Soujin (
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2009-04-16 11:25 pm
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Entry tags:
"A Cataclysmic Earthquake I'd Accept with Some Despair..."
Iiii wrote a fic for
mhari, because she is not feeling good. ♥ Hephaestus/Laura original fic.
In Media Res
She sat at his table, a mug of milk in the curve of her palm. The milk and the warm bread Hestia had set on the table a moment ago, her black hair wrapped in a scarf, her dark eyes as warm as the bread. Laura had acknowledged it with a nod, because she wasn’t used to saying thanks.
Hephaestus sat across from her, another black-haired, olive-skinned figure, although his hair was streaked with grey. He had a sharp face made for frowning. He didn’t say anything, but the stone tile under her feet was warm and strong, and Laura took it as a gesture made particularly for her, although she wasn’t sure why.
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and lit one with the camouflage lighter somebody had given her. Maybe Jack. Jack had given her a thing or two while they were in Baghdad, a cheap tin ring he bought from a kid, and half his shells the day she ran out in the middle of an engagement, which was a nice way of saying they’d been shooting at people worse armed but just as desperate as they were. She didn’t know where Jack was now. Maybe back in Tennessee with his family. Maybe in one of the veterans’ hospitals scattered up and down the country. He’d lost a leg. She remembered that hard, because she’d been standing near enough that what was left of that leg splattered all over her uniform, and pieces of Jack stained her afterwards. They’d sort of laughed and joked while the medic loaded him into the ambulance, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to see him again, even though one bad night he’d asked her to marry him.
(“Go the hell back to sleep,” she’d said, trying to clean the sand out of her skin. “Don’t need no trouble, man.”)
Hephaestus didn’t like talking, she could see it in his face. She didn’t mean to, but she felt small beside them, two swarthy Greeks, and she was a wiry little redhead kid. They’d been around a lot longer than she had. She wasn’t going to say anything, but she knew Hephaestus had two crippled legs under the table, twisted and broken from a long fall.
She was looking for a job when nobody wanted to hire. She wasn’t going to say a damn thing to push her luck.
Hestia was for the most part ignoring them. She stood behind the bakery counter, hands flat, surrounded by thick, fresh loaves of bread and snowfalls of pastry. Every now and then a customer would come in and there’d be movement, although Hestia was never exactly still. She moved like the flames in a hearthfire, slipping rolls or cookies into brown paper bags, handing them across the counter, hushing the jangle of the cash register. Hestia was a background noise as warm as the stone floor.
Laura smoked her cigarette.
She’d shot a kid once. It happened. Sometimes you just didn’t know they were there; sometimes the people who you fought were really only thirteen. You couldn’t pick and choose, skip out of a battle because they were just too young. She didn’t remember what he’d looked like, she hadn’t had to look (maybe that was better?).
Hephaestus didn’t say anything. He watched her evenly, black-eyed, broad-shouldered, unmoving. He was like a stone. The wall behind them was shelves full of bronze, vessels and statues, twisted and smooth, wound out of cool metal, dull and shining. It was his work. Laura blew smoke out, in a blurring white shadow, and wondered what it would be like to make things like that, things that were beautiful.
She didn’t think she was supposed to know, though.
She wondered what it had felt like, getting thrown down. Falling through the cold air, way down from the mountain, the clouds rushing by faster every second--he wouldn’t even have had his eyes open for very long by then. He was probably still covered with blood, the way babies were (in the picture they’d taken of Laura the day she was born, in the doctor’s proud hands, her body was bloodstained, her mother’s blood holding one eye shut, and it had been an omen but they hadn’t know that then), falling down for miles, not knowing the names of the things he was falling past or even what it meant to fall. Then hitting the ocean like that, with an angry splash. She wondered if he had been scared, if he’d ever been scared in his life, but his black eyes watched her so silently that she got a feeling like he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been bitter. Maybe you could feel bitter the very second you were born.
She would have, if she’d known what she was going to get into. She was sure of that. Iraq was like falling from the sky, just one swift plummet down that felt like it lasted for-ever, and then she had landed in the sand, bruised all over. When her father told her how proud he’d be if she enlisted, he hadn’t hinted that it bruised you. He hadn’t said anything about being bruised himself. Maybe he hadn’t felt it. Maybe he was a different kind of person.
Maybe she was the same kind of person as Hephaestus. She took another drag on her cigarette. Maybe falling from the sky felt a lot like having Jack’s leg splatter all over your face.
Maybe.
The warm bread from the bakery cooled in glass cases. People came in and bought spiral pastries. In the shelf behind Hephaestus, a hunched bronze calf looked at her with sad eyes, knowing that the wreath of flowers around its neck meant the same thing as the American flag draped over smooth wood.
Laura stubbed her cigarette out of the sleeve of her sweatshirt, a tiny ember on black.
Hephaestus got to his feet, standing partly lopsided. She glanced over at Hestia, selling someone cinnamon rolls, and slipped under his arm, and it finally worked in her favour that she was warped up like a long piece of wire. His arm lay heavy across her back, resting on her thistledown red hair.
“Give you a hand,” she said, abrupt as she always was.
“Are you coming to work?” Hephaestus asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
She felt the warmth go down her back and through her body, like hot bronze poured into a mould. Leaning on her, he led her back to the forge.
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In Media Res
She sat at his table, a mug of milk in the curve of her palm. The milk and the warm bread Hestia had set on the table a moment ago, her black hair wrapped in a scarf, her dark eyes as warm as the bread. Laura had acknowledged it with a nod, because she wasn’t used to saying thanks.
Hephaestus sat across from her, another black-haired, olive-skinned figure, although his hair was streaked with grey. He had a sharp face made for frowning. He didn’t say anything, but the stone tile under her feet was warm and strong, and Laura took it as a gesture made particularly for her, although she wasn’t sure why.
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and lit one with the camouflage lighter somebody had given her. Maybe Jack. Jack had given her a thing or two while they were in Baghdad, a cheap tin ring he bought from a kid, and half his shells the day she ran out in the middle of an engagement, which was a nice way of saying they’d been shooting at people worse armed but just as desperate as they were. She didn’t know where Jack was now. Maybe back in Tennessee with his family. Maybe in one of the veterans’ hospitals scattered up and down the country. He’d lost a leg. She remembered that hard, because she’d been standing near enough that what was left of that leg splattered all over her uniform, and pieces of Jack stained her afterwards. They’d sort of laughed and joked while the medic loaded him into the ambulance, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to see him again, even though one bad night he’d asked her to marry him.
(“Go the hell back to sleep,” she’d said, trying to clean the sand out of her skin. “Don’t need no trouble, man.”)
Hephaestus didn’t like talking, she could see it in his face. She didn’t mean to, but she felt small beside them, two swarthy Greeks, and she was a wiry little redhead kid. They’d been around a lot longer than she had. She wasn’t going to say anything, but she knew Hephaestus had two crippled legs under the table, twisted and broken from a long fall.
She was looking for a job when nobody wanted to hire. She wasn’t going to say a damn thing to push her luck.
Hestia was for the most part ignoring them. She stood behind the bakery counter, hands flat, surrounded by thick, fresh loaves of bread and snowfalls of pastry. Every now and then a customer would come in and there’d be movement, although Hestia was never exactly still. She moved like the flames in a hearthfire, slipping rolls or cookies into brown paper bags, handing them across the counter, hushing the jangle of the cash register. Hestia was a background noise as warm as the stone floor.
Laura smoked her cigarette.
She’d shot a kid once. It happened. Sometimes you just didn’t know they were there; sometimes the people who you fought were really only thirteen. You couldn’t pick and choose, skip out of a battle because they were just too young. She didn’t remember what he’d looked like, she hadn’t had to look (maybe that was better?).
Hephaestus didn’t say anything. He watched her evenly, black-eyed, broad-shouldered, unmoving. He was like a stone. The wall behind them was shelves full of bronze, vessels and statues, twisted and smooth, wound out of cool metal, dull and shining. It was his work. Laura blew smoke out, in a blurring white shadow, and wondered what it would be like to make things like that, things that were beautiful.
She didn’t think she was supposed to know, though.
She wondered what it had felt like, getting thrown down. Falling through the cold air, way down from the mountain, the clouds rushing by faster every second--he wouldn’t even have had his eyes open for very long by then. He was probably still covered with blood, the way babies were (in the picture they’d taken of Laura the day she was born, in the doctor’s proud hands, her body was bloodstained, her mother’s blood holding one eye shut, and it had been an omen but they hadn’t know that then), falling down for miles, not knowing the names of the things he was falling past or even what it meant to fall. Then hitting the ocean like that, with an angry splash. She wondered if he had been scared, if he’d ever been scared in his life, but his black eyes watched her so silently that she got a feeling like he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been bitter. Maybe you could feel bitter the very second you were born.
She would have, if she’d known what she was going to get into. She was sure of that. Iraq was like falling from the sky, just one swift plummet down that felt like it lasted for-ever, and then she had landed in the sand, bruised all over. When her father told her how proud he’d be if she enlisted, he hadn’t hinted that it bruised you. He hadn’t said anything about being bruised himself. Maybe he hadn’t felt it. Maybe he was a different kind of person.
Maybe she was the same kind of person as Hephaestus. She took another drag on her cigarette. Maybe falling from the sky felt a lot like having Jack’s leg splatter all over your face.
Maybe.
The warm bread from the bakery cooled in glass cases. People came in and bought spiral pastries. In the shelf behind Hephaestus, a hunched bronze calf looked at her with sad eyes, knowing that the wreath of flowers around its neck meant the same thing as the American flag draped over smooth wood.
Laura stubbed her cigarette out of the sleeve of her sweatshirt, a tiny ember on black.
Hephaestus got to his feet, standing partly lopsided. She glanced over at Hestia, selling someone cinnamon rolls, and slipped under his arm, and it finally worked in her favour that she was warped up like a long piece of wire. His arm lay heavy across her back, resting on her thistledown red hair.
“Give you a hand,” she said, abrupt as she always was.
“Are you coming to work?” Hephaestus asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
She felt the warmth go down her back and through her body, like hot bronze poured into a mould. Leaning on her, he led her back to the forge.