Disclaimer: Okay, yeah, I don't own Jane and the Dragon. Believe me, though - I am kicking myself for not thinking of it first.
Notes: There wasn't any particular inspiration for this oneshot, except that I just got the song "Shankill Butchers" (it's a great song - you should get it... it's by the Decemberists) on my iPod. It doesn't follow the song at all (thank God - that would be a frightening fanfic) but the whole disturbed lullaby thing sort of inspired this - you know, imagining what Jane's life would be like if Dragon died.
So, most importantly, review. If you love it, or want to kill me for writing something so stupid (I'd kinda understand - it's quite odd), or even if you don't have anything specific to say, please review! Because I won't get any better without suggestions!
(And, by the way, the inspiration for my chapter story has completely and totally abandoned me, so I've just been flailing around in the dark, writing and deleting, writing and deleting. Don't expect an update for at least two weeks.)
And there she was, standing alone in the dark, again. She was always alone, it seemed. No man beside her, no companion or dear friend to linger with her during her vigils in the darkness, the downpour.
Though such loneliness would surely affect even the most stouthearted of men, it did not seem to affect her. She would turn her face up to the rain, thick eyelashes veiling jade eyes filled with too much pain and too many memories, and she would smile.
It was something to see; the entire village would rush inside at the first tiny, frail droplets, and yet she would remain, a sword strapped to her back, leather armor worn smooth from years of toil. With a slithering, metallic sound and a quick flash of movement, the sword would appear in her hand, and she would twist agile, callused fingers over the handle. Soft clicks would sound. They always seemed somehow hollow in the night, echoing in the empty alleyways – even the alleyway's inhabitants, the poorest of the poor, were gone; even those people who were rotting from the inside out did not stay out in the chilled rain.
She would lift the sword like an offering to God, cradled in scarred hands, and it would begin to sing.
It was an awful noise, that singing. Like darkness and fear and emptiness… so desolate. You could hear it even from behind heavy wooden doors, from behind cold trembling fingers cupped over ears. That sound was everywhere.
But, after a while, it did not sound so bad anymore. You would look at her, with soaking, bedraggled hair; damp, rumpled clothes; that singing sword clutched in loving hands; a sweet smile adorning her pretty face, and abruptly, it would not seem so awful.
It was hard to imagine what she was thinking of when she stood like that, her entire body quivering, cold and wet seeping down to her bones. Was she remembering, perhaps? A friend, left behind in a town she no longer could recall the name of? A promise broken? A lover's hot kisses pressed upon her mouth, fingers trailing across her pale skin?
No one could ever guess, and she never spoke of it.
The next day, she would be back to her usual self, handing out smiles and laughter like they cost nothing. The sword would be back in its sheathe, which is where every sword belongs. And it was just like any other sword, except for the singing and the red lizard twined around the base. Some said the lizard looked like the dragons spoken of in the legends, but she always laughed at this suggestion. Dragons? she would ask indulgently, an amused smile fluttering at the corners of her lips. How silly. Do you not think that if there were green lizards flying about, a knight would know of it?
Put like that, the villagers could not help but agree. How silly of them to think something as foolish as dragons could be real.
None of them ever thought to ask her how she knew what color dragons were.
Since she was always the most sensible thing around, and always so determined to help those who could not help themselves, they loved her. They welcomed her into their village, ignoring how she had arrived – with naught but her singing sword and first name and the word that she was the first woman ever to wield a sword and carry the title 'Knight.'
And she was everything anyone could have ever hoped for, or imagined, and much more.
But the rain still came; the wind still blew, and when it did, she would be out there again.
In the darkness, in the downpour, alone.
She was always alone, it seemed.