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open | prompt five | ENDINGS
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prompt five | E N D I N G S dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all. |
[ The boy don't say nothing, just stands there with a look on his face like this whole topic makes him sick. But for anyone who gets near him, there's a buzz of thought around him, anyhow, audible even if yer not used to that sort of thing, that says, What's the use of that? and Ben and Ma and Guess it ain't so bad if there's an after like they say. ]
[ Ben and Ma and what's the use of that the boy thinks and the girl with the pale face and the large, knowing eyes doesn't speak back, doesn't even blink. It's hard to tell just how old she is — thirteen, ten, sixteen eleven — and that's mostly because her face is young but her gaze is old. As old as dirt, as old as stars, and she'd been there when they'd fallen down from the sky and onto the people, down from the trees, and everything was fire and light and the Man.
A picture of him forms in the boy's mind — smudge of dirt on his cheek, wet stains in the pits of his shirt, and hill upon hill rolling behind him. Then light, then blindness, then—
She hadn't died, no. But maybe she'd wanted that. Maybe she'd wanted to die too.
Did you stay, did you run. Did you promise, either way.
The thought occurs to him as if it was his own, but it is not his voice speaking. ]
A picture of him forms in the boy's mind — smudge of dirt on his cheek, wet stains in the pits of his shirt, and hill upon hill rolling behind him. Then light, then blindness, then—
She hadn't died, no. But maybe she'd wanted that. Maybe she'd wanted to die too.
Did you stay, did you run. Did you promise, either way.
The thought occurs to him as if it was his own, but it is not his voice speaking. ]
Brandon Clarke, formerly YORK | the order: DECOMMISSIONED
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castledown
2012-03-24 08:02 pm (UTC)(link)
[Once upon a time, Brandon Clarke had thought he was invincible. He had been six at the time, and every six year old boy thinks they're invincible, especially those with little sisters to protect. That was a long time ago, and he knows the extent of humanity. He's so very human, and no human being is invincible.
But then he was. For a short amount of time he was, even if he can't remember it now. That's how he reminds himself that he's not losing it, after all. Because he can think that no one is invincible and he knows deep down that it's not true. He had been invincible once, maybe.
But not anymore. Now he's got a target on his back and no shield to cover it. He can run, and he has, but he can't really hide. He's spoken to too many people, become the face of something new, the one who starts people scratching at something taken away from them, a scab where something bigger once was, and there's no hiding now.
He's not invincible, he's only human.]
But then he was. For a short amount of time he was, even if he can't remember it now. That's how he reminds himself that he's not losing it, after all. Because he can think that no one is invincible and he knows deep down that it's not true. He had been invincible once, maybe.
But not anymore. Now he's got a target on his back and no shield to cover it. He can run, and he has, but he can't really hide. He's spoken to too many people, become the face of something new, the one who starts people scratching at something taken away from them, a scab where something bigger once was, and there's no hiding now.
He's not invincible, he's only human.]
[ Their lives have lost all sense of stability — the result of Brandon's slow spiral sideways and then down, into a state of both knowing and unknowing, of both subconscious memory and conscious forgetfulness, the terrible result of one botched decommission.
The only sense of consistency can be found in one another. Those moments of waking in an unfamiliar hotel room, followed by panic and the quick turn over, followed then by relief. A silent thank god, you're still here. In the beginning, it had been more than enough, had been able to carry the brunt of all of their uncertainty. But the more they pull back the curtain, the more they reveal what lies beneath the blank space of their minds, the more stress it's forced to bear and the less tolerance it has left until breaking.
They've changed motels again for the third time this week and Hallah is out smoking on the balcony moodily, her body silhouetted by the frame of the sliding door. ]
You're going to get us killed, [ she says.
Hallah has never been invincible; she has always been human. And she's always called things as she sees them and this one fact is more or less undeniable now. ]
The only sense of consistency can be found in one another. Those moments of waking in an unfamiliar hotel room, followed by panic and the quick turn over, followed then by relief. A silent thank god, you're still here. In the beginning, it had been more than enough, had been able to carry the brunt of all of their uncertainty. But the more they pull back the curtain, the more they reveal what lies beneath the blank space of their minds, the more stress it's forced to bear and the less tolerance it has left until breaking.
They've changed motels again for the third time this week and Hallah is out smoking on the balcony moodily, her body silhouetted by the frame of the sliding door. ]
You're going to get us killed, [ she says.
Hallah has never been invincible; she has always been human. And she's always called things as she sees them and this one fact is more or less undeniable now. ]
That's sounding an awful lot like a Smiths song.
[ Sansa has more than enough practice in schooling the planes of her face into a look devoid of grief, though she has seen much of it in her life. It is a thought that has occurred to her more than once and that, even with the weirwood crown upon her head, visits her still. There is nothing that would please her more than to be with her family once again, to be returned to the snows of Winterfell — but that is a dream, nothing more, and there is naught to be won from dreams.
Carefully, she reaches up and adjusts the crown upon her head. ]
No person loves another as much as that, [ she says and though the words have their truth, they have their lie as well. ]
Carefully, she reaches up and adjusts the crown upon her head. ]
No person loves another as much as that, [ she says and though the words have their truth, they have their lie as well. ]
Edited 2012-03-24 20:44 (UTC)
[ Jaime tips his head to one side, raising his chin slightly as he regards her down the length of his nose. His welcome in her court, he knows, is a political one at best, pragmatic, bound to grow even frostier than moment his lack of use outweighs his usefulness. If not by Sansa's calculation than by her master's.
But much to their disappointment, he was sure, he would never have the pragmatism of his father, sister, or brother. Jaime's understanding of the strength of holding his tongue was abstract at best and not nearly a match for his understanding of the strength of a sword thrust. Even now. And even now, it still made him unconcernedly careless with his tongue at times: ]
More talk of love, is it? I'd been given to understand you'd grown out of that.
But much to their disappointment, he was sure, he would never have the pragmatism of his father, sister, or brother. Jaime's understanding of the strength of holding his tongue was abstract at best and not nearly a match for his understanding of the strength of a sword thrust. Even now. And even now, it still made him unconcernedly careless with his tongue at times: ]
More talk of love, is it? I'd been given to understand you'd grown out of that.
[ The job's over. Over and done with, and Cobb can go home, and they'll watch to see what Fischer does, and he can go back to Paris and back to school until he graduates.
It's over. There's no reason for him to linger behind in Los Angeles, but he's looking at the flights back to Paris and frowning. He can see which one will take him there the fastest, which ones are the cheapest (not that money is a problem anymore, or not as much of one), but he's not moving from his seat in one of the airport's cafes.
It's done. It's over. But it's changed him. ]
It's over. There's no reason for him to linger behind in Los Angeles, but he's looking at the flights back to Paris and frowning. He can see which one will take him there the fastest, which ones are the cheapest (not that money is a problem anymore, or not as much of one), but he's not moving from his seat in one of the airport's cafes.
It's done. It's over. But it's changed him. ]
[ For Arthur, there'd been the option of staying, of foregoing another flight out of Los Angeles and staying put for a while. But that would have required an invitation from Cobb, an invitation that he'd never thought to extend and that Arthur wouldn't dare ask after.
So for her, it's Madrid first and then Lisbon and then, if things pan out, a brief stint in Mumbai. Arthur considers each of them as she waits on line at the counter for her order, perfectly oval nails (unpainted, she's feeling modest) peeling back page after page of her little black notebook.
When she finally returns to the seat across Adrian, a wafting pall of steam separates the two of them, obscuring her expression. She pushes his drink across the table towards him with the tips of her fingers, the gesture delicate and yet somehow also resolute. A small cup filled with coffee as black as pitch. ]
You're going to be late, [ she points out, knowing full well he has no intention of getting the flight to Paris that is, according to all the lists, now boarding. ]
So for her, it's Madrid first and then Lisbon and then, if things pan out, a brief stint in Mumbai. Arthur considers each of them as she waits on line at the counter for her order, perfectly oval nails (unpainted, she's feeling modest) peeling back page after page of her little black notebook.
When she finally returns to the seat across Adrian, a wafting pall of steam separates the two of them, obscuring her expression. She pushes his drink across the table towards him with the tips of her fingers, the gesture delicate and yet somehow also resolute. A small cup filled with coffee as black as pitch. ]
You're going to be late, [ she points out, knowing full well he has no intention of getting the flight to Paris that is, according to all the lists, now boarding. ]
Edited 2012-03-24 21:53 (UTC)
[ There are new scars on Klara's face today — healed, but only partially. (To heal them all the way would be a waste.) If she's self-conscious about it she doesn't show it, if only because her posture is already so uncertain it eclipses the possibility of anything new. ]
It does sound nice, doesn't it? [ She tries to hazard a smile but her wounds threaten to reopen and weep and so she stops herself, wincing instead. ]
It does sound nice, doesn't it? [ She tries to hazard a smile but her wounds threaten to reopen and weep and so she stops herself, wincing instead. ]
No one wants to die so they can be with someone. [ A long time ago (it's only been a few years, really) Sylvia would have said something different. Something about how maybe one day she'd love someone that much or that someone would love her that much but that was then and this is now. The difference is simple, back then it sounded romantic, nowadays it sounds like another thing that will take up valuable space in her head that she doesn't have to spare.
(Only her and her AIs know that there's still a part of her that likes the idea.) ]
It's a nice idea, but it's a fairy tale and one that isn't healthy for anyone. It's not realistic happiness. It's something most don't reach and then you spend your life being depressed because you couldn't find that special someone. It's better to be happy and not think about finding that person who would die for you.
[ This isn't the original Sylvia who pushed herself to do this and sometimes, that almost feels like a death (one death to save three others) all by itself. ]
(Only her and her AIs know that there's still a part of her that likes the idea.) ]
It's a nice idea, but it's a fairy tale and one that isn't healthy for anyone. It's not realistic happiness. It's something most don't reach and then you spend your life being depressed because you couldn't find that special someone. It's better to be happy and not think about finding that person who would die for you.
[ This isn't the original Sylvia who pushed herself to do this and sometimes, that almost feels like a death (one death to save three others) all by itself. ]
[ Dom's smile is tinged with an exhale when she gives it. Her hands cradle her coffee mug and the warmth radiates straight into her palms. (Little things, she tells herself. It's the little things that get you through.) ]
They're not the easiest.
They're not the easiest.
[ Sometimes it hurts to look at her for too long, though it's a pain so dull and so highly compartmentalized that it barely registers anymore. Just— just an acknowledgment, brief and tidy and then the efficient apportioning away of it. Even after all this time Arthur doesn't know if Dom thinks she's being opaque about her feelings or if she simply doesn't care anymore to hide them, but she's always been obvious to him. (It's part of why he grew attached in the first place. Arthur does get people, but he does get Dom.)
His gaze drops to her hands. ]
Not a lot of things are.
His gaze drops to her hands. ]
Not a lot of things are.
[ His gloved hands curl into fists and then relax at his sides. The pull to his mouth isn't wholly genuine, but Cassel tries — and he can be convincing when he tries. ]
And then beginnings. That's how it's supposed to go, right?
And then beginnings. That's how it's supposed to go, right?
[ Patrick smiles as well, and the only difference, really, is that he doesn't have to will himself into it (not that he knows this is a difference, not yet.) Long practice and an arguably warped sense of humour take care of it all on their own. ]
It depends on what you mean by "supposed to," doesn't it? There are many things that are "supposed to" happen that don't. And vice versa.
It depends on what you mean by "supposed to," doesn't it? There are many things that are "supposed to" happen that don't. And vice versa.
[ Catelyn has to admit that when it came to Ned, these words may have been (were) true. If he died, she would want to die too. However, when faced with a realistic version of this, a choice between allowing yourself to die just because someone you loved deeply to die and forcing yourself to live for your family (your sons and gods willing, your hopefully still alive daughters) the choice is clear. You have to live for them.
(She was a Tully before she was ever a Stark and she'll never forget her words: Family, Duty, Honor.) ]
It is a thought for those without family. Those who have only themselves and the other person tying them to living. [ But the idea itself is a bit romantic, in its own way, Catelyn supposes. She can understand the sentiment, to a point. ]
(She was a Tully before she was ever a Stark and she'll never forget her words: Family, Duty, Honor.) ]
It is a thought for those without family. Those who have only themselves and the other person tying them to living. [ But the idea itself is a bit romantic, in its own way, Catelyn supposes. She can understand the sentiment, to a point. ]
( a romantic idea for a girl who used to believe in romance; in beautiful knights that loved you true, and happy endings where the good-hearted always won. there were stories about lovers who would die rather than be parted, swooning gracefully from a poisoned kiss in a song told by bards. sansa used to like those stories: the old sansa. the fool, sansa. before she had watched her father die, killed by the boy she had once believed she loved; and now she knows that there is nothing even the least bit romantic about death, and hardly anything romantic about romance, either.
she has been a pawn far too long. )
I miss him.
she has been a pawn far too long. )
I miss him.
[ for anyone else it would be love talk. ( i wouldn't wish to live without you. )
but for robb it is real. for robb it is, if i am dead and gone what shall become of you? for robb it is, i would never let you die in the first place, so let us speak of something else. for robb, it is the memory of the raven bringing the news of his father's death, and how that revelation had derailed his entire world. ( i'll kill them all, every one of them. ) for robb, these words make his jaw clench and his chest tighten, and he shakes his head at them, solemn and cold as the north, ( he wishes to turn his face from them, but kings do not turn their faces away. ) a dismissal, a rejection. ]
No one would ask that sacrifice.
[ no one is so selfish to ask for that. i am not so selfish as to ask for that. ]
but for robb it is real. for robb it is, if i am dead and gone what shall become of you? for robb it is, i would never let you die in the first place, so let us speak of something else. for robb, it is the memory of the raven bringing the news of his father's death, and how that revelation had derailed his entire world. ( i'll kill them all, every one of them. ) for robb, these words make his jaw clench and his chest tighten, and he shakes his head at them, solemn and cold as the north, ( he wishes to turn his face from them, but kings do not turn their faces away. ) a dismissal, a rejection. ]
No one would ask that sacrifice.
[ no one is so selfish to ask for that. i am not so selfish as to ask for that. ]
[and jon, who is not a king, will never be a king, who will wear no crown and hold no lands, looks determinedly into the distance, fixing his eyes on something just beyond robb's head.]
No one had to ask.
[for the north. for the realm. for robb. there are vows he doesn't mean to break.]
No one had to ask.
[for the north. for the realm. for robb. there are vows he doesn't mean to break.]
( ezra shrugs at death. that's the truth of things; he literally cannot bring himself to care. death is no mystical veil to him. there are no unanswered questions, because he stares beyond it every single day.
this apathy is a blessing, not a curse. )
You come back as a ghost. Some people, not everyone, or else there would be a lot more of them around. You come back as a ghost, and nobody else can see you.
Life sucks, and then you die. And the afterlife sucks even more.
Might as well get used to it.
this apathy is a blessing, not a curse. )
You come back as a ghost. Some people, not everyone, or else there would be a lot more of them around. You come back as a ghost, and nobody else can see you.
Life sucks, and then you die. And the afterlife sucks even more.
Might as well get used to it.
[Death is no mystical veil to Murmur either, but he doesn't just look beyond it. He's got long arms, you could say, and a grip no deceased soul can escape. It's his speciality, really. That and keeping up the most inept front he can, machinations and manipulations completely hidden behind what most people would write off as an annoying idiot.]
Wow. That's a depressing way to look at it, isn't it? [Even more depressing because it's true, but then, it wasn't like it bothered Murmur. He wasn't mortal.] You ever tried -- what do they say -- oh, yeah: stopping and smelling the flowers?
Wow. That's a depressing way to look at it, isn't it? [Even more depressing because it's true, but then, it wasn't like it bothered Murmur. He wasn't mortal.] You ever tried -- what do they say -- oh, yeah: stopping and smelling the flowers?
[ All paths begin and end in the forest. Some of the men that walk these paths end there too.
Sansa hadn't been strong, but the ground had been damp and instead of giving him leverage to push his face up from the waters, it had swallowed his hands with thick black mud and played accomplice to all those foul deeds. The only witness had been the trees.
She thinks of it now as she tip toes towards the lake that lies still and deep at the heart of the woods. The brambles reach and tug at her skirts, but Sansa pulls them away hastily as she hurries along. He'd been cold as ice and stiff as stone as he'd slipped down, down, into the waters, disappearing beneath its inky surface. And yet, there he'd been at breakfast, as if no such thing had ever come to pass. And yet, he still smiled with a mouth full of teeth. And yet—
And yet. ]
Sansa hadn't been strong, but the ground had been damp and instead of giving him leverage to push his face up from the waters, it had swallowed his hands with thick black mud and played accomplice to all those foul deeds. The only witness had been the trees.
She thinks of it now as she tip toes towards the lake that lies still and deep at the heart of the woods. The brambles reach and tug at her skirts, but Sansa pulls them away hastily as she hurries along. He'd been cold as ice and stiff as stone as he'd slipped down, down, into the waters, disappearing beneath its inky surface. And yet, there he'd been at breakfast, as if no such thing had ever come to pass. And yet, he still smiled with a mouth full of teeth. And yet—
And yet. ]
[She rises from the lake, her eyes wide, her hair sleek and flat against her head. She looks like she belongs there, the blade beneath the water. Water is her element, all lakes are the same lake to her.
She looks up at Sansa. She can recognize pain, when it is similar to hers. She can recognize women who are not her.]
What are you looking for, little bird?
She looks up at Sansa. She can recognize pain, when it is similar to hers. She can recognize women who are not her.]
What are you looking for, little bird?
I guess I'll have to remember for you.
[ The man doesn't answer. Instead, he turns his gaze away, his brow furrowing and his mouth drawing itself into a thin line that reads very easily of discomfort.
(He knows very little, these days, but he knows how close he stands to the edge.)
(What would you do if I died?
It isn't a question he'd ever asked her while he still could. But he had known the answer, then, known it because his answer would have been the same. Love can be like that: all-encompassing and all-consuming but happiness nonetheless.
Would it have been better had he died a quick death?) ]
(He knows very little, these days, but he knows how close he stands to the edge.)
(What would you do if I died?
It isn't a question he'd ever asked her while he still could. But he had known the answer, then, known it because his answer would have been the same. Love can be like that: all-encompassing and all-consuming but happiness nonetheless.
Would it have been better had he died a quick death?) ]
[ Yes, love can be like that. All-encompassing and all consuming but happiness nonetheless. And, for a time, that's what they had had, though neither of them had ever been the type to admit it. Perhaps, if they did, things would have turned out differently, perhaps the somnacin wouldn't have taken so quickly. Perhaps the white shadow that came for Iain in the night wouldn't have done her job so brutally well.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. That word doesn't mean fuckall to Natalia now, but still it haunts her like the way the man does — all sunken cheeks and unrecognizing eyes.
If you died I'd want to die too.
Iain Marling's already dead; she lives with a stranger now. Maybe she's dead too. ]
S'alright, luv, [ she says, tiredly. By now she knows what he thinking even before he does. ] No one's askin', no one's tellin'.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. That word doesn't mean fuckall to Natalia now, but still it haunts her like the way the man does — all sunken cheeks and unrecognizing eyes.
If you died I'd want to die too.
Iain Marling's already dead; she lives with a stranger now. Maybe she's dead too. ]
S'alright, luv, [ she says, tiredly. By now she knows what he thinking even before he does. ] No one's askin', no one's tellin'.
[ And naturally, she doesn't (not really). ]
He can't die, [ she answers, almost resigned to the fact. All he can do is fall and even then he's still out of her reach. (Quick, take a picture, one of the rare times she actually lacks a positive spin.) ]
He can't die, [ she answers, almost resigned to the fact. All he can do is fall and even then he's still out of her reach. (Quick, take a picture, one of the rare times she actually lacks a positive spin.) ]
John Connor | Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
theyalldieforme
2012-03-25 01:06 am (UTC)(link)
I'm not allowed to die.
There are rules.
There are rules.
[ "Treat her as you would any queen, she is carrying my child."
The memory is thick and sweet, just like the tone his voice once held when he spoke of Dalla to Jon Snow -- Snow who would betray them, Snow who he carried no false ideals about. But he had left her in the protection of him and he hadn't failed him, no, yet she had taken her last breath bearing his child. It hurt more than he ever thought it could of.
Dalla -- not his, but free, wild, and overwhelmingly beautiful to him. She was a good woman, better than any he might have met or will ever meet. And now his child is under the care of Val and in the palms of those who would sooner see their freedom relinquished.
"I am my own champion, my own fool, and my own harpist," ] And I'm yours as much as I was ever anyone's.
The memory is thick and sweet, just like the tone his voice once held when he spoke of Dalla to Jon Snow -- Snow who would betray them, Snow who he carried no false ideals about. But he had left her in the protection of him and he hadn't failed him, no, yet she had taken her last breath bearing his child. It hurt more than he ever thought it could of.
Dalla -- not his, but free, wild, and overwhelmingly beautiful to him. She was a good woman, better than any he might have met or will ever meet. And now his child is under the care of Val and in the palms of those who would sooner see their freedom relinquished.
"I am my own champion, my own fool, and my own harpist," ] And I'm yours as much as I was ever anyone's.
[ Her hands shake when she reaches for him. Reach and then stop and withdraw again, no. Everything Agatha touches turns to ash and she won't let that happen again. (Not to him.) ]
And— and. [ Her voice trails off. It takes a while to find it again. ] And what did you want—? Back then.
Before.
And— and. [ Her voice trails off. It takes a while to find it again. ] And what did you want—? Back then.
Before.
You ever wonder the guilt that comes with that request? A simple, die with me, please will make someone feel guilty long after they're dead. It weighs down a soul when they're alive, you know.
You don't ask someone to do that. If you do, you're a selfish child who can't bare the thought of being alone.
[ The one person Ian would ask to do that can't die and would sooner kill him herself if he did. But he knows how guilty people feel about it afterward. Realizing that they tied another human being to them come sickness or death. You die, I die. Stupid idea. ]
You don't ask someone to do that. If you do, you're a selfish child who can't bare the thought of being alone.
[ The one person Ian would ask to do that can't die and would sooner kill him herself if he did. But he knows how guilty people feel about it afterward. Realizing that they tied another human being to them come sickness or death. You die, I die. Stupid idea. ]
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