew, wondered how long he would be able to keep up the fight, for every passing day, every passing week, every passing year his eyes grew cooler and less bright. He would speak of how the cause had been greater than them, greater than the both of them (and they knew of whom he spoke) and that was what kept him going. They wanted to believe him. But each day reminded him of the loss, and how in the end he could not even put his grief to rest, could not even bury a body with an oath to see the sun rise on a better world, someday. Perhaps, once, he had held some kind of hope. But hope, in the days and sometimes weeks of fighting, was abraded away, until the dust that remained was scattered on the winds of memory.
* * *
In even the longest years, wars that have lasted eternities may yet be won, and if not won then respite gained. And in time she returned to the place where it began, upon the battered plain where once nothing grew and now a few strands of grass pushed their way up through the hard dirt. She had forced herself to come here, to remember and put to rest her past, the hurt she had carried for years. It was time to rest. It was time.
She sat upon the barrow, looking out accross the rumpled plain at the grand city that had held so much joy and pain and promise for so long. The towering spires and walls that had seemed not nearly large enough for them. They had come here to watch the city as it was bathed in the light of the rising sun, gleaming gold and ivory in the new day's light, to sit there and just talk and laugh, and have hope for the coming days.
So long after the struggle had started, to have it come to an end should have been a relief. But he could not bring himself to find the great joy he had once thought he would have. The loss... so long ago it had been, and still so fresh in his thoughts. All the more so was it in his mind, for this was somethign that they should have shared. They had looked forward to it for so long, strove for it, and now... there was only him. He could not ignore those who had come so far with him, and he did not; but their own cheers were muted in his presence, and he felt the pall he brought around him smother their relief and happiness. And so he came to this place, out of the city that had witnessed their triumph.
After so long, the tears came fresh anew, blurring her vision. Everything cast in ripples as the rush of emotion overwhelmed her, and no matter how long she had held it inside it was if she had lost him but yesterday. Here, in this place they had shared, she could imagine him again, stepping out of the gates of the city as if to join her.
For the first time in years, his throat constricted, and the sorrow came anew. For against the golden light of the rising sun he thought he saw her, in the place they would sit once as they were wont to do, as if she were awaiting him already.
(finis)
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no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 09:04 am (UTC)From the beginning to the line that reads "And then after a time she would turn away, and tell herself to not look again" seems like an introduction into the beginning of full novel. I'd be very excited to read more!