Snapshots
Snapshots
A Witchblade Fic
Description: Ruminations on Ian Nottingham
Spoilers? I have no idea. It's not like I've been watching the
series in order or on time or anything. I get bits and pieces
from forums and videotapes. Oh, and all thanks to Dryden. I don't
even know who Dryden is, but I found a sentence in the thesaurus
and ran with it, paraphrasing at will. And thanks to William
Blake, for the reference most should catch.
© Voleuse 2001. Do not archive or distribute without my
permission.
Send feedback to ToTheCavern@yahoo.com.
He stands on a rooftop. Alone. A dark blot
against the tablecloth of snow. Silent. A hush before the scream.
Still. A museum quality wax figure, so real until you notice it
doesn't breathe.
No, he breathes. For a second, a quick fog
emerges from his cold lips. A sign of moisture. Of heat. Of life.
For a second, he looks alive.
For a second.
*
She sleeps.
She dreams.
She sobs.
He gazes down at her shaking form,
unmoving. Unmoving, but not unmoved.
Uninvited, but still at home.
His gloved hand rises, draws close to her.
To her hair. Her cheek. Her lips.
His hand stops. Hovers.
There is only space between them.
Isn't there?
*
Alone again.
The only light filtering in from the
skylight above. The brush of night paints the cell in gloom.
He is seated now, leaning into a corner,
arms pressed up against the walls. Head bowed, in deference to
those who are not there. In respect. In obedience. In worship.
His body before was coiled to strike. Now,
void of instruction, he lolls supine in state.
He could almost be harmless, if not for his
eyes. Black, black eyes, burning bright.
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
His chest moves with shallow breath, as his
eyes, unblinking, search the darkness.
For what?
He is alone.
*~-End-~*
