Title: Fere Lunaris [1/1]
Author: Airebella E. Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: must you ask? Don't make me beg- his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: used to play with dolls, now with these characters…just borrowing them.
Distribution: CD okay, anyone else, ask me?
Summary: the past is always present.
[AN]: This would be my extremely related birthday present for the lurvely Jessica's sixteenth birthday. Happy Birthday, sweetie…thanks being a great friend and such a beautiful person.
" Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died,
In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide,
Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea,
And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be."
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Fere Lunaris [1/1]
The ruined figure of a lifeless body.
(There is always a body.)
Pick a number.
She loved the feel of the paper between her fingers. A rough edge against the lace of her skin, the lasting smell of tobacco on the pads of her fingers. The cigarettes were always cheap, because she would never smoke them. All she needed was the smell, the intoxication of the smoldering ash to smooth her frayed nerves.
Leather wallet. Always a leather wallet.
She wasn't into "questioning". During her training she'd always hated to hear countless men scream, because the squeak that grew in their voices always haunted her sleep. She preferred an innocent slumber, full of naïve hopes for the future. For those three hours of sleep (five, if she was lucky enough) she could picture a white picket fence, a family. Dreams of the lives she ripped men from daily, which started out positive and quickly turned sour. She would always wake up with the taste of death in her mouth and the fading smell of burnt cinders still engraved in her fingers.
Dark vanilla rouge.
Her lips were always the same tainted red. If she was nervous enough (nerves were everything), she'd nibble at the chapped skin on each lip, her eyes glazing over with a veneer of something (anything) that could make her forget.
Snapshots.
(White smile, gentle eyes, flowing hair.) A wife, a lover. (Young gaze, weak dimples, soft chin.) A son, perhaps, a young daughter. There were many of these, prom pictures, professional portraits, weddings, academic head shots. She would thumb through them, her gloved fingers (black) leaving the invisible fingerprints on the remnants of a life she grasped in her hands.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
The moonlight shone in his eyes, the last time. Her method was smooth and usually painless: she preferred needles first, then whatever her imagination could dream up in a nightmare. She would serenade them, lulling them softly with her literature. A sonnet, a monologue. This one, the last time, was different. She would always pause, here, the needed information obtained, her purpose served, to hear a last request, a plea.
He was different. A blink, a stare, a cough.
He finished the verse.
[End]
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credits
1."Arise, fair sun…she" Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
2."Moons waxed…to be" Lady Wentworth by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
thanks
Karen for the fabulous beta and help, Celli for directing me in the proper direction for some quotes and quickbeta™, and to the Counting Crows for inspiring me with their musical genius.