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Topic 7: Tales of Brave Ulysses
Feb. 6th, 2006 05:22 pmWrite a ficlet inspired by your favorite song. Post a link to the lyrics or upload the mp3 so we can see what inspired your ficlet.
"Awsome, Sir! They want you to write songfic!"
"Marshall, before you provide an undoubtedly throrough explanation for what on earth the term "songfic" signifies, I would like to point out that I am a busy man. You do remember what I said about the art of delegation earlier this year, don't you?"
"No way, Sir. I mean, I know I'm good, but no way am I writing songfic for you. You're the evil genius here. Well, ex-evil. Sort of. In a yet uncertain sort of way. Not that I'm implying anything. Anyway. See it as a challenge! Like, you do have a favourite song, right?"
"Naturally."
"Which is?"
"My own affair, since I do not intend to write "songfic", whatever this is."
....
"Sir?"
"Yes, Marshall?"
"I'm just saying. Think of the musicbox. What if I could prove to you that Rambaldi wrote songfic?"
....
TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES
These past three months have been unbearable, you think, and the sand beneath your feet feels unreal because you haven't seen her yet. Since they put their little gift of leaden surveillance in you, you haven't even been able to talk to her. The pretense had to be feel real, to everyone. Her life was at stake, after all. So you spun your web and you played your games in your castle of metal and glass, and they believed you. Everyone of them. The young woman, who could have been but wasn't your daughter, and hers. She has hated you before, but now she despises you so intensely that her hands shake whenever you touch them. (One day, you kiss her hand because of this.) You even make your best friend believe you, in the cold shadows of a church neither you nor he belong to, so he really should have known better. But as you kneel surrounded by stone, he hears you and he believes you murdered your wife of thirty years for nothing but a promotion.
(As you later find out, he is busy trying to kill his own wife at the same time, or rather, framing her so the government will do it for him, so she won't take their daughter away from him. He does this in the belief he will be free of her afterwards. Jack never understood marriage.)
So you lied, and you used your friend and his daughter to rid you of every single one of those fools who had demanded your wife's death as a tribute of your loyalty and hadn't doubted once that you would make that choice. You used other people, too, but as opposed to these two, you don't leave them alive afterwards. You dispensed death dispassionately and at ease; the winter king. And then you left your realm to the vultures to return to the sun at last.
She waits for you in the hut at the end of that beach, stepping outside as if she can sense your approach. Her curls have long started to interwine grey with their honey, and her recent illness has left its mark, despite the colour wind and sea have added these last months without you. She has only nine fingers; the one she lost, the one she sacrificed, is pointed out by the wrappings around the stup.
You have never seen a more beautiful sight. And at last, it becomes real to you: the sun, the sand under your feat, the warm, salty air. You kiss her, and you know you will never leave her again.
The fact that you are wrong will doom you both.
Song: Eric Clapton, Tales of Brave Ulysses. (Lyrics by Eric Clapton and Martin Sharp.)
Muse: Arvin Sloane
Fandom: Alias
"Awsome, Sir! They want you to write songfic!"
"Marshall, before you provide an undoubtedly throrough explanation for what on earth the term "songfic" signifies, I would like to point out that I am a busy man. You do remember what I said about the art of delegation earlier this year, don't you?"
"No way, Sir. I mean, I know I'm good, but no way am I writing songfic for you. You're the evil genius here. Well, ex-evil. Sort of. In a yet uncertain sort of way. Not that I'm implying anything. Anyway. See it as a challenge! Like, you do have a favourite song, right?"
"Naturally."
"Which is?"
"My own affair, since I do not intend to write "songfic", whatever this is."
....
"Sir?"
"Yes, Marshall?"
"I'm just saying. Think of the musicbox. What if I could prove to you that Rambaldi wrote songfic?"
....
TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES
These past three months have been unbearable, you think, and the sand beneath your feet feels unreal because you haven't seen her yet. Since they put their little gift of leaden surveillance in you, you haven't even been able to talk to her. The pretense had to be feel real, to everyone. Her life was at stake, after all. So you spun your web and you played your games in your castle of metal and glass, and they believed you. Everyone of them. The young woman, who could have been but wasn't your daughter, and hers. She has hated you before, but now she despises you so intensely that her hands shake whenever you touch them. (One day, you kiss her hand because of this.) You even make your best friend believe you, in the cold shadows of a church neither you nor he belong to, so he really should have known better. But as you kneel surrounded by stone, he hears you and he believes you murdered your wife of thirty years for nothing but a promotion.
(As you later find out, he is busy trying to kill his own wife at the same time, or rather, framing her so the government will do it for him, so she won't take their daughter away from him. He does this in the belief he will be free of her afterwards. Jack never understood marriage.)
So you lied, and you used your friend and his daughter to rid you of every single one of those fools who had demanded your wife's death as a tribute of your loyalty and hadn't doubted once that you would make that choice. You used other people, too, but as opposed to these two, you don't leave them alive afterwards. You dispensed death dispassionately and at ease; the winter king. And then you left your realm to the vultures to return to the sun at last.
She waits for you in the hut at the end of that beach, stepping outside as if she can sense your approach. Her curls have long started to interwine grey with their honey, and her recent illness has left its mark, despite the colour wind and sea have added these last months without you. She has only nine fingers; the one she lost, the one she sacrificed, is pointed out by the wrappings around the stup.
You have never seen a more beautiful sight. And at last, it becomes real to you: the sun, the sand under your feat, the warm, salty air. You kiss her, and you know you will never leave her again.
The fact that you are wrong will doom you both.
Song: Eric Clapton, Tales of Brave Ulysses. (Lyrics by Eric Clapton and Martin Sharp.)
Muse: Arvin Sloane
Fandom: Alias
