til_it_aint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
til_it_aint) wrote2011-03-21 01:45 am
til_it_aint) wrote2011-03-21 01:45 am
(no subject)
[[There will be CANON here]]
Thunder rolls overhead, lightnin' flashin' bright, shines over what's left of th'cornfield. Ben's sprawled in the mud and it hurts, oh God oh fuck but it hurts like he'd never believed it could. Slittin' his own throat didn't even feel like this - this is a forever pain, a burnin' pain, it eats away at him and makes him wiggle like a worm on a goddamn hook in the middle of th'mud and th'rain and that's not even what hurts so bad, that's not even what eats away at him, it's th'fact that Justin's above him and he's won, he's raisin' the sickle high and it's already killed him, Ben thinks dizzily, bitin' into his shoulder and openin' his belly up to spill blue blood onto th'ground but Justin just wants t'make sure.
He's got both hands on the sickle. Raises it high.
Lightnin' flashes. Ben c'n see the tree tattoo, spreading branches.
A voice in his mind. A vision.
A dark heart dwells where twisted branches meet.
How many goddamn times? How many times had he seen it? Heard it? And only now, seein' what he never seen before, does Ben know what it means. His hands fumble for th'dagger, only one hand workin', really, but it's enough and it grabs, it holds, and th'dagger almost leaps in his hand 'cause it knows where it's goin' and Ben's up, lunging, and it's hilt-deep in Justin's chest before th'preacher-man can even blink.
A dark heart dwells where twisted branches meet. "Anointed...dagger..." he grits out, teeth clenched hard, hurts more'n anythin' he's fuckin felt in his life and he's fuckin' died, but this is it. He's winning. "Plunge...thee...deep!"
They fall together. Ben twists the knife as he falls, slams hard into th'ground with Justin underneath him and he's still twistin', even though the blood's pumpin' out like nothing livin' and Justin's face is surprised, waxy, still.
Dead.
Ben gets maybe three feet away, crawlin' on hands and knees, dagger wrapped in bloody fingers, before it's all just too damn much. He's leavin' a trail behind him, blue blood still pourin' from belly'n'shoulder and he thinks, maybe, this is really how it ends. Them killin' each other (grass changes under him but he doesn't notice, can't see much of anythin', now) and he don't know if it's that thought or the hurtin' or what but he's fallin', suddenly, fetchin' up against a tree (was there a tree there before?) and when he hits the ground it's just so fuckin' bad that he pukes, blood'n'bile spillin' down his front, makin' his head spin even more so that he thinks
oh
I'm fuckin' dying
and ain't that just one
big
fucking
joke
(were there always lights in the distance?)
Thunder rolls overhead, lightnin' flashin' bright, shines over what's left of th'cornfield. Ben's sprawled in the mud and it hurts, oh God oh fuck but it hurts like he'd never believed it could. Slittin' his own throat didn't even feel like this - this is a forever pain, a burnin' pain, it eats away at him and makes him wiggle like a worm on a goddamn hook in the middle of th'mud and th'rain and that's not even what hurts so bad, that's not even what eats away at him, it's th'fact that Justin's above him and he's won, he's raisin' the sickle high and it's already killed him, Ben thinks dizzily, bitin' into his shoulder and openin' his belly up to spill blue blood onto th'ground but Justin just wants t'make sure.
He's got both hands on the sickle. Raises it high.
Lightnin' flashes. Ben c'n see the tree tattoo, spreading branches.
A voice in his mind. A vision.
A dark heart dwells where twisted branches meet.
How many goddamn times? How many times had he seen it? Heard it? And only now, seein' what he never seen before, does Ben know what it means. His hands fumble for th'dagger, only one hand workin', really, but it's enough and it grabs, it holds, and th'dagger almost leaps in his hand 'cause it knows where it's goin' and Ben's up, lunging, and it's hilt-deep in Justin's chest before th'preacher-man can even blink.
A dark heart dwells where twisted branches meet. "Anointed...dagger..." he grits out, teeth clenched hard, hurts more'n anythin' he's fuckin felt in his life and he's fuckin' died, but this is it. He's winning. "Plunge...thee...deep!"
They fall together. Ben twists the knife as he falls, slams hard into th'ground with Justin underneath him and he's still twistin', even though the blood's pumpin' out like nothing livin' and Justin's face is surprised, waxy, still.
Dead.
Ben gets maybe three feet away, crawlin' on hands and knees, dagger wrapped in bloody fingers, before it's all just too damn much. He's leavin' a trail behind him, blue blood still pourin' from belly'n'shoulder and he thinks, maybe, this is really how it ends. Them killin' each other (grass changes under him but he doesn't notice, can't see much of anythin', now) and he don't know if it's that thought or the hurtin' or what but he's fallin', suddenly, fetchin' up against a tree (was there a tree there before?) and when he hits the ground it's just so fuckin' bad that he pukes, blood'n'bile spillin' down his front, makin' his head spin even more so that he thinks
oh
I'm fuckin' dying
and ain't that just one
big
fucking
joke
(were there always lights in the distance?)
(sounds like laughter, spilling from a bar?)
Not that it matters.
Not that much matters, anymore.
Ben thinks, with the last shreds of consciousness available to him, that he wouldn't so much mind dying, if only it didn't hurt so much.
no subject
He can have twenty, a thousand, because she sure as hell isn't going to let him slip away from her now. Not that easily, stealing a moment, resigning himself to the fading bliss of one last comforting dream. He has his whole life ahead of him, so young, and she's determined he'll see it — with her hand in his, supporting him every step of the way.
"Ben," she calls, gripping his hand firmly. "C'mon. Jus' a lil' further now. Please. For me."
She gets to her knees not knowing how, some strength she didn't think she had pulling her up, telling her to move. In the dark, in the muck, where her strongest compulsion is to cry for help, to search for aid, some quiet voice echoing in the catacombs of her mind whispers no. No. He doesn't need a hero, Kate; he's got you.
"C'mon now."
Even if she has to drag him the whole way.
"Up, boy."
Even if she has to bleed.
"Get up."
Even if she gets left behind.
She'll fight the darkness every step of the way, she'll fight her own self, and if she buckles it sure as hell won't be until after he's safe.
She's on her feet now, hands in his, pulling him up.
And she isn't going to let go.
no subject
But she's still holdin' him, she's still bringin' him to his feet and th'words on her lips are orders and his feet move under him without any real input from his brain, staggerin' upright, leanin' too hard on her tiny frame 'n he feels bad on it, he does, but everything's white'n'shaky right now and he figures she wants him up she's just gonna have t'be able t'handle it.
Ben fixes tired eyes on his feet and wills them forward, carryin' him in stumbling and awkward steps away from the dead tree and wide circle of bent-down grass all brown and dry, flowers fallin' from their stalks, everythin' painted in shades of blood and death settlin' over th'soil as th'life flowed hard into him. He lets her guide him even as exhaustion settles back and pain comes forward once more, blurrin' his sight -- and he don't trust no one t'lead him blind but she's given him every damn thing and more besides and he don't think he's got a choice.
Maybe, somewhere deep inside where there's avatars long past, Russian letters and circus tricks and trains fallin' from bridges and fiery trees as far back as time itself he hates her a little for bringin' him back, for not lettin' him slip down into th'black but for now -- for now he feels her hands on his, holdin' him steady, pullin' him back to th'light and he can't quite bring himself t'feel anythin' but a strange and aching kind of love.
no subject
They start moving together, her arms wrapped tight around him, holding him snug. Shuffling steps that don't seem quite right but they're moving, slow and steady, little by little. And that's good enough for her.
She's covered in him. Inside and out, coated in his warmth, in the trembling skins of him. She can feel his labored breaths on her flesh, the pinch of her hair caught under his arm, the way her fingers stick to everything they touch. She has him, she is him, he is her, and in this moment they can't move but with each other, missing legs that carry her home.
They carry him home.
They carry them home.