Unfiled, keyword "hold on tight"
Title: As It Should Be
Community: caer-awen
Prompt: 089: Hold on tight
Word Count: 635
Summary: Don't the good guys always win?
Author’s Note: Written for caer-awen's NaNoWriMo challenge!
It had never happened like this before.
"Do what you like. It is all, as I'm sure you know, quite futile by this point."
Never. Never. Never in all his life, in all his years, in the history books and in the official records.
"This isn't..."
"This isn't how it's supposed to go?" He's being mocked now, mocked by that look, happy and smug and still the slightest touch of bemusement all rolled up together into one. "Why not?"
"History... has proven..."
"History has proven nothing," he is lectured, as the other man clasps his arms behind his back and paces before him. "The thing about history, you see, is that it is only written by one person--the winner. Think about it. In every book you've ever read, who is the villain and who is the hero? I'll tell you here--the hero is always the one who prevails. The hero--the protagonist, shall we say; 'hero' is such a narrow word--in all accounts of history it is our protagonist that has written the tale, the antagonist condemned and doomed to the ages as being short-sighted, in the wrong, a thing of evil in spite of whatever it is that he thought or believed. In the case of there being no clear-cut winner, both sides are made out to be the true hero--think to yourself of your civil wars? Does the west honestly believe in the east's stance, even years after all parties involved have died? Of course not. The east is still the antagonist to them, the villains who have conquered and forced their will over the country as a whole, and in particular over our poor, oppressed western citizens."
If only he was a little bit stronger--if he'd had the strength to throw his knife. It could have been over then, the man killed by love of his own voice.
"Are you fading again?" The voice comes from very far away. "I suppose I gave you too much credit when I mixed the elixir; my men did say that you seemed to be a formidable foe." A sigh. "It's a pity now; do you know how much it costs to have Criel's Root carried in these days?"
He doesn't respond, though he'd love to. He's sorry he's such a bother, a little fly in the ointment. His fingers are going numb, and his mouth feels as though it's been stuffed with cotton. And near the center of his chest, just close to where his heart beats, he feels a pain beginning to spread, just slowly beginning to inch forward. His breathing is quickening now; despite himself he gasps for the next breath.
The other man leans down over him, ostensibly to check the progress of his death, and another grin draws at his lips. "I'll have you know you're not the first to go this way," he says softly, reaching down to take hold of his tunic. "There is remarkable historical precedent for this sort of moment. There are so many heroes, famous heroes, revered heroes, who met their end at the hands of a nemesis smarter than they were."
The other man pulls him up to his feet, a surprising show of strength considering that the dying man cannot even stand. "Here," he croons, "I'll even let you put your hands at my throat. You're too weak to do anything now."
It's true, a terrible, horrifying truth. His hands rest at the other man's throat, too numb to try and squeeze, too close to finishing what has now become his impossible task.
"Isn't that nice?" the murderer asks, twisted smile returning to his face. "We're a regular Greek tragedy, we are."
His vision is going dark--it's getting too dark, too dark to see.
"Hold on tight, now. Hold on tight."
>]
Community: caer-awen
Prompt: 089: Hold on tight
Word Count: 635
Summary: Don't the good guys always win?
Author’s Note: Written for caer-awen's NaNoWriMo challenge!
It had never happened like this before.
"Do what you like. It is all, as I'm sure you know, quite futile by this point."
Never. Never. Never in all his life, in all his years, in the history books and in the official records.
"This isn't..."
"This isn't how it's supposed to go?" He's being mocked now, mocked by that look, happy and smug and still the slightest touch of bemusement all rolled up together into one. "Why not?"
"History... has proven..."
"History has proven nothing," he is lectured, as the other man clasps his arms behind his back and paces before him. "The thing about history, you see, is that it is only written by one person--the winner. Think about it. In every book you've ever read, who is the villain and who is the hero? I'll tell you here--the hero is always the one who prevails. The hero--the protagonist, shall we say; 'hero' is such a narrow word--in all accounts of history it is our protagonist that has written the tale, the antagonist condemned and doomed to the ages as being short-sighted, in the wrong, a thing of evil in spite of whatever it is that he thought or believed. In the case of there being no clear-cut winner, both sides are made out to be the true hero--think to yourself of your civil wars? Does the west honestly believe in the east's stance, even years after all parties involved have died? Of course not. The east is still the antagonist to them, the villains who have conquered and forced their will over the country as a whole, and in particular over our poor, oppressed western citizens."
If only he was a little bit stronger--if he'd had the strength to throw his knife. It could have been over then, the man killed by love of his own voice.
"Are you fading again?" The voice comes from very far away. "I suppose I gave you too much credit when I mixed the elixir; my men did say that you seemed to be a formidable foe." A sigh. "It's a pity now; do you know how much it costs to have Criel's Root carried in these days?"
He doesn't respond, though he'd love to. He's sorry he's such a bother, a little fly in the ointment. His fingers are going numb, and his mouth feels as though it's been stuffed with cotton. And near the center of his chest, just close to where his heart beats, he feels a pain beginning to spread, just slowly beginning to inch forward. His breathing is quickening now; despite himself he gasps for the next breath.
The other man leans down over him, ostensibly to check the progress of his death, and another grin draws at his lips. "I'll have you know you're not the first to go this way," he says softly, reaching down to take hold of his tunic. "There is remarkable historical precedent for this sort of moment. There are so many heroes, famous heroes, revered heroes, who met their end at the hands of a nemesis smarter than they were."
The other man pulls him up to his feet, a surprising show of strength considering that the dying man cannot even stand. "Here," he croons, "I'll even let you put your hands at my throat. You're too weak to do anything now."
It's true, a terrible, horrifying truth. His hands rest at the other man's throat, too numb to try and squeeze, too close to finishing what has now become his impossible task.
"Isn't that nice?" the murderer asks, twisted smile returning to his face. "We're a regular Greek tragedy, we are."
His vision is going dark--it's getting too dark, too dark to see.
"Hold on tight, now. Hold on tight."
>]