Title: Shakespearean Promises
By:PNS
Notes: Two people discuss Shakespeare and the meaning of life.
"Shakespeare knew the pain of death. He knew death's soul. Or else he wouldn't have been able to describe the pure agony of it. Only those who have been through it and have risen to meet it again know the truth." The rain slid down the windows. It was a quiet moment, time dispelled in the near perfect darkness, in the cold.
"Are you saying Shakespeare was a vampire?" She didn't have to look at him. They always sat like this.
"Course not. That's bloody stupid. I'm only saying that the man had a heightened sense of tragedy. And along with that a great sense o' humor. Else he wouldn't 'a been about to write comedies as well."
"Never thought of you as a fan of Shakespeare." He could picture her smirk vividly without turning. She loved to make fun of him.
"I'm English aren't I?" He was irritated.
"That doesn't mean you like Shakeapeare."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." She didn't know anything about his past and he liked to keep it that way. If she ever knew...
"Like what?" her voice was a whisper, almost visible in the cold room.
"Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Creeps at this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays are like fools, the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle. Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is the tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing." His voice was slow, sad, knowing.
"It's beautiful. I can kind of see what you mean. About the dust and all." He felt annoyed, she was cracking jokes when he was revealing his soul-and he meant his soul, to her. But she was the little warrior, and sometimes he wondered if she was beyond his touch now, so stony and cold. "But how does it apply to you? I doubt many vampires fret about their demise having a leg up on the immortality side of life."
"You didn't understand a word if you still ask me that question," he snapped. He didn't mean to be so harsh with his words. He could feel her drawing away from him. He attempted to explain. "No matter how long, how short, life is harsh and in the end there is nothing to show. What do I have to show for 100 years? Angel for 200? What do you have to show for 22 years? Saved a couple lives? What does anything matter?"
"I killed things," she said tentatively.
"And don't they keep coming? Meaner, faster, more." His voice was low, penetrating. "Sound and fury...signifying. Nothing." Was she so fragile that a few words could so jar her? Maybe it had all been wrong. Why hadn't he seen that she had only taken him to her side because she had fallen apart again? She was at her wit's ends. And he just might have pushed her over the edge.
He brushed his hand against the worn jeans. She shuttered. "Don't touch me."
"Just because it doesn't matter in the end doesn't mean it doesn't matter now," he said softly. "All we have is now."
"Methinks to see him as at the bottom of a grave." She mumbled something recently remembered. "You'll never leave me." It was a question in so far as an affirmation of always.
"Never."
"On then. To tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...To whatever comes." He blew out the candle, the only light that had showed him her weary face, and they sat in the dark, watching the rain roll down the windows.
By:PNS
Notes: Two people discuss Shakespeare and the meaning of life.
"Shakespeare knew the pain of death. He knew death's soul. Or else he wouldn't have been able to describe the pure agony of it. Only those who have been through it and have risen to meet it again know the truth." The rain slid down the windows. It was a quiet moment, time dispelled in the near perfect darkness, in the cold.
"Are you saying Shakespeare was a vampire?" She didn't have to look at him. They always sat like this.
"Course not. That's bloody stupid. I'm only saying that the man had a heightened sense of tragedy. And along with that a great sense o' humor. Else he wouldn't 'a been about to write comedies as well."
"Never thought of you as a fan of Shakespeare." He could picture her smirk vividly without turning. She loved to make fun of him.
"I'm English aren't I?" He was irritated.
"That doesn't mean you like Shakeapeare."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." She didn't know anything about his past and he liked to keep it that way. If she ever knew...
"Like what?" her voice was a whisper, almost visible in the cold room.
"Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Creeps at this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays are like fools, the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle. Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is the tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing." His voice was slow, sad, knowing.
"It's beautiful. I can kind of see what you mean. About the dust and all." He felt annoyed, she was cracking jokes when he was revealing his soul-and he meant his soul, to her. But she was the little warrior, and sometimes he wondered if she was beyond his touch now, so stony and cold. "But how does it apply to you? I doubt many vampires fret about their demise having a leg up on the immortality side of life."
"You didn't understand a word if you still ask me that question," he snapped. He didn't mean to be so harsh with his words. He could feel her drawing away from him. He attempted to explain. "No matter how long, how short, life is harsh and in the end there is nothing to show. What do I have to show for 100 years? Angel for 200? What do you have to show for 22 years? Saved a couple lives? What does anything matter?"
"I killed things," she said tentatively.
"And don't they keep coming? Meaner, faster, more." His voice was low, penetrating. "Sound and fury...signifying. Nothing." Was she so fragile that a few words could so jar her? Maybe it had all been wrong. Why hadn't he seen that she had only taken him to her side because she had fallen apart again? She was at her wit's ends. And he just might have pushed her over the edge.
He brushed his hand against the worn jeans. She shuttered. "Don't touch me."
"Just because it doesn't matter in the end doesn't mean it doesn't matter now," he said softly. "All we have is now."
"Methinks to see him as at the bottom of a grave." She mumbled something recently remembered. "You'll never leave me." It was a question in so far as an affirmation of always.
"Never."
"On then. To tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...To whatever comes." He blew out the candle, the only light that had showed him her weary face, and they sat in the dark, watching the rain roll down the windows.