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monday memeage
Sep. 14th, 2009 12:52 pmBecause this one is always fun. Works-in-progress meme: post a few lines from the fic you're working on.
*
“You remind me of someone,” he said at last, which was partially true – if Darla had ever been a sweet young thing, which Angelus privately doubted, she may have been not unlike this gilded knife of a girl. “What's your name?”
“Rebecca Sharp. Becky. And I shan't ask yours,” she answered pertly. “By your voice you're an Irishman, and by your face you're not low born, but by your voice I should call you quite a wicked personage, for no virtuous man would ever speak so sweetly of buying and selling.”
*
Jack knew that Daniel needed an anchor. He just didn't know where to find the chain. Sha're possessed links by the score: her lips, her voice, her finger in the sand, the smell of her body. The breathing artifact of her skin, her language straight out of Daniel's work, Daniel's dreams. Egypt had been his home as a child, surrounded by love and care and the dusty remnants of history. Sha're – Abydos – was that home come again.
*
It was just as well, Angel thought. He didn't really want to see them cover her over with cold earth. He didn't really want to have to remember what it felt like to claw a way through clinging soil, pull yourself up onto the wet grass and feel the demon pawing over your dead heart. He didn't want to have those memories get so close to her, as if their gore might splash her pretty bright clothes, stain her mouth bitten red.
*
Prospero opened the chest, and it was full of bright and beautiful cloth, and pearls, and small dainty things that shone like jewels. Miranda gave a little gasp and fell to her knees before it, her hands going out to touch and caress the luxurious silks and velvets, the like of which she’d never seen. They were softer than the fur of any creature, cooler than the sea at night. The gowns that she pulled out to their length were heavier than she expected, and longer than she was tall. “Try them on,” her father said. “They belong to you.”
*
*
“You remind me of someone,” he said at last, which was partially true – if Darla had ever been a sweet young thing, which Angelus privately doubted, she may have been not unlike this gilded knife of a girl. “What's your name?”
“Rebecca Sharp. Becky. And I shan't ask yours,” she answered pertly. “By your voice you're an Irishman, and by your face you're not low born, but by your voice I should call you quite a wicked personage, for no virtuous man would ever speak so sweetly of buying and selling.”
*
Jack knew that Daniel needed an anchor. He just didn't know where to find the chain. Sha're possessed links by the score: her lips, her voice, her finger in the sand, the smell of her body. The breathing artifact of her skin, her language straight out of Daniel's work, Daniel's dreams. Egypt had been his home as a child, surrounded by love and care and the dusty remnants of history. Sha're – Abydos – was that home come again.
*
It was just as well, Angel thought. He didn't really want to see them cover her over with cold earth. He didn't really want to have to remember what it felt like to claw a way through clinging soil, pull yourself up onto the wet grass and feel the demon pawing over your dead heart. He didn't want to have those memories get so close to her, as if their gore might splash her pretty bright clothes, stain her mouth bitten red.
*
Prospero opened the chest, and it was full of bright and beautiful cloth, and pearls, and small dainty things that shone like jewels. Miranda gave a little gasp and fell to her knees before it, her hands going out to touch and caress the luxurious silks and velvets, the like of which she’d never seen. They were softer than the fur of any creature, cooler than the sea at night. The gowns that she pulled out to their length were heavier than she expected, and longer than she was tall. “Try them on,” her father said. “They belong to you.”
*