the artist formerly known as lunacy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mildlunacy) wrote2009-12-04 10:27 pm
mildlunacy) wrote2009-12-04 10:27 pm
Entry tags:
Original Fic: Winter's Heart (PG)
have any of you read that fairy-tale?
with the three candles in the well, and the deal with the devil? life like a candle, and the choices we make-- flickering, flickering. all that's left of that fairy tale now are images, emotions. i couldn't retell it to you. i've read so many. my mind is bursting with them-- i have to write them down. *sigh* again.
~~
disclaimer: may or may not be fanfic ^_^
dedication: to penguin & amalin. be warm.
--winter's heart.
There is a story, and it's a winter's story. You can't retell it during the summer evenings, and you can't retell it anywhere but by a roaring fire, sitting cozily with the one you love, safe and sound and lulled by the warm drink between your palms, their hand upon your thigh, the thick woolen socks snug upon your feet. There are shadows of magic everywhere during the dark, cold months, hiding yet peeking out, like mischievous spirits.
Dancing and dancing in the clearing in the woods, laughing their wicked laughs, the little people are, this time of year. This is the time of the wicked faeries, of the tolling of bells, of the collecting on promises forgotten. We had been dancing in the summer, forgetting about the price, always the price.
Shhh, the wind is blowing outside. Shhhh, the winter's closing in. All around us, snow and snow and more snow, circling us, putting us to rest. Restless spirits wandering the cold, endless night, crying and searching, searching for the one true light that won't flicker out. Searching for that warm fire, for that hut in the middle of the dark, fearsome Wood, as we sit within our thick, warm walls, as we shiver and tell stories to ourselves.
~~
Once upon a time, there was a boy. He loved another boy so much his heart could've burst in his chest, his heart was a roaring fire. He held his heart in his hand, bleeding, and he proffered it to the other boy, the pale one, the thin and shivering one.
"Here," he said. "This might warm you up."
"I can't," the ragged boy whispered, hoarse and coughing and wavering on his feet. "I can't take it, because you'll want it back, because it will freeze in the cold, because the moon will steal it and the birds will peck it to pieces."
And the other boy smiled and shook his head. "No, no, take it, put it inside you, it'll warm you up. I don't need it, really, but it might help for awhile, and you can keep looking, keep searching for whatever it is you're searching for."
The pale boy looked at him, his eyes dry and his hands shaking as they closed around the thickly-beating heart, making a fist; the heart's blood started pouring down his skinny forearm. "But what will -you- do, won't you be cold, won't you be empty?"
"I will watch you," the other said. "I will be there, with you, watching you, seeing you walk out the forest, seeing you through the snow, seeing you fight the branches off your face. I'll be watching, from within you."
So the frail boy nodded, and swallowed the heart, which was still warm and tasted of iron, tears and summer nights, and it filled him up. "You are good," he said, finally.
"No," said the boy, who wasn't fading nearly slowly enough. "I am what you make me."
"Then you are wicked," said the pale-skinned boy, and started making his way again through the rising snow.
with the three candles in the well, and the deal with the devil? life like a candle, and the choices we make-- flickering, flickering. all that's left of that fairy tale now are images, emotions. i couldn't retell it to you. i've read so many. my mind is bursting with them-- i have to write them down. *sigh* again.
~~
disclaimer: may or may not be fanfic ^_^
dedication: to penguin & amalin. be warm.
--winter's heart.
There is a story, and it's a winter's story. You can't retell it during the summer evenings, and you can't retell it anywhere but by a roaring fire, sitting cozily with the one you love, safe and sound and lulled by the warm drink between your palms, their hand upon your thigh, the thick woolen socks snug upon your feet. There are shadows of magic everywhere during the dark, cold months, hiding yet peeking out, like mischievous spirits.
Dancing and dancing in the clearing in the woods, laughing their wicked laughs, the little people are, this time of year. This is the time of the wicked faeries, of the tolling of bells, of the collecting on promises forgotten. We had been dancing in the summer, forgetting about the price, always the price.
Shhh, the wind is blowing outside. Shhhh, the winter's closing in. All around us, snow and snow and more snow, circling us, putting us to rest. Restless spirits wandering the cold, endless night, crying and searching, searching for the one true light that won't flicker out. Searching for that warm fire, for that hut in the middle of the dark, fearsome Wood, as we sit within our thick, warm walls, as we shiver and tell stories to ourselves.
~~
Once upon a time, there was a boy. He loved another boy so much his heart could've burst in his chest, his heart was a roaring fire. He held his heart in his hand, bleeding, and he proffered it to the other boy, the pale one, the thin and shivering one.
"Here," he said. "This might warm you up."
"I can't," the ragged boy whispered, hoarse and coughing and wavering on his feet. "I can't take it, because you'll want it back, because it will freeze in the cold, because the moon will steal it and the birds will peck it to pieces."
And the other boy smiled and shook his head. "No, no, take it, put it inside you, it'll warm you up. I don't need it, really, but it might help for awhile, and you can keep looking, keep searching for whatever it is you're searching for."
The pale boy looked at him, his eyes dry and his hands shaking as they closed around the thickly-beating heart, making a fist; the heart's blood started pouring down his skinny forearm. "But what will -you- do, won't you be cold, won't you be empty?"
"I will watch you," the other said. "I will be there, with you, watching you, seeing you walk out the forest, seeing you through the snow, seeing you fight the branches off your face. I'll be watching, from within you."
So the frail boy nodded, and swallowed the heart, which was still warm and tasted of iron, tears and summer nights, and it filled him up. "You are good," he said, finally.
"No," said the boy, who wasn't fading nearly slowly enough. "I am what you make me."
"Then you are wicked," said the pale-skinned boy, and started making his way again through the rising snow.