musesfool: Psalm Story Central

you have to get out of here your vagina is haunted (

musesfool) wrote,
@ 2004-05-22 19:00:00

Current mood:	accomplished
Current music:	give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld so I can sigh eternally
Entry tags:	psalm story challenge

Psalm Story Central
Please post your Psalm Challenge stories in the comments of this post.

Please include the psalm number, the fandom and the rating in the subject line. Don't worry if you need more than one comment to post the whole thing.

This post will be added to my memories under "Psalm Challenge" so you can find it again.

Thanks!

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# 137, Angel, PG

shetiger
2004-05-22 09:30 pm UTC (link)

Ok, trying again so I can get it right. Sorry if it already went through.

Title: By the Waters of Babylon
Author: Tigerlady
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: None, though hints of C/A
Disclaimer: Not mine, belongs to Mutant Enemy

Warnings: Spoilers for 'Not Fade Away', the last episode of Angel. Sorry.

Gleaming spires of obsidian and quartz sparkled in the distance, yet no shadows fell among the many fountains and canals that punctuated the park where she now wandered. Cordelia glided along a wandering spiral of green glass stones, playful patterns picked out in shades of jade, olive, and citrine. There was a constant tinkling in the distance that reminded her of wind chimes, but she had never been able pinpoint the sound to an object. She could see a pink marble wall rising on her right, seemingly without purpose, though her othersense told her that it was a portal stone. This was the place that was her home now, a place out of time, a place without regard for time.

She continued on until she reached one of the long pools, its sides guarded by waist-high stone. The waters inside were as still as glass, though a waterfall splashed down from above. This was her favorite spot, a looking glass into the world of her birth. She hopped up onto the ledge and leaned forward until she could see the waters clearly. Then she blew lightly.

An image resolved as the ripples cleared, a dark alley she knew far too well. At the far end she could see a horde of demons approaching, breathing hard as if fire might erupt from their lungs, though only a few of them actually had that ability. Growls and cries nearly drowned out the sound of the shuffling of hooves and heavy boots. To one side, she could see a small wyrm hovering, the downdraft of its wings flinging garbage about the street. Behind them all was a shape so huge that it was indistinct, blotting out the lights of the rest of the city. A true demon, that one.

She shifted her vision a little, pulled it a few short feet to the other end of the alley in order to see them. Shivering but proud; dark and dripping and determined.

"Cordelia! Look everyone, it’s the Cordelia!" She looked up at the familiar voice. The tones reminded her of Lorne, vapid and catty and oh so very gay, though the range was a tenor rather than a bass. She smiled as her hand was engulfed by an orange-skinned palm, and then she was pulled from her perch. Several other beings appeared behind Jezza, popping into existence at his excited call.

"We want a story, Cordelia. We are so bored and you have all the best ones," Jezza crooned at her.

Cordelia just shook her head, the back of her throat stuck together, her tongue tied to the roof of her mouth. The rest of the beings--her fellows--crowded closer. Most had not deigned to take corporeal form, and the light of them would have blinded her, had she needed to worry about such things.

"Yes, the things that happen on her world are so very meaningful to its life forms. Delicious drama." Cordelia matched the disembodied voice to Karal, though it was more a matter of practice than using her special skills. She shook her head and found her voice.

"You’ve heard all my stories, my good beings. It would just bore you to hear them again."

"Nonsense!" Jezza clapped. "We’ve only heard them a very few times. It’s such a pretty telling, too. You were a good choice to bring here." And oh, how that smarted. To know that none of it mattered, the growth she had made, the pain she had felt. She was here because she was popular. Queen C and the Cordettes, all over again.

"Perhaps she should make new stories, Jezza," a calm voice called. Jezza half turned, placing a furry paw on his snow white face.

"Oh, you know, that is a marvelous idea. Cordelia, you must make your old stories new. We can help if you like."

She smiled as warmly as she could manage, still certain of the power of her pearly whites. She spoke coyly though her throat felt coated in sand.

"I’ll try, my darlings. You must leave me to find the best way."

They hovered for another moment, and then Jezza shook his furred body in agreement. Just that quickly she was alone.

(cont.)

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# 137, Angel, PG, Part 2

shetiger
2004-05-22 09:32 pm UTC (link)

She leaned back over the stone, her eyes drawn to Angel, her Champion. So. She could do something now, though she didn’t have the power to do much. She was young still, and new to her powers. When she had first arrived, the others had gleefully demonstrated their own, enjoying the novelty of a new companion. She had watched in horror while a thousand lives were manipulated as a teaching exercise, even her own. Apparently demonic pregnancies were the equivalent of the Three Stooges. Xander should have ascended in her stead.

She reached out, tempted to brush the surface with the tips of her fingers. To do so would bring oblivion, a new start. Like the waters of the Lethe in Egyptian mythology. She snorted. Giles would roll over if he knew she had paid attention to his ramblings on occasion.

She pulled her hand back. She would not sink to that fate, not yet, not ever if she could help it. To do so was a game to the others, an option to be utilized when their current existence grew too dull. She sighed and reminded herself of her task.

She thought briefly of saving Wesley, or maybe Fred. But Wesley was more likely to die than live in that alley, and she would let him have his peace if she could. And no matter how her heart hurt for Fred, for that beautiful soul shattered in a thousand pieces, still she would not undo her end. Fred was a minor footnote in their battle, while Illyria might turn the tide.

She might heal Gunn, save him some pain and provide a few more moments to fight, but it would accomplish little. She might give Illyria back her powers, but even if Fred’s body could contain them, the lessons that had been learned would be lost. Illyria would once again be an unknown, no longer tied to their cause by that ember of feeling.

Angel and Spike were both well set for the fight, determined to cut a swath through the demons in front of them despite the certainty of death. She could still feel the power of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart pounding in Angel’s veins, lending him strength he was not meant to have. Angel would last the longest, before he was pulled down by the masses around him.

So. She must look further afield. What else would give them a chance to survive to future battles? She pursed her lips and blew on another section of the waters. The ripples reformed into an image of a blonde head, eyelashes resting on a peaceful face. Cordelia smiled. This would do nicely. She waved her hands over the stream, drawing the two images together. The Slayer would have one hell of a dream this night.

Cordelia rose and walked away from the pool, the green glass stones lightly massaging her bare feet. She didn’t have the heart to study the result of her work right now. Now, she would head to the pool of the masters, and study for a year or two. Hopefully Jezza and his friends would forget about her stories for a while. She needed time to grow, time to gain in this timeless place.

The irony burned again in her non-existent stomach, her brain screaming at the fact that she was living the lie she had chastised Angel for. She had urged him to be wary of Wolfram & Hart, to not forget the good fight as he sat in those poisoned halls. And so he had fought. So they had fought, fought and died as she sat in her own hallowed halls, watching and waiting for the day she could act.

It burned, but Cordelia would use that burn. Someday she would have more than enough power, and her Champion would come out the other side of his fight. And on that day, the so called Powers That Be would be sorry they had abused their playthings.

Cordelia smiled. That day, they would hear one thing before they died.

Hello, I’m Cordelia Chase, and the Bitch is back.

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Re: # 137, Angel, PG, Part 2

shetiger
2004-05-22 09:33 pm UTC (link)

I also wanted to add my psalm, since it defines the story.

Psalm 137
By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.
Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem; who said, Rase it, rase it, even to the foundation thereof.
O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.
Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

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#56, X-men, NC-17

summer_jackel
2004-05-23 10:29 am UTC (link)

Title: What Time I am Afraid
Author: Summer Jackel
Fandom: X-men, comics continuity
Copyright disclaimer: no, of course I don’t own these characters. That would be Marvel. This is just an innocent harmless little fanfic, on which no money could ever be made, and you know it. You didn’t really want to sue me, anyway.
Rating: heavy R to light NC-17 for torrid werewolf sex. Warnings, again for torrid werewolf sex.
Pairing: Logan/Rahne
Note about timelines: This takes place some time following New Mutants #11, X-treme X-men #46, Uncanny X-men #443 and New X-men #156---in other words, all of the relevant X-titles that were current at the exact moment I wrote this story---and it references all of them to some degree, along with (albiet obliquey) ‘Storm: the Arena’ and ‘Wolverine: Origin’. However, you don’t need to have read any of that stuff to enjoy this story.

What Time I Am Afraid

Be merciful unto me, O God: for man would swallow me up; he fighting daily oppresseth me.
Mine enemies would daily swallow me up: for they be many that fight against me, O thou most High.
What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.
In God I will praise his word, in God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.
Every day they wrest my words: all their thoughts are against me for evil.
They gather themselves together, they hide themselves, they mark my steps, when they wait for my soul.
Shall they escape by iniquity? in thine anger cast down the people, O God.
Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?
When I cry unto thee, then shall mine enemies turn back: this I know; for God is for me.
In God will I praise his word: in the Lord will I praise his word.
In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me.
Thy vows are upon me, O God: I will render praises unto thee.
For thou hast delivered my soul from death: wilt not thou deliver my feet from falling, that I may walk before God in the light of the living?
---psalm 56

**********************************

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Re: #56, X-men, NC-17

summer_jackel
2004-05-23 10:31 am UTC (link)

Logan didn’t like the questions they were asking.

He did not want to tell these people he loved why he had not come earlier. He did not particularly care how they remade the mansion, and while he did care about the school, there were others in a far better position to rebuild it than himself.

(you are not for creation, a tiny voice whispered, not for hope, only destruction, killing, you know that definitively now---)

He did not want to tell them what he had heard in Genosha when he had left the Professor there, for though he knew Charley could take care of himself, wheelchair or no, it hurt something in his honor to have abandoned the man. Above all he did not want to answer their questions about what had happened out in space.

(Did not want to tell them about Jean, how he had seen the Phoenix blossom from her frying eyes, her smoldering body, how he had liberated it from her dearest, dearest blood to save them both---)

He definitely did not want to see Scott fawning on Emma, did not want to scent them intermingled whenever he came near them. He’d known about their affair, of course, before, but he had not had to smell it on them then. He had been calmer as well, before they had gone chasing after a story better left buried, more the man and less the beast he caged, and it was not safe for him to be near Scott right now.

(You should have saved her, Scott; you were the one she chose. I should have saved her. Too late, Wolverine, you slice and cut and slash his very head off but too late, too late to save her, you are made for nothing but killing, Wolverine---)

In fact, he really didn’t want to see any of them. So why was he here?

The emptiness clawed at his belly, the memories that he could not trust for reality, the helpless fury at Charley, at Jean even---

(You were the Phoenix, Jeannie. Couldn’t you have seen it comin’? Couldn’t you have stopped him killin’ you yourself, darlin’? You were so much stronger than your damn fool men. You should have been able to stop him---)

---at Magneto, all of it, all the damn stupid things that happened and happened and kept right on happening no matter how heroic anyone managed to be.

He could not leave them though, not now, not with what was going on in the world. And deep in his shuttered heart where he would never let himself look too closely, he did not really want to be alone.

The beast in him bled.

The man was at least a little pleased to see his friends, even if he was even more surly than usual to them. Mostly he had needed to speak with Ororo. He wanted to see that she was back, understand that she was whole again, see her for himself---and unlike some of the others, he was pleased enough by what he found there.

So her scent was darker, had more to it of blood and violence, so she was not as gentle as before her recovery---in this moment he could not be overly concerned for that. Help you live, ‘ro.

If part of him grieved at what she might have lost in that transition, he did not presently have the strength to examine it.

There were woods on the estate, a rambling legacy of trees and bridle paths and gardens that nobody had had time to tend for so long. A contained wildness. Not like Canada, but enough.

Perhaps he did not need Canada right now, did not want it.

There was beauty. Autumn was fading and the bite was in the air, the color rampant on the trees. There were deer, but he did not hunt in this place.

So he melted into the sea of rust and carmine and fading golds, the purple shadows beneath them. The others knew better than to ask how long he would be gone or follow him.

He knew, of course, before he set out that he was not alone.

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Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:33 am UTC (Expand)

Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:35 am UTC (Expand)

Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:36 am UTC (Expand)

Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:37 am UTC (Expand)

Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:39 am UTC (Expand)

Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:41 am UTC (Expand)

Re: #56, X-men, NC-17 -

summer_jackel, 2004-05-23 10:43 am UTC (Expand)

Psalm 130; Harry Potter Fandom; PG rating

copperbadge
2004-05-23 09:44 pm UTC (link)

Song of Degrees

The Oresteia of Aeschylus, Watchman's Prologue:
I pray the gods will give me some relief
and end this weary job. One long full year
I've been lying here, on this rooftop,
the palace of the sons of Atreus,
resting on my arms, just like a dog....

Psalm 130:
....But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be revered.
I wait for the LORD, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.
My soul waiteth for the Lord more than sentinels that watch for the morning:
I say, more than sentinels that watch for the morning.....

It would have been better if he had been given something to do, if he had been allowed to do proper work for the Order; that would indeed have been better, and though Remus tried to quell the voice repeating the bitter thought in his head, it wouldn't be silenced. He knew why he hadn't been given proper work; it was because the mission after Sirius' death, he had been given proper work, and he'd ended nearly killing a low-level Death Eater in front of Arthur and Kingsley.

They'd been very kind about it; of course it was to be expected, when one was in a situation where one had to defend oneself, that occasionally a werewolf might hit harder than a human, might not realise their own strength. No matter that he had been schooled in control of that strength since he was seven years old; they excused it, and quietly blocked him from any further missions where he might concievably be called on to attack someone.

He was grateful for the excuses, in a way. After all, if his sins were well and truly marked, he never would have survived this long; he was logical enough to know that this was true of any man, but he wasn't any man. He was more responsible for keeping control, because he was stronger than a human his size ought to be. Dumbledore had forgiven him many times; for the sin of being a werewolf, for the sin of nearly killing Severus Snape, the sins of cowardice and lying, endangering students, or not protecting Sirius -- not even being able to control Sirius...

He smiled a little to himself, in the dark. No, they didn't number his sins. He did that himself.

"It's a loathsome habit, you know."

Remus glanced up from the window of Arabella Figg's upstairs guest room, where he was monitoring the Dursleys' house. This was the job they gave him, now; eight hour shifts watching Harry, until the boy could be taken from his family and brought to Twelve Grimmauld Place.

"What is?" he asked Severus Snape, who had apparently come to relieve him.

"Maudlin brooding. Loathsome and annoying," Snape replied. "Nobody loves a living martyr."

"Thank you," Remus answered, in no mood to humour the Potions master. "When they kill your best friend I'll be sure and remind you of that. Or haven't you got one?"

"You're of no use to Potter or to the Order this way."

"Tell Dumbledore. I only do what he tells me."

Snape sat on the window-seat, facing the door, while Remus moved his legs over to make room, propping them on the other side of the window-frame. He'd cast an obscuring charm over the glass, not that it mattered; the sort of people who lived on Privet Drive generally didn't care to see their surroundings in great detail. Remus had decided that this was probably the reason more of them hadn't slit their wrists out of sheer boredom.

"He's not coming back."

"I know that," Remus said sharply.

"Do you, I wonder. Are you grieving or are you sulking?"

(continued in second post)

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2nd Part: Psalm 130; Harry Potter Fandom; PG rating

copperbadge
2004-05-23 09:47 pm UTC (link)

Remus didn't reply for a while; finally he straightened slightly, and brushed some hair out of his eyes.

"I suppose you're pleased," he said dully. "Black finally gets what's coming to him. Very poetic, too, dying at the hand of his madwoman cousin. An old compatriot of yours -- "

Snape moved fast, but Remus was faster; the hand reaching for his collar got within a few inches when Remus grabbed his wrist.

"You were neither of you innocents," he said, low and even, clenching his hand tightly before letting it go, a reminder of the bone-breaking power belied by his thin, not overly-muscled body. Snape rubbed his wrist, sullenly. They fell silent again; Remus closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

"Why do you want to know whether I'm grieving for Sirius or not, Severus? Are you honestly that much of a ghoul, or did Dumbledore send you to speak to me?"

"Is it unbelievable that I may simple wish to know, with no motive to either harming or healing you?"

"Yes," Remus said, before considering matters. After a second, he corrected himself. "No. I'd believe that of you. The mind of a scientist, Severus Snape."

"You haven't fulfilled my curiousity."

Remus sighed, leaning his head back, eyes still closed. "Sometimes on a stretch like this I imagine I'm waiting for him. That he's going to show up in a few minutes and take over. I can picture it right down to his eyes -- the way he looks when he's allowed to watch over Harry." He opened his eyes, fixing them on the window of Harry's small bedroom, just visible from here. "If I have to wait the rest of my life, that's all right."

"For him to forgive you."

He glanced sharply at the other man.

"For him to forgive you and return," Snape repeated. "Though you know he never will."

"Well. That begs the question of whether or not I deserve forgiveness. For any of it," Remus added. Snape's nearly-black eyes seemed to darken and change, almost imperceptibly; Remus, who had only ever been attracted to blue eyes, was unfamiliar with what it might mean.

"I am coming to believe that you might," Snape murmured. "Granted, I am not Sirius Black, and I have more to forgive him than I do you. As much as it matters, however..."

Remus tilted his head, torn between disgust at the man's presumption and the little pleased throb in his chest which said he was forgiven -- by someone, anyone -- that he meant more to someone than just another pair of eyes or hands for the Order to use.

He settled on defensive curiousity. "What brought this confession on?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as petty as he felt.

"Times change."

"Sometimes I wonder."

Snape turned to him. "If you're searching for redemption, look somewhere else. I'm not here to be your saviour. I've made my offer; take it if you please, leave it if you please."

He rose and began to move away; he was almost to the door when Remus spoke again.

"What precisely is it you're offering, Severus? Friendship?"

He saw Snape's shoulders tense. "If that is what you require."

(continued in third post)

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3rd Part: Psalm 130; Harry Potter Fandom; PG rating -

copperbadge, 2004-05-23 09:48 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: 3rd Part: Psalm 130; Harry Potter Fandom; PG rating -

erised1810, 2004-05-25 04:59 am UTC (Expand)

Re: 3rd Part: Psalm 130; Harry Potter Fandom; PG rating -

adjectivegirl, 2004-06-26 08:07 pm UTC (Expand)

Psalm #129; Harry Potter; G

tattooed_soul
2004-05-24 04:17 pm UTC (link)

I didn’t understand really, what it meant to have been bitten until that first change. When I was bitten, it hurt. But I was young, so young I didn’t realize that it meant I was going to change every month for the rest of my life. When Mum took me onto her lap, told me I would be alright, and that Father and herself would still love me, I didn’t understand what she was talking about. ‘Why wouldn’t they love me? I didn’t do anything bad, had I? Was it my fault that the wolf-dog big scary thing had bitten me?’ I asked her why she had said that. Mum just held me tighter, and started to cry. I think it was then that I started to wonder what was happening to me.

But that first night, the first time my body changed, I understood. Mum told me I had to play in the cellar that night. I didn’t understand that- I didn’t like the cellar. It was dark, and scary, and lots of creepy-crawly spiders lived down there. Mum said that I had to be brave, a brave little boy and that some things were going to happen to my body. When I asked her to come down with me, she said that I had to stay by myself. That I had to be strong, and then I curled my arms and said I was. She smiled, a sad smile, which seemed to appear on her face more often than ever. But then Father said to go downstairs, and to hurry, because it was time for me to go to bed, and I would sleep down there tonight. Mum went down the stairs with me, and turned on the lone bare light bulb, and said I would be alright, that my body was going to hurt and change, but I would be alright. Then she showed me the little bed that she had made, pallet was more like it, and tucked me in. I had my blanket, my soft yellow blankie, and then Mum kissed me goodnight, and turned around, and went upstairs. She left the light bulb on. I heard her start to cry, and then the door shut. The latch clicked shut, and I was alone.

I tried to be brave, I really did. But the light bulb made shadows everywhere and I started to imagine the spiders were coming out to get me, and I started seeing monsters in the corners. I tried not to cry. Father always said that brave boys didn’t cry. And I was a brave boy. I tried to be quiet but the quieter I tried to be the harder it was. I don’t know how long I lay there on the little pallet, but I know I didn’t sleep.

And then it started. My back curled up on itself, and I heard cracking. It hurt so badly, like a thousand hammers battering into my body. My arms and legs and fingers and toes were all flexing uncontrollably and all I wanted was to be dead. My skin was tearing and I could feel new skin, rougher and tougher than my old emerge. My face was burning, and I started to lose control of my thoughts. And then I really couldn’t think at all. Just experience the pain, and try to survive it.

I woke up the next morning, and I didn’t know where I was. The pallet that Mum had made me didn’t resemble a place to sleep. The blankets and pillows were ripped to shreds, feathers littered the floor. The shelves that had been on the walls were smashed, and there were broken jars and preserved fruit on the floor. It smelled horrible. My body hurt, and I couldn’t move. I started crying, yelling, screaming for Mum and Father and when they finally came, I couldn’t stop. Mum started for me, and I remember backing into a corner, not wanting her to touch me. Then I noticed the blood on my arms and my legs. I stopped screaming and stared at my blood. Father scooped me up and turned back up the stairs, telling Mum to get the rubbing alcohol and bandages. I clung to Father, and begged him to not put me in the cellar again. Mum clicked the lone light bulb off, the only thing I hadn’t been able to reach that night. My yellow blankie was in scraps, and bloodied.

But Father had to put me in the cellar again.

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Re: Psalm #129; Harry Potter; G; con't

tattooed_soul
2004-05-24 04:18 pm UTC (link)

It was like that for seven years. Mum kept me at home, and taught me all the things that a boy would need to know, even though Father didn’t want her to. She kept hoping, hoping for an envelope, or a cure, both miracles that would probably never happen. But then, one day, near the end of the summer, a letter did come. And then one day when I was outside, doing my chores, an old man with a long white beard came to the door, and when I went to look in the window, he turned and saw me. His eyes crinkled up, and Mum wanted me to come inside. I did, and the man asked if I would like to go to school. I was dumbfounded, but found myself nodding yes. He told Mum, and me, that he was going to make it possible for children like me to go to school.

Mum told me I was blessed, and Father smiled a tight smile, but he agreed. We went to Diagon Alley, and Father looked just as amazed as I did at all the strange shops and people we saw. But Mother just kept us in tow, talking about robes and wands and books. We went to King’s Crossing, and went through a wall to a train, and Mum told me I would be alright, and Father told me to brave.

I was.

Psalm 129

Many a time have they afflicted me from my youth, may Israel now say:
Many a time have they afflicted me from my youth: yet they have not prevailed against me.
The plowers plowed upon my back: they made long their furrows.
The LORD is righteous: he hath cut asunder the cords of the wicked.
Let them all be confounded and turned back that hate Zion.
Let them be as the grass upon the housetops, which withereth afore it groweth up:
Wherewith the mower filleth not his hand; nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.
Neither do they which go by say, The blessing of the LORD be upon you: we bless you in he name of the LORD.

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Re: Psalm #129; Harry Potter; G; con't -

jedi_penguin, 2004-05-25 10:12 am UTC (Expand)

Re: Psalm #129; Harry Potter; G; con't -

tattooed_soul, 2004-05-25 05:13 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: Psalm #129; Harry Potter; G -

musesfool, 2004-06-22 11:34 am UTC (Expand)

Psalm 9. Angel. G-PG part 1.

twistedchick
2004-05-25 08:52 am UTC (link)

When he opened his eyes, it was hard to believe he was still alive. He couldn't be alive. He'd died. He remembered dying very well, lying in her arms and smiling with all his strength at someone who looked like a woman he'd loved, until he had no more strength at all.

Even if the arms that had held him belonged, now, to someone entirely different from the woman he'd cared about.

The arms around him in the darkness now felt familiar, and different. He wondered, idly, if he would spend a speculative eternity in classifying lovers by touch, or if at some point another mode of communication would be possible.

"Oh, you're awake enough, lover. You're thinking. I can tell."

Lilah? He struggled to sit up, or to reach and touch the place the sound came from, but neither seemed to work.

"More or less, in this dimension. I'm the one who gets to ask you the big questions this time around."

So, reincarnation was real. He'd have to try to remember to write a paper on it for the Watchers, if any of them were left by the time he got back. If he got back to the same reality. If there were still Watchers. If he remembered...

"Give it a rest, Wes. You're dead. You're just awake, and I need you to pay attention."

He thought he nodded.

"Good. Here's your choice: you can go on to a place where you'll receive your reward for the good you have done in your life, and for the good that you've tried to do. Intentions count."

That's good, he thought. Perhaps it's not the road to hell...

"Sweetie? Your alternative is this: you can take everything you know, and everything you can do, and go back to do more for the side of good. You've got one get-out-of-jail-free pass here, if you want it."

It was still too dark for him to see, but in his mind – if that's what it was – he saw his life, from London to Sunnydale to Los Angeles, and all the people he had found, all those he'd grown to care about. He let himself dwell for a while on those who, like himself, were now beyond reach -- dauntless Cordelia and brave, brilliant Fred -- and thinking of them felt sweet. But he moved on to consider those who remained.

Apparently death had given him something unexpected, for as he thought of his friends – comrades in arms – the family of sorts that he had acquired in Los Angeles, it was as if he could see their motives while he witnessed their actions over again. Lorne, the gentlest soul he'd ever met, who really did use his powers only for good. Connor, the child who had lost everything to become a man who had everything to lose -- but who had let himself love, however unwisely. Faith, who had taken him to hell and then helped him redeem Angel from the hell of being Angelus -- again for love, because Angel had believed in her at her worst. Willow, who had plunged into destruction and climbed back out again, in a redemption little different, in its own way, from what Faith had endured.

And Angel himself.
(continued in part 2)

(Reply to this)

Psalm 9, part 2. Angel. G/pg

twistedchick
2004-05-25 08:53 am UTC (link)

And there he stayed, for what seemed a long time, seeing again the look in Angel's eyes as he left Wolfram and Hart that last time. Their friendship had held such promise at the start, so long ago, but somehow, after betrayal and desertion and vicious revenge, they had come back full circle, to a place where possibilities had – even briefly – awaited them. Then he'd done his job, and died, and now only impossibilities existed.

He had no illusions about himself; he couldn't imagine the Powers, if they were the ones offering the choice, or any other deities even allowing him a glimpse of the happiness his childhood church had described long ago.

I will be glad and rejoice in you;
I will sing to your Name, O Most High.
When my enemies are driven back,
they will stumble and perish at your presence...

You have rebuked the ungodly and destroyed the wicked;
You have blotted out their name forever and ever...

The Avenger of blood will remember them,
he will not forget the cry of the afflicted.
Have pity on me, O Lord;
see the misery I suffer from those who hate me,
O you who lift me up from the gates of death...

But he had moved far from the Established Church since childhood. First, through his Watcher studies and his growing abilities as a mage, then as a rogue demon hunter, as a free-lance magician bound no longer to the Watchers Council. Later, after pain and betrayal, as a man who used women for his own purposes, to achieve his goals. It had tainted him, soiled him. He was sure of it.

But as he considered this the image in his mind strayed back to Angel, and he saw, as from a great distance, the small golden spark of Angel's soul. It was in the back of his dark eyes, and the light of it shone through his eyes. Despite his experience, despite the things he had done, something of the ability to love remained in Angel, and when he loved he did it without reserve or caution. That was how he had loved Buffy, and how he had loved Connor and, at the end, how he had cared about Darla.

And – at another ending – the bare possibility he had seen in Angel's eyes, for himself.

"Wes. You still with me there? It's okay, take whatever time you need. Well, not time, exactly, but who cares?"

He nestled into the invisible arms and considered: what had he done in his own life, compared to what Angel had done? He'd let himself care for the people around him, slowly, cautiously. He'd let himself both seduce and be seduced by Lilah, and in the process come to respect her fierce spirit and her passionate nature, even as he tried to undermine her work. He'd admired Fred's brilliance from a distance, but had shut himself away from her after he'd been possessed and attacked her -- though she'd understood and forgiven him, that time -- and had stood aside as Gunn fell in love with her. And when she'd finally given her heart to him, and he had given his to her, it had been too little, too late. He could not love Illyria, who had destroyed her, but he treated her with courtesy and kindness, as much as he'd had left. He had even tried to kill Gunn for what had happened to Fred, as if destruction or vengeance were the only roles left to him.

He'd lived hesitantly, partially. The only thing he'd done wholeheartedly was to fail.
(continued in part 3)

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Psalm 9, part 3 Angel. G/pg

twistedchick
2004-05-25 08:55 am UTC (link)

"You think you're a failure, lover?" The voice mocked him in sweet tones. "Seems to me you did what you set out to do – you rescued Angel, you fulfilled your part in the prophecy, you even let him drink you when he was nearly gone. There's only one other person who's cared enough about him to do that. You brought him back, at no small cost."

He smiled to himself at the comparison with Buffy, annoying child that she had been. It occurred to him that he would have liked to sit in Caritas once more, even to listen to Angel sing old Barry Manilow ballads. It would have been amazingly good to sit at the bar with Gunn and Cordelia and listen to them bicker over which of them was less cool or fashionable.

He paused. Had there been a choice he had to make? How could thinking of Caritas have anything to do with that?

"Getting warmer. Take a look."

The images in his mind were swept away as if a hand had wiped them from a blackboard. Instead he saw a rain-drenched alley, blocked by a tall metal fence. From the far end, a horde of demons was advancing on the small and valiant remnant of Angel Investigations. Gunn, already wounded, whose willing spirit was all that held him together. Sarcastic Spike, for once entirely serious, readying his stiff muscles for action again. Illyria, the deposed and abandoned goddess, who had found somewhere the compassion to lie to him kindly -- now looking as desolate as he had felt when she arrived.

(Another voice murmured something but was shushed by the first. He couldn't hear the words, only sense that he was less alone than he'd thought, and that another set of slender arms was wrapped around him, somehow. It seemed he understood less and less the longer he was there, wherever that was, or whenever.)

And Angel, facing the pack of demons larger than he was, who had been beaten down and climbed back up out of despair again -- as he had done over and over for as long as anyone could remember.
(continued in part 4.)

(Reply to this)

Psalm 9, part 4 Angel. G/pg

twistedchick
2004-05-25 08:55 am UTC (link)

He recalled, suddenly, a tale he'd read about the Angel of Death, in the Mezentian Manuscript. The Angel only looked fierce to the living who thought death was a final end. But once in a thousand years Death itself could grant life, could return a soul to bodily life in order to right a great wrong, or continue a battle – or to complete a task once given.

As the former head of Angel Investigations, dedicated to helping the helpless (and the hopeless, as Cordelia would have said), perhaps he still had work to do. He still had to give his heart completely, without reserve or hesitation.

"So you've decided." She sounded pleased. "It will be as you wish, as your heart desires."

The arms hugged him closely for a brief time before their touch faded, one set at a time. It seemed forever ...

...until he stood, soaked to the skin in the summer rain that ran down the back of his neck. He pushed sodden hair out of his eyes and realized he was breathing, warm gasps that he could feel on his hand – the hand that wasn't holding a sword.

Ahead of him a gate appeared in the chain-link fencing that crossed the alley two stories high. It opened and he walked through it quickly, his feet splashing in puddles.

The demons were still at the other end of the alley, a few breaths away. He felt the strength coursing through him and knew what he had to do.

He laid a hand on Gunn's side, before Gunn realized he was there, and the man curled over in anguish -- and straightened, again, healed and amazed. "Wha-- How?"

He touched Spike's brow and saw the cuts and bruises heal over as if they had never occurred. Spike gazed at him, amazed, as if he wanted to write a sonnet in his honor.

He walked up to Angel and kissed him on the lips, briefly, and felt the pounding of his own heart and the surprise in Angel's stance.

"Wes–"

"Oh, don't tell me you've never been kissed by someone coming back from the dead before," he heard himself say. He turned, swung his sword up to the position of honor and bowed to Illyria, the truthteller. Her eyes widened, and she came forward to touch his face. The cuts on her own face healed as she stood there. She backed away from him, tilting her head curiously, and astonishment overtook her. She flexed her muscles and sparks dripped from her fingertips. With a fierce blue smile, she strode ahead into the dark, crowded alley, into the fight.

"What –"

"Helping the helpless. Consoling the afflicted. Isn't that what we do?" asked Wesley Wyndam-Price, as he swung his sword at the first demon to reach him and felt the pure joy of motion in life.

"You – wait –" Angel's voice growled low "till later." He staked a vampire and punched a Kouros demon into immobility. The joy in his voice was unmistakable.

"Looking forward to it."

***

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	Re: Psalm 9 Angel. G/pg yasminke 2004-05-26 07:31 am UTC (link)
	Liked it -- a lot. Perfect way to bring the warrior back. (Reply to this) (Parent)

Re: Psalm 9, part 4 Angel. G/pg -

musesfool, 2004-06-22 11:37 am UTC (Expand)

Re: Psalm 9, part 4 Angel. G/pg -

twistedchick, 2004-06-22 12:22 pm UTC (Expand)

#88, Angel, PG

yasminke
2004-05-26 07:52 am UTC (link)

"For the Leader"

A priest whose name he couldn't recall visited, using the excuse that his rounds were over and he had wished to check on the "miracle patient" whom the nurses had thought -- twice, he made a point of mentioning -- lay at death's door. Little had any of them known how Wesley yearned for the grave, that yawning abyss over which he had leaned, ready to be sucked in, only to have it snap shut at the last minute.

He shifted in the bed. The stiff starched sheets scratched his skin, making it difficult to get comfortable and retreat into sleep. Not that he could escape. Every time he closed his eyes, his life, the events leading up to the last two weeks, flashed before him.

The writing on the scroll. The blood stains on the towel. The glint of the knife as it passed before his eyes. The prick, then burning pain as Justine dragged the blade across his throat. The emptiness as he was relieved of Connor's weight. His future as it bled out onto the park's dry, dusty ground.

He had climbed heights, played at being the leader he had always dreamed of being. Then, a prophecy written especially for his arrogant and gullible mind lured him into the deepest pit of Hell, to be counted amongst the other abominations cast aside.

Wesley swallowed and savoured the excruciating pain, using it as a personal cat-o'-nine-tails. No forgetting allowed. The wound under the bandage and the scar it would leave would be a reminder of the betrayal he'd suffered by his own intelligence. The lack of fealty he'd shown the one who had taken him in, trusted him and allowed him to believe he could lead others.

Less than a month ago, he had been surrounded by comrades-in-arms, whom he considered family. Now he was under a death threat, issued by a friend, delivered by the one he loved. There would be no mercy; he'd seen that clearly in Angel's brown eyes before the pillow extinguished the last ray of hope.

Fred had visited, consoled him with well-chosen words. Then she delivered her missive, her back to him, standing beside the artefacts of his life, which she'd left.

"It was all for nothing."

Tears pooled in his eyes. His whole existence was summed up in one sentence, crammed into one box, set apart among the dead.

(Reply to this)

Psalm 82

raindroproses
2004-05-26 11:19 am UTC (link)

Title: One of the Princes

Author:

raindroproses

Rating: PG-13
Category: Drama, Missing Scene

Fandom: JAG
Spoilers: "Hail and Farewell"

Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: Written for

musesfool's Psalm Challenge.

God standeth in the congregation of the mighty; he judgeth among the gods.
How long will ye judge unjustly, and accept the persons of the wicked? Selah.

The man nodded to his bodyguard, who took his spot outside the tent, his gun at the ready. The man ducked into the darkness of the tent. He blinked, trying to let his eyes adjust to the dimness, and kept his back to the wind- and sand-worn canvas.

"It is nice to meet you again, my friend," a voice spoke in accented English. Outwardly, the man relaxed, but his green eyes remained sharp and alert.

"Do you have it?" he asked in clipped tones. The question seemed to amuse the other man.

"Of course. Did you think I would leave this to one of my assistants?" A match flared, and the man averted his gaze, trying to keep his night vision. The scent of a high-quality cigar reached his nostrils.

"Do you have the money?" Now the other man's voice was cold, businesslike.

"Do I look stupid?" the dark-haired man scoffed. He lifted the duffel bag he carried. He froze, but the look on his face did not change.

"Now, slowly, good friend. Place the bag on the table and back away. We wouldn't want to put a hole in your shoulder. Not this far from any medical treatment." The words were jovial, but the tone deadly serious.

He slowly, gently, lifted the bag and placed it on the folding table in the middle of the tent. He backed away carefully, trying not to bump into one of the very large men with the very large guns.

"Count it," came the order. A younger man stepped into the beam of sunlight allowed by the tent flap. He unzipped the duffel bag and inspected it for any tampering. He then counted the bundles of money. He said something in a language that the man still had not been able to grasp. By the smile he could sense spread across the trader's face, however, he took it to be a good thing.

"Wonderful, wonderful! You are a man of your word. And here is your package... how is it you Americans say? Signed, sealed, and delivered?"

"Yeah, that's about right." The man sidled up to the table and reached out. His hand was grasped in a firm handshake.

"Thank you for your business. Come again, eh?" The other man gave a hoarse laugh.

Clayton Webb picked up the small, priceless, brown-wrapped package delicately. "I plan on it." He left the tent and nodded to his partner.

Once out of hearing, the partner asked in a hushed voice, "You got it?"

"Yeah, Gunny, I got it. Now let's hope we can keep it safe until we get back to the ship."

(Continued in next post...)

(Reply to this)

Psalm 82, JAG, Part 2

raindroproses
2004-05-26 11:22 am UTC (link)

Defend the poor and fatherless: do justice to the afflicted and needy.
Deliver the poor and needy: rid them out of the hand of the wicked.

Webb yawned again. "Sir, we should stop for the night."

"Gunny, if we stop, we're likely to miss our ride. Now shut up and help me with this thing." He shifted the pack on his back.

Victor Galindez glared at the back of Webb's head. Time to bring out the big guns. "Mr. Webb, I highly doubt that Colonel MacKenzie would want you to collapse in exhaustion in the middle of a war zone."

The CIA officer stiffened. Victor knew he had scored a direct hit. "Fine. We'll stop. But only for a few hours."

They settled down and made camp. The sky was amazingly clear in the middle of the desert, and they stared up at the stars in silence.

"She told me she loved me, you know." Victor didn't reply. By this time, he had grown used to his partner's fits of melancholy mixed with long stretches of silence. "She told me she loved me, and all I could say was, 'I'm so relieved.'" Webb sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see the other man's eyes close. "I'm such an idiot."

"Yes, sir." Victor smirked as Webb's eyes flew open. "But you're a lucky idiot. Sarah MacKenzie is an... amazing woman."

"Oh, I know that," Webb agreed. More softly, he repeated, "I know that." There was silence for a few more moments, then, "She'd never come right out and said that before. And I don't know if it was because she couldn't not say it anymore... or if it was because she didn't want me to leave her."

Victor shifted in his sleeping bag. "The colonel is a Marine, sir. She wouldn't say anything she didn't mean."

"Ah, but therein lies the quandary, Gunnery Sergeant. Sarah's not just a Marine... she's a woman, as well. A beautiful, insecure woman who's been burned too many times to count."

Victor couldn't think of anything to say to that.

They know not, neither will they understand; they walk on in darkness: all the foundations of the earth are out of course.
I have said, Ye are gods; and all of you are children of the most High.

"What are you doing?" Victor heard a voice bark. He snapped out of sleep and into full awareness. He grabbed the pistol by his sleeping bag and leapt up.

Clayton Webb was holding his gun on a man who was trying to explain himself. Unfortunately, he was trying to explain himself in Arabic--a language that Webb had never mastered.

"Mr. Webb!" Victor exclaimed. "It's all right. He's not here for us--he's looking for food for his family."

Webb's hackles went down, but he kept his gun trained on the man. "Where's he from?" he asked tersely.

Victor turned to the terrified man--no more than a boy, really--and asked him. Webb nodded at the response and clicked the safety back on his weapon. He crouched by his pack. The boy started to scramble away. Webb held out his hands in a sign of peace. He opened the bag and pulled out a few of their food rations. "Here," he said gruffly, shoving the packages toward the boy.

Warily, the boy crept closer. When Webb didn't make any threatening movements toward him, he accepted the food, smiling and nodding.

When the boy had left, Victor turned to Webb. "He said--"

"--Thank you," Webb finished for him.

"Why did you give him...?"

Webb scowled and stood. He started to break camp. Victor joined him, waiting for an answer.

When they were finished, Webb spoke in a rough voice. "I may not know what it is to go without, Victor, but that doesn't mean I don't feel for those who do."

(Continued in next post...)

(Reply to this)

Psalm 82, JAG, Part 3

raindroproses
2004-05-26 11:22 am UTC (link)

But ye shall die like men, and fall like one of the princes.
Arise, O God, judge the earth: for thou shalt inherit all nations.

Webb sputtered and gasped for air. He watched as the lights from the rescue party retreated in the face of the raging storm.

He had expected to die with a bullet through the back of his head... not with gallons of salt water in his lungs.

He coughed, took a breath, and yelled, "Victor!" The name was swept away on the winds whipping around the Zodiac. "Victor!"

He thought he heard an answering, "Webb?"

"Cut it loose!" He could only pray that the triggering device would be lost to the bottom of the ocean. If not... well, he wouldn't dare think about that.

He treaded water stubbornly, refusing to go down without a fight, even against such an indefatigable opponent. One thought reigned in his mind: to get home to Sarah.

He was a man of his word, after all.

End.

(Reply to this)

Pss 15; Good Omens; G; He That Walketh Uprightly

daegaer
2004-05-28 09:37 am UTC (link)

Pss.15
[1] LORD, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell in thy holy hill?
[2] He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart.
[3] He that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour.
[4] In whose eyes a vile person is contemned; but he honoureth them that fear the LORD. He that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not.
[5] He that putteth not out his money to usury, nor taketh reward against the innocent. He that doeth these things shall never be moved.

He That Walketh Uprightly

'Bugger,' Aziraphale said, patting his pockets in dismay. 'I, er, seem to have left my wallet behind. Be a dear, Crowley, would you?'

Crowley raised an eyebrow. 'That's another lunch you owe me,' he said, dropping two fifty-pound notes on the table, and a twenty for the tip. 'Not that I entertain any hope of them, you understand.'

'That's hardly fair,' Aziraphale said as they strolled out into the bright afternoon. 'I bought you lunch only, um --'

'Six years ago, and it was a sandwich,' Crowley said genially. He laughed at Aziraphale's guilty expression. 'Oh, forget it, I'm filthy rich.'

They wandered along, enjoying the late-afternoon sunshine,* and amiably watching the people. London was never exactly tourist-free, but the number of migrating visitors was steadily rising as the days grew longer and warmer. Aziraphale shook his head over the really awful things people thought they could wear, simply because they were in another country. Horrible shorts and sandals adorned far too many people in his field of vision. He sighed as a couple wearing matching cerise checked shorts and even more brightly coloured t-shirts caught him looking.

'God bless America,' he trilled as he went past.

The couple muttered in annoyance and Crowley grinned. 'They're Canadian,' he said.

'I know,' Aziraphale said, with deep satisfaction. He looked around and saw a middle-aged woman lift a purse delicately from another tourist's shoulder bag. How tiresome, he thought, wondering if he should give the pickpocket a sudden burst of conscience. It was such a lovely day, though, and he didn't really want to spoil it by working. He decided to let the matter go. He could always call it in later as a favour from Crowley.

'Would you like an ice-cream?' Crowley asked, his eyes fixing on what Aziraphale saw was a fancy modern ice-cream parlour.

'Do they have whipped cones?' Aziraphale said hopefully as they stood in the cool shop.

'No, they most certainly do not,' Crowley said, receiving two double cones. 'Here you go, Chocolate Temptation and Double Chocolate Chip for you, Mango and Melon for me.'

'Oh, that sounds far too rich,' Aziraphale said, happily taking the cone.

They wandered back out into the sunshine and found a bench to sit on. Although it was really quite a warm day their ice creams stayed satisfyingly frozen. After he had finished his, a thought struck Aziraphale.

'Did you actually pay for those?' he asked.

'She thought I did,' Crowley said, leaning back and gazing lazily upwards. 'I didn't have any more cash on me after lunch.'

'Crowley! That's terrible,' Aziraphale said. 'You can't do things like that just because you want some free food.'

Crowley looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. 'No, that would be petty and wrong,' he said with heavy irony. He sighed as Aziraphale kept up the reproving expression and climbed to his feet. 'All right,' he said, and looked around for the nearest bank machine.**

They walked back to the ice-cream parlour, and Crowley reluctantly put the money in the till while Aziraphale tried out a few different flavours. Sighing, Crowley added another ten pounds to the till.

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Pss 15; Good Omens; G; He That Walketh Uprightly; Part Two

daegaer
2004-05-28 09:38 am UTC (link)

Back in the sunshine they meandered towards the Bentley, which was parked in a street that clearly stated it was reserved for pedestrian use. Crowley drove off rather more slowly than he usually did, allowing Aziraphale a fine chance to point out the failings of the people they passed.

'Petty thievery; non-payment of TV license; drinks at work; really stupid shoes; public fornication --'

There was a screech of brakes and Crowley was leaning past him. 'Really? Where?'

'Those two,' Aziraphale said happily, 'just look where she has her hand. Absolutely disgusting.'

'Huh,' Crowley said, sounding disappointed. 'I'd count that as youthful hi-jinks. Anyway, they don't count as public if they're not in a place where the, you know, public, can see them. Four stories up and in a private office makes that private, if you ask me.'

'They should at least close the blinds,' Aziraphale said, still watching, and still sounding happily disgusted. 'Let's go to the park.'

'Well, I have an appoint--,' Crowley began.

'Oh, put it off,' Aziraphale said, 'I'll do it for you tomorrow.'

'Fair enough,' Crowley said, and the car shot off through the crowd of strolling pedestrians.

As they sat in the park, eating more ice-creams Crowley had bought from a van because Aziraphale had said it was the only way to stop him humming Love Potion No. 9, the brightly clad Canadian tourists they had seen before wandered past, taking pictures and happily exclaiming how green England was.

'You know, if my bottom was that big, I don't think I'd wear shorts,' Aziraphale said, just loud enough to be heard.

'Your bottom is that big,' Crowley muttered as the tourists turned to glare at him as the ruder looking person on the bench. 'You're impossible when you get in one of these moods, you do know that, don't you?'

'I'm just giving them the opportunity to do the right thing and forgive me,' Aziraphale said lazily. 'A spot of exercise for their free will. Goodness knows a spot of exercise wouldn't do them any harm.' He looked at his watch and blinked at how late it was. 'I need to get back to the shop. Are you going that way?'

'Not really, but it doesn't matter,' Crowley said. 'It'll only add a few minutes to the journey.'

Very shortly thereafter they pulled up at the end of Aziraphale's street, the angel staggering dazedly out of the car.

'I'll see you around,' Crowley said, but was forestalled by Aziraphale leaning back in.

'Crowley, I seem to have fallen behind on one or two things. I don't suppose you could help me catch up?'

Crowley looked at him steadily, then sighed. 'OK. What do you want me to do?'

'Not much,' Aziraphale said, pulling out a few sheets of foolscap. They were written on neatly, the blue ink covering both sides of each page. Crowley whimpered, then held out a hand to take them. 'Thanks,' Aziraphale said triumphantly.

'You owe me,' Crowley said.

'Yes, yes,' Aziraphale said, 'thank you for lunch, must dash, bye!'

He trotted down to the shop, hearing the Bentley roaring off behind him. He barely made it, waving the door open before him, as he didn't want to waste time looking for his keys. Displaying the most effort he had all afternoon, he sprinted up the stairs to the living-room, checking the time as he ran. With a sigh of relief he turned on his old TV and settled into the most comfortable armchair.

He had almost missed the start of Eastenders.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *look</i> for anything.

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Re: Pss 15; Good Omens; G; He That Walketh Uprightly; Part Two -

musesfool, 2004-06-22 11:40 am UTC (Expand)

Re: Pss 15; Good Omens; G; He That Walketh Uprightly; Part Two -

daegaer, 2004-06-23 04:30 am UTC (Expand)

#62, JAG, PG-13

gem225
2004-05-31 02:14 pm UTC (link)

Title: Imagine Mischief

Author: Gail

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: none

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Palmer has a visitor in Leavenworth and gets some good
news.

Archive: my sites and musesfool's Psalm challenge site. All others, please ask me first.

Email: gem225@hotmail.com

Web Page: http://members.freespeech.org/gem/work/

Disclaimer: The characters herein do not belong to me, other than
Dave Temple, my own character.

Spoilers for the ninth season finale "Hail and Farewell",
"Salvation", other Palmer episodes, and probably some Webb
episodes prior to that season finale.

Warning: character death (offstage), gloating by an expert in the
field *g*

Thanks to Tinnean for encouragement and a wonderful beta.

*****

The itsy-bitsy spider went up the waterspout,
Down came the rain and washed the spider out,
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain,
And the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.

*****

I enter the visiting room with the guard right behind me and
another one already in position. "You have a nice talk with your
lawyer," the guard says.

Lawyer, huh? Been a while since I heard from mine. Not much
chance of good news, but I'd hear him out.

I cross to the seat as the guard who brought me in takes up his
position. Like I'm going to make a break for it. No chance of
success.

I sit down across from the man in the gray suit and stare at his
eyes. I know those eyes even though the hair color's wrong and I
don't know the face until I look hard enough to see through the
disguise. That's no lawyer. That's Dave Temple. We trained
together and worked together. When the DSD went down, thanks to
the fucking CIA and JAG, we took turns going into the field and
setting up the deals. Last time I saw him we'd just finished a
deal and were drinking beer and swapping stories and talking
about what we were going to do with the money. Then I thought up
a fool-proof plan to get Rabb and ended up here like a fool.

I'm happy to see him, sure, can't remember the last visitor I had
who wasn't a government guy, but he's taking a hell of a risk
here. If I can see through his disguise then I have to consider
someone else could too. The fucking CIA isn't entirely stupid -
hell, they've got Webb - and they'd love to get some more of us
to wring dry and show off like pets. I'm sure they've got enough
brains to monitor my visitors. There are other ways to contact
me. What's so damned important he has to come?

He's got an odd smile as he picks up the phone. Well, I won't get
any answers just staring at him. I pick up the phone on my side.

"So you're my new lawyer." He nods, still smiling. "What do you
want?"

"To help you." Nice to hear. He gives me his name - assumed, of
course - and starts talking about a possible appeal, which has to
be a cover. It can't be why he's here. We both know that the CIA
guys won't let me out if they can help it. Maybe he's here to let
me know to expect a message about a new escape plan. Not many
people I'd believe about that now.

He stops talking and starts humming something, and it takes me a
minute to get it: the itsy-bitsy spider kid's song. We used to
call it 'Webb's song' since he always found a way out of the rain
back up the damned spout. He's got news about Webb. I raise my
eyebrow to let him know I got it, and he stops humming, then
places his hand palm down on the table, pushes, talking again
about judges and appeals and evidence and strategy, lifts it,
brushes it clean on his shoulder, and bares his teeth in a smile
that I know damned well.

So this time the spider didn't recover from the rain.

(continued in next comment)

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Re: #62, JAG, PG-13

gem225
2004-05-31 02:15 pm UTC (link)

(continued from previous comment)

I break into his legalese. "You sure about this appeal stuff?" I
walk my fingers across the table to let him know I'm talking
about Webb.

"Yes." His eyes are fierce, and I have to fight to keep mine from
exulting too. "The evidence I've gathered is compelling enough to
convince any fair-minded judge."

So either he's seen the body or the way Webb died is too hard for
anyone to get out of.

Clayton Webb dead. Damned if I don't wish I could crack a bottle
of some fancy champagne. One less smart guy to worry about - time
to take some risks around here if I can get the help.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure. I'll be back when I have news for you."

He stands, gives me a smile, and turns to leave. I stand too.
With Dave on my side and Webb dead, I'll be out of here in no
time.

I think about saying a prayer or two for him, but seeing as he
always thought he was on the side of the angels, why bother? Just
as well - if he were in hell he might take over and that wouldn't
bode well for my arrival.

*****

When I'm locked back in my cell, I sit on the edge of my bunk and
remember some lines from one of those Psalms I learned while I
was Jarvis Krohn's best buddy. I've put most of them out of my
mind, but these stuck.

*How long will ye imagine mischief against a man? ye shall be
slain all of you: as a bowing wall shall ye be, and as a
tottering fence. They only consult to cast him down from his
excellency: they delight in lies: they bless with their mouth,
but they curse inwardly.*

Yeah. And now one of the men who'd imagined mischief against me,
who'd cast me down from my excellency when he helped disband the
DSD, who'd helped put me in this fucking place, was dead on some
slab.

Sweet.

The End

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Psalm 134, Harry Potter, G - Part 1 of 2

arionrhod
2004-05-31 07:06 pm UTC (link)

Title: Blessings from Zion (from Psalm 134)
Author:

arionrhod
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Severus Snape/Remus Lupin
Rating: G
Summary: An unexpected encounter leads to unexpected discovery

He didn't know how to pray.

He remembered childhood, and his mother, and softly whispered words which had been meant to be comforting. But somehow, after his first change, the part about If I should die before I wake suddenly took on a meaning that no six year old child was equipped to deal with. And therefore prayer, for Remus Lupin, had become a lost art.

There were even those who claimed that werewolves, as Dark Creatures, couldn't pray, couldn't enter a church, could not bear the touch of holy water or to stand upon sacred ground. Which was nothing more than superstition, a falsehood contrived to make nervous Wizards feel safe, feel superior. They was no more true than the stories that a werewolf could be cured by thanking him, or by smacking him between the eyes three times with the flat of a silver blade.

Things were never that easy.

Voiceless, he knelt in the pew of the Muggle church, hands clenched together in the imitation of prayer. But if he were to speak, he was afraid the words which would pour from his lips would be more of a blasphemy than anything else. A scream of rage and grief against a God he didn't really believe in. How could he believe, after all that he had been through? Lycanthropy... the loss of James and Lily... the false accusations that had deprived him of his best friend for twelve long, lonely years... and now this... this betrayal, this torment of having been given back a piece of his lost youth, given back a glimpse of his life, of what he had been and could have had, only to have it ripped from him once more?

Perhaps God, if such an entity existed, didn't even care enough about werewolves to bother keeping them out of His house.

He lost track of how long he had knelt there, legs falling into numbness, because it was all that he could think of to do, the only symbol he could think of, the only comfort he could try to find, in hoping that there was an afterlife, somewhere, so that Sirius could continue. To imagine his friend passing into nothing for all eternity, as though he never existed, was completely unacceptable.

"Please," he finally breathed, eyes squeezed shut. Just that one word, an entreaty, the singular expression of need. A lone syllable that said take care of my friend, let him find happiness and don't let this be all that there is, this pain, this suffering, this injustice. A prayer in a way, to ask don't let this happen to me, how much more of this must I endure, and why, why, WHY do I always have to be alone - when will it ever cease?

A long while later Remus stood, as night began to give way to morning. The windows of the small country church were lightened, the colors of the stained glass windows brightening, beginning to glow, swirling rainbows of color over pale stone and polished dark wood. It was beautiful, and peaceful with the quite hush of dawn, and somehow the lack of an answer wasn't really important. He didn't feel better, but he felt, perhaps, a little less bad - and Remus was a man who appreciated the subtlety of even so small a difference.

He stepped out into the aisle, and looked at the altar. "Thanks," he said softly. Perhaps it wasn't reverent, but he meant it. He had gotten through the night, he was still alive - and he knew from long experience that one day at a time he could go on. Lonelier, a bit more diminished, but there. If that was all that he gained from this, he would make it be enough.

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Psalm 134, Harry Potter, G - Part 2 of 2

arionrhod
2004-05-31 07:06 pm UTC (link)

A further moment, and he turned - only to collide with a tall, black clad form. The werewolf was surprised, for it was indeed difficult for someone to sneak up on him with his enhanced lycanthrope senses. He thought it must be the resident priest, come to see who the unknown invader was in his sanctuary, and he stepped back, an apology on his lips... but the words died as he looked up into familiar dark eyes set in a pale face, eyes which examined him down the length of a prominent, distinctive nose.

"There you are," Severus said quietly.

"Here I am," he responded, voice equally soft to cover his surprise. "Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," the Potions Master replied.

"Dumbledore sent you, no doubt," Remus sighed, shaking his head. "He needn't have. I... know my duty."

"Albus did not send me."

Remus blinked, amber eyes gazing up quizzically at the taller man. "Then why are you here, Severus?"

The dark gaze regarded him, one brow raised, studying him intently. Then the dark-haired wizard spoke, in a black velvet voice that caused Remus to shiver. "Because I was concerned. I needed to find you, and I searched all night. I needed to know that you were... well."

"I'm not," the werewolf responded... but suddenly something warm bloomed inside of him, something unexpected, something that seemed to tremble with potential beauty so profound that he felt breathless from it, dizzy almost, as he looked into the eyes he had seen a million times before and yet was seeing for the first time. Certainly those dark depths had never held the warmth he was now witnessing, the concern, the - dared he say it - love? "I'm not, but... I think I will be. I know I will be."

Severus nodded slowly, the faintest hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth. "Good. Shall we return, then?" he asked, then turned at Remus' nod and began to stride purposefully towards the rear of the church.

Remus waited a moment, then glanced back towards the front of the church, a slight feeling of awe touching him. It may have been coincidence, Severus' appearance and surprising revelation. Then again, maybe not.

It was a blessing from Zion, and that he would not question.

Come, bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord, who stand by night in the house of the Lord!
Lift up your hands to the holy place, and bless the Lord.
May the Lord, maker of heaven and earth, bless you from Zion.

(Reply to this)

Psalm Challenge: Psalm 70. Harry Potter

gulessable
2004-06-01 01:26 pm UTC (link)

Make No Tarrying

I have crawled, upon my belly, over shards of glass to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. I have killed, and rejoiced in killing. I have lain silent and begging in the deepest part of my black soul while the Dark Lord has taken his pleasure of me. My hands have mixed certain death and slow, exquisite torture for people I have never seen or heard of. I am a rapist. I have eaten death.

How, then, can this one old man, this frail *lunatic* make me cry? Why do his gentle hands overset me so? Soft, old-man palms that soothe unguent over slashed skin and bruised muscles; how can this hurt more than all I have done, all I have received at those other hands? I try to ask him but he believes it to be a relic of the fever that has gripped me these last days.

I hear him arguing in the hall, sometimes. His voice, so slow and soothing in addressing me, sharpened in anger and the strident replies that are obviously demanding things of him. My slow and agonising death probably. How ironic. Then he comes back and lays a hand along my brow, apologising for the disturbance.

He feeds me and bathes me. With his own hands he preforms intimate and necessary care that could be accomplished much faster by wand. The potions he painstakingly trickles down my throat are third-rate at best (anything is compared to my work) but he prepares them here in this room, talking through each step, showing each ingredient. As if I wouldn't welcome poison. As if I hadn't already tried to stopper my own death.

He hasn't even asked me why I'm here. Not that I had planned to be here. I thought my excellent potion well on the way to doing its job. Not that much help should have been needed after that last 'talk' with Malfoy. The graveyard, I thought, was a suitable place. It wasn't even very far from my house, from *their* house.

He refused to believe me. I owed them; it was my last buffer to the poison working through me, the contamination of the Dark Lord's venom. But the daft, twinkling, trusting eyes said I must be mistaken. No-one could possibly know who the Potters had chosen. The Fidelius charm was unbreakable. He sent me away, my debt unpaid. And the balance owing suddenly expanded into infinity.

Damn him for damning me and then picking me up from the gutter as if I weren't the wreckage of a man. As if I was something he should save. As if I could be redeemed.

How? How can his tears of pity and that old raspy voice so move me? How can he weep for what has been done to me and not hate me for what *I* have done in return?

As the fever returns I can see my future stretch before me. His is all the trust I will ever have. After trying to deny myself everything I have been given the world. I owe and he owns me.

It is, perhaps, enough.

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	Re: Psalm Challenge: Psalm 70. Harry Potter erised1810 2004-06-11 03:35 am UTC (link)
	Why did n-oen sa yanythign to this. This was so intense, it's incredible. This Was about snape was it? I loved it! (Reply to this) (Parent)

Psalm 22

jenna_thorn
2004-06-01 02:43 pm UTC (link)

A Seed shall Serve Him

Snape writhed on a Catherine’s cross made of his own body; the bones, broken by his own muscle spasms, gleamed (17) wetly through punctured skin. His invective did not save him now, his roaring (1) rants could not provoke (2) a tormentor to grant him peace. Insults drew glares, but no masked man dared to cheat his Lord of his play.

“Grindlewald’s Bane (4) will not come for you (11). You left all of them, family(10), friends, to come to me and now you are mine, solely and wholly,” Voldemort hissed, his red eyes glaring, the effect only slightly dimmed by the blurring in Snape’s own eyes which turned the world into a mosaic of shadow and blood, a kaleidoscope of pain. The hissing voice continued, “No, Dumbledore has his green-eyed boy and I…I have you.” Snape’s tormentors no longer bothered with Cruciatus. Prolonged exposure to curses and beatings had left Snape broken on the floor, his once-silken voice rasping out imprecations between stoic silence and involuntary grunts.

Lucius swept into his view; the fall of his hair became an egret’s wing and Milford’s asthmatic wheezing became the wet, sucking sounds of hippopotamus’s wallowing. Severus sank into incoherence with relief. The vista of an imagined African mountain unfurled into fields of snorting bulls (12) and roaring lions (13) which reared on their hind legs to dance like japes, like fools, like foolish Gryffindors and that idiotic boy and his idiotic friends playing at being heroes and leaving him to this cold dust (15c).

He came to in a liquid rush (14), slack muscles shot with shards of ice. Dust gritted (15) in his eyes so that closing them brought no relief. But he closed them anyway, if only to block out the sight of Draco, his bright head so familiar, bent not over schoolbooks but in close attention whatever his lapdog (16a) grunted into his ear. Betrayed not only by Gryffindor, but by Slytherin as well. He shut his eyes and watched their faces parade before him -- students: Diggory, whose clumsy victory was the turning point for the Dark Lord’s (20) ascension, Potter with his father’s laugh(21), a rotating sameness of Weasley brats, Draco, so very proud (21b) that Snape had hoped he would take his own path instead of his father’s, Goyle’s porcine leer, Zambini’s unctuous fawning -- his peers: Dumbledore gravely nooding over his tea, Sinistra turning away (6), Pince weeping, -- carousel of aurors intermixed with the members of the Order of the Phoenix by turns foolish and foolhardy (22). The spiral of faces stopped with a blow to his ribs and a wet grind of pain.

He shook his hair from his eyes, knowing better than to reach with his mangled hand (16b) to do so. Draco circled him, his careful pacing an imitation of his father’s stalk (17). Little fool, Snape thought. He learned it from me in the first place and I from my father. Each iteration dilutes and the thought made him laugh, and the laugh, muted though it was, made him choke and the choke made him cough and still more blood spattered the floor beneath him.

Unconscious, fevered and gangrenous, he never saw his rescuers. He did not feel the hands that pulled his limbs straight, that lifted him out of the ruins, that wrapped him with clean cloth and carried him over the ashes of the battlefield and at length into Pomfrey’s fussy care. He did not hear the Ministry lauds (31), could not see the flowers laid at the foot of his bed for they had all faded, drooping to compost, in the days and weeks of his deathly sleep.

All but one. Lily’s boy (30), with Lily’s eyes, watched from the foot of the bed as he woke from Voldemort’s world into his own.

(Reply to this)

Psalm 36 -- Angel, PG

helvirago
2004-06-01 08:56 pm UTC (link)

When he'd first arrived in Sunnydale, he had been a stupid prat.

No other way to say it, really. He'd been full of everything the Council could stuff into him, which might well have been part of the problem -- all knowledge, no wisdom. He had believed himself blessed with clear sight of the line between good and evil -- watchers over here, if you please, and vampires over *there* -- and thought any claims as to fuzziness or thinness of the line were due to moral nearsightedness.

Humans over here and everything else over there.

Rupert Giles, fumbling over a Hellmouth with an untrained Slayer -- two! -- and just barely keeping the world from ending, had seemed worse to his eyes even than an untrained boy. Giles plotted with vampires, though he most certainly should have known better, and allowed his sacred trust to run wild, wasting their shining hours in chasing after boys, styling their hair, and throwing tantrums.

It had been so very easy to know the right thing to do. And if in doubt, he could simply ask his father. His father knew the Right Thing To Do. His father was, of course, difficult -- not an easy man, certainly, not suited to the role of raising a child -- but Wesley understood, and respected him enormously. The man was a legend, and if he had been a little hard on the boy, well, the world was not an easy place. Best to get used to that early on.

In truth, his father had been a miserable, jealous -- was a miserable, jealous, spiteful man. He had, Wesley had become able to admit, abused his only child, scarring him emotionally, turning him into a self-righteous, unimaginative, morally blinded twat. Not that Wesley takes any credit for growing to recognize that in himself. He'd resisted it every step of the way, clung to every shred of his stupidity as it was torn away, desperate to hang on to the ignorance he had mistaken for dignity.

Faith's betrayal had been a blow. His utter uselessness in the final battle for Sunnydale (final for him, anyway) had been another, and the asinine reaction of the Watchers' Council had shaken him to the foundations. And his father, for all that his declarations of Wesley's worthlessness as a watcher and a fighter had been proven spot on, was dead wrong about this -- the world had survived because of a vampire, and a witch, and a werewolf, and a completely rebellious Slayer, and a band of high school students and not all the Council's bluster could cover over the fact that adherence to their rules would have led to utter destruction.

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Re: Psalm 36 -- Angel, PG (part 2 of 2)

helvirago
2004-06-01 08:56 pm UTC (link)

Los Angeles had torn much of what remained away. Every other step had been a wrong one, from small blunders to the one which so completely destroyed a child's life. He felt like a blind man, ever trying to find the light by chasing faint warmth, or asking strangers which way to go. This step good, this step bad, this step good, this -- oh no, sorry, that one was bad too, but good news this one is good, this step -- actually, that first one was wrong too. Sorry. In fact, he was heading in entirely the wrong direction -- had he said Manchester, because he must have gotten turned about somewhere.

It was impossible to say what kind of step Lilah had been. Well, not impossible. A bad one, a wrong one, a path of moral weakness and capitulation to despair and physical wants, a knowing alliance with evil. All the same... he finds himself unable to regret it, the warmth of her body and the challenge of her gaze and the fight and prickle and life in her.

Fred, lovely angelic Fred, Fred he'd hardly known but adored nevertheless, Fred whom he'd but barely touched before she'd been torn away. Fred, for whom he'd killed his father, though his father obstinately refused to be dead. Fred, whom he knew he'd been worthless to touch. Fred had been consumed and rebuilt, destroyed but preserved, "changed, changed utterly," he thinks with an unexpected chuckle which wets his lips with blood.

To think that the soother of his final moments would be Illyria -- method of Fred's destruction yet possessor of every single thing that was Fred -- was something ridiculously outrageous, the crown to the past year of impossible choices. He had become a part of the apocalypse; he had smoothed the path for the gathering evil; he had stared into the abyss and it had given him its business card. Every step was wrong and now he died in a fight that was uncertain in purpose. At least he would be off the hook for the next great wrong step. Barring zombification, or haunting, or... well, as Fred had said, "Lord willing and the creek don't rise," someone else would have to play the patsy next time.

Illyria's Fred's tears tingled on his skin and Illyria's Fred's voice welcomed him into death, and Fred's hands moved to stroke his skin and Fred's eyes watered with pain and Illyria's Fred loved him, impossibly. And he was eager to cease his steps, to lay down his sword, and finally, finding the end, to rest.

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Psalm text -

helvirago, 2004-06-01 08:58 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: Psalm 36 -- Angel, PG (part 2 of 2) -

jedi_penguin, 2004-06-10 06:51 am UTC (Expand)

Psalm 30: due South snippet, "First Night Back"

kassrachel
2004-06-02 06:58 am UTC (link)

I am a dork & I didn't check your fandom list. Since my Psalm (30) put me in mind of due South, that's what I wrote. D'oh! Anyway, I'm working on a short second response that is in one of your fandoms, and will post that as soon as I can get a beta to read it over. :-) Meanwhile, though this may not be your cup of tea, I hope you enjoy it anyway...

First Night Back

To call today a rollercoaster would be an understatement. Tomorrow will be, if not equally overwhelming, just as important; I should sleep.

I cannot sleep.

Tucked into the corner of my rucksack, my father's pocket Bible is the only book in this room. I would prefer lighter reading, but I am already in bed and Dief is snoring at my feet; I am loathe to wake him. The Bible will have to do.

I extol You, O Lord,
for You have lifted me up,
and not let my enemies rejoice over me.

Can this verse apply? To be sure, I've arrested men who didn't take kindly to being brought to justice, but they hardly qualify as enemies. I've made no friends among the mafia in Chicago, but I doubt they'd count me worthy of enemy status beside their might.

Victoria is...complicated in memory, even after all this time. Despite everything that went wrong, I can't bring myself to think of her as an enemy. I have no way of knowing whether she thinks of me now, wherever she is, whoever she has become. She may well regard me as an enemy. But I do not believe she rejoices over my downfall. This may be further proof of my relentless need to impute good will to the universe, but I imagine that if she spares me thought, it is with sorrow, and not with glee.

A fundamental will towards goodness in creation: surely this is what is meant by "God." This is what I tell myself when I thumb these onionskin pages. I do not believe that I have enemies, but perhaps that in itself is proof that God has lifted me up.

When You hid Your face,
I was terrified.
I called to You, O Lord.

God has never shown me His face; how then could He hide it?

No; this is disingenuous. I have seen the face of God in creation enough times to recognize holiness when it rises before me. The refracted blue of sunlight on glacier; the mighty rush of caribou hooves; the first fire of sunrise after three months of dark.

When I came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, I feared that I would lose those flashes of Presence. The crush of the city leaves little room for silent majesty. But I could not have known that something ineffable and real would manifest even here, in this crowded and angry city. That I would find something like brotherhood in the companionship and unlikely friendship of Ray Vecchio. That, against all odds and in my moment of greatest fear, I would find something even more rare and more unforseen in my new relationship with Ray Kowalski.

You turned my lament into dancing,
You undid my sackcloth and girded me with joy,
that my whole being might sing hymns to You endlessly;
O Lord my God, I will praise you forever.

When Ray called this morning to say he might not greet me at the airport, a fist as fierce as ice gripped me and would not let go. My traitorous heart winced more at the prospect of losing my best friend than it had at the reality of losing my father. I came as fast as I could. When I arrived in Chicago, I fell into confusion. But out of that confusion came something startlingly like hope.

Tonight, overwhelmed by the unreality of the day and seized by an imp of the perverse too strong for my intellect to naysay, I kissed Ray Kowalski at the door of his apartment. His mouth opened to mine without protest, and everything in me thrilled. When we broke apart, he was momentarily speechless; suddenly a coward, I turned tail and fled.

By the time I reached the Consulate, a phone message awaited me in Renfield's precise hand. "Detective Vecchio called. 'Got a hunch we're going to work well together. Free tomorrow night?'"

I do not dance, but for once I wish I could. It is late for hymn-singing, and the ones I know are melancholy anyway. My silent gratitude will have to suffice, the only praise I can offer this surely benevolent universe for giving me the courage to act rashly and the luck to be rewarded.

(713 words)

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	Re: Psalm 30: due South snippet, "First Night Back" musesfool 2004-06-02 07:24 am UTC (link)
	I'm working on a short second response that is in one of your fandoms Oh you don't have to. Really. That was more like... guidelines. g (Reply to this) (Parent)

"Blessed Is The Man" (Psalm 1, LOTR, PG)

naomichana
2004-06-03 01:05 pm UTC (link)

Title: Blessed is the Man
Fandom: LOTR (the book, and in fact the appendices)
Rating: PG
Summary: "In Éomer's day in the Mark men had peace who wished for it, and the people increased both in the dales and the plains, and their horses multiplied."
Notes: for

musesfool's Psalm Challenge, and with thanks to her for suggesting the only fandom universe morally deterministic enough to make this Psalm (almost) work.

****

"Men say that the Kings of the Mark have been bred for battle just as our steeds have been. We never lose the taste for it, even if we live in times of peace." The latest King leaned on his staff and gestured four mounds up along the east side of the Barrowfield. "Our songmakers tell that Folca son of Walda loved the boar-hunt best of all things, but when his father was slain in ambush by Orcs he vowed to hunt only those foul creatures until none could be found in the Mark. He hunted Orcs from West to East, from hill to hollow, for ten years and three, so the songs tell us."

One of the hobbits was still kneeling in front of the newest mound, the one with the thickest covering of the tiny white flowers Men called evermind. But the other looked up at Éomer, seeing his proud eyes flash beneath long braids of white hair. "And did Folca truly succeed in his quest?"

"He did, for a time; the Orcs did not trouble us until Sauron rose again. But when Folca completed his Orc-hunt he had threescore years of age, and he went forth at once to hunt the great boar of Everholt in the Firien Wood southeast of Edoras. In that fight both Folca and the boar died of their wounds, and so Folca's son Folcwine became King after him. He it was who cleared the Dunlendings from the West-mark with fire and sword."

The kneeling hobbit straightened and brushed grass from his tunic, where a white horse still ran on a green field. "Do you not long for an end to the fighting?"

"Sometimes, Master Holdwine, sometimes." The old King smiled, then, and it was a fell smile, the same one he had given years before at Mundberg under Mindolluin and at the Morannon before the Black Gate. "Yet there is glory in fighting, and great deeds grow in battle, and the clash of swords still brings joy to my heart. For my own sake, I grieve a little that I shall not die in battle as did the noblest of my fathers before me. For my son's sake, though, I am happy to have lived into a time of peace."

Éomer's smile grew gentler. "But I would not sadden my honored guests, and I know you have never loved to talk of warfare. Come, let me show you the new stables. The Mearas may be gone over Sea, but my Firefoot sired a line of champions, and it turns out that the steeds of the Haradrim have somewhat to offer our bloodlines as well."

****

[continued in next part]

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"Blessed Is The Man" (2/5, I think)

naomichana
2004-06-03 01:10 pm UTC (link)

As summer turned to autumn, the hobbits took a brief trip northward. They had politely declined Éomer's offer of an escort -- had they not made their way to the Riddermark unaccompanied? -- and they remained mounted on the Shire-bred ponies which had caused their host to shake his head in dismay. They did, however, take the old King's advice about the best inns where they might stop for the night (and the occasional nuncheon or daymeal). It was a pleasant journey: the grasslands of the Westemnet, once ravaged by Orcs, were now dotted with cottages and horse-pens reaching almost to the eaves of Fangorn Forest. Each evening the travellers slept on feather beds and drank ale which compared favorably with the best of the Northfarthing malt.

Early on the fourth day (for they rode slowly), they came to a knoll three furlongs from the Forest. It was topped by another burial mound of the Rohirrim; the burnt remains of Orcs which had once surrounded the mound were long gone, covered by the same green grass they had seen at Edoras. The hobbits stopped there for a few moments, but neither of them chose to dismount. Instead, they turned their mounts in silence, doubled back to the nearest ford the ponies could cross, and followed the river Entwash until they passed into the shadows of the Forest.

Here too the landscape had changed: beneath the falling leaves they saw new horse-trails, and Men had begun to gather deadwood several furlongs into the Forest. The trailing lichen which had once muffled sounds under the trees now filled spaces between the timbers of new dwellings in the Westemnet. Only the Treegarth of Orthanc looked much as it had on their last visit: the Tower was still reflected in the lake the Ents had built, the sentinel-trees stood tall and unmoving, and the orchards Treebeard had erected after Saruman's defeat continued to thrive.

"Mmmmm," Pippin said, crunching into his namesake. "I noticed cart-tracks back where the gates used to be; the Men of Westfold have already taken the best of the apple-harvest."

Merry tossed his own apple core to the ground. "I am beginning to wonder whether we will see any Ents at all. They only came here in the first place because Saruman angered them, and I suspect they would be happy to hand the works of Men back over to any Man more trustworthy than he."

"Perhaps, but -- " Pippin stopped abruptly and began waving his arms in the air. "Ho, Quickbeam! Over here!"

"Ha, hmmm, is that you, Pippin? And Merry? You have changed color -- but, then, so have I!" And Quickbeam laughed, just as he had before the assault on Isengard. His hair was flaming red, matching the autumnal trees, and his skin was less smooth, but otherwise he was much the same Ent they had known sixty-five years ago.

"We have grey hair now, and wrinkles," Pippin said unnecessarily, gesturing at himself and Merry. "And plenty of children and grandchildren, all of whom we left to run off and visit old friends!"

Quickbeam's face seemed to fall a bit, but he recovered quickly. "We have fruit, which I see you have been enjoying. And rowan-trees laden with red berries grow around my home once more."

They sat on the shore of the lake -- rather, Merry and Pippin sat while Quickbeam stood and swayed -- and exchanged tales of building new gardens and watching old friends pass away. Quickbeam was particularly interested in Sam's work in the Shire, and his use of Galadriel's dust. For their part, the hobbits wanted to know about Treebeard.

"He is still in the Forest, we think," Quickbeam said. "He left the ordering of the Treegarth to me some twoscore summers ago, and traveled among his ent-houses for some time, checking on new growth there. He has not returned here for many years, as you reckon them."

[continued in next part]

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"Blessed Is The Man" (3/4) -

naomichana, 2004-06-03 01:13 pm UTC (Expand)

"Blessed Is The Man" (4/4) -

naomichana, 2004-06-03 01:14 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: "Blessed Is The Man" (4/4) -

rymenhild, 2004-06-04 10:59 am UTC (Expand)

Re: "Blessed Is The Man" (4/4) -

erised1810, 2004-06-10 09:12 am UTC (Expand)

Psalm 30, XMM, rated G. "Comfort."

kassrachel
2004-06-03 01:21 pm UTC (link)

Comfort

Kurt was startled to find me reading Psalms. He didn't show it, but I heard the surprise in his thoughts.

"Professor. I hope they bring you solace." For an instant he wondered whether I had perceived his intent -- to recommend Scripture as a balm for my troubles -- and had taken up the book to placate him, but he did not voice the concern.

"I have always found comfort in great poetry." Hence the King James, a superb rendition.

"Surely these are more than poetry." He crouched beside my chair in order to look up into my face. "There is God in these pages. He can help you where we cannot."

I smiled with what warmth I could muster. Someone had visited every hour; apparently a rotation had been established to ensure I would not be alone. Of course, a telepath is never alone, but today the remembered screams of the dying drowned out the hum of living thoughts...and I missed Jean's presence profoundly. No mind now would answer me.

"It is I who must help you." Firmly, as if saying it would make me capable. "The children--"

"Will be fine." He paused, pained. "What happened was not your fault." Behind his words I heard echoes: terrible, unheimlich, but I did not hear blame.

"Thank you, Kurt." I could not agree, but I appreciated his concern. I repeated my thanks in his mind.

He bowed his head. "I will leave you with your prayers."

I opened my mouth to tell him that they are not prayers, but he had already disappeared.

I returned to the pages, and if my eyes watered with renewed grief for what my old love had become, for what I had done as an instrument of his hands, no one was there to see.

(300 words)

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Trust, Psalm 11, XMM, PG, 1/3

penknife
2004-06-03 02:42 pm UTC (link)

Title: Trust
Author:

penknife
Fandom: XMM
Pairing: Xavier/Magneto
Rating: PG

In the LORD put I my trust: How say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain?

For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart.

If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?

*****

They didn't talk about the phone call all through breakfast. They drank their coffee and passed sections of the New York Times back and forth across the breakfast table wordlessly. There was no breath of air from the open windows; the sun was already beating down on the Manhattan rooftops, turning the fire escape outside the window into a grill.

Finally Erik leaned back in his chair and sighed. "She has a point, Charles."

Charles played with his coffee cup. He didn't say these are isolated incidents probably blown out of proportion by the media because he was not, in fact, stupid, and had learned something in twenty years about bad things to say to Erik. Besides, he didn't really believe it.

"Moira's just a bit worried," he said. "I told her not to believe everything she reads in the Times. Well, what else was I going to say? I'm glad she cares, but there's no sense in her worrying about us."

One corner of Erik's mouth quirked upward. "About you, you mean."

"Moira likes you," Charles said. "We've really both moved on."

"Yes, of course," Erik said skeptically. Charles found Erik's assumption that no one in her right mind could get over Charles terribly flattering if not particularly realistic. He tried to take a sip of coffee and remembered that his cup was empty. He frowned at his own lack of composure.

"Of course we'd never leave America," he said.

Erik looked at his coffee cup rather than at Charles. "Wouldn't we?" he asked in a very neutral tone.

"It's our country," Charles said.

"Yours," Erik said, his voice suddenly sharp. "I take no responsibility."

"You vote."

"No one I vote for wins."

"Even so," Charles said. "You're an American citizen. You've been here for decades. You've made an investment."

"Investors don't throw good money after bad," Erik said.

"Do you think it's that bad?"

"What do you think, Charles?"

"We knew the first public appearances of mutants were going to be …" Charles searched for an appropriate word to sum up high school children beaten bloody in locker rooms and slavering tabloid stories about "nuclear monsters" on a rampage. He couldn't find one, and set his cup down, putting his hands carefully on the table and taking a calming breath.

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Re: Trust, Psalm 11, XMM, PG, 2/3

penknife
2004-06-03 02:43 pm UTC (link)

"It won't get better from here," Erik said. "Things never do."

"You do not seriously expect me to accept as a premise for debate that nothing, anywhere, has ever gotten better," Charles said, rubbing his temple a little wearily. It was early in the morning for this. He held out his coffee cup to Erik, who took it into the kitchen to refill it.

"Humans are always afraid of outsiders," Erik said loudly from the kitchen. He reappeared and set the cup down in front of Charles, leaning against a wall himself. "That's their nature."

Charles turned the wheelchair to face him before picking up his coffee. Erik had developed a bad habit lately of taking positions that made Charles turn awkwardly to look him in the eye. "Consider the race issue," Charles said when he could do so without craning his neck.

"Which has been entirely solved, yes?"

"It's better," Charles said. "What do you want? Massive social problems to disappear overnight?"

"I want you to seriously consider the possibility that the human reaction to mutants will not get better in our lifetimes. That it will, in fact, get much worse. That is what I want," Erik said, turning away again. Charles rolled the chair closer and put an hand on his arm.

"All right," Charles said, "what do we do?"

Erik turned, feeling surprised and relieved. He looked down at Charles, and frowned in the rueful way Charles liked rather than the acid way Charles didn't. "I don't know," he said quietly.

"It's hard to think with this heat," Charles said. "Come in by the windows and we'll talk."

He wheeled into what he liked to think of as the living room, although to be honest the apartment was one room with a few half-walls as dividers. He stopped where he could lean on the windowsill with one elbow and look down at the traffic.

"You're blocking the breeze," Erik said. "Such as it is." The chair moved of its own accord to the side of the sofa that had no arm. Charles considered protesting either being moved like an inanimate object or the fact that moving to the sofa would leave Erik free to pace and him unable to follow. He didn't, because he knew that Erik needed both the proximity and the slight edge it gave him.

He got himself onto the sofa and Erik curled up on the other end of it, knees to chest, his coffee cup balanced on his knees. It made him look twenty again, despite the strands of gray in the his hair, and Charles smiled at him.

"What?" Erik said, raising one eyebrow suspiciously.

"Only that we've had a long time to think about this."

"We've had a long time to avoid thinking about this," Erik said.

"I'm thinking," Charles said. "I don't think Scotland is really an option. Besides the fact that you're irrationally jealous of a woman I haven't dated since the days when I still had hair—"

"What a vivid imagination you have. Have you ever thought of writing romance novels? I'm sure with your astonishing insights into the human psyche--"

"Erik." Charles could feel his fear, sharp under his racing words. Erik stopped in mid-sentence, turning his coffee cup around on its saucer. "Do you want to go to Scotland? I'm not insisting we stay here." You're not trapped, he added telepathically, pitching the thought to Erik's subconscious in an attempt to avoid being told Erik didn't need to be handled with kid gloves.

More like asbestos ones, Charles thought, and firmed his shields to avoid letting the thought slip out. It wasn't fair, anyway. Erik wasn't the only one who was bothered by reading the news. He was just louder about it.

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Re: Trust, Psalm 11, XMM, PG, 3/3 -

penknife, 2004-06-03 02:43 pm UTC (Expand)

Psalm 145, Smallville, G

savage_midnight
2004-06-03 03:28 pm UTC (link)

Title: A Beautiful Kind of Hurt
Author: Savage Midnight
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Smallville and all related elements belong to Tollin-Robbin Productions and Warner Bros. Credit for lyrics given at the end.
Summary: He may have had the powers of a God, the destiny of a God, but Clark was still a boy at heart.
Authors Note: Written for the Psalm Challenge set by musesfool. One hundred and fifty assignments set, one hundred and fifty fics written. Here's one hundred and forty-five. Inspired mostly by the song "Everything" by Lifehouse, which, scarily enough, lasts as long as it takes to read this fic (at a steady reading pace, anyway). Thanks to the fantabulous maveness for the last minute beta.

---

Psalm 145:

I will extol You, my God, O King, And I will bless Your name forever and ever. Every day I will bless You, And I will praise Your name forever and ever. Great is the LORD, and highly to be praised, And His greatness is unsearchable. One generation shall praise Your works to another, And shall declare Your mighty acts. On the glorious splendor of Your majesty And on Your wonderful works, I will meditate. Men shall speak of the power of Your awesome acts, And I will tell of Your greatness. They shall eagerly utter the memory of Your abundant goodness And will shout joyfully of Your righteousness. The LORD is gracious and merciful; Slow to anger and great in loving kindness. The LORD is good to all, And His mercies are over all His works.

All Your works shall give thanks to You, O LORD, And Your godly ones shall bless You. They shall speak of the glory of Your kingdom And talk of Your power; To make known to the sons of men Your mighty acts And the glory of the majesty of Your kingdom.Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, And Your dominion {endures} throughout all generations. The LORD sustains all who fall And raises up all who are bowed down. The eyes of all look to You, And You give them their food in due time. You open Your hand And satisfy the desire of every living thing. The LORD is righteous in all His ways And kind in all His deeds. The LORD is near to all who call upon Him, To all who call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desire of those who fear Him; He will also hear their cry and will save them. The LORD keeps all who love Him, But all the wicked He will destroy. My mouth will speak the praise of the LORD, And all flesh will bless His holy name forever and ever.

---

"The mind that knows not where to fly, flies to God." -- Hannah More

He was sitting silent and still on the rain-drenched grass when she came to him.

His skin was pale and marbled with rain drops and Chloe's eyes trailed the path they carved down his high cheekbones and strong nose as she settled herself down next to him, ignoring the wetness that soaked into her jeans. She echoed his position, arms curling around her knees as she pulled them up to her chin, and watched him with quiet, green eyes.

He looked like a child, which seemed wrong somehow, considering what she knew, and if it weren't for the broken eyes that refused to look at her, she'd think he was lying.

He was supposed to look Godlike, wasn't he? Or was this what God looked like? Gloriously beautiful and childlike, breaking silently in the pouring rain with the green, green grass beneath him. To Chloe he'd never looked more majestic, but she thought maybe that was a poor consolation considering the pain he was in, and for a fleeting second she wondered if Gods were supposed to cry.

Maybe it's the rain, she thought. But she knew differently, because rain didn't shatter in your eyes like that.

The night was thick with the smell of freshly cut grass, wet from the heavy showers that had been falling on and off all day. She hadn't seen the sun for days, but she wondered how long it had been for Clark. The dark, smoky clouds seemed to be paying homage to his agony.

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