For the "One True Love" challenge...
Feb. 6th, 2006 02:37 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
atanwende.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
silwritersguildTitle: Untitled
Author: Unsung Heroine
Beta: My humble self.
Genre: Romance, obviously. ;-)
Rating: General
Disclaimer: I own none of this. Unfortunately.
Warnings: Sexual situations, nakedness. Nothing explicit, but I'd ask you to stay away if you're uncomfortable with this. And definitely AU. Very AU.
Cast: Haleth and Caranthir.
Summary: A re-union beyond all hope and time.
Related links: Also posted to my journal.
Author's Note: This is as AU as can get and defies all logic. Funny enough, it is at the same time one of those stories I've written that I like best. You decide. :-)
Untitled (because sometimes, words are better not wasted)
“Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
William Shakespeare – Macbeth
He doesn’t know anymore where he saw her first, with her jeans and her sandals and the bag she carried over her shoulder. It may have been somewhere in the subway station beneath Stazione Termini, it may have been somewhere on the airport, waiting impatiently for the express train to the city. He doesn’t even remember how they came to be here, in this cheap hotel room somewhere in the less than respectable part of Rome, and he doesn’t care in the least.
Maybe they have been standing there, gaping at each other while her travel guide and map slid out of her hands as if in slow motion, a meeting only fit for a city like this. Maybe time seemed to stand still (and he hates that phrase but can’t think of another) until her eyes grew wide and she uttered something that might have been a choked sob, and quickly covered her mouth with one trembling hand.
Maybe a hasty embrace followed, bags thrown to the floor, and never minding the warning signs. Beware of pickpockets. Who in his right mind cares, in moments like this?
Maybe that was what it had been like.
But he does not remember and it doesn’t matter, because now they are here, in this cheap hotel room somewhere in the less than respectable part of Rome. Together.
They have made love, harder, more impetuous and maybe more selfish than ever before, taking what they could get without asking, the last desperate kicking out before the final drowning. They have both hurt each other a little; he has bit through her lip and she has scratched his back badly; there’s a dark bruise on her shoulder from when he pushed her against the wall, and there are still thick strands of his hair caught between her fingers.
They lie pressed against each other nakedly, bed sheets sticking to their sweaty skin, trembling with exertion and the thrill of having met each other again beyond all hope and time and reason.
“Why?” he whispers hoarsely. “How?”
“Don’t ask,” she answers, “Don’t. I do not want to know.”
He thinks this is no place for her, not for beautiful Atanwende[1] whose hair still smells like the wind in the mountains, even after all this time. She should not be here, who looks like autumn storms and spring rains and clouds on the horizon and sunshine through morning mist. Not here, not in this place, not in this bedroom over a brothel somewhere in Termini, with its crackling wall paint and scratchy sheets.[2]
“Why are you here?”
“Because all roads lead to Rome, they say.”
So they have met again. And why not here? Why not now? They are far too grateful for many questions, far too tired for answers, and there remains nothing to ask, nothing to tell, nothing to forgive.
She is still intoxicatingly beautiful in the half light, he thinks, as she pulls him on top of her once more.
Morning has come far too quickly, like it always does, and she stands by the window, looking out into the streets, already busy, when he emerges out of the bathroom.
She wears a tight red shirt that makes her look almost fragile, like a ballet dancer. Someone should tell her that red is not exactly her colour, he thinks. It makes her look strange. She also wears one of those push-up bras that make even her appear as if she actually had breasts and he wishes she would take it off. Her hair is much longer now, held back in a ponytail reaching nearly to her waist, and wearing it thusly she looks younger than ever, like a 17-year old girl. It is a bit hard to reconcile this new Haleth with the one he met in Thargelion, the one who wore leather armour and boots and carried a yew bow. He wonders if those white long fingers, those small slender hands, could still wield a blade.
“If I had been there,” she says, as if in answer, and her eyes gleam coldly, “I would have chopped off his head. Faster than he could have blinked. I still would do it. I still could kill. I still could incite a riot in the subway, if only I wanted to.”
He nods. He does not have to ask what she means with “there” and “him”. He knows exactly.
“Where were you, before you came here?” he asks instead.
“Venice,” she says softly, while tracing patters upon the dusty window panes.
“How is it there?”
“Oh, full of crumbling, faded mortal garishness and the memory of things that once were beautiful[3].” She pauses, smiling. “I bet you’d like it,” she adds wistfully. “Where were you?”
He does not answer. He does not know. The Void. The darkness. Some cold place without you.
He pushes his hips against hers, she pulls his head down to meet her lips, and nothing that was, nothing that is, and nothing that one day might be matters anymore.
The day passes somehow and in the hour that the sun has just sunk behind the eastern hills, they finally loosen their embrace, free their entwined hands from each other, and get up and leave the hotel soundlessly.
It is a warm night, clear and star-lit, when they emerge from the subway station. Impatiently she pulls him along with her, across the broad street, and through the monumental archway looming before them. They halt. He stares. She smiles. At night, Piazza del Popolo is a marvel of light, marble and water and she feels more than a little victorious to hear him uttering the slightest gasp.
They walk together, closely, not letting go of each other. There was a time when she wouldn’t have done this so easily, a time when she would have put her pride and independence above anything else. But now she holds his hand and he holds hers, and it is as if it was never meant to be any different.
In fact they do not fit in among the loving, naïve couples at every corner of the square, among whom they look like people who’ve had enough of life and death and everything between. Walking ghosts of something that fails to be history. That maybe never was.
“I love you,” she whispers and he wonders:
Still? Again? Despite everything? … Forever?
“If you leave me again, I will die,” he says.
“You did not die back then.”
“I nearly went crazy,” he says, but what he really wants to say is: “Not immediately.”
They walk through darkened streets until they reach the river. The traffic is thundering over the bridges, the stars are mirrored in the shallow water, and the dome of St. Peter’s hovers brightly lit over Vatican City.
“So what will happen with us? What will we do now?”
“I do not know. I do not care. We might hold each other. Hold each other and wait for whatever will happen.”
“And tomorrow?”
“How do you know there will be tomorrow?”
“I do not know. I do not care,” he says and leans his head against hers.
She says nothing.
Sometimes the world feels so still that it’s scary.
Sometimes, words are better not wasted.
The End (or something of sorts)
Notes:
[1] Just for those who don't know: Atanwende here isn't me (though, I'd like to, hehe), but Caranthir's nickname for Haleth.
[2] Maybe I should clear this up a bit: In Rome, Termini is used for the city's main train station, as well as the part of the city around it. Its reputation is somewhat less than respectable for being a district of prostitution and drug dealing. Tourists are asked not to go there at night. And for anyone interested; yes, I indeed know people who lived there in a hotel above/next to a brothel, and - no - it wasn't me. ;)
[3] I'd like to emphasize here, that this is Haleth's personal opinion. The bloody romantic sap inside of me thinks Venice is breathtakingly beautiful. :)
Author: Unsung Heroine
Beta: My humble self.
Genre: Romance, obviously. ;-)
Rating: General
Disclaimer: I own none of this. Unfortunately.
Warnings: Sexual situations, nakedness. Nothing explicit, but I'd ask you to stay away if you're uncomfortable with this. And definitely AU. Very AU.
Cast: Haleth and Caranthir.
Summary: A re-union beyond all hope and time.
Related links: Also posted to my journal.
Author's Note: This is as AU as can get and defies all logic. Funny enough, it is at the same time one of those stories I've written that I like best. You decide. :-)
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
He doesn’t know anymore where he saw her first, with her jeans and her sandals and the bag she carried over her shoulder. It may have been somewhere in the subway station beneath Stazione Termini, it may have been somewhere on the airport, waiting impatiently for the express train to the city. He doesn’t even remember how they came to be here, in this cheap hotel room somewhere in the less than respectable part of Rome, and he doesn’t care in the least.
Maybe they have been standing there, gaping at each other while her travel guide and map slid out of her hands as if in slow motion, a meeting only fit for a city like this. Maybe time seemed to stand still (and he hates that phrase but can’t think of another) until her eyes grew wide and she uttered something that might have been a choked sob, and quickly covered her mouth with one trembling hand.
Maybe a hasty embrace followed, bags thrown to the floor, and never minding the warning signs. Beware of pickpockets. Who in his right mind cares, in moments like this?
Maybe that was what it had been like.
But he does not remember and it doesn’t matter, because now they are here, in this cheap hotel room somewhere in the less than respectable part of Rome. Together.
They have made love, harder, more impetuous and maybe more selfish than ever before, taking what they could get without asking, the last desperate kicking out before the final drowning. They have both hurt each other a little; he has bit through her lip and she has scratched his back badly; there’s a dark bruise on her shoulder from when he pushed her against the wall, and there are still thick strands of his hair caught between her fingers.
They lie pressed against each other nakedly, bed sheets sticking to their sweaty skin, trembling with exertion and the thrill of having met each other again beyond all hope and time and reason.
“Why?” he whispers hoarsely. “How?”
“Don’t ask,” she answers, “Don’t. I do not want to know.”
He thinks this is no place for her, not for beautiful Atanwende[1] whose hair still smells like the wind in the mountains, even after all this time. She should not be here, who looks like autumn storms and spring rains and clouds on the horizon and sunshine through morning mist. Not here, not in this place, not in this bedroom over a brothel somewhere in Termini, with its crackling wall paint and scratchy sheets.[2]
“Why are you here?”
“Because all roads lead to Rome, they say.”
So they have met again. And why not here? Why not now? They are far too grateful for many questions, far too tired for answers, and there remains nothing to ask, nothing to tell, nothing to forgive.
She is still intoxicatingly beautiful in the half light, he thinks, as she pulls him on top of her once more.
Morning has come far too quickly, like it always does, and she stands by the window, looking out into the streets, already busy, when he emerges out of the bathroom.
She wears a tight red shirt that makes her look almost fragile, like a ballet dancer. Someone should tell her that red is not exactly her colour, he thinks. It makes her look strange. She also wears one of those push-up bras that make even her appear as if she actually had breasts and he wishes she would take it off. Her hair is much longer now, held back in a ponytail reaching nearly to her waist, and wearing it thusly she looks younger than ever, like a 17-year old girl. It is a bit hard to reconcile this new Haleth with the one he met in Thargelion, the one who wore leather armour and boots and carried a yew bow. He wonders if those white long fingers, those small slender hands, could still wield a blade.
“If I had been there,” she says, as if in answer, and her eyes gleam coldly, “I would have chopped off his head. Faster than he could have blinked. I still would do it. I still could kill. I still could incite a riot in the subway, if only I wanted to.”
He nods. He does not have to ask what she means with “there” and “him”. He knows exactly.
“Where were you, before you came here?” he asks instead.
“Venice,” she says softly, while tracing patters upon the dusty window panes.
“How is it there?”
“Oh, full of crumbling, faded mortal garishness and the memory of things that once were beautiful[3].” She pauses, smiling. “I bet you’d like it,” she adds wistfully. “Where were you?”
He does not answer. He does not know. The Void. The darkness. Some cold place without you.
He pushes his hips against hers, she pulls his head down to meet her lips, and nothing that was, nothing that is, and nothing that one day might be matters anymore.
The day passes somehow and in the hour that the sun has just sunk behind the eastern hills, they finally loosen their embrace, free their entwined hands from each other, and get up and leave the hotel soundlessly.
It is a warm night, clear and star-lit, when they emerge from the subway station. Impatiently she pulls him along with her, across the broad street, and through the monumental archway looming before them. They halt. He stares. She smiles. At night, Piazza del Popolo is a marvel of light, marble and water and she feels more than a little victorious to hear him uttering the slightest gasp.
They walk together, closely, not letting go of each other. There was a time when she wouldn’t have done this so easily, a time when she would have put her pride and independence above anything else. But now she holds his hand and he holds hers, and it is as if it was never meant to be any different.
In fact they do not fit in among the loving, naïve couples at every corner of the square, among whom they look like people who’ve had enough of life and death and everything between. Walking ghosts of something that fails to be history. That maybe never was.
“I love you,” she whispers and he wonders:
Still? Again? Despite everything? … Forever?
“If you leave me again, I will die,” he says.
“You did not die back then.”
“I nearly went crazy,” he says, but what he really wants to say is: “Not immediately.”
They walk through darkened streets until they reach the river. The traffic is thundering over the bridges, the stars are mirrored in the shallow water, and the dome of St. Peter’s hovers brightly lit over Vatican City.
“So what will happen with us? What will we do now?”
“I do not know. I do not care. We might hold each other. Hold each other and wait for whatever will happen.”
“And tomorrow?”
“How do you know there will be tomorrow?”
“I do not know. I do not care,” he says and leans his head against hers.
She says nothing.
Sometimes the world feels so still that it’s scary.
Sometimes, words are better not wasted.
Notes:
[1] Just for those who don't know: Atanwende here isn't me (though, I'd like to, hehe), but Caranthir's nickname for Haleth.
[2] Maybe I should clear this up a bit: In Rome, Termini is used for the city's main train station, as well as the part of the city around it. Its reputation is somewhat less than respectable for being a district of prostitution and drug dealing. Tourists are asked not to go there at night. And for anyone interested; yes, I indeed know people who lived there in a hotel above/next to a brothel, and - no - it wasn't me. ;)
[3] I'd like to emphasize here, that this is Haleth's personal opinion. The bloody romantic sap inside of me thinks Venice is breathtakingly beautiful. :)
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