I give up, for now...
Oct. 31st, 2003 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darcydodoI was making a valiant attempt to finish my spooky story for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
wiseacress's Scary Halloween Fic-a-thon, but I'm going to wimp out and leave it at just having given her "The World We Made." I'd rather go to the party.
But here's the first part, in case anyone's curious. (There'll be bits of this that get expanded, and the story will, obviously, continue, too.)
They decorated the Samhain altar together, for the first time, just before midnight, all the while sharing a pomegranate and getting their fingers red and sticky as they worked. This was fine, if messy, until Willow ended up with leaves sticking all over her fingers and had to go down the hall to the bathroom to wash her hands, suffering the odd stares of people she passed, holding her hands up in the air in front of her lest she touch anything too difficult to clean. But eventually the ritual was ready, with the brown leaves of autumn scattered on the carpet and an apple and a pomegranate set in their midst, together with Tara's doll's eye crystal. They each lit a candle, and Tara spoke the words of the incantation, tightly holding Willow's hands.
"This is the night when the veil is thin that divides the worlds. It is the New Year in the time of the year's death, when the harvest is gathered and the fields lie fallow. For tonight, the King of the Waning year has sailed over the sunless sea that is the womb of the Mother and steps ashore on the shining Isle, the luminous world egg, becoming the seed of his own rebirth. The gates of life and death are opened; the Sun Child is conceived; the dead walk, and to the living is revealed the Mystery: that every ending is a new beginning. We meet in time out of time, everywhere and nowhere, here and there. To greet the Lord of Death who is Lord of Life, and the Triple Goddess who is in the circle of rebirth."
Willow watched her girlfriend with shining eyes, sensing the power that lay nascently curled in her quiet voice, proud of the way she no longer stuttered. Quickly planted a kiss onto her elegant, sensitive fingers as Tara finished speaking. Giggled as Tara stood and pulled her to her feet, mock-scolding.
"That's enough impudence from you, young lady. Now get to bed, so Grandfather Deer can come eat his apple in peace."
Willow was only too happy to comply, and the two of them spent some time thoroughly tangling the sheets of the bed before they agreed to get some real sleep for the night. But as Willow lay there, tucked into the curves of Tara's body, her eyes refused to stay closed. It wasn't that there was anything interesting to look at, she thought to herself at one point, because her vision could barely penetrate the utter blackness of the night, despite the glow that came in through the curtains. But just then, a stench assailed her nostrils, and her eyes flew open. Which was strange, because she had thought they already were open.
And she screamed, because hovering over her was the hideous, grinning skull of an animal, eye-sockets hollow, rotted flesh clinging to the bone in gobbets. Beside her, Tara made a small noise, flung her arm up and over to the other side of the bed as she turned in her sleep. Willow's heart hammered wildly in her ribcage, and her stomach knotted with revulsion and fear at what she beheld.
"Tara," she whispered urgently, twisting her head until she could see back out of the corner of one eye while still keeping the apparition in view, but the girl beside her merely murmured in her sleep and nestled deeper into the pillow. So Willow went to shake her awake but discovered that her hand went right through Tara. This time her scream, uttered after a moment of breathless panic, was tempered with annoyance and tearful frustration. "What is it about Halloween and me and ghosts?" she demanded of the skeleton before her. There was, of course, no answer, but the animal, which she now could identify as a deer, moved its head and stepped away from the bed, dainty hooves clicking and rustling on the floor.
Willow sat there for a moment, hugging her knees to her chest. Was she dreaming? She remembered discussions of astral travel from years before, wondered if there was relevance. And as she thought back over the evening, another thought surfaced, made a connection. Grandfather Deer, Tara had said. Joking, Willow had presumed; the Elijah of Samhain. And surely, surely Tara would have mentioned if a zombie deer were going to come disturb their slumbers. But there was indeed a deer, standing a few feet away, gazing at her with the sickeningly empty holes of its former eyes, and she felt a strange compulsion, in her possibly dreamlike state, to stand and approach the undead creature.
The moment she touched it, placed an unintended hand on its patchy hide, she knew that its death was her fault, that she had created it, and the sense of guilt and remorse that struck her was like a physical blow. Flashes of images, of blood, of snakes, of searing light, screamed through her brain, and it was, for a moment, reminiscent of the time she and Anya had summoned her vampire self from the other reality. But this was different, a not reality, yet imbued with a sense of potential and inevitability. And she wept for what she hadn't done, what she might still do, causing this horror to ride upon the currents of the air. For despite the deer's arresting fascination, it was neither a friendly nor a natural presence as it patiently stood there, and she wished that she could take back the uncommitted crime that had evidently twisted the laws of life and death.
As her senses reeled, staggered by this enormity of grief, winds began to blow, with a booming, whistling roar, and Willow had time to think, incoherently, it's the back of the north wind, before the room faded away and a beach materialized around them. It was not, Willow was aware, giving in and accepting the weirdness of it all, Sunnydale's beach, but neither did it have particularly distinguishable characteristics. Behind them, a cliff jutted from the sand, dark and wetly shiny in the moon's faint glow that pulsed through the thick cloud layer. The sea, etched with moonlight, foamed noisily around jagged rocks that poked through its otherwise calm surface, roaring like the winds that had brought them here. And a small vessel rocked at the edge of the surf, its hull scraping hoarsely against the sand.
She (who was she? she no longer remembered) lay in the small craft, veil draped across her face lest her eyes see the world of the departed before it was time, or the world which she left and cause her to pine for it. The eerie wails of the mourners on the beach reached her ears (and she knew their cries were for her), together with the hollow rustle of the flames in their torches, the tinny sharpness of the bells they rang to keep malevolent spirits at bay. The tide captured the boat in its relentless drag, sliding it along the peaking crests of waves. And then the veil blew off, struggling against the winds that speared it, revealing diamond-bright stars in the night sky, and the stiffness of death left her joints, and she sat up to see the shining isle, recognized it as her, as everyone's, eternal home.
Willow stood on the luminous sands of the beach, the foamy waves of the sea lapping at her ankles, and stared ahead of her at the dense foliage of the trees that thicketed the isle. Not entirely sure how she had gotten here, memories not her own imposing on her mind, she slowly turned around in a circle, noticed the slight phosphorescence of the breaking tide, the balmy, almost cushiony air that surrounded her on what had previously been a crisp October night. Upon finishing her slow spin, she jumped and gasped, heart beating in her throat, for a figure was standing before her.
"Kendra?" Willow's voice came out one part squeak, two parts astonishment and questioning. "But, but you're dead. Are you really you?" Then, apologetically, "Um, I'm sorry if that was rude."
"I am Kendra," said the girl, and her voice was the wind and the thunder. "And I am all the others, every Slayer since there have been Slayers. Come with me."
Unquestioningly, Willow followed the Slayer, and the trees swallowed them. Spanish moss hung thickly on the branches, dripping grey tentacles, the canopy of leaves dimming whatever little light there had previously been. Willow wrapped her arms around herself, tried not to stumble in Kendra's gliding wake.
Abruptly, they came into a clearing, and Willow blinked at the sudden infusion of light, could now see shadows defining shapes, smelled the sharp funk of marsh gas. Darkness coalesced, became a crouched figure, stirring what Willow could only think of as absence into a vast cauldron, an absence flecked with sparks of light that glittered like pyrite.
"Souls," whispered a voice, maybe Kendra. "Souls of the dead, souls of the unborn."
wiseacress's Scary Halloween Fic-a-thon, but I'm going to wimp out and leave it at just having given her "The World We Made." I'd rather go to the party.But here's the first part, in case anyone's curious. (There'll be bits of this that get expanded, and the story will, obviously, continue, too.)
They decorated the Samhain altar together, for the first time, just before midnight, all the while sharing a pomegranate and getting their fingers red and sticky as they worked. This was fine, if messy, until Willow ended up with leaves sticking all over her fingers and had to go down the hall to the bathroom to wash her hands, suffering the odd stares of people she passed, holding her hands up in the air in front of her lest she touch anything too difficult to clean. But eventually the ritual was ready, with the brown leaves of autumn scattered on the carpet and an apple and a pomegranate set in their midst, together with Tara's doll's eye crystal. They each lit a candle, and Tara spoke the words of the incantation, tightly holding Willow's hands.
"This is the night when the veil is thin that divides the worlds. It is the New Year in the time of the year's death, when the harvest is gathered and the fields lie fallow. For tonight, the King of the Waning year has sailed over the sunless sea that is the womb of the Mother and steps ashore on the shining Isle, the luminous world egg, becoming the seed of his own rebirth. The gates of life and death are opened; the Sun Child is conceived; the dead walk, and to the living is revealed the Mystery: that every ending is a new beginning. We meet in time out of time, everywhere and nowhere, here and there. To greet the Lord of Death who is Lord of Life, and the Triple Goddess who is in the circle of rebirth."
Willow watched her girlfriend with shining eyes, sensing the power that lay nascently curled in her quiet voice, proud of the way she no longer stuttered. Quickly planted a kiss onto her elegant, sensitive fingers as Tara finished speaking. Giggled as Tara stood and pulled her to her feet, mock-scolding.
"That's enough impudence from you, young lady. Now get to bed, so Grandfather Deer can come eat his apple in peace."
Willow was only too happy to comply, and the two of them spent some time thoroughly tangling the sheets of the bed before they agreed to get some real sleep for the night. But as Willow lay there, tucked into the curves of Tara's body, her eyes refused to stay closed. It wasn't that there was anything interesting to look at, she thought to herself at one point, because her vision could barely penetrate the utter blackness of the night, despite the glow that came in through the curtains. But just then, a stench assailed her nostrils, and her eyes flew open. Which was strange, because she had thought they already were open.
And she screamed, because hovering over her was the hideous, grinning skull of an animal, eye-sockets hollow, rotted flesh clinging to the bone in gobbets. Beside her, Tara made a small noise, flung her arm up and over to the other side of the bed as she turned in her sleep. Willow's heart hammered wildly in her ribcage, and her stomach knotted with revulsion and fear at what she beheld.
"Tara," she whispered urgently, twisting her head until she could see back out of the corner of one eye while still keeping the apparition in view, but the girl beside her merely murmured in her sleep and nestled deeper into the pillow. So Willow went to shake her awake but discovered that her hand went right through Tara. This time her scream, uttered after a moment of breathless panic, was tempered with annoyance and tearful frustration. "What is it about Halloween and me and ghosts?" she demanded of the skeleton before her. There was, of course, no answer, but the animal, which she now could identify as a deer, moved its head and stepped away from the bed, dainty hooves clicking and rustling on the floor.
Willow sat there for a moment, hugging her knees to her chest. Was she dreaming? She remembered discussions of astral travel from years before, wondered if there was relevance. And as she thought back over the evening, another thought surfaced, made a connection. Grandfather Deer, Tara had said. Joking, Willow had presumed; the Elijah of Samhain. And surely, surely Tara would have mentioned if a zombie deer were going to come disturb their slumbers. But there was indeed a deer, standing a few feet away, gazing at her with the sickeningly empty holes of its former eyes, and she felt a strange compulsion, in her possibly dreamlike state, to stand and approach the undead creature.
The moment she touched it, placed an unintended hand on its patchy hide, she knew that its death was her fault, that she had created it, and the sense of guilt and remorse that struck her was like a physical blow. Flashes of images, of blood, of snakes, of searing light, screamed through her brain, and it was, for a moment, reminiscent of the time she and Anya had summoned her vampire self from the other reality. But this was different, a not reality, yet imbued with a sense of potential and inevitability. And she wept for what she hadn't done, what she might still do, causing this horror to ride upon the currents of the air. For despite the deer's arresting fascination, it was neither a friendly nor a natural presence as it patiently stood there, and she wished that she could take back the uncommitted crime that had evidently twisted the laws of life and death.
As her senses reeled, staggered by this enormity of grief, winds began to blow, with a booming, whistling roar, and Willow had time to think, incoherently, it's the back of the north wind, before the room faded away and a beach materialized around them. It was not, Willow was aware, giving in and accepting the weirdness of it all, Sunnydale's beach, but neither did it have particularly distinguishable characteristics. Behind them, a cliff jutted from the sand, dark and wetly shiny in the moon's faint glow that pulsed through the thick cloud layer. The sea, etched with moonlight, foamed noisily around jagged rocks that poked through its otherwise calm surface, roaring like the winds that had brought them here. And a small vessel rocked at the edge of the surf, its hull scraping hoarsely against the sand.
She (who was she? she no longer remembered) lay in the small craft, veil draped across her face lest her eyes see the world of the departed before it was time, or the world which she left and cause her to pine for it. The eerie wails of the mourners on the beach reached her ears (and she knew their cries were for her), together with the hollow rustle of the flames in their torches, the tinny sharpness of the bells they rang to keep malevolent spirits at bay. The tide captured the boat in its relentless drag, sliding it along the peaking crests of waves. And then the veil blew off, struggling against the winds that speared it, revealing diamond-bright stars in the night sky, and the stiffness of death left her joints, and she sat up to see the shining isle, recognized it as her, as everyone's, eternal home.
Willow stood on the luminous sands of the beach, the foamy waves of the sea lapping at her ankles, and stared ahead of her at the dense foliage of the trees that thicketed the isle. Not entirely sure how she had gotten here, memories not her own imposing on her mind, she slowly turned around in a circle, noticed the slight phosphorescence of the breaking tide, the balmy, almost cushiony air that surrounded her on what had previously been a crisp October night. Upon finishing her slow spin, she jumped and gasped, heart beating in her throat, for a figure was standing before her.
"Kendra?" Willow's voice came out one part squeak, two parts astonishment and questioning. "But, but you're dead. Are you really you?" Then, apologetically, "Um, I'm sorry if that was rude."
"I am Kendra," said the girl, and her voice was the wind and the thunder. "And I am all the others, every Slayer since there have been Slayers. Come with me."
Unquestioningly, Willow followed the Slayer, and the trees swallowed them. Spanish moss hung thickly on the branches, dripping grey tentacles, the canopy of leaves dimming whatever little light there had previously been. Willow wrapped her arms around herself, tried not to stumble in Kendra's gliding wake.
Abruptly, they came into a clearing, and Willow blinked at the sudden infusion of light, could now see shadows defining shapes, smelled the sharp funk of marsh gas. Darkness coalesced, became a crouched figure, stirring what Willow could only think of as absence into a vast cauldron, an absence flecked with sparks of light that glittered like pyrite.
"Souls," whispered a voice, maybe Kendra. "Souls of the dead, souls of the unborn."
