A Tribble: Answered Prayer
Oct. 16th, 2005 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
honoratBy Honorat
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Dead men tell no tales.
Summary: A triple drabble for the “Misery” challenge at Black Pearl Sails. This one is pretty gruesome for me. Starring a younger Mr. Cotton.
* * * * *
He is not dead yet—although surely it is only a matter of time. They cannot mean to let him escape.
The pain is like the bright strike of a sword against his wrists where the cords cut as he fought them in mindless terror. But the fire that burns and burns in his mouth. Oh God, he cannot endure it!
Still he runs, fighting through thick jungle stench, hot and sweat-slicked, coated with biting flies. No man any more—just a panicked animal.
Suddenly the twisting vines and clutching thorns release him, and he stumbles to his knees on hot white sand. He lifts a tear- and blood-stained face to the sea. The sweet, salt sea. The sun-bronzed, shining sea.
He holds out his hands to her. Mother and lover. Home and sanctuary. But he cannot rise. He has been able to eat no food for days, to bear to drink only a little water. He has lost too much blood. His sight blurs, and he crumples in a knot of helpless misery.
Why should he even try to live? They have stolen his only gift—those precious, liquid, golden words. They have ripped away his language, his song, his communion with the human world and left him with only a meaningless scream. One of God’s dumb beasts.
What hope is there for him?
He lies on the sand, praying for death, staring into the pitiless blue heavens until he is sure he sees the angels’ wings. They are blue and gold, a richer hue than any of earth.
“Mercy!” he begs silently, although he can only whimper now. He holds out a shaking arm.
And a voice answers him, “Wind in the sails.”
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Dead men tell no tales.
Summary: A triple drabble for the “Misery” challenge at Black Pearl Sails. This one is pretty gruesome for me. Starring a younger Mr. Cotton.
* * * * *
He is not dead yet—although surely it is only a matter of time. They cannot mean to let him escape.
The pain is like the bright strike of a sword against his wrists where the cords cut as he fought them in mindless terror. But the fire that burns and burns in his mouth. Oh God, he cannot endure it!
Still he runs, fighting through thick jungle stench, hot and sweat-slicked, coated with biting flies. No man any more—just a panicked animal.
Suddenly the twisting vines and clutching thorns release him, and he stumbles to his knees on hot white sand. He lifts a tear- and blood-stained face to the sea. The sweet, salt sea. The sun-bronzed, shining sea.
He holds out his hands to her. Mother and lover. Home and sanctuary. But he cannot rise. He has been able to eat no food for days, to bear to drink only a little water. He has lost too much blood. His sight blurs, and he crumples in a knot of helpless misery.
Why should he even try to live? They have stolen his only gift—those precious, liquid, golden words. They have ripped away his language, his song, his communion with the human world and left him with only a meaningless scream. One of God’s dumb beasts.
What hope is there for him?
He lies on the sand, praying for death, staring into the pitiless blue heavens until he is sure he sees the angels’ wings. They are blue and gold, a richer hue than any of earth.
“Mercy!” he begs silently, although he can only whimper now. He holds out a shaking arm.
And a voice answers him, “Wind in the sails.”
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no subject
Date: 2005-12-08 10:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-08 10:42 am (UTC)