黑暗中的歌声

Title: The Trumpet Player
Author: Renata Lord (snowlight)
Pairing: Gabriel/Michael (a la Dominion)
Note: Post Dominion 1x03. Oh and I borrowed stuff from The Songs of Solomon.

The Trumpet Player
(Gabriel/Michael)

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.

*

End

Title: Nothing Like You
Author: 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.

"And?"

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 -

Title: My Father's Eyes
Author: snowlight
Characters: Loki, Hela
Note: Written for norsekink prompt: Hel's POV on her father's fall into hatred and madness.

My Father's Eyes
(Loki+Hela)

*

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.

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

Flowers in Asgard
(Odin/Frigga)

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.


*
End

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

Leaving Andorhal
(Thassarian/Koltira)

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.

*

End

Beta read and Brit-picked by the lovely 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.

Fin



无眠
Mycroft+Sherlock粮食
原作：Renata (snowlight)
翻译：荔枝(asukajude)

冬季的季节性失眠在Sherlock七岁时第一次袭击了他，并自此纠缠了他一生。一到晚上，他的房间总有这样那样的严重问题——大多数时候是那台老爷级别的暖气，苟延残喘如一只垂死的蝈蝈；也可能是在窗外徘徊不去的风，从栅栏外并不存在的地方裹挟着尖叫或狂笑的声音而来；在东方显出鱼肚白时，还有傻大个儿的清洁车吵吵嚷嚷地开过下面的街道，将他的睡意连同枯叶一起彻底卷走。

也就是从那时候起，Sherlock养成了在夜里偷偷爬上Mycroft的床的习惯；因为虽然他讨厌睡眠这种在床上浪费时间的事情，但他的身体最终还需遵守生理法则。Mycroft的卧室以他的喜好来说是太过清洁整齐，不过他本来也没有在醒着的时间里于那里多呆。Mycroft的书架总是提不起他的太多兴趣——《罗马帝国衰亡史》，《异乡人》，《道德谱系学》，等等等等，然而没有一本提及枪支或者各种毒药的性能。（多年以后他发现这不是真的——Mycroft有那些书，只是收得更谨慎。）

如果Mycroft对Sherlock的到来感到诧异或困扰，他从来没说过什么。因此Sherlock便在半夜三更里自如地蹑手蹑脚钻进他哥哥的房间(那从来没上过锁)，把他自己安插在被子底下，然后迅速地屈服于可恶的必要性睡眠——在名为Mycroft的世界的怀抱之中。

那张床上的气息在几年间不断变换着。烟草的辛辣和奶油饼干的微甜来了又去，而常驻的是墨水和旧书的味道。最后，在Mycroft去牛津的前夕，那还带上了些须后水的香味，对于Sherlock来说就像圣诞颂曲合唱一样陌生。

然而那一切都无关紧要。尽管Sherlock以不可思议的程度讨厌着冬夜的一切声响，在Mycroft的房间里唯一奇迹般地能让他安静下来的东西却是他兄长呼吸的声音。那缓慢均匀的起伏总是引他沉进睡眠，入梦安然。

完

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 (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.

Fin

I blame 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.
MH

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 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

Written for sacred_20 prompt #10: Curse.

Title: Impure
Pairing: Garak/Bashir
Rating: R

( The implant may be gone, but the addiction is still there. )

*

Finis