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cygna_himeFor the 'Crunch Time' challenge; I took the concept of an exam or test very loosely, I'm afraid, but whatever works.
PG-13, Meiling and such, anime-canon (I suppose), Angst/Horror/Tragedy. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
violeteves.
Meiling thrashed against the wall, grating her arms on stone. Ropes around her wrists frayed, wire held and bit into the skin. She pulled, pulled until blood ran down her arms and Syaoran shouted at her to stop. It wouldn’t do any good, he said, and she stopped, because she had always done what he said. Grey stone walls, grey ceiling, grey floor encased them in a box like a boulder. His brown eyes, grim, held her there. She wanted to scream and fight and keep fighting, until they let them out, let them out into something that could pretend to be freedom, but Syaoran was patient and so she waited.
There was a door. They had come in by it; if they left, they would go out by it. It was shut, barred, locked, somehow she did not know or care. Getting loose was first, then out. But the wire and rope held her fast, stronger than she could break and tighter than she could wiggle loose. She wanted to scream but didn’t, because Syaoran was watching and wanted her to be patient like he was. When the door opened, she would be so much happier, no matter what came through she would be happier, because she could do instead of wait here in a tomb for something that might never come.
An hour--had it been only an hour? It felt like an eternity—and the door opened. Meiling could see the men like shadows, marching in unison to the tune of some dreadful song. She screamed at them, asked them what they wanted with her, with Syaoran, why this had been done to them, and the shadows laughed to tell her. She was afraid.
It was Syaoran who was still able to speak, of course. What do you mean, he asked them, she has no power. It didn’t hurt to hear it, not this time alone of all times. It hurt to hear them answer and to have a whisper of a hope that they might be right.
The men like shadows loomed over her, smiles of midnight on horrible faces that were so horrible she might have passed them in the street any day and never noticed. Meiling shouted at them, yelled, it didn’t make sense, they would be killed, didn’t they see that, how could they not. They laughed. We’ll risk it.
They went to Syaoran, while he was still bound and too shocked to do anything. She hadn’t bought him enough time, there wouldn’t be time, and they slapped a spell on his forehead that she could see meant he was crippled of his magic, unable to reach out and burst his bonds. He had nothing he could use, and she could hear them laughing.
They dragged him upright, not cruelly though they didn’t need to—you’re a Li, girl, if you don’t know it—and her as well, holding her so she could look at Syaoran’s eyes—all the Li have magic—whether she wanted to or not. Meiling struggled, tried to break away—those as come to it late are strongest of all—but they held her too tightly with flesh and iron and blood. She couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t keep from seeing the knife, no, the sword—all you need is to be woken up–long and gleaming and so terribly sharp—short sharp shock, and don’t forget we mean what we say—as it swept back and—fear and love will do it every time—began to come around again, whistling through the air as Meiling screamed and struggled and felt her fury growing inside her, a fearsome thing of fire and ice. It wasn’t what it should have been—magic, girl—and as Meiling fought to lunge forward and get to Syaoran the sword spun through its arc—the world can spare a magician like him easy—she could see his eyes for just one more awful shocked second…and his head fell off his shoulders.
It rolled to a stop at her feet, brown eyes still looking at her, and Meiling’s last coherent thought was to wonder how she would ever tell her aunt when the world dissolved around her.
She heard herself screaming, screaming, screaming when Sakura appeared in the door at last, too late, screaming when her eyes widened and she burst into horrified sobs, screaming when Sakura tried to ask her what happened, screaming until she could scream no more and felt oblivion opening its wide jaws to let her in.
She woke up in a room she didn’t know, surrounded by people she only vaguely recognized as belonging to another life in another country, and for a single blissful moment she thought it was a dream. It couldn’t be a dream, it wasn’t possible that they should be here if it wasn’t, but it ought to be a dream, and Meiling so wanted it to be a dream that she almost smiled.
She had to tell what happened to them afterwards, to Sakura and to her own parents and to Aunt Yelan, who sat and listened without looking as if she heard, and said at the end that it wasn’t Meiling’s fault, that she shouldn’t blame herself, though it was a lie and Meiling knew it. It was because of her that Syaoran, her beautiful cousin whom she had loved and idolized and thought of as everything perfect, was now nothing but a body and a soul somewhere far away.
They all tried to comfort her, when they could stop trying to comfort themselves, off and on through days and weeks. People she had hardly known tried to say it would be all right, paused in their comforting of Sakura, who deserved it, to convince Meiling she did too. She just wanted to be let alone, though she didn’t know why. She couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even say anything but what she had to. She was frozen. She couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t go on, and she could do nothing to change it.
When does it get better, she asked them, the one or two she trusted and liked and thought might understand. When does it start to change from something too terrible to think about? I know it’s supposed to get better with time, but why am I not healing? When does it stop hurting so much? And a man she was too tired to guess the name of, whose long silver hair fell about his face like a string of icicles and whose face had dark places in it like bruises never healed, said:
It never does.
I tried to imitatevioleteves's style a bit in this, mainly because it felt right like that. This is one of those ideas where I wonder what I was on, and how I can get more when necessary. It scared me, a bit.
The title, of course, refers to what I felt was the theme of this story. I tried to destroy a lot of fictional clichés in one fell swoop. She doesn't have magic that will appear at just the right moment, the heroine doesn't show up just in time to rescue them, it doesn't end happily ever after. I wanted to show how it feels to be the person who isn't the hero, and for whom things don't go right.
I was surprisingly unaffected by killing Syaoran. He's my least favorite character if anyone is, I suppose, because he bores me. I see nothing secret there, nothing to be found out or coddled into revealing itself. He isn't a challenge.
Quotation marks are for the weak. The italics are what passes for the snatches of dialogue.
Yue got his little cameo by dint of being the person who I thought would most likely feel the same. He saw someone he loved die, for no reason, and has never recovered from it. Also, angst and depression follow him around like planets to a sun.
Sometimes, I depress myself.
In other news, you know your fingernails are too long when...you somehow manage to gouge a bleeding cut a centimeter deep on the back of your finger, by accident, with the nails of that hand. Little bleeding crescent. The bandaid interferes with my typing.
PG-13, Meiling and such, anime-canon (I suppose), Angst/Horror/Tragedy. For
violeteves.Meiling thrashed against the wall, grating her arms on stone. Ropes around her wrists frayed, wire held and bit into the skin. She pulled, pulled until blood ran down her arms and Syaoran shouted at her to stop. It wouldn’t do any good, he said, and she stopped, because she had always done what he said. Grey stone walls, grey ceiling, grey floor encased them in a box like a boulder. His brown eyes, grim, held her there. She wanted to scream and fight and keep fighting, until they let them out, let them out into something that could pretend to be freedom, but Syaoran was patient and so she waited.
There was a door. They had come in by it; if they left, they would go out by it. It was shut, barred, locked, somehow she did not know or care. Getting loose was first, then out. But the wire and rope held her fast, stronger than she could break and tighter than she could wiggle loose. She wanted to scream but didn’t, because Syaoran was watching and wanted her to be patient like he was. When the door opened, she would be so much happier, no matter what came through she would be happier, because she could do instead of wait here in a tomb for something that might never come.
An hour--had it been only an hour? It felt like an eternity—and the door opened. Meiling could see the men like shadows, marching in unison to the tune of some dreadful song. She screamed at them, asked them what they wanted with her, with Syaoran, why this had been done to them, and the shadows laughed to tell her. She was afraid.
It was Syaoran who was still able to speak, of course. What do you mean, he asked them, she has no power. It didn’t hurt to hear it, not this time alone of all times. It hurt to hear them answer and to have a whisper of a hope that they might be right.
The men like shadows loomed over her, smiles of midnight on horrible faces that were so horrible she might have passed them in the street any day and never noticed. Meiling shouted at them, yelled, it didn’t make sense, they would be killed, didn’t they see that, how could they not. They laughed. We’ll risk it.
They went to Syaoran, while he was still bound and too shocked to do anything. She hadn’t bought him enough time, there wouldn’t be time, and they slapped a spell on his forehead that she could see meant he was crippled of his magic, unable to reach out and burst his bonds. He had nothing he could use, and she could hear them laughing.
They dragged him upright, not cruelly though they didn’t need to—you’re a Li, girl, if you don’t know it—and her as well, holding her so she could look at Syaoran’s eyes—all the Li have magic—whether she wanted to or not. Meiling struggled, tried to break away—those as come to it late are strongest of all—but they held her too tightly with flesh and iron and blood. She couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t keep from seeing the knife, no, the sword—all you need is to be woken up–long and gleaming and so terribly sharp—short sharp shock, and don’t forget we mean what we say—as it swept back and—fear and love will do it every time—began to come around again, whistling through the air as Meiling screamed and struggled and felt her fury growing inside her, a fearsome thing of fire and ice. It wasn’t what it should have been—magic, girl—and as Meiling fought to lunge forward and get to Syaoran the sword spun through its arc—the world can spare a magician like him easy—she could see his eyes for just one more awful shocked second…and his head fell off his shoulders.
It rolled to a stop at her feet, brown eyes still looking at her, and Meiling’s last coherent thought was to wonder how she would ever tell her aunt when the world dissolved around her.
She heard herself screaming, screaming, screaming when Sakura appeared in the door at last, too late, screaming when her eyes widened and she burst into horrified sobs, screaming when Sakura tried to ask her what happened, screaming until she could scream no more and felt oblivion opening its wide jaws to let her in.
She woke up in a room she didn’t know, surrounded by people she only vaguely recognized as belonging to another life in another country, and for a single blissful moment she thought it was a dream. It couldn’t be a dream, it wasn’t possible that they should be here if it wasn’t, but it ought to be a dream, and Meiling so wanted it to be a dream that she almost smiled.
She had to tell what happened to them afterwards, to Sakura and to her own parents and to Aunt Yelan, who sat and listened without looking as if she heard, and said at the end that it wasn’t Meiling’s fault, that she shouldn’t blame herself, though it was a lie and Meiling knew it. It was because of her that Syaoran, her beautiful cousin whom she had loved and idolized and thought of as everything perfect, was now nothing but a body and a soul somewhere far away.
They all tried to comfort her, when they could stop trying to comfort themselves, off and on through days and weeks. People she had hardly known tried to say it would be all right, paused in their comforting of Sakura, who deserved it, to convince Meiling she did too. She just wanted to be let alone, though she didn’t know why. She couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even say anything but what she had to. She was frozen. She couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t go on, and she could do nothing to change it.
When does it get better, she asked them, the one or two she trusted and liked and thought might understand. When does it start to change from something too terrible to think about? I know it’s supposed to get better with time, but why am I not healing? When does it stop hurting so much? And a man she was too tired to guess the name of, whose long silver hair fell about his face like a string of icicles and whose face had dark places in it like bruises never healed, said:
It never does.
I tried to imitate
violeteves's style a bit in this, mainly because it felt right like that. This is one of those ideas where I wonder what I was on, and how I can get more when necessary. It scared me, a bit.The title, of course, refers to what I felt was the theme of this story. I tried to destroy a lot of fictional clichés in one fell swoop. She doesn't have magic that will appear at just the right moment, the heroine doesn't show up just in time to rescue them, it doesn't end happily ever after. I wanted to show how it feels to be the person who isn't the hero, and for whom things don't go right.
I was surprisingly unaffected by killing Syaoran. He's my least favorite character if anyone is, I suppose, because he bores me. I see nothing secret there, nothing to be found out or coddled into revealing itself. He isn't a challenge.
Quotation marks are for the weak. The italics are what passes for the snatches of dialogue.
Yue got his little cameo by dint of being the person who I thought would most likely feel the same. He saw someone he loved die, for no reason, and has never recovered from it. Also, angst and depression follow him around like planets to a sun.
Sometimes, I depress myself.
In other news, you know your fingernails are too long when...you somehow manage to gouge a bleeding cut a centimeter deep on the back of your finger, by accident, with the nails of that hand. Little bleeding crescent. The bandaid interferes with my typing.
