Filled: .the sun upon the lake is low Across the lake the curlews blew in on a late south wind, inscribing an invisible arc against the sky; their calls a high, thin outreach. The chill bit through jacket and shirt, raised the hairs on Sam's neck as he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. At the edge of the lake grew thick brushed reeds, heavy as they bent over the silent waters, roots thrust so deep into the earth that it seemed as though they would endure forever. The water spilled into the distance, blended with the blue and misty grey of the far off horizon, a shadowed merging between sky and water. The breeze shivered the water and shattered the dim reflection, endless ripples, fainter and fainter until they faded into stillness as Sam watched them spread and dissipate until they were as good as gone and only the faintest tremor remained to mark their passing
( ... )
Sam stretched his fingers against the rock, broke unceasing stillness to feel the solid dying warmth beneath his hands as he gazed at the bird, aloof and still, a natural congruent part to its surroundings and yet alone, master of itself and nothing else. The clamour in his head quieted for long moments, the hard lump of distress in his throat that didn't seem to go no matter how long he waited softened a little. Here, he could imagine an end, or even that there was something else after the end. That whether he broke, whatever happened - even the hollowing and emptying of himself for the pleasure and whim of something else - that something would go on outside of him, untouched by evil, not subject to the whims of others, not a plaything in others games. He was allowed entrance for these quiet minutes into a precious peace
( ... )
Oh, what a lovely thing! I like Sam taking comfort in the natural world being its own thing, even if what he fears most happens and he doesn't get to be himself. And I really like the bit at the end, where he finds Cas watching him and wonders if the heron feels about his observation the way he feels about Cas's.
It's really nice to have such ambiguous comfort here; the heron as something both apart from Sam and apart from what's happened to him, and as affected by Sam's watching as Sam is affected by Castiel's watching. The way that the bird is both ugly, imperfect, and its own untarnished particular thing. The longing for things to be unaffected that the whole piece is shot through; the grass, the breeze on Sam's skin. And how because Sam is so conscious of it his own biological processes, even his heartbeat, take on the same characteristics of an observable natural phenomenon he can't altogether relate to himself. The sense of sheer effort; moving himself forward inch by inch.
Across the lake the curlews blew in on a late south wind, inscribing an invisible arc against the sky; their calls a high, thin outreach. The chill bit through jacket and shirt, raised the hairs on Sam's neck as he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. At the edge of the lake grew thick brushed reeds, heavy as they bent over the silent waters, roots thrust so deep into the earth that it seemed as though they would endure forever. The water spilled into the distance, blended with the blue and misty grey of the far off horizon, a shadowed merging between sky and water. The breeze shivered the water and shattered the dim reflection, endless ripples, fainter and fainter until they faded into stillness as Sam watched them spread and dissipate until they were as good as gone and only the faintest tremor remained to mark their passing ( ... )
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Thank you so much!
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