File Five - Storage

Yuletide Reveal - Or What I Wrote in December

2008-01-01T18:31:33Z

Firstly, if you were someone who paused to comment or write a recommendation for any of these stories, you have my undying thanks. My ego may well owe its sad, miserable life to you. December was a nasty, hard month for me, and just a little attention made a world of difference to my mood. Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed and appreciated your kind words.

Stories I wrote for yuletide this past Christmas.

Please only read the commentary if you’re actually interested in the yuletide aspect of it, because it hasn’t much to do with the stories themselves. I am unduly flailing and pessimistic when it comes to my writing.

In alphabetical order by fandom:

For Cantarella:

Lost in Dreams and Other Places

Just a short reflection on some of the more traumatic events of volume 5, circling in great part around Volpe and Cesare and their somewhat divergent attitudes toward Chiaro. Canonical slash.

Cantarella is a manga loosely based on the lives of Cesare Borgia, Lucretia Borgia and their father, Pope Alexander VI. It also has demons and a great many hot men with flexible to non-existent morals. I enjoy it deeply.

Cantarella is a passion and a relatively recent one. Unfortunately, I only have volumes 1-8 and this kept me from writing the story I might have chosen. I don’t do as well when working from a source I do not have as a complete unit in my hot little hands.

I took this request, initially, because it included Saiunkoku Monogatari (and, most specifically, a request for Shouka and Reishin and their relationship as brothers. I adore Shouka and Reishin). As I began writing, however, I realized that the story would have be very long indeed to say everything that was needed, and I was forced to discard it. I hope to complete it in the near future, however, and post it for my recipient as a NYR fic.

For Fairy Tales (trad):

Bittersweet

What’re you to do when the princess you’ve been waiting for has died? Gen.

After Silence

This one was a very odd-retelling of the Twelve Dancing Princesses with a character imported from another story to play the antagonist.

Both of these stories were written for the same recipient. As I had no idea what their tastes ran to (other than a request for het or gen), this was not the easiest of tasks. I originally planned on three stories, to sort of slide across an entire spectrum of tastes and hope that one, at least, would please my recipient.

Then I ran out of time.

After Silence was the first story I wrote this year, and the one I struggled the hardest with. Traditional fairy tales have a very precise language, rhythm and POV, and it’s not an easy one to work with for me. I wish I could’ve managed to work in more of what was going on, but the limited framework I’d chosen prevented it.

It’s also slightly tainted by a dark version of the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and very few people seemed to catch the reference, which means, at least, that it wasn’t too blatant.

After Silence needs another copy edit, as I got paranoid and posted about an hour before a final list of suggested corrections came through. By then I didn’t want to trouble Elynross, so eventually a cleaner version will be posted here.

Bittersweet, by comparison, took me about 45 minutes to write and I don’t think I sweated a single detail or even thought about it much. It was a fun and easy story and I have a continuation that will eventually show up here. Unfortunately, Bittersweet is the single story that I posted this year with an enormous, glaring error in it. By then it really was too late for corrections and I need to either contact Elynross or post a corrected version here.

… at least no one but me seems to have noticed, or at least everyone else took it in stride.

For House of Wax (2005):

Come Away

The request was for an ‘aftermath’ story between Carly and Nick. It was harder than I thought to write this story, as estranged twins who’ve just watched their friends and boyfriend fall victim to a different pair of twins and barely escaped with their own lives… it’s complicated. Gen, het, I don’t know what you’d call it, as my perception is a bit warped by the recipient’s request which I’m not certain I actually fulfilled properly.

House of Wax (2005) is a remake of a much older horror film and covers the somewhat grotesque shenanigans of a pair of murderous brothers and their macabre wax museum.

Yes, this is the version with Paris Hilton in it. Shut up. She dies. It also has the dweeby guy from Supernatural in it as ‘the boyfriend’. I feel he more or less cancels out Paris Hilton, at least in acting talent.

I volunteered to write this story as I’d had the chance to pre-read another story in this category (which turned out brilliantly, I think, and can be found here.) So it was already fresh in my mind. I don’t think it quite lived up to what the recipient was after, however. Oddly, it’s the story in this year’s batch that I’m the proudest of, and I’m not entirely certain why.

For Ocean’s 11

You’re Doing it Wrong

Rusty and Linus and a slice of Rusty feeling a bit strange about taking advantage of someone as occasionally innocent as Linus. If you know me, you know that’s not all there is to it. I love Rusty and Linus. Let it go at that. Slash.

This was the first pinch hit I signed up for, and I had no intention of writing Ocean’s 11. I grabbed it because it had Onmyoji and Night Watch, and I owned Onmyoji, Onmyoji II and Night Watch and I love all three passionately – Onmyoji most of all.

I am very, very disappointed in myself over this one, and guilty as well. I backed away from Onmyoji because, outside of the movies, I know very little about the place and time and I doubted I could create something complex enough to sustain the magic of the movies. I ordered Day Watch from Netflix, and received it with several weeks to spare - but ran out of time in which to watch it, due to the chaos around here. Again, I found myself truly doubting that I could craft something in either fandom that would live up to expectation.

… so I took the coward’s way out and wrote Ocean’s 11 fic.

This story makes me squirm, badly, because despite the fact that I tried my damndest to make a funny and clever story, I wanted so very much to write something from a more obscure fandom – something my recipient could sink their teeth into (no vampires were harmed in the making of this very bad joke).

For Phantom of the Opera (Robert Englund 1989):

Perfect Instrument
This story is a short perspective, set just before the end of the movie, on the creature that is Erik and what he has done (and plans to do) with his life.

"The Phantom of the Opera (1989): Directed by Dwight H. Little, featuring Robert Englund and Jill Schoelen. This is a rather sadistic and gory version of the story: though in this respect it resembles the original novel more than some more romantic versions. There is a Faustian motif throughout and the film features extracts from Gounod's opera Faust - as in the original novel." - Quoted from Wikipedia, as it does not have an entry of its own.

This got some odd comments, and I think it may be because it was lumped in under ‘Phantom of the Opera (book, movie or musical) and it’s very different from other re-tellings of this story.

I wish I’d had more time with this request, but it was more or less last minute – and the last one that I wrote. I love this version of the Phantom of the Opera story, even if it is divergent and very like a fanfiction of the original work. It makes Erik human and inhuman and utterly, totally deranged. (Come on – Robert Englund? What did you expect?) It also makes Christine a bit stronger than she normally is, even if the character is canonically naïf.

I love yuletide I love it more every year, if that's possible. Now that the unfilled requests have been opened for New Year's Resolution stories, I encourage you to have a look at the various offerings here. See if there's something you've always wanted to read (or write) included. There's a community that, for the next year, will post stories from the 2007 archive, any new stories posted that day, a random unfilled request and a random older story. You'll never run out of stuff to read if you add that yuletide_daily to your flist.

Yuletide recommendations

2007-12-27T00:30:19Z

This is by no means a complete or comprehensive list. I have merely dabbled my toes in the edges of the Yuletide pool, and I suggest you wander over there yourself and have a nice swim in the several thousand fics there in just about every small fandom you can imagine.

Learning

I asked for a story based on Vivian Van Velde’s Dragonsbait last year and, this year, discovering that I still wanted it very badly, asked again. My Yuletide author provided exactly the story that I’ve craved for years now – a little slice of Selendrile and something which came after Alys.

Thank you, mystery author, for making my Christmas glow.

**

Pause(s) de deux

This is a Boston Legal story and it is everything that makes that show so fabulous. Alan and Denny and Shirley and the most amazing vignettes and bits and pieces of a year. It’s so very hard to accurately capture the insane shenanigans of Boston Legal and still give it the sharp, hurtful edges that keep it anchored to reality. This story is a winner on all counts.

Plus I laughed so hard I nearly hurt myself.

**

11

This is Captain America (comic) fic and… it’s frightening and lonely and slowly unraveling in a way that breaks your heart. It’s a story about Bucky, it’s a story that is Bucky, and it’s amazing.

**

14

Vampire Game is an amusing and sometimes tragic story. This fanfiction reaches right into the heart of the story and several of the characters to give us a nice combination of amusement and lingering outside darkness. Fun, well-constructed, fitting-straight-into canon, it’s a really marvelous story.

**

3 A.M. Automatic

Tombstone is a hard story to twist into fanfiction, in part because it is loosely based on history and real people, and in part because the voices are so very distinct. This particular story is slash, but the voices are so true that I could almost hear them in my head – the snap of words on one side answered by that sardonic drawl on the other. Very, very well done.

**

15 Minutes From Hell

Boondock Saints is a movie that I love, with characters that I love and a plot that I love. As a result, I’m picky as hell about what I read and pickier still as to what I’ll recommend. I recommend this. It’s Murphy POV, it’s dark and it’s true to the tone of the movie. Slash and incest.

**

The Absence of All Control Exercised by Reason

I have Slings and Arrows upstairs right now… and I’ve never seen it. That is not going to keep me from recommending this story to you because I didn’t need any knowledge of the show at all to enjoy this story – which is about theatre and the crazy people who inhabit it, humor and evil, evil revenge.

**

Ace of Serpents

I never liked the end of The Vision of Escaflowne. Never. This story, however, without giving away anything other than the fact that young Hitomi has been to another world, puts it all into perfect perspective. This story gave me a satisfying feeling of completion.

Games Yuletider's Play

2007-12-25T23:26:15Z

Every year there's a meme that goes something like this:

Go to the Yuletide Archive.
Read everything that appeals to you in various fandoms.
Guess the story (or stories) that I wrote, and I will write you a story to request.

Hints:

1. I wrote six stories this year.
2. I wrote two stories in horror fandoms, one manga, one movie, and two in the same fandom (not related to the four previous).
3. I wrote two humorous stories and four dark ones.
4. I wrote for five different recipients but only one of them received just one story - and it is also the only story listed in that fandom.
5. I wrote one first person story, one narrated story, two limited POV stories and two omniscient POV stories.
6. I wrote two slash, two het and two gen stories.
7. I did not write a single story in any fandom that I have written in before.

Go forth. Read. Feel free to list your guesses here. Winners (announced Jan 1) will get at least a short vignette of their choosing.

Those of you who pre-read things for me can't guess those stories.

(I fully realize that most of you won't bother to do this, but it'd be fun if one or two of you at least gave it a shot.)

Yuletide and a Merry Christmas!

2007-12-25T12:30:04Z

I've participated in Yuletide for the last three years, and every year I've received a story (last year it was two) that was just exactly what I'd wanted. This year was no exception.

Now, with the plethora of extra stories out there, I'll admit I was hoping for more than one... but, as usual, the one I've received is so good that I couldn't possibly be happier.

Learning

I asked for a story based on Vivian Van Velde’s "Dragonsbait" last year and, this year, discovering that I still wanted it very badly, asked again. My Yuletide author provided exactly the story that I’ve craved for years now – a little slice of Selendrile and something which came after Alys.

Thank you, mystery author, for making my Christmas glow.

**

I'll be reading and recommending for the next few days (usually quite a few stories at a go) both here and in my writing journal. I wrote six stories myself this year, all over the 1000 word deadline, and one or two of which I'm very proud of.

The archive has 2017 stories were written in 732 different fandoms by 1291 participants. If you're looking for a small fandom story to curl up with (or a few thousand) go on over and indulge yourself. The older parts of the archive will open up after New Year's and the New Year's Resolution stories will be available for writing.

Go. Read.

Consider joining the yuletide community for the recs and the affiliate community for a list of story links and links to the new stories after the New Year's.

Dear Yuletide Santa

2007-10-19T11:56:21Z

Dear Yuletide Santa:

Thank you for deciding to participate this year! I'm so excited I can barely breathe.

I don't have a lot to say in this letter, as I was pretty specific in my rambling in my original requests, but I do have a couple clarifications that might help. Or not.

For the fandom where I requested four characters, it was really any mix of two or three of those. (Edit: Er, and you can throw in anyone else you like as well. I like ensemble cast stories and I love all the characters from that fandom. Not meaning to be exclusionary there.) I don't require that all four be in the story (and this trumps the 'must write all the characters' qualifier. I checked). Those are just my four favorites.

For the fandom where I requested 'any'... I meant it. I'm more interested in the world than the characters, and I'd love to see what you do with it as opposed to any particular character. The possibilities seem, to me anyway, to be well nigh endless.

I requested only one character each in the other two... which means I just want to see more of them - no matter who else you decide to use in the story. I'm really pretty easy this year.

Thank you again, brave Yuletide writer! I salute your efforts and can't wait to see what you write!

Truth

Yuletide Advert

2007-10-02T17:53:14Z

Cross-posted from my regular journal, so my apologies to those of you who have to read it twice.

Sign-ups for yuletide will be this week.

Despite the hype and the running around and the squealing, this is a very low pressure fic exchange. You are assigned something that you offered to write and are given almost two and a half months to write 1000 words in a fandom you're comfortable in. In return, 12/25, you get a story in a fandom that you asked for, about the characters you requested.

I have never been disappointed with a yuletide gift. Ever. I've seen a few that were slightly sub-par, but those have always by and far been the exception rather than the rule.

If you'd like a lovely Christmas present of an archive full of hard-to-find fandoms, you do not need to sign up... but if you'd like to give a present and to get a present just for you, please consider it.

Do not sign up if you're not prepared to do the writing. I wrote three pinch hits last year and three or four last minute stocking-stuffers for people whose assigned authors had dropped out at the last minute. I love the chance to give additional gifts, but at the end there it's pretty easy to figure out that after you worked your hardest to write a story that someone might love, someone else didn't even care enough to bow out when they realized they wouldn't get one done for you. Yes, everyone gets SOMETHING, even if half a dozen people are scrambling in the last fifteen minutes of Christmas Eve to make sure that the last person has a handful of tiny vignettes... but it still hurts to realize that someone out there just didn't care enough to at least drop out with time left for someone else to step in.

... why yes, I did spend almost a week writing like mad, including those last 15 minutes of Christmas Eve, so that people whose authors had to step down would have a present Christmas morning, and I loved every minute of it... but it would've been far nicer if those same people had received a story that had more time devoted to it, with careful attention paid to every nuance. So please. Sign up if you want to write a story in a scarce or hard-to-find fandom that you love... but if you won't have time in the next eight weeks to crunch out at least 1000 words of story, it's better to simply read over our shoulders on 12/25.

I love yuletide. To me, it's everything a fic-exchange should be and really gives me a pre-Christmas buzz that I haven't had since I was about eight. The giggling and the conspiracy and the sneaking around to find out what sorts of things my assigned person likes to read and to write, getting to read the letter to their author to find out extra details they'd love to see, hunting madly for someone who shares this obscure interest to check the story....

It's fun. It's a chance to give someone something they really wanted for Christmas and to also wallow in an enormous archive of strange and wonderful stories. If you do any writing at all... give it a try. Go to the Yuletide site and have a look at the FAQ. It's a lot of fun, especially if you have the time to be a pinch-hitter and to join the IRC channel that runs the last week and is full of chaos and laughter and encouragement of all kinds.

It's low pressure, it gives plenty of time to put together a story, and you'll be matched only with things you offered to write. More, you get all the requests from the person you matched with and you might find another story you'd like to write instead, or as well! I got into a completely new fandom one year that way. I had time to get the source material, read it, and produce a story in a fandom I'd never touched before as well as the one I'd been matched to. Not only that, you'll be astounded to find the variety in the offerings and in the archive when it is opened again 12/25 and then again 1/1/08.

It's fun. It really, really is. Give it a look and, if it appeals, give it a go. I'm pushing this so hard because it is fun... and it gives an extra bit of glee to Christmas (at least to me).

*The above has been a very pushy and wheedling and entirely unpaid announcement. Thank you.

Edit: The best thing about this challenge is the way everyone wants to see it be a success. See yuletide_nudge for an example.

P.S. The first rule of Yuletide Pinch-hitters is that we don't talk about the Grues.

Fanfiction - Crossover - Dune/Aliens - Old Soldiers Never Die

2007-09-24T20:01:55Z

This was written for the multiverse2004 2007 science fiction crossover fic exchange. The prompt was Dune/Aliens, Duncan Idaho/Cpl Dwayne Hicks.

The Spacing Guild's power, its ability to extort obscene fees from the noble houses, planetary populations and even the Emperor himself, was based entirely on a single truth. Guild Navigators do not make mistakes. Like all much-vaunted truths, this one was far more than it appeared and should have been interpreted thus: No one has ever caught a Guild Navigator in a mistake. That does not mean that they are infallible, merely that they are very, very clever.

- The Observations of Irulan: A Political History of Empire

The slave gladiators of Giedi Prime were not all native to the arcologies of House Harkonnen. While slavery was not openly practiced in many parts of the Empire, there was never any shortage of either soldiers or gladiators for the protection and amusement of the Siridar Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.

No one questioned the origins of these nameless men openly. Speculation was kept private and easily countered by a list of those planets that still practiced legal slavery, or those which used the slave trade to rid themselves of their criminals. Like most good lies, this one was mostly true.

There were those among the gladiators and the soldiers who came from legitimate sources - or at least legal ones. They comprised the majority, in point of fact; men who had been lost and beaten down to the point where they answered to their designation without thought, their names long forgotten.

In the gladiator barracks, there was always the additional complication of drugs. While some of the fights were clean, any major bout had one or both combatants with a cocktail of stimulants and sedatives in their system. No one was under any illusions as to the honesty of the games fought in the Harkonnen arenas. The only real question, when choosing a wager, was which side the Baron or his slave masters had chosen to win.

Even then, mistakes could be made. An incorrect dosage on one side or the other, a series of bribes somewhere along the chain to insure a different outcome; eventually, wagering became more a science and less a product of random chance. The level of corruption guaranteed unexpected outcomes for those who hadn't personally invested in the match.

The gladiators themselves faced a double-edged sword. They had to be good enough to win, despite the drugs, but not so good as to attract attention. Becoming a favorite in the gladiator pits meant that, sooner or later, that popularity would be used to take the screaming mob for all the money they would put out - which meant a messy, public death. It was a fine line to tread, and there were no friends or alliances among the gladiators.

To have known associates meant that the slave masters would immediately pit them against one another for the amusement of the Baron.

With a constant influx of fresh blood, there were few gladiators who could claim to have been a part of the near constant games in The Barony. They either died or, if injured badly enough to render them no longer a fit competitor, they were sent to the slave mines. With that alternative, the rate of suicide among those wounded but surviving was nearly one hundred percent.

During the reign of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, the gladiatorial games were at their height. In an afternoon of entertainment, no fewer than twenty men would die for the sport and pleasure of the Baron and his people.

This particular afternoon saw the rise of a new favorite, less for his skill and showmanship than his utter savagery - matched only by the screams from the watching crowd for death and death again. While the Baron favored a civilized match, fought according to rule and tradition, this man was concerned only with survival and conducted himself accordingly.

He left one man with a broken neck, the next with a knife driven up beneath his chin and a third with his head barely attached to his shoulders. The howls of the crowd neither encouraged nor distracted him and while he showed the occasional, tell-tale hesitation of a man who'd tasted the drugs of the slave master, he refused to fall into the classic traps.

In the plushly appointed seats above the arena, the Baron's guests, having been promised an afternoon of pleasant diversion, were evenly divided between horrified and fascinated with a single exception. The Emperor's current representative, Lord Faltha Duar, was caught by something else and, at the end of the man's fifth match, a sure sign that the slave master wanted to tire him until he slipped and ended up dead, he spoke.

"Lord Baron," he began, pleasantly, "I see that your current man is quite the fighter."

The Baron had been drumming his fingers with displeased irritation against the railing of his box. Thus interrupted, he glanced up at Duar and then down at the ring. "So he seems." He made a depreciative gesture, ending it with a shrug. "He's just a slave, after all."

"And, as a slave, he is therefore a disposable commodity?"

Sensing a trap, the Baron gave Duar a sharp look. "He is an object and, like any object, can be easily replaced."

Duar glanced down into the ring, where the slave was being led to one side before yet another bout. "As he is so easily replaced, you will have no objection to selling him to me, then?"

There was danger here, and the Baron could feel the jaws of the trap closing. "Certainly you would prefer a specimen less... undistinguished."

Both men looked down at the slave, still on his feet, if slightly off-kilter. His feet were firmly planted in the blood-soaked sand, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The slave master's men were pouring water over him, cleaning sand from the cuts and scrapes he'd acquired so far and he appeared deaf to the chanting of the crowd. He was older than most of the men he'd killed and the bulk of muscle was that of hard labor and not of carefully weighted repetition. His movement was also that of a man who knew his own body and what it was capable of - in this case, killing.

"No." The denial was tinged with pleasure. "I want that one. How much will you accept for him, Baron, damaged as he is?"

Setting his teeth, the Baron chose a price that, while not outrageous, was certainly higher than would be expected for a mere gladiator. He held his expression of polite disbelief as Duar nodded and beckoned to his nearby man. "If you would have him withdrawn from the ring, Baron? I do believe that he's served his turn."

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, alarm bells were going off. Still, the Baron smiled, waving at the slave master and preparing a proper announcement. The man had won renown today and thus a place off-world. Yes, that would encourage the others and please the crowd.

Still....

Duar and his party were off-planet by the time the Baron's slave master gathered the courage to confess. His courage did not hinder his screams as the Baron had him dragged away.

Of all the slaves to 'accidentally' find his way into the arena at that particular moment, to catch the eye of the Emperor's Envoy, it had to be that one. Steps would have to be taken immediately to insure that he died, no matter where Duar took him - and before the slave was exposed to any of the Bene Gesserit.

A Guild sanctioned embargo would destroy House Harkonnen, and that was what he would face if the slave did not die. Soon.

The Bene Gesserit are an old order, one of the oldest. Of all the secrets that they hold and protect, the greatest is that their power is contradictory. Their reach is long, their influence great, but they rest their order upon the obedience and support of each of their members. All must be woven together carefully, the warp and woof carefully supported by each sister and each Reverend Mother. There are times when that fabric has been flawed or torn, when a Bene Gesserit fails in her duty or is prevented from fulfilling it. When the fabric is not well-formed, subsequent tearing is easily visible in the histories of the time. How fortunate, then, that the Bene Gesserit are equally skilled at mending.

- Reflections of a Suk Doctor (Anon)

"What is your name?"

The shuttle had barely docked with the Guild Heighliner before the somewhat battered slave was brought from his tiny room to stand before with Lord Duar and his Lady. He stared at them emptily, his body still showing the effects of his time in the ring and the hasty patching up accomplished by the slave master's men.

The Lady Katherine, a tall, muscular blonde who looked every inch the farmer's daughter that she had been before her father had unexpectedly inherited a minor title, gave her husband a dubious look and tried again. She wasn't holding out much hope for an answer, as the man was obviously still suffering from the drugs they'd given him. "Your name. What is it?"

He blinked and swayed slightly on his feet, the nameless wreckage of what had once been a fine fighting man. Duar tipped his head and frowned. "Soldier!"

The head went up, the shoulders straightened and attention was achieved despite the drugs and injuries, the bleary eyes fighting to focus.

Nodding in recognition of her husband's tactic, Lady Katherine put an edge to her words as she asked, "Your name."

"Hicks, Dwayne." The response was as automatic as the attempt to hold attention, something that was obviously costing him.

There was no way to tell which was the man's first name, and Duar asked, "Where are you from, Hicks?"

There was a very long pause before an answer was produced, and there was hesitation in his voice as Hicks offered, "O'Neil Station."

Katherine offered Duar a raised eyebrow. "Where is that?"

"Sol system - L-4." Hicks was slowly losing his 'at attention' stance, blinking dizzily at them both. "USCM, Corporal Dwayne Hicks...."

They watched him fall, crumpling in on himself as the various drugs warring in his system finally became too much for him.

"... that's ridiculous," Duar finally decided, rising to his feet and staring down at the unconscious form on the floor.

"Ridiculous or not, he believes it." Katherine bit her lip. "I will need to speak to the Reverend Mother about this."

"What?" Duar gave her a sharp look. "Why?"

"There have been rumors among the Bene-Gesserit for generations." Long, graceful fingers sketched a crude image in the air. "Rumors that I'd best not repeat here. Have our doctor see to him." She looked down again and bit her lip in an uncharacteristic show of indecision. "... and see if you can think of a safe place where we might hide him, my love. I suspect that it would not be in our best interests to be caught with him in our possession."

Little is made of the Twelfth Lord Duar and his Lady, the very businesslike Katherine. They had two daughters, both of whom went to the Bene Gesserit Motherhouse for training, as had their mother, and who disappear from our knowledge at that point. Their son, the youngest child, was groomed to inherit his father's vast holdings and showed a great deal of promise before the tragedy which brought his life and the line of Duar to an abrupt end. Some tried to find motive behind the shuttle accident which killed the Twelfth Lord, his Lady, his heir and a handful of his closest supporters. They garnered no support, even from the Emperor, with whom Duar had been a favorite.

After all, the Spacing Guild reported that there had been a problem detected with the shuttle drive, but that the pilot had chosen to ignore their warning. They could not possibly be held accountable. Eventually, the 'accident' was pinned on a rival of Duar's, but nothing could be proven save that, once again, the Spacing Guild came out of a possible scandal with a reputation far above reproach.

- Houses of Empire: The Rise and Fall of the Great and Minor Houses of the Reign of Shaddam Corrino IV

There were several incidents, hazy and remote, involving the murmurings of doctors. He was certain they were doctors because things like 'heart rate' and 'deterioration of response' weren't usual bedroom fare, no matter how drunk the participants happened to be.

When he finally opened his eyes, it was to the sight of faint ripples of light dancing across the ceiling. The sound of falling water told him that there was probably a fountain somewhere near. The bed had clean sheets, with the smooth crispness that told him he was cleaner than he had been in a long time, and in a far better place than any in recent memory - not that his memory was at all reliable.

"Welcome to Caladan."

The voice was unfamiliar, not that this was a surprise. Dwayne Hicks, late a Corporal of the United States Colonial Marines, had long since given up the hope of hearing any familiar voice ever again. He turned slowly, taking in the small room and high windows, looking for the speaker.

Sitting beside the door, booted feet stretched out before him, was a man. With an astonishing clearness of thought, Hicks realized that the unfamiliar clothing was actually a uniform, and one worn with the familiar casualness of the professional soldier. He had a book in one hand and appeared to have been waiting for some time.

"Caladan?" Hicks' voice was slightly unsteady and he had to stop to clear his throat. "Where's that?"

"It is the third planet of Delta Pavonis." The man rose to his feet, closing the book. "Do you know it?"

Hicks stared at him, eyes flicking to the clearly visible and very bright yellow sun outside the nearest window. "Delta Pavonis is a red giant... and it has no planets."

The man's eyebrows went up. "I...."

"Idaho." The tall, blonde woman in the doorway wore a frown as she gestured to the man. "You were asked not to talk to him."

Idaho shrugged. "There seemed little enough harm in it, Lady Duar."

"As you've heard the beginning, you might as well stay till the end." She addressed Hicks directly. "Don't get up."

Her comment was well-timed, as Hicks was attempting to pull himself out of bed and just discovering that he did not yet have the strength. "I'm sorry... Lady?"

She nodded briskly, stepping into the room, a pair of men in her wake. The first was far shorter than she and, again, almost familiar to Hicks. The second man was tall and wore a uniform similar to Idaho's.

"My name is the Lady Katherine Duar. This is my husband, Lord Duar, and this is the Duke Leto Atreides, your host and ours."

"I'm...."

"You're Corporal Dwayne Hicks," she told him, gracefully accepting Idaho's abandoned chair. "You are also something of a difficulty to his Lordship and myself."

Hicks had no doubt of that. This was a lovely place and matched nothing that he could remember, missing red giants aside, from his life before the madness began - and certainly nothing after. "A difficulty?"

"We bought you from the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen," Duar informed him. "Where he found you is a mystery we would give a great deal to unravel."

There was no missing the twist of contempt on the face of the Duke at those words, and the expression was echoed by that of Idaho, although there was a deeper hate there. Hicks took a deep breath and chose his words very carefully.

"The last thing that I remember clearly is... fantastic enough to be a hallucination. We were escaping an... attack on a moon in the Zeta II Reticuli system - or trying to." Hicks looked from one face to the next, seeking some sort of recognition. "We were conducting a reconnaissance that turned into search and rescue that turned into a slaughter. I guess I'm all that's left." He pushed himself to a sitting position. "Second Battalion, Ninth Regiment, United States Colonial Marines...."

The Duke exchanged a look with Duar, while Lady Katherine and Idaho were staring at Hicks with something like macabre fascination. "In a space vehicle?" Lady Katherine asked.

Hicks nodded uncertainly. "One of the survivors was a pilot, and there was Bishop, our android, and I even know enough to get a basic transport from place to place."

All four of them were staring at him now, and Hicks fought to remember something, anything of the dark, nightmarish past. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I think that, perhaps, you should get some more sleep," the Lady Katherine told him gently. Of the three, she was the only one who appeared more fascinated than mildly appalled. "Duke Leto?"

"Idaho, find Gurney and ask him to keep our guest company." The Duke nodded to Hicks. "Get some more rest. When you're feeling better, I'd like to hear more of how you got here."

Hicks was fumbling for a question that might buy him some answers as Idaho and the Duke quit the room, leaving him with Lord and Lady Duar. "Wait!"

They did, Duar turning to look at Hicks with an odd sort of compassion. "You're a very long way from home, Corporal. Lady Katherine and I must continue our journey, but the Duke will keep you here, as a guest, until we can figure out what to do."

"But I...." Hicks was left staring at the door as it slid closed behind them, feeling empty and extremely lost. He was too dizzy to get up and racked with aches and pains. It occurred to him that this might be some sort of clever trap or brainwashed debriefing. If he'd been more alert, he would've lied or told them something else.

At least he'd had sense enough not to tell them about the xenomorphs.

With a faint groan, Hicks subsided, sinking back onto the bed and closing his eyes while he fought with his recalcitrant memory. He slipped into sleep without any warning.

History is often unkind to the loser of any conflict, unless they go down in a spectacle of gore and glory which lingers as 'heroic tragedy' instead of 'weakness'. In the case of Duke Leto Atreides, opinion is often divided as to why, exactly, the Emperor abandoned him to his death. We can never overlook nor forget the Duke, in great part because his tragedy led to the triumph of his son and a change in the lives of every soul in the Empire. Unfortunately, very little is known of Leto the man and that is, perhaps, why people are, to this day, attempting to build a complete picture of the man who was father and lover as well as Duke.

- The Atreides Legacy: An Introduction

When Hicks woke, it was to find himself again in the company of a stranger - although at least his surroundings hadn't changed. He'd barely opened his eyes before being subjected to a pithy diatribe.

"I'm Gurney Halleck, you're Dwayne Hicks, and welcome to Caladan - although, by all accounts, you've heard that bit already. Consensus is that you were scooped up from a place that doesn't exist, due to a mistake by those who are purported to make none, and sold immediately into slavery in order to cover up all of the above." Gurney Halleck hadn't stopped talking as he'd risen and dropped a bag onto the bed.

Hicks opened it to find a uniform much like the one this Gurney Halleck, Idaho and even the Duke had been wearing. Gurney was still talking, however, and he tried hard to pay proper attention.

"I suppose it was a sop to the collective conscience that they don't have, those Spacing Guild whoresons. They could tell themselves they'd covered their asses without actually killing you themselves." He jabbed a stubby finger at Hicks. "Make no mistake, slavery on Geidi Prime is nothing less than a death sentence, and a particularly nasty and protracted one."

"I don't remember much of it," Hicks admitted cautiously, pulling the uniform from the bag to find a shaving kit and a few other bits and pieces beneath it.

"Which makes you one of the lucky ones." There was an ugly note to Gurney's voice which gave Hicks pause. Survivors always had a certain tension about them - Hicks could see it on Gurney as plainly as if the man had been wearing it emblazoned on his chest.

"Lucky," he repeated flatly.

"Ah, well, that's not how I meant it, truthfully." Gurney waved a hand at Hicks. "You're a long way from home, any road. Lord Duar bought you, although he comes from a planet where slavery is illegal, which makes you free - although still his man."

Hicks looked down at the uniform in the bag and then up at Gurney. "His man?"

Gurney didn't look the least abashed. "There's the small bit of difficulty in that, apparently, the Baron Harkonnen, your erstwhile host, knew what he was taking on when the Spacing Guild dumped you into his lap. Lord Duar thought it best you leave you here, tucked away amidst Duke Leto's men."

"What does that mean?" Hicks shoved himself slowly upright, aware again of vague aches and pains that spoke of a long period spent lying very still. Thankfully, most of his confused dizziness seemed to have vanished.

"It means that the Duke sent one of our soldiers to Kaitain with Lord Duar to pose as his Lordship's new man." Gurney's broad face held an expression of disapproval. "In the meanwhile, you'll be learning as much as you can about where you've landed yourself, and helping us to understand how you got here."

"I don't have the faintest idea how I got here." Hicks wasn't upset by this, but he wasn't very happy about it, either. The questions gnawing at him were whether or not the others got away, whether they were able to warn people about what the company had been planning, whether or not the rest of his team had died in vain....

He was upset, despite the memories of the deaths and the slaughter being held at bay again by that long stretch of dark fog that he couldn't seem to permeate. Hicks found that he'd formed a fist in the fabric of the uniform and slowly relaxed his fingers.

Gurney had noticed it as well, and Hicks gained the impression that very little slipped past the other man. "You were a soldier." It wasn't a question.

"I was a soldier." Hicks continued to stare down at his hand, thinking it strange that he had new calluses atop the old and no memory of how they'd been won. "All my life."

There was a moment of respectful silence from Gurney before he cleared his throat. "Your life isn't over yet and if you've a mind to take up service anew, there are worse places to train than with the men of our Duke."

Hicks gave him a lopsided smile, looking up at the other man. "It would be a place to start."

Padishah Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV was a great man. What few people remember is that 'great' does not necessarily mean 'admirable' or even 'good'. The hold of the Padishah Emperor over the Landsraad was, at best, a matter of consensually granted power and never before was the phrase 'uneasy lies the head that wears the crown' so apt. Powerful, competent and ruthless, Shaddam Corrino IV was also corrupt. Manipulated by the Bene Gesserit, threatened by the Spacing Guild and held hostage by the feuds of the Great Houses, he did what was necessary in order to survive. The health of the Empire was a consideration, certainly, but before everything else, Shaddam Corrino IV was loyal to his own House and the continuance of its power.

- The Observations of Irulan: A Political History of Empire

Three weeks passed as Hicks was introduced to the Atreides way of waging war and he found it very strange indeed. Gone were the restrictive body armor, the heavy weapons and the small, mostly independent units of the USCM. Instead there came instruction in the knife and sword, the use of small, independent shields and the discovery that each of the Great Houses, of which Atreides was one, had their own atomic weapons.

He'd nearly spat his soup across the small table at Duncan Idaho, much to Gurney's amusement. "They have atomics where you come from, I take it?"

"Held by the government, yes."

"Here, our governments are slightly more personal," Duncan told him, moving slightly to the left and out of danger of a direct shower. "Or so I've gathered."

"I've never thought to hear an entire planetary government called 'personal'." Hicks gave Gurney a sardonic look, certain that the man had produced the casual comment about 'Family Atomics' just then on purpose.

"It's our way," Duncan assured him blithely, making a movement which indicated he'd just kicked Gurney under the table. The other man's mouth, open for some new comment, snapped shut, and Gurney gave Duncan an accusing look but held his peace. "You're adjusting well, Hicks... but you'll never be a swordsman."

Hicks shrugged, unbothered by this analysis. "I can still shoot."

"You can use a knife as well," Gurney allowed, moving out of the way of another kick from Idaho by the simple expedience of rising to his feet and gathering his own dinner. "But I think it's too late to teach you how to be deadly while wearing a shield. You've a lifetime of dirty tricks already under your belt and to adjust them to a shield would require beginning anew."

"He's not planning on fighting any duels, Gurney," Duncan pointed out, laughing softly at the other man's obvious retreat. "He'll find a place - and he still has a lot to learn."

"An entire universe worth." Hicks looked down at his dinner, making a face at the selection of foods which, after almost a month, were still strange to him.

The other men exchanged a look and Gurney tactfully withdrew. Duncan shifted in his chair, turning to look more closely at Hicks. "More than you know."

Hicks glanced up, frowning. "And that means?"

Duncan made a gesture with his hands. "We received word this morning after the Duke had left for Kaitain that there'd been a shuttle accident almost two weeks ago, carefully hushed up until the investigation by the Spacing Guild and the Landsraad was complete."

"An accident?" Hicks blinked. "What sort of accident?"

"The sort that's not really an accident." Duncan's face was suddenly grim. "Lord and Lady Duar and their son, their retainers and a certain Dwayne Hicks were killed. The Lady Katherine left several messages here to be delivered if something were to happen to her and, with my Duke's permission, I opened the one she'd left for him."

Hicks stared, eyes wide. "... murdered?" It was strangely unsettling to find how much the thought affected him. He'd been kept away from the main group of Atreides soldiers and hadn't exactly been associating with the Duke. Aside from his brief acquaintance with Duar and his lady, he knew only Duncan and Gurney, the house Mentat, Thufir Hawat, and the doctor who'd been looking after him.

"Which is why they left you here on Caladan and took one of our men in your place." Duncan looked very much as if he'd bitten into something sour. "You may very well be living proof that the Spacing Guild's Navigators are not quite as infallible as they'd like us all to believe, and that's certainly a secret worth killing for."

There was a long moment of silence as Hicks considered that, pushing his half-eaten dinner away. He'd learned enough over the past three weeks to know that he'd been a prisoner in a dangerous, ugly place and that Lord Duar had rescued him at what was possibly the last possible instant... but no one had ventured a guess in his hearing as to how he'd come to such a pass, or encouraged him to speculate on his own.

He'd eventually told Duncan and Gurney about the xenomorphs and about the strange, dark dreams that he'd been having which were his only memories of his time on Giedi Prime. They'd been patient with him and listened carefully, but they were busy men and he was nothing more than another duty on a long and demanding list.

There'd been no inkling that he'd held a secret worth murdering an entire noble family to keep.

"Don't think on it too much."

Duncan's voice acted like a dash of cold water and Hicks blinked, jerking his attention back to the present. "You've just told me that something I can't remember is worth murder." Hicks paused, frowning. "Murder and cover-up."

"Murder to continue a cover-up." Duncan shook his head. "They won't be able to tell that you weren't on that shuttle, and it's in our best interests to keep it that way."

"I'll never be a soldier for House Atreides." The words were bleak. "I'm too old and the things I know don't fit."

"A man who can fight monsters and survive, who can help others to survive, can find a place," Duncan assured him dryly, "even if it's not the place he might expect."

There are many stories about Duncan Idaho, Atreides Swordmaster and last Swordmaster of the Ginaz. There are almost as many stories as he has had incarnations, from his first life through his many resurrections at the hands of the Tleilaxu. One of the oddest, which recurs anecdotally, is the story of his last months before Arrakis and the intimation that he'd become entangled with a former slave of the Harkonnens. Whether this is simple wishful thinking on the part of those who see his first death as a tragedy and prefer to believe that Duncan Idaho found happiness, however transient, with someone who could understand his own past on Giedi Prime or whether there is fact behind it has never been proven. It is, however, a recurring tale, recounted several times by the ghola's themselves, although a name has never been attached to the former slave. As such, the possibility cannot be discarded out of hand, although it also cannot be given too much credence.

There are many mysteries surrounded the Atreides and their dynasty - from the beginning, to the bitter end. Perhaps this is simply one more of those mysteries, one of the few bits of undocumented lore left for us to dissect and analyze without any real expectation of resolution, even from the gholas themselves.

- Sheeana Brugh - Recollections of an Endless Voyage

Fanfiction - Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon - Stolen Moments - PG

2007-07-17T01:15:44Z

Title: Stolen Moments
Author: Truth - file_five
Fandom: Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon P
airing: Zoisite/Kunzite
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, death, enslavement
Summary: Dreams set to music.

A/N: This story is somewhat late as it is not what I meant to write in the slightest. I have plans to finish the story I meant to write, but I’ve run out of time. My apologies.

Sometimes, in the moving, whispering shadows of the caverns, there was music.

The sound of the piano brought many things to those who heard it, but the most prevalent response was one of mingled anger and frustration. Sweet music, soft music, a rippling run of fury and passion… it pled and it demanded, it twisted and it knew no mercy.

The gloved hands that moved across the keys were driven by duty and necessity, although that knowledge brought no comfort to either the musician or his reluctant audience.

Being right does not always bring assurance, and Zoisite was sliding from confidence to desperation.

Nephrite was lost, although whether that was a blessing or bane was yet to be determined. Jaedite was also lost – through his own choice, and that left an angry, burning wound somewhere which Zoisite had been forced to accept.

Endymion….

Failing Endymion was not an option and that left Zoisite grimly facing the possibility that he might be fighting a battle already lost. His last, greatest hope was Kunzite, who had already made it clear that he had no wish to raise even a finger in defense of their prince.

There was little hope of forcing Kunzite to accept and understand through words or even actions. Zoisite had tried argument, reason – even pleading. Unlike the others, Kunzite’s refusal to accept wasn’t due to confusion or lost memories. Something uglier and more subtle was at work here – and gloved fingers lost the thread of memory, curving into fists with an ugly crash of discordance.

He would not believe that Kunzite truly wished to see Endymion dead – not with opportunity upon opportunity passed by. There had to be something left that he could touch, somewhere deeply buried beneath the anger and the hate and the denial.

The alternative did not bear thinking of.

When Zoisite’s fingers again touched the keys, the music they brought forth was something soft. The combination of chords was subtle – gentle… and they brought forth none of the surging, demanding energy of before. This was no less an assault, but it was far more carefully crafted.

Something entirely different was called for now.

Far away, Kunzite dreamed….

There was a restlessness to his sleep, clearly visible to the naked eye, long hair tangling as he twisted in the grip of memories that were sweetly, subtly wrong. The images and feelings that danced behind his closed eyes, dragging him slowly away from his chosen course - they were tinged with impulses and needs that rang, not false, yet….

When his eyes finally opened, they were set and hard.

Zoisite, still at his piano, felt his spell dissolve. His own eyes opened slowly and his fingers again stilled against the keys. The bitter taste of defeat was becoming far too familiar, but losing a battle was not the same as conceding the war.

When Kunzite arrived, Zoisite was again playing – this time his fingers bringing forth nothing more menacing than simple music. He was prepared for the aura of carefully contained fury that Kunzite brought with him, but not for the hand that closed cruelly in his hair.

“Do not attempt to twist me with your sentimental foolishness.” Kunzite dragged him backward, causing an awkward sprawl of white silk as Zoisite attempted to catch himself – unsuccessfully. “Do not meddle where you have no invitation.”

Teeth grit tightly against the pain, Zoisite stared up at him, eyes narrowed. “If you did not wish to hear the music, it would not affect you. You know as well as I – “

Kunzite abruptly let go and Zoisite fell, shoulders hitting the floor first, ending in a tangle of white, eye to eye with Kunzite’s feet. Breath hissing painfully through his teeth, he grated, “You would not see if you were truly blind. You may lie to yourself, but do not lie to me.”

One dark boot came down on the trailing length of Zoisite’s hair as Kunzite dropped to one knee, snarling down at the other man. “Don’t presume to tell me what I feel, Zoisite.”

The smile that Zoisite gave him held an edge of darkness that was almost an echo. “I don’t need to tell you what you already know.”

A moment later, Zoisite was alone, staring upward in empty, bitter triumph.

“You can’t deny the past, Kunzite.” Mouth twisting angrily, he pulled himself slowly to his feet. “It will always come back to you – in your dreams.”

Fanfiction - Jhereg - Protocol and Etiquette - PG

2007-07-17T01:10:16Z

Written for springkink

Title: Protocol and Etiquette
Author: Truth - file_five
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1431
Summary: "It would have been inappropriate to say that Morrolan's seneschal was also his lover, yet it would have been a lie to say that Morrolan didn't love his seneschal, or that she didn't love him in return."

A/N: I’m sorry that this is a day late, but I’m struggling with several weeks of an allergy attack and the subsequent medications have made it impossible to stay awake and coherent.

The Great Cycle is a necessary formality, an enforcement by gods and Dragaerans alike to keep each house confined to their proper place and time. It brings a certain rhythm and grace to the dealings of the Imperium, a phrase which rolls far more sweetly from the tongue than ‘order and control’.

You’ve no idea how irritating that is.

It’s nearly impossible to keep track of all the various rules and regulations and the exact angle at which you need to nod your head to that Dzurlord over there to keep him from removing it from your shoulders. You really have to be born into it and spend your long adolescence memorizing a thousand different shades of protocol. If you’re not a Draegaran by birth the best you can do is memorize the simplest of their insanely long and complex protocols and watch everyone around you very, very carefully. It’s possible to manage that way, but only if the people you choose to watch are Issola.

The Twelve Great Houses are ruled by formality, a tool which, in the correct hands, can cut far more deeply and painfully than the more commonly favored implements of war. Formality and protocol are, in point of fact, the favored weapon of the Issola and they wield them with as much deadliness as any sword.

Sometimes more.

The House of the Issola boasts many diplomats, negotiators, actors and their ilk. Anywhere that poise and charm, an ease of manner and unshakable aplomb were of benefit, there you would find an Issola.

Castle Black, for instance, has a seneschal called the Lady Teldra, although I’ve no idea if she was born to that title, married into it, inherited it or if it’s yet another polite gloss over the fact that no one but another Issola or possibly a Yendi really knows what her function is.

It’s not a small job to keep track of all the comings and goings of the house of Dragonlord, certainly not one in the direct line of succession to the Imperial Throne and with aspirations to Warlord. Throw in his possession of one of the Great Weapons, his facility with sorcery and a decidedly non-Draegaran interest in witchcraft and the fact that Castle Black is an enormous floating hunk of masonry only accessible by teleport and which holds the longest-running party in the history of the Empire….

Lady Teldra oversees it all, with a grace and charm and gentle air of pleasure that is utterly indefatigable. Whatever Morrolan pays her, it’s not enough and I can say that with utter certainty. Thing is, I’m not certain he pays her at all.

Let’s back up a little bit.

Way back when Morrolan decided to raise Castle Black into the skies in a fit of arrogance unparalleled since Kieran the Conqueror’s declaration that he’d defend Dragaera right here and damn the dissenters, he must’ve known that he’d need someone to handle the day to day details.

Dragons are good at display and motivation, but the petty details are decidedly beneath them. That’s why Morrolan pays me, but that’s another story.

So, Lady Teldra.

Someday I’ll have to find out how one goes about acquiring an Issola to run their affairs. It can’t possibly be anything so crass as simply offering one a job. Not that their rejection wouldn’t be exquisitely polite, mind you, but they’d make you feel like a complete heel for so much as speculating.

Not that I’d dream of trying.

When you arrive at Castle Black, the first thing to strike you is the fact that you are standing far above the countryside below. Birds and sometimes clouds wheel beneath your feet, and those afraid of heights are then pried, gibbering, from the apparent security of the nearest wall.

I’m theorizing, mind you. I can’t imagine that anyone possessing a difficulty with heights would be allowed to set foot in Castle Black’s somewhat dramatic courtyard. Dragonlords declare war over less publicly obvious loss of face.

At any rate, once rendered speechless by the view, your second impression of Castle Black is of the Lady Teldra, who is always there at exactly the correct moment. She greets you by name, even if you have never been there before and have arrived unannounced, and wishes you well.

She means it, too.

The party at Castle Black runs day and night. I’ve never arrived without some greeting, no matter the hour or circumstances, and it causes me to wonder if the Lady Teldra sleeps. It seems sacrilegious somehow, to imagine her attempting to catch a nap somewhere standing up or helping herself to a hasty sandwich between greetings.

I could find out, of course. I’m responsible for the security of Castle Black and, if I really wanted to know, the information would be made available.

In theory.

The rules and protocol forbid me – not because she is a fellow employee, at least as far as I know, but because she is an Issola and a Lady, and I am a Jhereg and an Easterner. At least, that’s the excuse that Morrolan would use to kill me.

I’m almost certain he’d have me revivified afterward, but I’ve been dead, and it’s not an experience I wish to repeat.

Curiosity, however, has led me to make some purely personal observations.

The first is that Morrolan is a Dragonlord and, were someone to slight my honor in my position as the head of security for Castle Black, he’d probably challenge them to a duel. It would be a slight to his own honor as well, after all, as well as casting aspersions on his judgment in choosing his servitors.

If someone were to insult the Lady Teldra, he would also challenge them to a duel. I suspect that it would be a matter of Morganti weapons, however, and no one in their right mind would willingly stand up to Morrolan with Blackwand in hand.

Morrolan is fond of me, in his own way. He trusts me, which is worth quite a bit more. We’ve been through a great deal together, after all, despite the fact that most of it was extremely unpleasant. For a Dragonlord, he becomes rather interestingly attached to the strangest people.

Not that Lady Teldra is strange, which should’ve been the first thing to tip me off.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’d been head of security at Castle Black for over a year before it occurred to me that I knew nothing at all about Lady Teldra – not even whether Teldra was her given name or a title. Much, much later I’m still none the wiser.

I suspect it’s a function of her position. She’s not a real person, the pleasantly smiling, lovely woman who greets you at the door. She’s a symbol of Morrolan’s hospitality and a gesture of respect to his guests – and at the same time, a display of his power.

Morrolan doesn’t greet every guest to walk through his doors, after all, and Lady Teldra sees to it, gracefully, that those who he wishes to see reach him while others are given a brush off so gentle and discreet that it’s almost impossible to tell that it isn’t a warm welcome.

She does almost as much for his personal security as I do.

I’ve seen them together, once or twice. While Morrolan trusts me, it should probably hurt my feelings that she knows more than I do about what goes on in the more formal twists and turns of Castle Black’s eternal party.

My professional feelings.

Strangely, it does not. Sethra caught me scowling as Lady Teldra spoke with Morrolan and, perhaps unwisely, I asked her about it.

More accurately, I said, “What’s she got that I haven’t?”

Ignoring my flippancy, she said something very profound. Sethra’s good for that, when it fits her mood.

"It would be inappropriate to say that Morrolan's seneschal is also his lover, yet it would also be a lie to say that Morrolan does not love his seneschal, or that she does not love him in return."
I had to think about that. ‘Inappropriate’ has many shades of meaning among Draegarans, and when used by Sethra Lavode, it gains gradients you never knew existed.

Maybe she is his lover. Maybe she’s not. It’s none of my business, really – even professionally. That’s a strange thing to say, but I refer you again to formality and protocol.

... that and my fervent attachment to the business of my continued breathing.

I am almost certain he’d have me revivified.

Almost.

Fanfiction - Firefly - Something About His Smile - PG

2007-07-09T15:47:47Z

Written for springkink

Title: Something About His Smile
Author: Truth - file_five
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1412
Summary: "She was hardly shy, and once she started to think his flirting was cute, rather than annoying, things progressed pretty quickly."

“You don’t like him.” Mal looked across the table at Zoe.

“Well….”

“You still don’t like him.” Mal watched as Zoe turned her drink with long fingers, looking down at it, instead of at him. “He’s an amazing pilot, easy to get along with – so the shirts might be a bit hard on the eyes, but that’s a small sin in the grand scheme of things. What’s wrong with him? And don’t you just keep sayin’, ‘There’s just something’. Come up with something.”

Zoe glanced up, giving him the look that said, ‘you can only push me so far on this one’. “He bothers me.”

“What, he’s been peepin’ in you while you’re in the head?”

There was a long, frozen silence as Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, I think that’s a line of inquiry you’d best not push further.”

“You mean he has?”

There was a thump and an outraged shout of ‘Hey now!’ from the mess and Kaylee set her back to the wall of the passageway as Zoe stalked past her, scowling.

“What’d you do?” Kaylee had a towel in hand before she was even done with the question and set about dabbing efficiently at Mal.

“I asked a simple, civil question, that’s all!” Mal was still trying to figure out exactly how a single drink had managed to soak his hair, his shirt and still manage to trickle stickily down his spine. There hadn’t been that much in her mug to start!

“The sort of simple, civil question that makes your first mate empty her drink all over her captain?” Kaylee wasn’t laughing, but only because Mal would take it badly. She gave him a cheerful, lopsided smile. “Can’t’ve been all that civil.”

Mal snatched the towel from her and rose to his feet. “It’s mutiny, that’s what it is.”

Kaylee put a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter as he stalked away in search of fresh clothing and the remnants of his dignity – safely in the opposite direction from Zoe’s exit.

The first mate of the Serenity had gone as far as the cargo bay and was calming her ruffled feelings by stripping and cleaning her sidearm, concentrating on routine instead of why, exactly, she’d just emptied a mug of perfectly good alcohol over the head of her Captain.

“Hey, Zoe!”

Zoe’s head came up and the glare she turned on the new arrival was almost enough to shave off his mustache with. Both of Wash’s hands came up and he skidded to a halt. “Whoa there, First Mate Alleyne. I was trying out a friendly, slightly less formal hello in hopes of finally thawing the ice that’s been frosting the air between us. I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” she assured him crisply, turning back to her weapon.

“Maybe not by you.”

Their normally easy-going pilot sounded… hurt. Zoe glanced up again, surprised. He even looked hurt, arms folded defensively as he stared at her and she felt a mild twinge of guilt. She suppressed it ruthlessly. “Excuse me?”

“You respect the Captain, not that he isn’t worthy of respect, but it’s there to see, plain as day. You like Kaylee. You laughed at one of her jokes the other day.” He looked almost offended by that, which might’ve been funny if he hadn’t still looked hurt and almost confused. “I’ve tried to get you to talk to me. I’ve tried to get a smile out of you and even the sock puppets didn’t help.”

“Look, I….”

Wash talked directly over the top of her, spreading his arms with an enthusiastic sorrow that nearly cracked his fingers on the nearest set of crates. “What did I do? Did I use the wrong set of chopsticks at dinner last night? Is it my shirts – because, fair warning, I like these shirts – or do you object to my collection of plastic dinosaurs? There must be a reason why you disappear when I enter a room and I don’t think you’ve said two words to me in the entire week I’ve been here!”

There was a smile somewhere, trying to break free, but Zoe repressed it ruthlessly. Some inner demon prompted her to respond, with every appearance of complete seriousness, “It’s the mustache.”

He stopped, jaw open, arms still spread, and she could almost hear him deflating. “The.. mustache?” he repeated, obviously disbelieving.

“I could never,” she assured him, solemn as a judge, “warm up to a man with a mustache.”

Wash gave her a somewhat thoughtful look. “… huh.”

Twenty minutes later, Kaylee swung into the stairs from the aft passage, on her way to the common area and nearly collided with Wash. “Whoa, sorry there, I…. Oh. Oh my.”

Rubbing somewhat ruefully at his jaw, Wash offered her a sheepish smile. “That bad, is it?”

“No, no,” she assured him hastily, reaching out to touch his face before realizing it’d seem a bit forward and yanking her fingers back. “You look really nice – younger too.”

“Thank you, I think.” Wash raised an eyebrow at her, but he was smiling.

“Why’d you shave it off?” Kaylee gave him an interested look, leaning against the railing and obviously having no plans to leave till her curiosity had been satisfied.

“Zoe said….” He stopped, eyeing the slowly dawning smile on Kaylee’s face with mild apprehension.

“Zoe said,” she repeated, giving him a wide smile. “So that’s the way of it?”

“Now Kaylee,” Wash held up a hand, but Kaylee just wrinkled her nose, smile growing.

“She sure is pretty, ain’t she?”

“Kaylee!”

Laughing, Kaylee ducked around him and fled, laughing, toward her quarters.

Mal’s reaction, upon walking into the cockpit not five minutes later, was equally amused, and far less encouraging.

“She told you it was your mustache… and you believed her?”

Wash stared at him, hurt. “A lady has a right to her opinions.”

Mal’s ability to dredge up an appropriate response was somewhat hampered by his amusement. “Your mustache… that’s rich.”

“What’s rich, sir?” Zoe stepped into the cockpit and glanced at Wash… and paused, her eyebrows climbing upward.

Wash flushed, one hand rising to cover the lower half of his face before realizing it was too late. Instead, he covered a completely false and theatrical yawn. “Is that the time? I think it’s time I hit the sack. Night, all.”

Zoe stared at him as he left the cockpit, turning to watch him walk away, with both eyebrows raised and an expression of thoughtful bemusement.

“That was a cruel thing to do,” Mal told her, still chuckling. “Funny, though.”

Turning, she gave him a look of perfect, solemn innocence. “Funny, sir?”

“You don’t mean to tell me it really was his mustache that was bothering you?” Mal gave her a look of disbelief.

“Could be,” she assured him, turning to leave the cockpit herself. “Stranger things have happened.”

“… well, I’ll be.”

**

“I’ll have you know,” Wash told the assembled crew, hand indignantly raised against their laughter, “that it was not a false yawn, I’d been working hard all day and I was tired.”

Zoe, leaning comfortably against him, turned to press a kiss against his cheek. “Let him have his story.”

“Listen to your wife, Wash,” Book advised him, offering them both a gentle smile. “Does it really matter how it happened?”

“Well, I’d prefer something a bit more along the lines of how my manly charms and obvious wit convinced her to ravish me - ow.” Wash broke off as Zoe’s elbow met his ribs.

“I’m very fond of your manly charms,” Zoe advised him, granting him another kiss despite the accusing look he turned on her. “Once I realized they were directed at me, that is.”

“All it took was a shave,” Wash told her, smiling dreamily.

"Something about your smile," she told him, laughing softly. "Once I could see it."

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Jayne pulled himself up from the table. “All this lovey-dovey crap. You should’ve stuck to the ravishing. This ship could use a bit more ravishing.”

“Ravishing?” Wash asked hopefully, looking up at Zoe and wiggling his eyebrows. “It is our anniversary and all.”

“Seeing as it’s our anniversary….” She was laughing as she stood and pulled him to his feet.

“Good night all,” Wash wished the assembled, allowing Zoe to pull him from the room.

“I hate this ship,” Jayne muttered, heading after them. “I’ll be in my bunk.”

Fanfiction - Weiss Kreuz - Damaged Goods - NC-17

2007-07-04T03:35:32Z

Written for springkink

Title: Damaged Goods
Author: Truth - file_five
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Knife-play, self-inflicted injuries, violence, slash
Word Count: 1767
Summary: Farfarello had more than his share of scar tissue, and little of it was actually visible to the naked eye.

There was something almost tantalizing about the entire business, the sense of 'forbidden' not at all assuaged by the fact that his first encounter with Farfarello had found Schuldig pressed against the bars of a holding cell trying to get a better look at the figure wound up in the straightjacket in the far corner of the tiny room.

They hadn’t had a straightjacket in his size and it was just a little too small, cutting into his skin in a way that let him know there’d be marks when he was set free. Inconvenient, mildly irritating, yet another mark against their ability to see him as a human being, but nothing that he couldn’t ignore. Not that he would. Someone would bleed for this – not the discomfort, but the dehumanization.

There was something about Farfarello that would never be predictable – never be tamed, and Schuldig watched him with the fascination of a small child faced with fire for the first time. Yes, they’d been warned that it would burn them if they touched it, but it was so beautiful… so tantalizing.

The first three things that Schuldig learned about Farfarello were easy.

1. Farfarello really was mad, if in a very cold and calculating fashion.
2. If you treated him honestly, he wouldn’t try to kill you. Well – certainly not as often.
3. Logic does not apply.

The fourth was more difficult, and it tied back into the ‘small child with flame’ bit.

4. Do not touch.

Schuldig was a very tactile person. He liked to touch and Farfarello….

Farfarello liked Schuldig, or at least had nothing serious against him, because Schuldig got to keep his fingers.

It was the touching that he objected to, it was Schuldig’s touching that he wanted to stop. He could almost taste the fascination and curiosity and it was too much like being a toy or a thing. Schuldig didn’t see it that way, not really – which was why he came away with only a warning. The blood was to make certain it wasn’t a warning he’d forget.

The first time Schuldig caught Farfarello without the bandages that were a part of his daily wardrobe, he’d paused and stared. Farfarello had endured the scrutiny stoically, rolling them up before tossing them into the trash. The heavily muscled body, whipcord and bone, didn’t have a mark on it – if you didn’t count the damage done to his face.

“Why…?” Schuldig paused, shrugging as he let the question peter out. If Farfarello didn’t want to answer, he wouldn’t answer and that would be the end of it.

Farfarello gave him a measuring look.

Because he liked to control how people saw him. Because by now it was habit. Because there was always blood, and it beat having to pay for getting that blood out of his clothing.

“Because it keeps people from asking questions.”

Schuldig gave him a look that said he’d heard the evasion, despite the fact that it was at least half-truth. “Then why do it at all?”

That was a question that took him onto dangerous ground and he knew it, but he wanted to know and listening to Farfarello think was only marginally less hazardous than actually touching him. The question had to be verbal, and he’d have to be content with the answer Farfarello gave.

“Have you ever tried it?”

That stopped Schuldig in his metaphorical tracks and he paused to consider, not the question, but the reason for it. Farfarello left him to it, dropping into a chair to remove his boots. Schuldig had obviously interrupted him on his way to a shower and Farfarello rarely allowed the telepath’s curiosity to so much as slow him down.

Schuldig’s attention was occasionally irritating, but his mindset was slowly altering and so was the attention being paid. It beat being thought a particularly shiny pebble to be collected and placed with the rest in Schuldig’s mental jackdaw nest.

“I’m not exactly fond of pain,” Schuldig finally admitted. “At least not my own… and you don’t seem to have to worry about infection or impeding your ability to work.”

Farfarello finished undressing, reaching for the towel on the back of his chair. “It has nothing to do with pain.”

“I gathered.” Schuldig looked at him with honest curiosity. “So why?”

Defiance, pride, fury, vengeance, memory….

Farfarello stared back at him levelly. “Would you like to find out?”

Schuldig hesitated, eyes narrowing. He still wanted to touch and just maybe…. “Yes.”

“Take off your shirt,” Farfarello advised him, padding toward the bathroom. “And anything else you don’t want to get wet.”

An opportunity, perhaps. Possibly something more.

Several minutes passed before Schuldig joined Farfarello in the bathroom. He was wearing his pants, but all else had been discarded. Farfarello was before the mirror, running a towel through his hair.

He showered as he did most things, swiftly and efficiently. There were more interesting things upon which Farfarello chose to spend his time and this would be one of them. Winding his towel around his hips, he turned to look at Schuldig.

Schuldig looked back, waiting.

There was a knife on the edge of the sink, although Schuldig could not remember Farfarello having one in hand when entering the bathroom. The blade had a thin sheen of moisture and Farfarello paused to wipe it dry before gesturing to Schuldig. “Kneel on the floor.”

He didn’t wait for Schuldig to do as he was bid, moving to sit himself on the edge of the tub.

Slowly, Schuldig knelt on the slightly damp bathmat, keeping a wary eye on the knife.

“It’s not for you,” Farfarello assured him dryly. “Not in that way.”

Schuldig made a face at him, but resisted the urge to comment. He had the very strong feeling that it would not be appreciated.

Farfarello handed him the knife.

There was a long silence as Schuldig turned it in his hand, feeling the weight of it. He was no stranger to knives or their use… but he’d never contemplated whatever this was. He glanced up at Farfarello for some sort of sign and received, instead, an open hand.

It wasn’t quite a test, this didn’t have the right feel to it, but Schuldig knew that hesitation would not be appreciated. It was strange to see so much skin without a mark on it, and his eyes were drawn upward again to Farfarello’s face.

Without his eyepatch, attention wasn’t drawn so forcibly to the lines that cut across Farfarello’s face. Even the ruined eye was pale on pale and might require a second look to realize that the mark there wasn’t simply a mark, but a thick scar that cut across the eye as well as the half-closed lid above it.

Farfarello’s skin was warm beneath his fingers, still radiating the heat of his shower, and Schuldig forced his attention downward. Almost without thinking, he rested the blade of the knife against the pale blue of the vein that ran down the inside of Farfarello’s arm.

It didn’t matter. Schuldig would not kill Farfarello and there would be no marks.

It wasn’t trust, it was a strange sort of understanding and Schuldig slid the knife to one side, drawing it slowly along the curve of muscle in the forearm, pressing down harder with every centimeter.

Dark blood welled slowly in the wake of the knife, dripping in a steady stream as Schuldig reached Farfarello’s wrist and withdrew the blade. He watched the blood, puzzled, as if expecting some enlightenment, absently cleaning the blade on Farfarello’s towel.

“It means… nothing,” he decided.

Farfarello nodded, holding out his free hand for the knife. Schuldig gave it to him, still frowning at the arm in his grasp. A moment later, with a casual disregard for Schuldig’s introspection, Farfarello made a second gash, parallel to the first.

To abuse a sacred temple, constructed in God’s image, to cause injury that brought no pain and left no marks, to question, to hate, to provoke, to deny….

Schuldig felt his eyes trying to roll back into his head as he attempted to release Farfarello’s arm and, instead, felt his fingers digging in even more tightly.

“It means nothing,” Farfarello corrected him, voice tight, “when you do it.”

Forcing himself to release his grip on Farfarello, Schuldig raised fingers that felt thick and clumsy to trace the faint lines on Farfarello’s face. The pale marks were overlaid by fading streaks of blood in the wake of Schuldig’s fingers. “These… you didn’t make these.”

An altercation in one of the hospitals, overlooked because who cared what the criminally insane did amongst themselves. He’d lost an eye…. It was the last thing he clearly remembered feeling.

“Scars.” They were the marks of someone else’s hands on Farfarello’s body and something else, something that Schuldig could not quite grasp.

Schuldig took a shallow breath and then a second, still trying to find his mental feet. He found himself staring down at the blood on Farfarello’s arm, watching in fascination as Farfarello took an edge of the towel and wiped away the blood. “That….”

“It will not scar,” Farfarello told him dryly.

There was a sense of betrayal in that, and Schuldig looked up to where he’d marked Farfarello’s face with blood.

Why would it scar? There would be no satisfaction in that. The mark was no act of violence, imposed from without.

There it was again, the edges of something that Schuldig could see, but not quite touch.

“Try not to think too much,” Farfarello told him dryly, raising a bloody hand and drawing a dark line down Schuldig’s own forearm.

Yes, this was so much more satisfying.

Schuldig took the knife back, staring at it as if still in search of some sort of coherent answer. Farfarello had an answer, and it was obviously one that satisfied him, but Schuldig was no closer to figuring it out.
Matters were taken abruptly out of his hands as Farfarello rose from the edge of the tub and, with a casual shove, pushed Schuldig over onto his side. The knife was retrieved and drawn gently across Schuldig’s face, mimicking the lines of blood he’d trailed on Farfarello’s skin.

Comprehension slowly dawned as the knife moved to Schuldig’s arm, breaking the skin as Farfarello drew it downward and Schuldig made a sound that, suddenly, had nothing at all to do with pain.

Schuldig would never look at him in the same way again.

Sometimes one has to actually touch the fire to realize the truth of the burn.