Title: "Writings in the Sand"
Author: Athena-Parthenos
Rating: PG
Category: Angst, vignette
Spoilers: Vague references to "Grave"
Summary: Words in the sand, written in desperation. It's a
long way back to Sunnydale.
Disclaimers: Spike and Buffy are not mine and never will
be. They belong as always to Joss Whedon and ME.
Author's Note: It's a pit stop on the journey from Africa to
Sunnydale.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He stumbles out into the starlight, sobbing, her name on
his lips. Sand, cool and soft, caresses his bare feet; he
throws his head back and lets out a piercing cry. He falls
to his knees, the sound of waves breaking and retreating
a balm to ears tortured by their owner's screams.
An idea strikes him. He will write it out, write it all out,
here in the sand. He will put his grief and his love and his
misery to words, words that will convey to her the
profoundness of his agony, if only she would see them.
In his pain he forgets that she is half a world away, that
the stars above him are not the same as those shining down
upon her, sparkling in her deep, bright eyes.
Eagerly he sets to work upon his task. He traces letters
with his fingers, frantic, frenzied. He shakes his head,
muttering, "No, wrong, not that, not there. Here." He
draws harsh lines through scrawls, scurries to a new
patch of clean sand, begins anew. He will make it perfect;
it will be right, and she will see, and know.
He pounds his fist against the sand. The words are coming
out wrong and clumsy and he doesn't know how to fix
them. Tears well in his eyes as he gets to his feet and
lurches to another spot, shaking with need. It must be
perfect for her; he cannot settle for mediocrity in this
regard. She must know. She must be told.
His eyes are wild. He draws letters again and again,
smudging them in his haste. He wants so desperately to
tell her of the maelstrom swirling within him. He wants
to tell her with grace, with beauty, with truth. He wants
the words to be soft, and fair, and right, but instead they
are jumbled and broken. Nothing will translate from the
sick pain in his head to the clean sand beneath him.
He keeps on trying. He hurries from place to place, falling
to his knees each time, dragging his fingers through the
sand in an attempt to funnel his anguish out into words.
When he fails he howls in frustration, tears streaking his
cheeks. The stars twinkle merrily above but he is crying
on the beach, hunched over his ill-formed markings and
ruined forms.
The moon sinks beneath the sea and the sun peeks over
the horizon, and still he sits with his scratchy letters and
mixed-up words. He sees the sun, hisses, flees to a dark
sanctuary. He weeps.
The sun bursts forth, brilliant, young, shining. Its rays
spill forward, kissing the messed sand upon the beach.
Light fills grooves and hollows in the smooth surface,
illuminating panicked words.
A fisherman sets forth, ready for a hard day's work. He
spies patterns in the sand and stares at them, trying to
understand them. The strange squiggles and lines are
nearly incomprehensible, but they are repeated over and
over. He thinks back to his days of schooling and at last
puts a name to the two words marring the beach in a
thousand different places. Confused, he mouths them
quietly.
"Forgive me."
~FIN
Not so cheerful, no, but I quite like the idea. :)
Author: Athena-Parthenos
Rating: PG
Category: Angst, vignette
Spoilers: Vague references to "Grave"
Summary: Words in the sand, written in desperation. It's a
long way back to Sunnydale.
Disclaimers: Spike and Buffy are not mine and never will
be. They belong as always to Joss Whedon and ME.
Author's Note: It's a pit stop on the journey from Africa to
Sunnydale.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He stumbles out into the starlight, sobbing, her name on
his lips. Sand, cool and soft, caresses his bare feet; he
throws his head back and lets out a piercing cry. He falls
to his knees, the sound of waves breaking and retreating
a balm to ears tortured by their owner's screams.
An idea strikes him. He will write it out, write it all out,
here in the sand. He will put his grief and his love and his
misery to words, words that will convey to her the
profoundness of his agony, if only she would see them.
In his pain he forgets that she is half a world away, that
the stars above him are not the same as those shining down
upon her, sparkling in her deep, bright eyes.
Eagerly he sets to work upon his task. He traces letters
with his fingers, frantic, frenzied. He shakes his head,
muttering, "No, wrong, not that, not there. Here." He
draws harsh lines through scrawls, scurries to a new
patch of clean sand, begins anew. He will make it perfect;
it will be right, and she will see, and know.
He pounds his fist against the sand. The words are coming
out wrong and clumsy and he doesn't know how to fix
them. Tears well in his eyes as he gets to his feet and
lurches to another spot, shaking with need. It must be
perfect for her; he cannot settle for mediocrity in this
regard. She must know. She must be told.
His eyes are wild. He draws letters again and again,
smudging them in his haste. He wants so desperately to
tell her of the maelstrom swirling within him. He wants
to tell her with grace, with beauty, with truth. He wants
the words to be soft, and fair, and right, but instead they
are jumbled and broken. Nothing will translate from the
sick pain in his head to the clean sand beneath him.
He keeps on trying. He hurries from place to place, falling
to his knees each time, dragging his fingers through the
sand in an attempt to funnel his anguish out into words.
When he fails he howls in frustration, tears streaking his
cheeks. The stars twinkle merrily above but he is crying
on the beach, hunched over his ill-formed markings and
ruined forms.
The moon sinks beneath the sea and the sun peeks over
the horizon, and still he sits with his scratchy letters and
mixed-up words. He sees the sun, hisses, flees to a dark
sanctuary. He weeps.
The sun bursts forth, brilliant, young, shining. Its rays
spill forward, kissing the messed sand upon the beach.
Light fills grooves and hollows in the smooth surface,
illuminating panicked words.
A fisherman sets forth, ready for a hard day's work. He
spies patterns in the sand and stares at them, trying to
understand them. The strange squiggles and lines are
nearly incomprehensible, but they are repeated over and
over. He thinks back to his days of schooling and at last
puts a name to the two words marring the beach in a
thousand different places. Confused, he mouths them
quietly.
"Forgive me."
~FIN
Not so cheerful, no, but I quite like the idea. :)