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Entry tags:
mini-ficlet
This is general weirdness but I promise, it made sense to me when I wrote it, I'd be interested if it does to anyone else. *g* I also promise that, amid the strangeness, this is Aragorn/Boromir.
Title: Trick of Starlight, Blush of Shadow
Author: Archet
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir...I promise.
Rating: General
Summary: Sometimes impressions are left behind, echoes of memory.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated
~~~
He looks but does not see what he wishes for; instead he sees a trick of starlight, a blush of shadow. Yet, as I am of starlight and shadow, perhaps he does see. It is not for me to say, but only to linger in this place between the rise and fall of a dreaming man’s breath, to linger in the middle distance of day and night where he wakes and stares with wide eyes. His longing calls the name, and dutifully I seek him out for the one that was would do as much, would do much more, but the one that was has been lifted up, beyond this place.
I am not shade; I am the echo of memory, the echo of the power and glory, the goodness and the sorrow that once walked here. I am less than shade, and though he and another like him calls out the same name, looks with the same wide, searching eyes into the center of my shadow, I will not answer. I cannot. I possess no answers.
I am nothingness, I feel nothing, neither the push nor pull of their waking world, I am only the merest trace of the one that was. As a footfall leaves an impression in the grass, as am I, an impression only, a trick of starlight, a blush of shadow. I do not live, I do not exist, I linger and have no other purpose.
They call out for Boromir and I do not answer for I am not he, I am the nothingness that echoes with his memory that they sometimes, on starlit nights, can almost hear, can almost see.
Title: Trick of Starlight, Blush of Shadow
Author: Archet
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir...I promise.
Rating: General
Summary: Sometimes impressions are left behind, echoes of memory.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated
~~~
He looks but does not see what he wishes for; instead he sees a trick of starlight, a blush of shadow. Yet, as I am of starlight and shadow, perhaps he does see. It is not for me to say, but only to linger in this place between the rise and fall of a dreaming man’s breath, to linger in the middle distance of day and night where he wakes and stares with wide eyes. His longing calls the name, and dutifully I seek him out for the one that was would do as much, would do much more, but the one that was has been lifted up, beyond this place.
I am not shade; I am the echo of memory, the echo of the power and glory, the goodness and the sorrow that once walked here. I am less than shade, and though he and another like him calls out the same name, looks with the same wide, searching eyes into the center of my shadow, I will not answer. I cannot. I possess no answers.
I am nothingness, I feel nothing, neither the push nor pull of their waking world, I am only the merest trace of the one that was. As a footfall leaves an impression in the grass, as am I, an impression only, a trick of starlight, a blush of shadow. I do not live, I do not exist, I linger and have no other purpose.
They call out for Boromir and I do not answer for I am not he, I am the nothingness that echoes with his memory that they sometimes, on starlit nights, can almost hear, can almost see.
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