Ficlet: Threes (Supernatural)
Jan. 20th, 2016 12:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Threes
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Characters/pairing: Rowena, Amara
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/contains: Spoilers through 11.09.
Word count: ~700
Summary: Coda to 11.09. Rowena's got all her ducks in a row.
Notes: I don't know wtf this is, but I'm reasonably sure it'skalliel's fault.
“Follow me,” she says, and he follows, her boy. Just like she said, Now or never, and he followed; just like she swirled, I have a gift for you into the lines of her sigils, and He followed, shark scenting blood in the water. Nothing like a tribute to lure a king in exile.
Or a queen. She’s counting on it.
Always looking over his shoulder, though, Fergus. That’s the trouble with kingship. (Kingship, kinship. Six, half-a-dozen.) Kings are monoliths, and there’s always some halfwit with a hammer looking to test his strength. She knows her son. He’d be happier with a more flexible job description. Making deals: that’s all words, smoke and shadow. Slipping like water around the edges of the stones. Like mother, like—
Well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Still looking over his shoulder as they reach the gates. Still looking over his shoulder as she closes it, a soft snickety-snick between them.
For half a second, before she walks away, he looks genuinely surprised.
----
He wasn’t daft enough to trust her with the keys, of course. But here’s the thing, boys. You make us keepers of them for long enough, and they learn to obey us anyway. Hardly matters if we’re talking chastity belts or apples here.
----
Her ducks aren’t quite in a row yet, but they’ll configure themselves soon enough. Her three kings of Hell (all of them burning up for one Winchester or another.) Past, present, never-was. Angel, demon, human. Truly, she feels bad for the lad—but threes are important.
Rowena takes her time with this summoning. Hums as she paints, as she lays out cups and bones and herbs, wreathes the room with smoke thick and dark as ocean depths.
Once, six months pregnant, she stood on the banks of a loch and sang a water-horse up from the deeps, from its bower lined with small bones. It took the Mahaffie girl’s brat, the previous spring. No harm in making an offering.
It nuzzled at her belly, teeth wicked beneath the velvet of its muzzle. A whicker of warm breath. Not yet. Not yet.
Just as well, she supposes. Your own flesh and blood—that a powerful thing. It’s good to have a life in reserve.
Water weed. Molars wide as her thumb.
----
In Crowley’s court, looking over the black-eyed rank-and-file, she sometimes wondered. How many of them like her boy—like Gwydion’s get, unwilling borne? How would the world keep turning without unwanted children?
----
The darkness solidifies before it clears. And oh, she’s a bonny collection of wrong angles, this one, the shadows pooling where she smiles. Something equine about the placidity of her gaze, for all that the rest of her’s a sharp marble statue. She watches, waits: permission to speak.
Rowena sips wine from her teacup. Ritual, ritual.
“Thought I’d lend a hand,” she says. “Don’t want a bunch of squabbling little boys getting in your way, now, do you?”
Amara blinks, once. “Why?”
Well, she doesn’t beat around the bush.
“You might need to… delegate.”
Slow tilt of the head, understanding dawning. “You’re handing Hell over to me in the hope I’ll give it back to you.”
Shrug, sip. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Why not just take it?” Honest. So speaks a girl who’s never had any Law of the Father stamped all over her, never thought to ask permission. Who says there’s nothing new under the sun?
“Co-operation,” Rowena offers, pinky finger held delicately out. “You’ve got more important things to worry about than that lot.” Nods her head, indicating the gates. “And I won’t have to worry about you changing your mind next week and throwing me in there with them.”
Amara raises her eyes. Thinking, maybe—but after a moment she levels, meets Rowena’s gaze. “And Heaven? Do you have any ideas there?”
Rowena smiles, wine warming her from the inside out. “Actually, I know a girl. She likes stories. You should tell her yours—be enough to turn a girl’s head, all that cosmic injustice.” Casts an eye over the flesh and bones of her, the human semblance. “I think she’d like you.”
Amara blinks, eyes opaque as haematite. Nods, once. Then she’s gone.
The gates of Limbo swing open. Rowena sneaks a peek, just to be sure. Nothing but void left behind them.
----
There’s an apple sitting on the table, behind the spot where the Darkness stood. It’s sweet when she bites into it, sweet and cold as stars.
Author:
anactoriaCharacters/pairing: Rowena, Amara
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/contains: Spoilers through 11.09.
Word count: ~700
Summary: Coda to 11.09. Rowena's got all her ducks in a row.
Notes: I don't know wtf this is, but I'm reasonably sure it's
kalliel's fault.“Follow me,” she says, and he follows, her boy. Just like she said, Now or never, and he followed; just like she swirled, I have a gift for you into the lines of her sigils, and He followed, shark scenting blood in the water. Nothing like a tribute to lure a king in exile.
Or a queen. She’s counting on it.
Always looking over his shoulder, though, Fergus. That’s the trouble with kingship. (Kingship, kinship. Six, half-a-dozen.) Kings are monoliths, and there’s always some halfwit with a hammer looking to test his strength. She knows her son. He’d be happier with a more flexible job description. Making deals: that’s all words, smoke and shadow. Slipping like water around the edges of the stones. Like mother, like—
Well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Still looking over his shoulder as they reach the gates. Still looking over his shoulder as she closes it, a soft snickety-snick between them.
For half a second, before she walks away, he looks genuinely surprised.
He wasn’t daft enough to trust her with the keys, of course. But here’s the thing, boys. You make us keepers of them for long enough, and they learn to obey us anyway. Hardly matters if we’re talking chastity belts or apples here.
Her ducks aren’t quite in a row yet, but they’ll configure themselves soon enough. Her three kings of Hell (all of them burning up for one Winchester or another.) Past, present, never-was. Angel, demon, human. Truly, she feels bad for the lad—but threes are important.
Rowena takes her time with this summoning. Hums as she paints, as she lays out cups and bones and herbs, wreathes the room with smoke thick and dark as ocean depths.
Once, six months pregnant, she stood on the banks of a loch and sang a water-horse up from the deeps, from its bower lined with small bones. It took the Mahaffie girl’s brat, the previous spring. No harm in making an offering.
It nuzzled at her belly, teeth wicked beneath the velvet of its muzzle. A whicker of warm breath. Not yet. Not yet.
Just as well, she supposes. Your own flesh and blood—that a powerful thing. It’s good to have a life in reserve.
Water weed. Molars wide as her thumb.
In Crowley’s court, looking over the black-eyed rank-and-file, she sometimes wondered. How many of them like her boy—like Gwydion’s get, unwilling borne? How would the world keep turning without unwanted children?
The darkness solidifies before it clears. And oh, she’s a bonny collection of wrong angles, this one, the shadows pooling where she smiles. Something equine about the placidity of her gaze, for all that the rest of her’s a sharp marble statue. She watches, waits: permission to speak.
Rowena sips wine from her teacup. Ritual, ritual.
“Thought I’d lend a hand,” she says. “Don’t want a bunch of squabbling little boys getting in your way, now, do you?”
Amara blinks, once. “Why?”
Well, she doesn’t beat around the bush.
“You might need to… delegate.”
Slow tilt of the head, understanding dawning. “You’re handing Hell over to me in the hope I’ll give it back to you.”
Shrug, sip. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Why not just take it?” Honest. So speaks a girl who’s never had any Law of the Father stamped all over her, never thought to ask permission. Who says there’s nothing new under the sun?
“Co-operation,” Rowena offers, pinky finger held delicately out. “You’ve got more important things to worry about than that lot.” Nods her head, indicating the gates. “And I won’t have to worry about you changing your mind next week and throwing me in there with them.”
Amara raises her eyes. Thinking, maybe—but after a moment she levels, meets Rowena’s gaze. “And Heaven? Do you have any ideas there?”
Rowena smiles, wine warming her from the inside out. “Actually, I know a girl. She likes stories. You should tell her yours—be enough to turn a girl’s head, all that cosmic injustice.” Casts an eye over the flesh and bones of her, the human semblance. “I think she’d like you.”
Amara blinks, eyes opaque as haematite. Nods, once. Then she’s gone.
The gates of Limbo swing open. Rowena sneaks a peek, just to be sure. Nothing but void left behind them.
There’s an apple sitting on the table, behind the spot where the Darkness stood. It’s sweet when she bites into it, sweet and cold as stars.
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Date: 2016-01-21 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-21 09:27 pm (UTC)