(no subject)
Will-based drabble. Enjoy.
Time: Elizebethan England
Pairing: guess ~.^
Rating: G
Anything else: nope!
I pick up the quill, but my hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking? I put it down again. I can’t write. Anything I try would be... plagiarism. And bad plagiarism, at that... a pale reflection of a great man’s light.
Light. The candle is out. I light it once more, fascinated by the sudden illumination. Desk. Bookshelves. Bed. Blank paper.
I groan, and let my head drop to the desk. Where is that muse that showed me how to make my writing sing? I’ve lost it... I’ve lost everything.
The ink is drying. I don’t want to waste it. My hands are shaking, but I have to write. I have to write before I go insane.
The words melt into chaos. I can’t make them behave, any longer. It is like I’m drowning, lost in a sea of blue-gray eyes.
Eyes. When did eyes come into the picture? They were beautiful eyes, honest and clear, perfectly frames in long black lashes. Who’s eyes? That is the question.
Another of his lines, that one. He always has the best lines.
The parchment is covered in ink. I try to pick out a word, or a phrase, but I can’t...
Beautiful. Yes, that word there is beautiful.
I blow out the candle. It’s too late, or too early, or both... I stumble to my bed and sit, pulling my knees up under my chin. The moon is bright, and I know that sleep will not come now.
‘I dreamed that dreamers often lie...’
And then I know. His eyes. His beautiful stormy eyes.
~
and for those who want to know who... kit marlowe talking about will shakespeare
- it's based on the book Will by Grace Tiffany, or Tiffany Grace, or something.
Time: Elizebethan England
Pairing: guess ~.^
Rating: G
Anything else: nope!
I pick up the quill, but my hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking? I put it down again. I can’t write. Anything I try would be... plagiarism. And bad plagiarism, at that... a pale reflection of a great man’s light.
Light. The candle is out. I light it once more, fascinated by the sudden illumination. Desk. Bookshelves. Bed. Blank paper.
I groan, and let my head drop to the desk. Where is that muse that showed me how to make my writing sing? I’ve lost it... I’ve lost everything.
The ink is drying. I don’t want to waste it. My hands are shaking, but I have to write. I have to write before I go insane.
The words melt into chaos. I can’t make them behave, any longer. It is like I’m drowning, lost in a sea of blue-gray eyes.
Eyes. When did eyes come into the picture? They were beautiful eyes, honest and clear, perfectly frames in long black lashes. Who’s eyes? That is the question.
Another of his lines, that one. He always has the best lines.
The parchment is covered in ink. I try to pick out a word, or a phrase, but I can’t...
Beautiful. Yes, that word there is beautiful.
I blow out the candle. It’s too late, or too early, or both... I stumble to my bed and sit, pulling my knees up under my chin. The moon is bright, and I know that sleep will not come now.
‘I dreamed that dreamers often lie...’
And then I know. His eyes. His beautiful stormy eyes.
~
and for those who want to know who... kit marlowe talking about will shakespeare
- it's based on the book Will by Grace Tiffany, or Tiffany Grace, or something.