Drabbles for Angel, B5 and DS9
Nov. 23rd, 2004 01:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
selenakI'll have to think some more about the christmas meme making the rounds. Meanwhile, Santa Claus has been talking to me. Sort of. See, last year ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hobsonphile wished for a Christmas story, and I came up with this. This year, I really don't have the time for entire stories, so I tried my hand on drabbles. (Except again I didn't manage the content to one hundred words each.) A drabble/vignette/whatever you want to call it for the three main fandoms I'm active in. Loosely around a Christmas theme. Be warned, though; I'm in a somewhat twisted mood.
The request was met with silent disbelief by the Vedek Assembly when the liason to the Cardassian Prefect, looking even more unhappy and morose than he usually did, first voiced it. It took Winn Adami to break the silence in the iciest manner she had at her disposal.
"The blessings of the Prophets are not for whores or their Cardassian offspring."
Normally, Bareil, who saw the Prophets somewhat differently than she did, would have debated her. But not in this case. With Bajoran children starving, with their fathers and mothers being worked to death in the mines, the idea that a Vedek should attend the birth of the Prefect's half-Cardassian, half Bajoran child, presumably because his spoiled mistress had a half-hearted attack of conscience, was unacceptable.
The liason cleared his throat. "Dukat will not be pleased," he said. "Perhaps… as a gesture of charity towards mother and child…"
Winn rose. She had advocated the declaration of a Holy War against the Cardassians for a good while now, a declaration which would threaten damnation on everyone who did not fight them. While Bareil agreed with Kai Opaka that such a notion was too radical and suspected it was at least partly inspired by Winn's desire to see herself as the leader of such a Holy War, he had to admit there was something glowing about her. She had lost weight in recent months, and her red robes, handing loosely around her, made her resemble an ancient carving.
"That child will never walk with the Prophets," she said, and her voice, usually soft, was sharp and clear as a knife in sunlight. "Nor will her mother. Nor will any woman who gives herself to a Cardassian."
***
Justine has scars all over her body, but the one on her hand is the one she actually feels, now that it's getting colder. Holding her hand up in the faint, translucent light of a Boston morning, she half-way expects it to bleed. Stigmata, she thinks, absently.
If she had never met Daniel, she wouldn't have known what the word meant. Since then, she has acquired quite the Catholic vocabulary. It remains with her, even as something crucial, something about the reason why Daniel left, and why he returned, and why closed spaces and the smell of moth-balls still make her throw up, slips away and becomes the chilly East Coast air, forming clouds that leave her mouth and evaporate before she can get a hold on the images they create.
Quite why she left Los Angeles, she doesn't know, either. Something ended, or something begun, or she was looking for something. Maybe someone.
So she enters one of the magnificent Boston churches, to light a candle as she has seen Daniel do, and there it is. A painting of Mary and Joseph on their way to Egypt, with the child. There is Joseph, much older than Mary, of course, all cragged face and grey beard. Looking after a child not his. Suddenly, she wonders whether Joseph ever wanted to stay in Egypt and keep the boy with him, and to hell with the grand plan of redemption and that other father waiting. Mary probably would have agreed. If he had bothered to ask her. The colour of Mary's hair has faded. It might have been blond once, but from her perspective, it now looks more like a coppery red. For a woman in flight, her dress is artfully arranged, and covers every bit of flesh.
Of course Joseph never touched her, not really. How could he?
The child, on the other hand, shows quite a bit of flesh, the plumb arms, the hands grasping after Mary's veil, unmarked hands, and again, Justine feels her scar. It is the only one which refuses to fade. Even in the dim light of the church, she can trace its angry red against her skin.
It's only the face of the child that she can never, ever see.
***
He had always enjoyed presents. Both giving and receiving them was fun; Londo had not been able to resist accepting a gift in any form, even if it came from the lovely wife he had nicknamed Death, or in shackles, glaring at him. But Delenn, he thought, was so unlike him that she should have known better.
Despite his respect of Sheridan as a tactician, Londo had always assumed Delenn to be the more intelligent of the two. Besides, she had all the experience as a trained diplomat which Sheridan lacked, and information the Minbari had gathered in ages. It ought to have been her business to know all about Centauri customs, and to deduce he was lying. She did look troubled when he presented the urn for her child, but her mind was clearly elsewhere, and she accepted his explanation.
The Drakh Entire, connected to him through the Keeper, rejoiced, and added the taste of his disappointment to their gluttony.
***
Now I might expand on this with my other fandoms, depending on whether they've got muses volunteering. Honestly, though, if you were a muse, would you?
hobsonphile wished for a Christmas story, and I came up with this. This year, I really don't have the time for entire stories, so I tried my hand on drabbles. (Except again I didn't manage the content to one hundred words each.) A drabble/vignette/whatever you want to call it for the three main fandoms I'm active in. Loosely around a Christmas theme. Be warned, though; I'm in a somewhat twisted mood. The request was met with silent disbelief by the Vedek Assembly when the liason to the Cardassian Prefect, looking even more unhappy and morose than he usually did, first voiced it. It took Winn Adami to break the silence in the iciest manner she had at her disposal.
"The blessings of the Prophets are not for whores or their Cardassian offspring."
Normally, Bareil, who saw the Prophets somewhat differently than she did, would have debated her. But not in this case. With Bajoran children starving, with their fathers and mothers being worked to death in the mines, the idea that a Vedek should attend the birth of the Prefect's half-Cardassian, half Bajoran child, presumably because his spoiled mistress had a half-hearted attack of conscience, was unacceptable.
The liason cleared his throat. "Dukat will not be pleased," he said. "Perhaps… as a gesture of charity towards mother and child…"
Winn rose. She had advocated the declaration of a Holy War against the Cardassians for a good while now, a declaration which would threaten damnation on everyone who did not fight them. While Bareil agreed with Kai Opaka that such a notion was too radical and suspected it was at least partly inspired by Winn's desire to see herself as the leader of such a Holy War, he had to admit there was something glowing about her. She had lost weight in recent months, and her red robes, handing loosely around her, made her resemble an ancient carving.
"That child will never walk with the Prophets," she said, and her voice, usually soft, was sharp and clear as a knife in sunlight. "Nor will her mother. Nor will any woman who gives herself to a Cardassian."
***
Justine has scars all over her body, but the one on her hand is the one she actually feels, now that it's getting colder. Holding her hand up in the faint, translucent light of a Boston morning, she half-way expects it to bleed. Stigmata, she thinks, absently.
If she had never met Daniel, she wouldn't have known what the word meant. Since then, she has acquired quite the Catholic vocabulary. It remains with her, even as something crucial, something about the reason why Daniel left, and why he returned, and why closed spaces and the smell of moth-balls still make her throw up, slips away and becomes the chilly East Coast air, forming clouds that leave her mouth and evaporate before she can get a hold on the images they create.
Quite why she left Los Angeles, she doesn't know, either. Something ended, or something begun, or she was looking for something. Maybe someone.
So she enters one of the magnificent Boston churches, to light a candle as she has seen Daniel do, and there it is. A painting of Mary and Joseph on their way to Egypt, with the child. There is Joseph, much older than Mary, of course, all cragged face and grey beard. Looking after a child not his. Suddenly, she wonders whether Joseph ever wanted to stay in Egypt and keep the boy with him, and to hell with the grand plan of redemption and that other father waiting. Mary probably would have agreed. If he had bothered to ask her. The colour of Mary's hair has faded. It might have been blond once, but from her perspective, it now looks more like a coppery red. For a woman in flight, her dress is artfully arranged, and covers every bit of flesh.
Of course Joseph never touched her, not really. How could he?
The child, on the other hand, shows quite a bit of flesh, the plumb arms, the hands grasping after Mary's veil, unmarked hands, and again, Justine feels her scar. It is the only one which refuses to fade. Even in the dim light of the church, she can trace its angry red against her skin.
It's only the face of the child that she can never, ever see.
***
He had always enjoyed presents. Both giving and receiving them was fun; Londo had not been able to resist accepting a gift in any form, even if it came from the lovely wife he had nicknamed Death, or in shackles, glaring at him. But Delenn, he thought, was so unlike him that she should have known better.
Despite his respect of Sheridan as a tactician, Londo had always assumed Delenn to be the more intelligent of the two. Besides, she had all the experience as a trained diplomat which Sheridan lacked, and information the Minbari had gathered in ages. It ought to have been her business to know all about Centauri customs, and to deduce he was lying. She did look troubled when he presented the urn for her child, but her mind was clearly elsewhere, and she accepted his explanation.
The Drakh Entire, connected to him through the Keeper, rejoiced, and added the taste of his disappointment to their gluttony.
***
Now I might expand on this with my other fandoms, depending on whether they've got muses volunteering. Honestly, though, if you were a muse, would you?
