also known as kethlenda (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} green_amber) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} greenamberfic,@ 2007-08-12 10:11:00 |
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Untitled ficlet, Macnair, PG-13
Title: Uh, none, because I am a loser.
Author:kethlenda
Characters/Pairing: Macnair
Summary: Not a one of them knows what it is to truly eat death, to taste it, to swallow it whole, to become it.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): violence
Originally Written: 9/05
Notes: Inspired byvikingcarrot's drawing of Macnair with a kitten. Fear not, the kitten is not the object of any of the violence.
Death Eaters, they call themselves. Southern fops, thinks Walden Macnair. Not a one of them knows what it is to truly eat death, to taste it, to swallow it whole, to become it.
They can put on their masks and hoods, and shoot fancy fireworks into the sky all they want. They know nothing of death.
A spoken Avada Kedavra, a jet of green light, and instant death. Painless, bloodless, and always, always at arm's length.
They do not know the feel of animal flesh--or human--giving way beneath a strong arm and a keen blade. They do not know the sacred beauty of sitting beside the dying, perhaps holding a claw or a hand as the blood drains away, as the light fades from the eyes.
They could not put food on their plates were it not for house-elves and chefs. They do not know the heart-pounding ecstasy of the hunt, or the grim inevitability of slaughtering a cow or a pig one has raised from infancy.
And if they distance themselves from death--dress it up in pretty incantations and sparkling lights--how can they truly know life? It is one and the same--the heartbeat, the tenacious pulse of the life's blood, on and on until it is stopped.
It is not that he enjoys death, savors it for its own sake. But he will never stoop to the impersonality of the Killing Curse. It is easy to kill when you can stand back, do it casually. These men who call themselves Death Eaters--could they so easily end life if they had to do it skin to skin, blade and blood and one last bubbling breath? If they had to stand close enough to feel the pulse they mean to stop?
And he wonders if they lie uneasy at night, if they ask themselves whether they are as strong as they say they are.
As for Macnair, he rests comfortably, his cat's soft heartbeat and rumbling purr against his scarred chest.
Title: Uh, none, because I am a loser.
Author:
kethlendaCharacters/Pairing: Macnair
Summary: Not a one of them knows what it is to truly eat death, to taste it, to swallow it whole, to become it.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): violence
Originally Written: 9/05
Notes: Inspired by
vikingcarrot's drawing of Macnair with a kitten. Fear not, the kitten is not the object of any of the violence.Death Eaters, they call themselves. Southern fops, thinks Walden Macnair. Not a one of them knows what it is to truly eat death, to taste it, to swallow it whole, to become it.
They can put on their masks and hoods, and shoot fancy fireworks into the sky all they want. They know nothing of death.
A spoken Avada Kedavra, a jet of green light, and instant death. Painless, bloodless, and always, always at arm's length.
They do not know the feel of animal flesh--or human--giving way beneath a strong arm and a keen blade. They do not know the sacred beauty of sitting beside the dying, perhaps holding a claw or a hand as the blood drains away, as the light fades from the eyes.
They could not put food on their plates were it not for house-elves and chefs. They do not know the heart-pounding ecstasy of the hunt, or the grim inevitability of slaughtering a cow or a pig one has raised from infancy.
And if they distance themselves from death--dress it up in pretty incantations and sparkling lights--how can they truly know life? It is one and the same--the heartbeat, the tenacious pulse of the life's blood, on and on until it is stopped.
It is not that he enjoys death, savors it for its own sake. But he will never stoop to the impersonality of the Killing Curse. It is easy to kill when you can stand back, do it casually. These men who call themselves Death Eaters--could they so easily end life if they had to do it skin to skin, blade and blood and one last bubbling breath? If they had to stand close enough to feel the pulse they mean to stop?
And he wonders if they lie uneasy at night, if they ask themselves whether they are as strong as they say they are.
As for Macnair, he rests comfortably, his cat's soft heartbeat and rumbling purr against his scarred chest.
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