Title: In Her Garden
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG for character death
Genre: R & J: Romeo and Juliet (i.e. romance/tragedy)
Archived: SD-1, FanFiction.Net, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!
'Shippers' Paradise: S/V
Spoilers/Timeline: None; almost AU or future fic.
Disclaimer: I'm eeevil. I own "Alias". I own the Cubs. I own Michael Vartan. I'm also in an institution for compulsive lying. In other words, I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!
Suggested Soundtrack: "Simple Man" and "45" by Shinedown, "My Immortal" by Evanescence
Summary: 'In her garden, she toils away/Not suspecting foul play.' Before the mark; Vaughn's final moments. Prequel to A Hunter's Mark. Entry in June 2004 SD-1 challenge. A Dream Writer Experience.
Author's Note: My third attempt at an SD challenge! Hopefully it'll go better than my second. The requirements are that it be a vignette, have magic markers, a broken window, and the line "Forget the dead you've left; they will not follow you." I figured I'd do a prequel to A Hunter's Mark because both this challenge and the March '03 CM challenge included a broken window. It's not necessary to read A Hunter's Mark before or after to get the gist, but it would sure make me happy. Enjoy! Oh, and TISSUE WARNING!



In Her Garden

In her garden, she toils away
Not suspecting foul play

Good. She's out of the room. Now you can set things in motion.

You listen as she pounds down the old, rickety wooden stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the backyard, headed straight for you mother's prized flower garden. You watch as she pauses at the stone path, unsure of where to go first, and laugh as she makes a beeline towards the Queen Anne's Lace, the only weed your mother allows in her gardens. She has no qualms about kneeling in the damp earth, enthusiastically smelling each and every flower within reach. The basket she carries with her swings wildly from her arm, practically forgotten until it smacks her in the face. Surprised for a moment, she slides if off and sets it beside her, rubbing her cheek gingerly.

Watching your Sydney has always been one of your favourite pastimes, but being able to see her like this makes your heart soar to a height you did not know possible. Your first vacation. Together. Your mother practically suffocated you when you asked for the keys to the summer home in Fleury. She wanted to meet 'this Sydney of yours' immediately, but you told her to be patient; there was one thing you had to do first. Your mother immediately jumped to conclusions, and you did nothing to stop her. The Alliance and SD-6 have been gone for years, and you knew from the moment your lips touched hers that Sydney would be the only woman for you. Ever. The only thing left to do was to make it official.

And it is still the only thing left to do.

A hand delves into the pocket of your dress pants to finger the simple diamond ring resting there. She laughed at you that morning for 'dressing up': that's where she categorized a pair of khaki-coloured pants and a blue Oxford. Considering she had donned a simple white cotton sun dress, you would agree with her.

But you want everything to be perfect, down to the socks on your feet and the dust-free rafters above your head. Lately, she has been depressed. Too many things weighed on her mind; saving the world on a weekly basis can do that to a person. So you came up with this fantastic idea to take a vacation, the word staggering off your tongue unfamiliarly. You promised this would be the best vacation ever in the history of the world EVER, filled with so much 'romantic sap-happiness' that she would practically choke. So far, it has lived up to your promise. You had even made a feel-better card for her that morning while she slept. At first, you could not find the construction paper, and when the box of magic markers fell to the floor, you thought that signed your death warrant.

Then you remembered what a heavy sleeper she is.

You laugh at the memory of her face as she reached under the pillow and found the Hallmark reject. She read the inscription out loud: 'Forget the dead you've left; they will not follow you.' Instead of laughing and throwing the card in your face, asking where you plagiarized it from, it fell between you on the bed sheets as she hugged you tightly, not a whisper of air between your bodies.

That in itself was its own reward.

And as you extract your hand from its pocket to marvel at the wedding band — Sydney's future wedding band — you wonder how she'll react to this one.

Gripping the ring tightly in your fist, you return to the mullioned window and continue watching your Sydney struggle with the flowers. She has forgotten to bring a pair of shears to the garden with her, and now she tries to tear the stems. Giving up on that notion, she begins tugging at the roots, hoping the thick tendrils will give way to her strong grasp. When they don't, you smile and she scowls; your mother always said her flowers were strong-willed, but you never thought they could stand up to your Sydney's thug-stopping brawn. You will have to tell her when the two of you return to the States.

She gives up on the Queen Anne's Lace and moves on to something little better than a weed: Black-Eyed Susans. 'Whoever knew the cultured and well-versed Sydney Bristow favoured rudimentary flowers?' You think passively. 'God, I love her so much.'



When it comes she is unknowing
That his blood ceases flowing

You hear the shot first.

You hear the click of the trigger; the fizz of the gunpowder as it burns; the scraping of metal-on-metal as the bullet propels through the barrel; and finally the hiss as it slices through the air like a scythe through dry grass.

You hear the window crack as it pummels through on its way to the target.

You hear it piece your shirt, your skin, scrape a rib, and finally embedded itself into your heart.

You hear your own breath hitch and catch, your lungs fervently trying to replenish something they have no control over. They don't understand the fight is futile.

You hear the blood trickle from your wound, sounding as innocent as the drip of a brook.

Then your other senses come roaring back to you with enough force to knock you to the floorboards.

You see the rifle retreat back into the forest's shadows immediately after the shot; you think you see a flash of blonde before everything starts blurring around the edges and the pain starts.

You have felt your share of pain before, both physical and mental, but this...This defies category. Yes, the bullet is buried in the most vital of organs and, yes, your grip on life is evaporating like alcohol on a hot plate. But what hurts worse — far worse — is the notion that you will never see your Sydney again. You'll never see her laugh. You'll never see her smile. You'll never see her dimples pop when you ask her to marry you. You'll never get to make love to her on your wedding night. You'll never hold your firstborn in your arms and proclaim her ruler of the universe and apple of your eye.

You'll never be happy again.

And that pain can trump a bullet any day.

Your first thought is to call out to her, to scream and yell and bellow and cry for her help. But you know in your quite literally bleeding heart that as soon as she heard you, it would be too late. And, as selfish and corny as it seems, you do not want her last memory of you to consist of your dying body.

So instead of having her right next to you, you close your eyes and play out your happiest moments in life.

Your first kiss with Sydney.

Your first date with Sydney.

The first time you made love to Sydney.

Your first...anything with Sydney.

That morning, when she rolled over in bed and gave you a smile that made you want to propose right there.

Your Sydney struggling in the garden.

Your...

You grip the ring one last time before Life closes the door on you and your body.

Sydney finally tugs a flower from the earth. She smiles triumphantly at the white rose before laying it in the bottom of her basket reverently. She scoots down the row and begins on another.



And as his body became His prey
In her garden, she toils away

END
Hope you enjoyed! Remember, feedback is loved and constructive criticism is encouraged.

:D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life