wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2020-09-05 08:59 pm
wintersday) wrote2020-09-05 08:59 pm
Fic: Hagiography
Title: Hagiography
Fandom: Homestuck
Major Characters/Pairings: The Disciple, background pale Disciple/Signless
Wordcount: 200
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: The Disciple is done with forgiveness.
She is three nights out from the last town to offer her shelter when she sees an Imperial patrol passing through the rocks below.
She is hidden well. They might go on their way, if she stays still enough, with no knowledge that she was ever there. She almost lets them. But the one who would have stilled her rage is called the Sufferer now, and he died with a curse, not a blessing.
She falls on them, a shadow – rends limbs, breaks bones, tears hearts as hers was torn. Her enemies are caught in ambush, then dead; the blood is cold on her hands, and those hands are shaking. Tears blind her. She does not think, but only scrawls a symbol, crude, on bare stone in bitter blue: paired manacles, a fire, a ship ascending. The color is wrong. There should be red here too.
“I’ll write your story,” she says, to the rocks and the wind and nothing else. “I won’t let you die.”
It is easy to imagine some reproach in the silence that follows. Easy to imagine something more than absence.
Fuck that noise, he would have said. I am dead. Don’t write it like this.
Fandom: Homestuck
Major Characters/Pairings: The Disciple, background pale Disciple/Signless
Wordcount: 200
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: The Disciple is done with forgiveness.
She is three nights out from the last town to offer her shelter when she sees an Imperial patrol passing through the rocks below.
She is hidden well. They might go on their way, if she stays still enough, with no knowledge that she was ever there. She almost lets them. But the one who would have stilled her rage is called the Sufferer now, and he died with a curse, not a blessing.
She falls on them, a shadow – rends limbs, breaks bones, tears hearts as hers was torn. Her enemies are caught in ambush, then dead; the blood is cold on her hands, and those hands are shaking. Tears blind her. She does not think, but only scrawls a symbol, crude, on bare stone in bitter blue: paired manacles, a fire, a ship ascending. The color is wrong. There should be red here too.
“I’ll write your story,” she says, to the rocks and the wind and nothing else. “I won’t let you die.”
It is easy to imagine some reproach in the silence that follows. Easy to imagine something more than absence.
Fuck that noise, he would have said. I am dead. Don’t write it like this.