fatima: (london)
Title: Ragazzo (The Kid)
Author: Renata Lord ([livejournal.com profile] snowlight)
Pairing: Matthäus/Klinsmann
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Making things up since 2000.
Summary: Lothar's impressions of his new Inter Milan teammate.

Ragazzo (The Kid)

=Milan, August of 1989= )
fatima: (eyes)
Title: The Trumpet Player
Author: Renata Lord ([livejournal.com profile] snowlight)
Pairing: Gabriel/Michael (a la Dominion)
Note: Post Dominion 1x03. Oh and I borrowed stuff from The Songs of Solomon.

The Trumpet Player

She lies there on the vermilion carpet, her scarlet dress stained by crimson death.

Gabriel stares at her body, though in truth he sees nothing beyond that dark pool of blood slowly forming underneath his makeshift throne. Human forms are hideous constructs: they bleed, they weaken, and they cease. Yet his soldiers have embraced this fragile monstrosity, giving themselves over to the calls of the malformed flesh. None of them seems to recall that this body is only a cheaply made suit, caging their true angelic grace.

Such is why Furiad suffers the delusion that a lowly Power might end his brother—Furiad, who has fought by their side against the Serpent, and who has witnessed all of his brother's warlike splendor. Every day this form corrupts, and every day Gabriel's rage grows.

The trumpet feels cold in his hand. A dirge, then, for the fallen. The archangel closes his eyes and searches for the aching vibration of memories, which are now swelling up within him like the parting Red Sea. If his expression softens, it's because even in this accursed form, he would always remember—

—My brother shines forth like the breaking dawn. He is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners.

And so in that smoky-aired church the lonely trumpet plays on, calling for the end of the world.


fatima: (innocent)
Title: no rest for the wicked
Author: Renata Lord ([livejournal.com profile] snowlight)
Pairing: Thassarian/Koltira (can be read as slash or gen)
Note: Written for my partner in crime, [livejournal.com profile] hex12.

no rest for the wicked

Death knights do not sleep. Death knights do not dream.

Yet when Koltira regains his consciousness after another particularly brutal training session, he still thinks of it as "waking up." And so it is.

In that torturous sleep he saw his little brother. Faltora's face, bright and open, shined under the warm Quel'Thalas sun. Yet in the next instant darkness fell without warning, and all he could smell was the stench of rotting meat. He heard the sickening sound of that abomination's sickle cutting through his brother's body, crushing those all-too-brittle bones. It rang an endless echo in his mind, each cry heavier than the last.

Koltira now knew that he hated those bones. He hated how they broke before the cursed metal, how they crumbled like a winter twig in the wind. Weren't they the protector of their father's flesh? Weren't they the guardian of their mother's blood? Why, then, was he haunted by the sound of Faltora's body being cleaved in two, of his own heart being pierced by a cold runeblade—

He wakes and sees the very same sword.

The sounds have stopped. His heart is no longer in pain. Thassarian regards him from a corner of the room, looking strangely pensive for a servant of the Lich King.

"You had a nightmare," says his executioner. "It happens."

Koltira nods and gets himself up from the floor. He looks down and sees the blue sigil glowing on his chest, crawling into the flesh and over the bones. He picks up his weapon again.

"Does it ever stop?"

Thassarian parries his first three blows with graceful ease, and the counterattack comes with punishing speed.

"Not for me, it hasn't."


fatima: (007 - q)
Title: Nothing Like You
Author: [livejournal.com profile] snowlight
Pairing: James Bond/Q
Disclaimer: Not mine don't sue blah blah blah.
Note: "Georgi Markov" refers to the Bulgarian dissident writer who was killed in 1978 London. An assassin injected poison into his body by using an umbrella tip.

Nothing Like You
(James Bond/Q)

He meets this Double-O-Seven not on a bench in the National Gallery but in his own office, with a print of Isle of the Dead firmly behind him on his wall.

And this Double-O-Seven isn't a man of all jagged edges and scars wrapped in an expensive suit. This one has a nondescript face that somehow appears ageless (no lines, no spot, no stubborn stubble) with soft-looking hands (no callus, no smell of gunpowder, no faintly showing veins) and steady coal-black eyes (no sharpness, no heat, no irises colored in a shocking blue).

All the more curious is the fact that this one is much younger—even younger than he. However, the Quartermaster makes it a point to never underestimate youth. After all, twenty years into holding this post, at the ripe old age of forty-four, he is still the youngest Quartermaster in MI6's history.

"Double-O-Seven," he says, offering his hand.

The young man's grip is firm. (All theirs are.) "Q."

He gives the agent the standard assortment of equipments and explains their respective uses. Then he hands over a sleek black umbrella.

"Georgi Markov?" The young man smiles at him politely.

The Q twenty years ago would have countered that comment with cutting irony, but this Q has little need for retorts as a weapon, now. "No. But the monsoon season is upon India," he smiles back, "and this one doesn't shoot ricin pellets, only tear gas. Lots of tear gas."


"He came in today," he says over his last cup of Earl Grey for the night, "The new appointment." New appointment, yes. Replacement, never.


Q turns and finds his white-haired partner lodged comfortably in the corner sofa, legs resting on the stool and briefing in hand. Peering at him from behind those reading glasses, the eyes of this (his) Double-O-Seven are still shockingly, shockingly blue.

"Quiet young bloke. Seemed to be up for the job. Got a little uppity about the umbrella, though—and do not say ‘I told you so'."

"Did he ask if he was supposed to poison somebody with it?"

"That definitely falls under ‘I told you so'."

"Well, fine then. As long as he returns it in one piece."

"He—" and here Q pauses, "he is nothing like you, thus I am rather hopeful that he would."

- End -
fatima: (thor - kid!loki)
Written as a little side story for the Thor/Loki story in Chinese, Ikol.

Title: a rose is still a rose
Author: [livejournal.com profile] snowlight
Characters: Frigga, Loki, Thor
Note: In honor of Mother’s Day. Inspired by 萌心无人诉's fanart.

a rose is still a rose


I have a son. He is fearless and open-hearted, his honor beyond reproach. He is a king. A good king, who will continue to rule this realm for many years to come.

I have another son. He is clever and dangerous, with a silver tongue and a wounded heart. They tell me that his mind has been poisoned by ambition and pain. He is locked away in a high tower on the edge of Asgard, never again to taste freedom.

On my birthdays my son the King hosts feasts in my honor, and I give him my gratitude and love. Afterwards I go sit in my rose garden, amidst my flowers of joy and pain.

All my roses descend from one single flower—a red rose once presented to me on a birthday long, long ago, planted by a child who was as sweet as its scent.

But that child is long gone now, lost to me forever when the final verdict was read and his fate sealed. On that day, all my roses bled with him and lost their color, turning as white as the first snow.
fatima: (thor - loki w/ the look)
Title: My Father's Eyes
Author: [livejournal.com profile] snowlight
Characters: Loki, Hela
Note: Written for [livejournal.com profile] norsekink prompt: Hel's POV on her father's fall into hatred and madness.

My Father's Eyes


My father’s eyes were green as envy, as the bitterest poison vine, as the time-worn tarnish on silver.

But I was told that it was not always so. Many many years ago his eyes were green as emeralds, as the crest of waves, as the loveliest leaves of Yggdrasil. He was a prince of Asgard then, well-loved and beautiful to behold. His horse trotted through gold-paved streets, upon white rose petals falling like rain: A radiant prince for a radiant city, whose high walls were as impenetrable as fate.

When Father finally brought down those walls, his eyes were red as carnelians, as blood lust, as the most terrible sunset. The raging flames within that city were reflected in his eyes, yet I was hopelessly cold. The runes on his blue skin made my bones rattle. It was my first and only time seeing him as a Jotunn, and I did not want to believe that I came from the same flesh and the same blood.

That night and for many nights after, I stood before a mirror testing the truth of my form. When I found that no measure of will or coercion could wake my Jotunn bloodline, I was both relieved and ashamed. Yet my father was the Father of Monsters, and what could I be but a monstrosity?

He and I did not meet again until the end that was long promised. For him I left my abode, the ninth of the Nine Worlds. He had no time for me save for one long searching look, as if he wanted to truly see me for the first time.

"You are my daughter," he said. "You have my eyes."


My father’s eyes are green as emeralds, as the crest of waves, as the loveliest leaves of Yggdrasil.

He closes his eyes as I cradle his body in my arms, upon this throne of bones.

He is home.
fatima: (amused)




fatima: (onesama)
Title: Flowers in Asgard
Author: [livejournal.com profile] snowlight
Pairing: Odin/Frigga
Note: Written for [livejournal.com profile] norsekink prompt: Odin/Frigga - young lovers. The early days of their courtship and/or marriage. (I wrote Frigga! Huzzah!!)

Flowers in Asgard

She arrived on a magnificent ship glittering of silver and gold, behind a shimmering veil woven by the finest craftsman in her father's kingdom. She had spoken little in these past three days, but when she did her voice was low and melodious, almost a whisper.

She was nothing as Odin had imagined. He'd expected a typical earthen princess, with wild eyes and sturdy limbs, fiery red hair and a temper to match. That woman would have borne him any number of children and accompanied him to war, splintering shields and hearts in one fell swoop.

Instead the daughter of Fjörgynn was a locked box, a silent riddle without a proper answer. It took three direct warnings from his father for Odin to refrain himself from tearing off that veil before the all-important wedding night, yet he remain fixated on the desire to see his bride-to-be's face. That, he thought, was surely the key.

They were standing in the barren western garden, watching her three handmaidens carefully planting flowers from her home into the palace soil. This was a thoughtful gesture from Odin's mother, one that he had nothing to do with. The alien plants looked far too frail and small for the oncoming Asgardian winter. He could not see how they would survive.

It was perhaps tactless to articulate this doubt in front of his intended. He did so nonetheless.

The veil remained motionless, though for the first time Odin could detect an ever-faint trace of mirth in that soft voice.

"We shall see how Asgard fares with my flowers, milord."

He agreed all too readily, and—despite all improbabilities—had not regretted it since.

fatima: (thor - loki)
Title: Spellbound
Author: [livejournal.com profile] snowlight
Pairing: Thor/Loki (preslash)
Note: Pre-movie canon. The first three spells ever cast by Loki.


The very first spell Loki performed was to call forth a spark while hiding underneath his bunk. It was but a dying gasp of brightness and heat, nothing like the great fire he would later summon onto Midgard.

The second spell he performed was for the thick tome itself to levitate. Through this Loki learned that magic wasn’t the sterile and impersonal affair as he had imagined. To perform powerful magic, real magic, you had to give yourself over to it. That was the price of power.

His third spell was whispered in front of a mirror. The summer was glorious in Asgard, and from the open windows Loki could hear his brother chasing Volstagg down the halls over some stolen food. The others were there, too, with their riotous shouts and wild laughter. But for Loki, the reverberation of the spell drowned out every other noise, even the sound of his own heart beating.

Perhaps his heart did stop when he opened his eyes again. The figure in the mirror gazed back at him, utterly foreign and wrong. The spell had worked perfectly, but Loki now knew he had wished for the impossible. There were things which no magic could change.

Even with a head of golden hair as radiant as Mother’s necklace, he could never be the golden prince of Asgard. The false color only accentuated his self-enclosed coldness, like a tree that could not find the sun.

But he could feel it. He could hear that sun, closer and closer now. Laughing. Running. Calling his name, like he was the only one who mattered in all the nine worlds.

fatima: (warcraft)
Title: Leaving Andorhal
Author: Renata Lord ([livejournal.com profile] snowlight)
Pairing: Thassarian/Koltira (can be read as slash or gen)
Note: Post-Battle of Andorhal in Cataclysm.

Leaving Andorhal

Andorhal has once again fallen. The Forsaken deathguards roam her charred lands, and the Val'kyr's ghastly wings carry the cries of blasphemies onto heaven.

But Andorhal is behind him now, a forbidding shadow lingering to the east. In front of him Tirisfal Glades looms, and Thassarian imagines he can see the ruins of that beloved city, Lordaeron.

When the sun first rose this morning, Thassarian had expected to die. Oh yes, he would have fought Koltira until the bitter end, but for all the possible combat scenarios which he ran through his mind, they invariably ended with Byfrost plunging into his chest, colder and swifter than death itself.

To die by Koltira's hand and losing Andorhal. That didn't appear to be so terrible a fate. He trusted Koltira to show mercy in victory to the Alliance soldiers, though he could not pinpoint the source of this belief. As for himself, Thassarian's long-dead heart somehow leapt for joy when Koltira promised that his runeblade would not be slowed by their bond. It was exactly what the human wanted to hear.

He'd had nightmares about killing Koltira.

When the sun first rose this morning, Thassarian had expected to die for his honor. He was at peace with the thought of being buried by the one he called brother, beneath the ashes of what once was Andorhal.

Yet now, as the sun sinks before him, Thassarian rides into the vanishing light, into the realm of the most cursed of all queens.

He will live. For Koltira Deathweaver.


fatima: (ds9 - porn)

平衡 (Equilibrium)
Garak/Bashir (Star Trek DS9), Rated R
by Renata Lord

从这个角度看过去,Elim Garak不再显得无懈可击。 )
fatima: (sherlock - london)
Beta read and Brit-picked by the lovely [livejournal.com profile] krazykoodles, as usual. :) I had no idea that there is no cicada in England! :O

Title: Insomnia
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock
Rating: G

Sherlock was seven when the first bout of winter insomnia hit him, and it would persist for the rest of his life. There was always something dreadfully wrong with his bedroom at night. Most of the time it was the old heater, gasping incessantly like a dying grasshopper. Or it would be the winds lingering outside his window, carrying screams and laughter from places far over the fence but nowhere at all. And at the breaking of every gray dawn, there would be bulky cleaning trucks yelping on the streets down below, sucking up all his ability to sleep along with the dead leaves.

It was also then that Sherlock developed a habit of sneaking into Mycroft's bed at night, because happy though as he was to do away with the concept of wasting time in a bed, eventually something had to give. Mycroft's bedroom was far too clean and orderly for his liking, but it wasn't as if he spent much waking time in this place. Mycroft's book shelves didn't interest him enough to stick around—The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, The Stranger, On the Genealogy of Morals, et cetera et cetera, and not one single volume on firearms or the properties of different poisons. (Years later, he would realize that this was not true—Mycroft simply had books on those subjects placed in more discreet places.)

If Mycroft thought Sherlock's presence was odd or bothersome, he never said anything. Thus Sherlock was free to tiptoe into his brother's bedroom—which was never locked—at the dead of the night, plant himself right under the covers, and shortly succumb to the annoying necessity of sleep, surrounded by everything Mycroft.

The smell in that bed changed over the years. Tobacco's spiciness came and went, as did the faint sweetness of butterscotch biscuit, but the odour of ink and old books remained. Eventually, right before Mycroft left for Oxford, there was the scent of aftershave, something as alien to Sherlock as Christmas carolling.

None of that, however, really mattered. Though Sherlock was preternaturally averse to all noises during those winters, the single thing in Mycroft's room that calmed him like magic was the sound of his brother's slow but steady breathing, luring him to sleep and to dream.


原作:Renata ([livejournal.com profile] snowlight)
翻译:荔枝([livejournal.com profile] asukajude)






fatima: (sherlock - london)



手里握着雨伞,无名指上戴着戒指,Mycroft Holmes穿过熙熙攘攘的游客,只跟随着他父亲魂灵的脚步。


作者:[livejournal.com profile] snowlight
翻译:[livejournal.com profile] asukajude
人物:Mycroft, Sherlock





fatima: (sherlock - london)
Still a part of Blood and Water, which since I last wrote has acquired two more authors and another language. Yays?

Title: Throne
Author: Renata Lord ([livejournal.com profile] snowlight)
Characters: Mycroft, Father, Anthea
Rating: G


Sometimes Mycroft asks Anthea to accompany him to the Abbey. Not because he's trying to make life difficult for a former Catholic, but because with a familiar face there, it’s easier to remember who he really is.

It helps that Anthea is discreet enough to text away on various devices while he wanders from tomb to tomb, memory to memory. From Attlee at the entrance to Churchill at the end, from the grand altar to the green cloister, he knows Westminster's layout by heart from all those childhood Sunday afternoons.

With the umbrella in his hand and the ring on his finger, Mycroft Holmes walks through the throng of people, following only the ghost of his father's.

fatima: (sherlock - pensive)


Mycroft Julius Holmes在二十岁时成为了第七代Holmes子爵,而他在上议院的生涯于他二十四岁的那个年头结束。但确切地说,他真正的事业是在那之后才得以开始:当他远离了一切有聚光灯照耀的舞台而承担了(用他自己的话说是)英国政府中一个微不足道的小小职位。



fatima: (sherlock - two brothers)
I blame [livejournal.com profile] asukajude for the sheep.

Title: Lhasa
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock
Rating: G

He knew Sherlock was going to Lhasa for gap year long before the news got dropped on Mummy, before Sherlock sat foot into the Chinese embassy down at Portland Place. The clues were everywhere, enough for Mycroft to figure it out even though he rarely supped at home anymore.

It was a declaration of rebellion, a picketing sign like the ones perennially stacked outside the Parliament Building. But Mycroft couldn’t help but think of it as a challenge, much in the same way that Sherlock used to ask him to play chess. There were very few places in the civilized world where his information network could not reach, and the Tibetan Plateau was one of them, as far as Sherlock knew.

Two months later, Mycroft sent his first very text message to his brother:

Do not steal any more of their sheep.
Mummy is dreadfully upset.

fatima: (sherlock - pensive)
Note: Unless otherwise noted, all my Sherlock writings can be regarded as Holmes brothers gen or pre-slash. Alas, the heart ships what it ships.

And for this one, I hope to God I didn't get the peer system wrong....

Title: Primogeniture
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock
Rating: G

Mycroft Julius Holmes became the 7th Viscount Holmes at the age of twenty and ended his tenure in the House of Lords by twenty-four. Yet it would be fair to say that his real career did not start until afterward, when he left all spotlight to occupy, in his own words, a minor position within the British government.

It was a familiar position for the Holmes men to be in. Mycroft did all the right things, exactly as the 6th Viscount Holmes had done before him. Service. Duty. Crown and Country—all those probably got engraved into the DNA somewhere along the line, together with the gift and the curse. They'd had ancestors laying buried underneath those words in Westminster, recalcitrant and solemn.

Sherlock hated it.

Despite all his genius, it never occurred to him that Mycroft would turn out just like Father.
fatima: (contemplative)
Also available for Kirk/Spock and Dean/Castiel.

10 Genres in 10 Snippets
by Renata Lord

Kukalaka, Hufflepuff, and bruises. Oh yays? )

(*): This is an AU which [livejournal.com profile] dissociate and I have talked about...one where Julian meets Garak while still in school (and before he realized his own secret). Summer love.

(**): At least, this is what Julian thinks. Garak could very well be making the whole thing up to get Julian to pamper him. :P
fatima: (st - garak)
Title: Artistic License
Characters: Garak, Bashir, Dukat
Rating: G

He was so winning the staring contest. Too bad Garak wasn't participating.

"I found out what Dukat's given name initials are. S.G."

"Fascinating." Garak smiled approvingly at him from across the small lunch table. "Perhaps we shall make a spy out of you yet."

"Not that I believed you for a second, but I seem to recall a certain conversation in which you told me Dukat hates you because you made fun of his name back in primary school."

"Who's to say I didn't?" Garak looked positively scandalized now. "Children can be so cruel, doctor. Is that not the case for humans as well?"

"Uh-huh. And the part about how Dukat's first name is Elmo?"

Garak blinked at him innocently. "I never let facts get in the way of a good story, my dear doctor. And neither should you."


fatima: (Default)

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