jumping onto a very small bandwagon
May. 17th, 2006 01:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xparrotStorytime! ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
immicolia has started sharing her threatened Winchester Brothers & the Case of the Boy with the Haunted Bling (yay!), so now I, myself an attention whore of the first degree, am getting antsy to post what I've been poking at for the last month, my own unholy crack-induced crossover. I finally have a title for it (always the hardest part of these thing. No, really), so should be getting up the first chapter soon. In the meantime, here's the prologue, to give you an idea of what kind of crack I'm talking about.
Supernatural/YGO. And please forgive the opening melodramatics. The fic is shaping up to be lighter from here on out. Despite the proliferation of really top quality angst in the SPN canon and fanfic alike, whenever I try to write the Winchester boys they go all squishy and cheerfully dorky. It's GetBackers all over again.
Four Knights Game
Prologue
Some stories are told over and over again, repeated from one teller to another to another, and thus become legends. It doesn't matter if they once were true, if they ever were true; if a story is heard enough, it will be believed.
Other stories are never told at all. So they might happen, again and again, and no one will ever know the truth of them, save those who live them.
Their mother died shortly after he turned six, and everyone said it was so lucky that they didn't also perish in the fire, he and his father and his baby brother. Such a terrible tragedy all the same, everyone whispered, as he held his brother, and his father knelt, empty-eyed and heartbroken, by the alter, by the image of their mother's smiling face. Such a terrible accident.
At six, he was old enough to know what stories adults would believe, and what they wouldn't. He knew better than to tell anyone about the man that night, the man in the bedroom with him and his brother, when his mother had slid open the door, and died. He knew ghost stories, had listened enraptured to his neighbors' whispered tales on muggy summer nights. But no one had ever told a story like that, and no adult will believe a story they have never heard before. So he said nothing.
For years after he dreamed of yellow eyes; he dreamed of his brother crying, and his mother standing between them and the man, between her children and the monster. And then, after, her hoarse gasp as her blood dripped down, falling from above. He dreamed of carrying his little brother, only half a year old, too little to talk about it or remember; of cradling him tightly as he ran from the blood and the flames and the man. Swearing that even if their mother were hurt, or worse, that his brother never would be; promising her dying eyes to protect him, always.
When their father died not three years later, he made that vow again, holding his brother as he wept. Not knowing if he were strong enough, but knowing he had to be. As their mother had been.
When he was ten, he offered himself to a new nightmare. A new demon, dreaming and waking, and he had to be strong, fought with all his being to be strong enough, until eventually he drove all his old fears away. Crushed them to dust, with his old weakness, with his old memories of family, and promises, and everything else; and his new self reborn from that ash had all but forgotten the story of their mother and the man and the fire, without ever telling it to anyone.
Without ever knowing that it was not the first time that story had been told, and would not be the last; without knowing that there was another brother who could tell the same story, who had carried his own baby brother from those same flames, years before and half a world away. Who had made that same promise.
He wouldn't have cared, even if he had known. He didn't have time for stories anymore, even true ones.
But until a story is told at least once, no one can say when it ends...
***
"--What a loser deserves!" Wild, mad laughter, heralding the crash of breaking glass as the window shattered and the man hurtled through it, plunging to the busy street all those many stories below. And the boy with blue eyes watched, and smiled--
"Sam!"
Sam Winchester's eyes snapped open.
It was dark. He was lying down. Overhead, tree branches rustled, their leaves black silhouettes against the clouded night sky; under him, cold mud squelched and spurted and soaked into his jeans.
In the darkness before him, his brother shrieked, "Yo, Sammy, could use a little HELP--!"
immicolia has started sharing her threatened Winchester Brothers & the Case of the Boy with the Haunted Bling (yay!), so now I, myself an attention whore of the first degree, am getting antsy to post what I've been poking at for the last month, my own Supernatural/YGO. And please forgive the opening melodramatics. The fic is shaping up to be lighter from here on out. Despite the proliferation of really top quality angst in the SPN canon and fanfic alike, whenever I try to write the Winchester boys they go all squishy and cheerfully dorky. It's GetBackers all over again.
Four Knights Game
Prologue
Some stories are told over and over again, repeated from one teller to another to another, and thus become legends. It doesn't matter if they once were true, if they ever were true; if a story is heard enough, it will be believed.
Other stories are never told at all. So they might happen, again and again, and no one will ever know the truth of them, save those who live them.
Their mother died shortly after he turned six, and everyone said it was so lucky that they didn't also perish in the fire, he and his father and his baby brother. Such a terrible tragedy all the same, everyone whispered, as he held his brother, and his father knelt, empty-eyed and heartbroken, by the alter, by the image of their mother's smiling face. Such a terrible accident.
At six, he was old enough to know what stories adults would believe, and what they wouldn't. He knew better than to tell anyone about the man that night, the man in the bedroom with him and his brother, when his mother had slid open the door, and died. He knew ghost stories, had listened enraptured to his neighbors' whispered tales on muggy summer nights. But no one had ever told a story like that, and no adult will believe a story they have never heard before. So he said nothing.
For years after he dreamed of yellow eyes; he dreamed of his brother crying, and his mother standing between them and the man, between her children and the monster. And then, after, her hoarse gasp as her blood dripped down, falling from above. He dreamed of carrying his little brother, only half a year old, too little to talk about it or remember; of cradling him tightly as he ran from the blood and the flames and the man. Swearing that even if their mother were hurt, or worse, that his brother never would be; promising her dying eyes to protect him, always.
When their father died not three years later, he made that vow again, holding his brother as he wept. Not knowing if he were strong enough, but knowing he had to be. As their mother had been.
When he was ten, he offered himself to a new nightmare. A new demon, dreaming and waking, and he had to be strong, fought with all his being to be strong enough, until eventually he drove all his old fears away. Crushed them to dust, with his old weakness, with his old memories of family, and promises, and everything else; and his new self reborn from that ash had all but forgotten the story of their mother and the man and the fire, without ever telling it to anyone.
Without ever knowing that it was not the first time that story had been told, and would not be the last; without knowing that there was another brother who could tell the same story, who had carried his own baby brother from those same flames, years before and half a world away. Who had made that same promise.
He wouldn't have cared, even if he had known. He didn't have time for stories anymore, even true ones.
But until a story is told at least once, no one can say when it ends...
***
"--What a loser deserves!" Wild, mad laughter, heralding the crash of breaking glass as the window shattered and the man hurtled through it, plunging to the busy street all those many stories below. And the boy with blue eyes watched, and smiled--
"Sam!"
Sam Winchester's eyes snapped open.
It was dark. He was lying down. Overhead, tree branches rustled, their leaves black silhouettes against the clouded night sky; under him, cold mud squelched and spurted and soaked into his jeans.
In the darkness before him, his brother shrieked, "Yo, Sammy, could use a little HELP--!"
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no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 04:34 pm (UTC)WinchestersKaibas! ♥ (why do I get the feeling I'm going to be saying that a lot)Seriously, you have no idea how squeeful just this little bit makes me. I can't wait until the first chapter *bounces and flails about*
(and I hear you on the whole problems with titling things. which is why my crackfic is called "The One Where Sam and Dean Run Into a Boy With Haunted Bling" ^^)
no subject
Date: 2006-05-18 06:33 am (UTC)Titles either come to me before I even start a story, or (more often) I spend hours (well, minutes) agonizing over them. This one was almost going to be Four of a Kind or some other card game reference, but then I happily realized that the chess is even more fitting to this particular story (for reasons that will come out eventually) and besides, chess references always sound erudite and cool, so there you go. (Really, if it existed, a four bishops game would be even better, what with the symbolism that bishops are only useful pieces when you have the pair of them, and one only can move on white and one only on black and, uh, I think about chess metaphors too much? Which is surprising considering how many years it's been since I played the game...finally got tired of the brother beating me every time and gave up when I was like, 12 :P)
no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 01:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-18 06:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-30 07:35 pm (UTC)