BDL #25 - Dark Tower

Title: Metaphor
Fandom: The Dark Tower
Characters: Marten Broadcloak and Gabrielle Deschain
Word Count: 1500
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I metaphor sex, but she slapped me in the face and walked away when I asked.

In the first day they’re just dancing, and everyone who watches them claps because the steps are perfect. No reason they shouldn’t be perfect. Marten Broadcloak is Gabrielle Deschain’s Wizard, excuse me, her husband’s wizard. Slip of the tongue, there.

The steps are picture perfect and every hair is in place. They smile with easy familiarity because, after all, they are of the same household. They know each other. And maybe that’s what makes it perfect, both so skilled and both familiar with each other, enough to give them that edge over dancing partners who have just met at the occasion and still haven’t gotten over the first stab of shyness. Or perhaps those who are still trying too hard to be someone else for someone else’s benefit.

Marten wears his mask too, smiling with teeth. Gabrielle smiles and pretends she isn’t bored by her husband’s quiet stern attention. He loves her, she knows this, and he loves his son, but he loves honor and duty and the way of the gunslinger more.

So they dance. And they smile, and while they know they are wearing masks and veils for the sake of polite society they are still too well acquainted to be clumsy in each other’s arms.

( And then... )

(no subject)

I have a luck keychain!

I also have a weird sort of writing hangover and the last remnants of a wackyass dream in my head. Something about me, a bunch of shapeshifters from my old skinchangers stories, and some kids, and being chased. And something about Amaroq, who was a shapeshifter leader. Except I think that was also the name of one of Julie's Wolves. Mm. We were being chased by evil skinchangers. I may have to write about that.

Awake. Cold. Shivery. There should be blankets and television. Or possibly loud music and Diablo 2. STill didn't get the 'tec novel finished last night. Wrote that 'Metaphor' piece instead. Oh well. Working today. I promise.

(no subject)

Re-reading Metaphor in the cold light of day, it's more depressing than it was when I wrote it last night.

This is why I don't write thing late, late at night.

(no subject)

Because it's beautiful, because it's true.

And because it's stuck in my head.

A thousand years, a thousand more,
A thousand times a million doors to eternity
I may have lived a thousand lives, a thousand times
An endless turning stairway climbs
To a tower of souls
If it takes another thousand years, a thousand wars,
The towers rise to numberless floors in space
I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,
A million names but only one truth to face

A million roads, a million fears
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time
But if there was a single truth, a single light
A single thought, a singular touch of grace
Then following this single point , this single flame,
The single haunted memory of your face

I still love you
I still want you
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head

I may be numberless, I may be innocent
I may know many things, I may be ignorant
Or I could ride with kings and conquer many lands
Or win this world at cards and let it slip my hands
I could be cannon food, destroyed a thousand times
Reborn as fortune's child to judge another's crimes
Or wear this pilgrim's cloak, or be a common thief
I've kept this single faith, I have but one belief

I still love you
I still want you
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head
On and on the mysteries unwind themselves
Eternities still unsaid
'Til you love me

-- Sting, "A Thousand Years"