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picfor10002005-02-28 01:37 am
morvoren.livejournal.com) wrote in picfor10002005-02-28 01:37 am
Entry tags:
The Endless (Sandman)
Title: The Endless
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
morvoren
Fandom: Sandman
Rating: PG13? (see A/N)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of The Endless, I just borrowed them for a bit. I own her, though.
Summary: They are what they are, and cannot be otherwise.
Author's Notes: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
picfor1000 "Third Time's The Charm" challenge. Accompanying photo is here. Beta'd by keithzg. I'm a little unsure about rating, if there is anyone willing to explain the rating system for fics, please let me know. Also, this is my first attempt at fic in a little while, so feedback is very much welcome.
Enjoy.
For a long time, she wished for a life. Something better, more exciting, where she could be someone who did important things and was remembered well for them. She would read furiously, devouring books and wishing with all her heart to be like the people in them.
Golden eyes watched her from afar, waiting patiently, amused as her desperation grew. Always, he knew, they would inevitably need him. She did. It was only a matter of time.
Desire smiled.
***
There was racing in the school every day, an ongoing competition to claim the pennies and change scattered carelessly in the halls.
She snatched the bulk of it, always alert for the bright flashes of a discarded coin out of the corners of her eyes – not golden, but captivating all the same. It was one of the few things she excelled at, one of the only things she could beat everyone in.
She wrote, spinning sentences out of thin air; using words to create magic and passion and sorrow that chained a person to the page.
She could weave histories in ink, making her characters strong and self-reliant and just a touch vulnerable – because she knew that someone who was always perfect could never be real. She would close her eyes, drift into daydreams and live the heroes in her stories, making of those strong and self-reliant characters everything she wanted to be.
Dream sighed, letting the colors play beneath her closed eyelids, and let her remember them when she woke from her reveries. It was not his place to thwart his sister-brother.
***
She does not often choose to remember better times. The 'now' surrounds her, pulling with sharp fingers on her hair, forcing itself into her face. She finds it hard to dwell on better things with 'what is' staring into her eyes.
Three years ago, this month, she first started writing; escaping into stories, creating characters she wished she could be.
It's been three months since she's penned a single word. The people she tried to be have abandoned her, left her with nothing to cling to in the harsh face of reality.
She used to collect money in the hallways – darting and dashing and weaving around people to grasp forgotten coins, ever-beguiled by the flashes just out of her vision.
Now, she will go nowhere. And the pennies scattered across her floor cannot shine in the darkness.
Despair's lips twist into a rictus, a horrible parody of a smile, as she watches the results of Desire's work.
***
It cannot be called writing now, what she does. Inscribing, perhaps, single words and lines mapping out her pain. The ink she uses is red, welling from beneath her skin, with herself as the paper.
It tastes salty and metallic, sweet on her tongue as she drinks it down, painting her lips crimson in a parody of the beautiful people she used to be.
The blade flashes now, candlelight reflecting off the wicked edge; white flashes dart in the corners of her vision. She does not bother turning, now – they are not golden, and nothing is ever there. They just taunt her from out of reach, from a place she cannot find, cannot follow. But the blade, ah, its flash is dull but it is something she can grasp, hold to herself and feel. She uses the flash to paint the pictures on her skin in living pigment, a deeper escape from the cruel reality she despises.
She has driven away anyone who would care for her, and now she sits in the shambles of her former life – former self – only conscious of the encroaching darkness, the metallic taste of the ink, the ever-fuller page.
Delirium flickers between worlds, wandering a path none can follow, but only see in glimpses when they are unaware. Destruction sighs, following his sister on her journeys. He cannot help but pity those who are caught in the spells that the Endless weave.
But he is what he is, and they are what they are, and none can be otherwise. Pity is fleeting as he follows his wayward sister down her crystal paths.
***
It has come to this, then. The blade's flash no longer draws her as it once did, the ink is only bitter on her tongue. The page is filled with swift strokes and sharply-drawn words and can hold no more. She has nothing left to cling to, no anchors with which to fix her empty and questing spirit.
She does not see the now in front of her. The only thing she can see is the yawning black pit in front of her feet, too large to walk around. She cannot turn around, will not risk losing her balance and falling.
If she falls, it will be her choice, not the fickle whims of fate.
There is space yet on the paper, a voice whispers, quiet on the edges of what remains of her mind. There is space yet, for two more lines, strong lines. Lines that will last a lifetime and beyond.
The voice is compelling and soothing, gentle yet firm. She begins to protest that her canvas is full, that her skin can hold no more bloodstained lines. But she sees them now, the bare patches above her wrists, and she understands.
The ink is no longer bitter in her mouth, for this, and the blade gleams as brightly as the discarded coins and those golden eyes ever did. This, she knows, will never fade; these lines will be written upon her skin forever.
It's all she wants now. Permanence. Perfection. The world fades around her, and she knows the purity of escape one last time.
Death smiles at her, white face calm against clothing and hair of black. She reaches out, clasping the cool hand of the second eldest of the Endless, and wishes she could write of this, turn Death into a character she could be.
Death tugs gently on her hand, and she is content to be led.
Author:
morvorenFandom: Sandman
Rating: PG13? (see A/N)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of The Endless, I just borrowed them for a bit. I own her, though.
Summary: They are what they are, and cannot be otherwise.
Author's Notes: Written for the
picfor1000 "Third Time's The Charm" challenge. Accompanying photo is here. Beta'd by 
keithzg. I'm a little unsure about rating, if there is anyone willing to explain the rating system for fics, please let me know. Also, this is my first attempt at fic in a little while, so feedback is very much welcome.Enjoy.
For a long time, she wished for a life. Something better, more exciting, where she could be someone who did important things and was remembered well for them. She would read furiously, devouring books and wishing with all her heart to be like the people in them.
Golden eyes watched her from afar, waiting patiently, amused as her desperation grew. Always, he knew, they would inevitably need him. She did. It was only a matter of time.
Desire smiled.
There was racing in the school every day, an ongoing competition to claim the pennies and change scattered carelessly in the halls.
She snatched the bulk of it, always alert for the bright flashes of a discarded coin out of the corners of her eyes – not golden, but captivating all the same. It was one of the few things she excelled at, one of the only things she could beat everyone in.
She wrote, spinning sentences out of thin air; using words to create magic and passion and sorrow that chained a person to the page.
She could weave histories in ink, making her characters strong and self-reliant and just a touch vulnerable – because she knew that someone who was always perfect could never be real. She would close her eyes, drift into daydreams and live the heroes in her stories, making of those strong and self-reliant characters everything she wanted to be.
Dream sighed, letting the colors play beneath her closed eyelids, and let her remember them when she woke from her reveries. It was not his place to thwart his sister-brother.
She does not often choose to remember better times. The 'now' surrounds her, pulling with sharp fingers on her hair, forcing itself into her face. She finds it hard to dwell on better things with 'what is' staring into her eyes.
Three years ago, this month, she first started writing; escaping into stories, creating characters she wished she could be.
It's been three months since she's penned a single word. The people she tried to be have abandoned her, left her with nothing to cling to in the harsh face of reality.
She used to collect money in the hallways – darting and dashing and weaving around people to grasp forgotten coins, ever-beguiled by the flashes just out of her vision.
Now, she will go nowhere. And the pennies scattered across her floor cannot shine in the darkness.
Despair's lips twist into a rictus, a horrible parody of a smile, as she watches the results of Desire's work.
It cannot be called writing now, what she does. Inscribing, perhaps, single words and lines mapping out her pain. The ink she uses is red, welling from beneath her skin, with herself as the paper.
It tastes salty and metallic, sweet on her tongue as she drinks it down, painting her lips crimson in a parody of the beautiful people she used to be.
The blade flashes now, candlelight reflecting off the wicked edge; white flashes dart in the corners of her vision. She does not bother turning, now – they are not golden, and nothing is ever there. They just taunt her from out of reach, from a place she cannot find, cannot follow. But the blade, ah, its flash is dull but it is something she can grasp, hold to herself and feel. She uses the flash to paint the pictures on her skin in living pigment, a deeper escape from the cruel reality she despises.
She has driven away anyone who would care for her, and now she sits in the shambles of her former life – former self – only conscious of the encroaching darkness, the metallic taste of the ink, the ever-fuller page.
Delirium flickers between worlds, wandering a path none can follow, but only see in glimpses when they are unaware. Destruction sighs, following his sister on her journeys. He cannot help but pity those who are caught in the spells that the Endless weave.
But he is what he is, and they are what they are, and none can be otherwise. Pity is fleeting as he follows his wayward sister down her crystal paths.
It has come to this, then. The blade's flash no longer draws her as it once did, the ink is only bitter on her tongue. The page is filled with swift strokes and sharply-drawn words and can hold no more. She has nothing left to cling to, no anchors with which to fix her empty and questing spirit.
She does not see the now in front of her. The only thing she can see is the yawning black pit in front of her feet, too large to walk around. She cannot turn around, will not risk losing her balance and falling.
If she falls, it will be her choice, not the fickle whims of fate.
There is space yet on the paper, a voice whispers, quiet on the edges of what remains of her mind. There is space yet, for two more lines, strong lines. Lines that will last a lifetime and beyond.
The voice is compelling and soothing, gentle yet firm. She begins to protest that her canvas is full, that her skin can hold no more bloodstained lines. But she sees them now, the bare patches above her wrists, and she understands.
The ink is no longer bitter in her mouth, for this, and the blade gleams as brightly as the discarded coins and those golden eyes ever did. This, she knows, will never fade; these lines will be written upon her skin forever.
It's all she wants now. Permanence. Perfection. The world fades around her, and she knows the purity of escape one last time.
Death smiles at her, white face calm against clothing and hair of black. She reaches out, clasping the cool hand of the second eldest of the Endless, and wishes she could write of this, turn Death into a character she could be.
Death tugs gently on her hand, and she is content to be led.