The Color Blue, Part 1 of 10
Title: The Color Blue
Author: Parcae_lj
Rating: R
Pairing: X/W
Warnings: Violence, character death
As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
-Sir Walter Raleigh
Osiris will be fat. Enormous, shapeless jowls will flow like a beard onto a perfectly round torso the color of old meat. He will stand like a chicken on the ridiculously thin and wrinkled legs of an old man. His penis, permanently erect - he will never wear clothes - will be the size of a five-year-old boy's, and peek out intermittently between bulbous folds of flesh stuffed to bursting with multitudes of digested souls, each smaller than a grain of rice.
Safe in the familiar surroundings of his garage, Xander will not notice him at first. He will cut the fawn's throat with precise and finicky movements, like an interior decorator explaining how the furniture should be placed. He will wipe his hands carefully on an apron, quite clean and new. Then he will turn around. There will be no expression on his face.
“You're early,” he will say.
Osiris will wobble in a way that might be a shrug.
“I always wonder,” he'll say. “How do you people find all these fawns? It's not like you can go on Craigslist and post ANIMAL NEEDED FOR SATANIC RITUAL under Help Wanted.”
Xander will blink at him. He will be unused to having conversations.
“You're early,” he will say.
Osiris will wobble over to the bowl of Osiris on the roof of Xander's car. It will probably be the last such object left in the world; Xander will have spent twelve years finding it. He will pick it up carefully, his fleshy hands barely able to grasp the thin ceramic, and he will drop it on the floor.
“Willow,” he'll say, “You ain't.”
Xander will blink at him. By then, he will be old enough to understand that, while life generally does give you what you want if you want it badly enough, it rarely gives it to you the way you expect it.
“I wish to ask a favor,” he will say.
Osiris' shapeless face will make an effort to contort itself into something resembling a look of compassion. Just because you eat souls doesn't always make you one of the bad guys.
“Don't do it,” he'll say. “They lived their lives, and you weren't part of it by the end. That's the way it works, you know? I've seen soldiers save each other's lives a hundred times, and then they go home and forget to send Christmas cards and one of them dies and the other never knows. That's the way it works. It's too cruel to them, to get their rest and have it taken from them.”
Xander will blink at him.
“I know,” he will say. “That's why I want you to resurrect Warren.”
Author: Parcae_lj
Rating: R
Pairing: X/W
Warnings: Violence, character death
As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
-Sir Walter Raleigh
Osiris will be fat. Enormous, shapeless jowls will flow like a beard onto a perfectly round torso the color of old meat. He will stand like a chicken on the ridiculously thin and wrinkled legs of an old man. His penis, permanently erect - he will never wear clothes - will be the size of a five-year-old boy's, and peek out intermittently between bulbous folds of flesh stuffed to bursting with multitudes of digested souls, each smaller than a grain of rice.
Safe in the familiar surroundings of his garage, Xander will not notice him at first. He will cut the fawn's throat with precise and finicky movements, like an interior decorator explaining how the furniture should be placed. He will wipe his hands carefully on an apron, quite clean and new. Then he will turn around. There will be no expression on his face.
“You're early,” he will say.
Osiris will wobble in a way that might be a shrug.
“I always wonder,” he'll say. “How do you people find all these fawns? It's not like you can go on Craigslist and post ANIMAL NEEDED FOR SATANIC RITUAL under Help Wanted.”
Xander will blink at him. He will be unused to having conversations.
“You're early,” he will say.
Osiris will wobble over to the bowl of Osiris on the roof of Xander's car. It will probably be the last such object left in the world; Xander will have spent twelve years finding it. He will pick it up carefully, his fleshy hands barely able to grasp the thin ceramic, and he will drop it on the floor.
“Willow,” he'll say, “You ain't.”
Xander will blink at him. By then, he will be old enough to understand that, while life generally does give you what you want if you want it badly enough, it rarely gives it to you the way you expect it.
“I wish to ask a favor,” he will say.
Osiris' shapeless face will make an effort to contort itself into something resembling a look of compassion. Just because you eat souls doesn't always make you one of the bad guys.
“Don't do it,” he'll say. “They lived their lives, and you weren't part of it by the end. That's the way it works, you know? I've seen soldiers save each other's lives a hundred times, and then they go home and forget to send Christmas cards and one of them dies and the other never knows. That's the way it works. It's too cruel to them, to get their rest and have it taken from them.”
Xander will blink at him.
“I know,” he will say. “That's why I want you to resurrect Warren.”