TITLE: All's Fair
SUMMARY: Helen Magnus falls within Death's domain; just because she has relinquished him does not mean he will let loose his grip on her.
RATING: PG13
WARNING: descriptions of death and some violence
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, making no money, etc.
NOTES: Written for the 'romance' challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sfaflashfic. This started off being about gifts and love without saying ILU, and somewhere along the way it turned into a Collan Rosvenir-esque conversation about who one would kill for. Of course, this being John Druitt, and me being the author, it turns out that it's not exactly a romantic story. (Nothing says romance like dead people, after all!)
All's Fair
Smoke skirls through the air, harsh as the cold in John's throat as he takes that first breath after the the teleport and gets his bearings.
Of all the damned places for Helen to be - the heavy woods of Serbia in February are hardly hospitable, and all the less when the place is crawling with soldiers.
He draws his heavy coat more carefully around him in the shadows, well aware that he is an Englishman in a strange land and will not easily pass for one of them. He is moreover a gentlemen among mere footsoldiers, and one who speaks nothing more than a mere smattering of Serbian - quite possibly enough to have him challenged and killed - or, at least, the attempt made - should they imagine him to be a spy for the Ottomans.
The camp is not far and he moves through the shadows and smoke like the nightmare he has become. Firelight and brief conversation pass him by as he swirls through the camp. Silent guards fail to discern him, and chattering men stump along muddy paths, unaware that Death has passed them over this night.
A grim smile touches John's lips as he reaches the edges of the command. Here, it will be harder to pass unnoticed; the command tents are surrounded by guards and crowded with men. Officers mutter and murmur, their heads craning to see the spectacle, and their words need no translation.
A woman! In the camp - yes, and beautiful! Her eyes shining like bullets, to pierce a man to the heart. Her hair like flax - pale, even in the camplight, and dressed as a man - in trousers and cap and armed with a pistol as she went. Fearless, like the goddesses of old, and with a holiness of purpose like an angel of death!
He catches the words 'Tesla', 'woman', 'puzzle', and curses the vampire for drawing Helen into his meddling. The Serbian army is no place for a woman!
John listens and moves in, shifting closer, closer to the entrance. Like Odysseus tempting fate to hear the sirens - just once...
A movement catches his eye, raucous laughter and a gesture of hand and hip.
The gesture made by the officer needs no interpretation. John needs no translation for the leering smirks on the faces of the men around him, the speculation in their eyes as they look towards the tent.
Before he knows it, he is there, his hand gripping the jaw of the officer, his knife already biting deep beneath the ear.
The first sticky wash spurts over his knuckles before the man can scream. His voice - his life - is gone, ebbed out in a sticky tide, the wages of threatening that which John still holds dear.
Around him, dark eyes stare, some already reaching for their weapons.
John smiles and in a moment, is gone.
--
London is harder. Colder. Here, February is a harsh month at the best of times and John feels the weight of years between his last leaving and this present homecoming - inasmuch as any place is home now.
Yet still much remains from the days of old. There is the mist, the damp cobbles beneath John's patent leather shoes, the chill spectre of war that hangs over the city... And, of course, the woman he follows through the darkness, through mists and moonlight, through countries and continents, perhaps even through time and space. Their dance to the edge of forever.
John turns his head as a voice murmurs blanketing fog, low-pitched and barely audible. "...unbelievable arrogance...nothing to offer...empty promises..."
Helen's voice is crisper, clearer, the flow of her words as careful and precise as ever. "And yet the promises - however empty - are more than many others have given them."
"Helen, you're surely not advocating...."
"No, Robert, I am not. And yet, I wonder if we don't make our own enemies. Still, this may turn the tide. The Americans can't continue to stand off now that their own properties are threatened."
"Can they not? And to show them this would be admit that we are monitoring their lines."
"They already know that. The Bureau of Investigation might be a young organisation and insular, but I don't believe they're stupid."
He follows them through the wintry night, drifting like the revenant he is: Death walking close behind, watchful over the woman he loves.
There's a car moving sleekly through the night, the souless transportation of the modern era. John holds off a little, stepping further into shadows so as not to be seen. The habits of hiding persist, even after the need is gone.
A cry. The thud of fist hitting flesh and bone. A gunshot retort, echoing loud. And Helen's voice clear as church bells calling back the damned, "Take your hands off me!"
John slides through the night, his knife out, the rage within him unleashed. He is a face seen briefly in mist and then no more. One heart's blood flows out over his hands, then another. He hears the muffled squeal of a man in indelicate pain and smiles in the darkness. His Helen, his fury. She hardly needs his protection, but what he can give she has.
And then there is the car and the terrified driver staring out through the windshield.
John swirls into the passenger seat, and his hand snakes out to grip the stranger's wrist with icy fingers before he whirls them both away.
--
Europe again - Polish hills this time, rolling swathes of snow, and the bitterest February wind blowing down his coat collar as he pauses in a loose copse of trees at the top of the hill.
Once again the continent is at war. Once again, Helen has chosen her side.
As he surveys the farm below, dark and silent, and apparently abandoned but for the trucks that have just driven up outside, John cannot help a laugh. The woman has no sense of proportion. One truck, perhaps, might make it through the shadowed countryside, slipping along muddy back lanes and through forest roads, but four? No.
Were she anyone else, this would be idiocy..
Even in Helen Magnus, it's not so far from madness.
And yet he watches them from the edge of the woods, an uncertain Death as the camps from which these people came - human and abnormal alike - are certain death.
John carries no great affection for the persecuted Jews, but this mass murder disgusts him. Death, he feels, should be personally applied, intimately administered. After some time, the memories fade - he no longer remembers his first - but he looked her in the eye as he charmed her, then slaughtered her as she simpered at the fine gentleman.
Helen, doubtless, feels it more tenderly - these castoffs of humanity are not so far from her beloved abnormals, small wonder she should be helping them escape.
He glimpses her down there, amidst the drivers, her gait as distinctive as a signpost pointing her out, the tilt of her head as familiar as the entrance to his lair.
A whistle cuts through the night, and the heads below lift, foxes to the howl of hounds. Distant, far distant on the roads down in the valley, there is noise - another truck making its way through the night, noisy and unafraid.
Down below, the figures by the farm scurry now, cramming into the trucks, their faint voices growing shrill in the cold air.
Not enough space and no time. John sees some give up their places to others, hears the wails of families rent asunder, watches the filled trucks trundle away as those left behind stand and watch their loved ones leave.
Helen is in the last truck - just as well for her. If she didn't go, he would drag her out himself and risk a bullet between his ribs. Altruism is all very well, but John would never permit her to sacrifice herself like this.
John watches as the trucks strike out across the fields, slow and quiet, their lights off, their loads heavy.
The night falls silent.
He's not sure what prompts him to go down to the farm as the truck roars up to the gates. There's no rage in him now, no anger as he slips in and out of shadows, his knife cutting off the harsh German words as they spill out in panic and fear.
This is needful, nothing more.
When he is done, his head lifts to the darkened windows of the farmhouse, and pale faces draw back, terrified of the monster that walks cloaked in the chill night.
He smiles. One hand lifts to beckon them out to the truck.
John does not wait to see them leave.
Helen will never thank him for it, yet he finds he does not much care.
- fin -
ADDITIONAL NOTES: The ending has been rejigged after![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sholio pointed out some structural issues with the format and the implied ending. Thanks, L, for the heads up!
SUMMARY: Helen Magnus falls within Death's domain; just because she has relinquished him does not mean he will let loose his grip on her.
RATING: PG13
WARNING: descriptions of death and some violence
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, making no money, etc.
NOTES: Written for the 'romance' challenge at
sfaflashfic. This started off being about gifts and love without saying ILU, and somewhere along the way it turned into a Collan Rosvenir-esque conversation about who one would kill for. Of course, this being John Druitt, and me being the author, it turns out that it's not exactly a romantic story. (Nothing says romance like dead people, after all!) All's Fair
Smoke skirls through the air, harsh as the cold in John's throat as he takes that first breath after the the teleport and gets his bearings.
Of all the damned places for Helen to be - the heavy woods of Serbia in February are hardly hospitable, and all the less when the place is crawling with soldiers.
He draws his heavy coat more carefully around him in the shadows, well aware that he is an Englishman in a strange land and will not easily pass for one of them. He is moreover a gentlemen among mere footsoldiers, and one who speaks nothing more than a mere smattering of Serbian - quite possibly enough to have him challenged and killed - or, at least, the attempt made - should they imagine him to be a spy for the Ottomans.
The camp is not far and he moves through the shadows and smoke like the nightmare he has become. Firelight and brief conversation pass him by as he swirls through the camp. Silent guards fail to discern him, and chattering men stump along muddy paths, unaware that Death has passed them over this night.
A grim smile touches John's lips as he reaches the edges of the command. Here, it will be harder to pass unnoticed; the command tents are surrounded by guards and crowded with men. Officers mutter and murmur, their heads craning to see the spectacle, and their words need no translation.
A woman! In the camp - yes, and beautiful! Her eyes shining like bullets, to pierce a man to the heart. Her hair like flax - pale, even in the camplight, and dressed as a man - in trousers and cap and armed with a pistol as she went. Fearless, like the goddesses of old, and with a holiness of purpose like an angel of death!
He catches the words 'Tesla', 'woman', 'puzzle', and curses the vampire for drawing Helen into his meddling. The Serbian army is no place for a woman!
John listens and moves in, shifting closer, closer to the entrance. Like Odysseus tempting fate to hear the sirens - just once...
A movement catches his eye, raucous laughter and a gesture of hand and hip.
The gesture made by the officer needs no interpretation. John needs no translation for the leering smirks on the faces of the men around him, the speculation in their eyes as they look towards the tent.
Before he knows it, he is there, his hand gripping the jaw of the officer, his knife already biting deep beneath the ear.
The first sticky wash spurts over his knuckles before the man can scream. His voice - his life - is gone, ebbed out in a sticky tide, the wages of threatening that which John still holds dear.
Around him, dark eyes stare, some already reaching for their weapons.
John smiles and in a moment, is gone.
--
London is harder. Colder. Here, February is a harsh month at the best of times and John feels the weight of years between his last leaving and this present homecoming - inasmuch as any place is home now.
Yet still much remains from the days of old. There is the mist, the damp cobbles beneath John's patent leather shoes, the chill spectre of war that hangs over the city... And, of course, the woman he follows through the darkness, through mists and moonlight, through countries and continents, perhaps even through time and space. Their dance to the edge of forever.
John turns his head as a voice murmurs blanketing fog, low-pitched and barely audible. "...unbelievable arrogance...nothing to offer...empty promises..."
Helen's voice is crisper, clearer, the flow of her words as careful and precise as ever. "And yet the promises - however empty - are more than many others have given them."
"Helen, you're surely not advocating...."
"No, Robert, I am not. And yet, I wonder if we don't make our own enemies. Still, this may turn the tide. The Americans can't continue to stand off now that their own properties are threatened."
"Can they not? And to show them this would be admit that we are monitoring their lines."
"They already know that. The Bureau of Investigation might be a young organisation and insular, but I don't believe they're stupid."
He follows them through the wintry night, drifting like the revenant he is: Death walking close behind, watchful over the woman he loves.
There's a car moving sleekly through the night, the souless transportation of the modern era. John holds off a little, stepping further into shadows so as not to be seen. The habits of hiding persist, even after the need is gone.
A cry. The thud of fist hitting flesh and bone. A gunshot retort, echoing loud. And Helen's voice clear as church bells calling back the damned, "Take your hands off me!"
John slides through the night, his knife out, the rage within him unleashed. He is a face seen briefly in mist and then no more. One heart's blood flows out over his hands, then another. He hears the muffled squeal of a man in indelicate pain and smiles in the darkness. His Helen, his fury. She hardly needs his protection, but what he can give she has.
And then there is the car and the terrified driver staring out through the windshield.
John swirls into the passenger seat, and his hand snakes out to grip the stranger's wrist with icy fingers before he whirls them both away.
--
Europe again - Polish hills this time, rolling swathes of snow, and the bitterest February wind blowing down his coat collar as he pauses in a loose copse of trees at the top of the hill.
Once again the continent is at war. Once again, Helen has chosen her side.
As he surveys the farm below, dark and silent, and apparently abandoned but for the trucks that have just driven up outside, John cannot help a laugh. The woman has no sense of proportion. One truck, perhaps, might make it through the shadowed countryside, slipping along muddy back lanes and through forest roads, but four? No.
Were she anyone else, this would be idiocy..
Even in Helen Magnus, it's not so far from madness.
And yet he watches them from the edge of the woods, an uncertain Death as the camps from which these people came - human and abnormal alike - are certain death.
John carries no great affection for the persecuted Jews, but this mass murder disgusts him. Death, he feels, should be personally applied, intimately administered. After some time, the memories fade - he no longer remembers his first - but he looked her in the eye as he charmed her, then slaughtered her as she simpered at the fine gentleman.
Helen, doubtless, feels it more tenderly - these castoffs of humanity are not so far from her beloved abnormals, small wonder she should be helping them escape.
He glimpses her down there, amidst the drivers, her gait as distinctive as a signpost pointing her out, the tilt of her head as familiar as the entrance to his lair.
A whistle cuts through the night, and the heads below lift, foxes to the howl of hounds. Distant, far distant on the roads down in the valley, there is noise - another truck making its way through the night, noisy and unafraid.
Down below, the figures by the farm scurry now, cramming into the trucks, their faint voices growing shrill in the cold air.
Not enough space and no time. John sees some give up their places to others, hears the wails of families rent asunder, watches the filled trucks trundle away as those left behind stand and watch their loved ones leave.
Helen is in the last truck - just as well for her. If she didn't go, he would drag her out himself and risk a bullet between his ribs. Altruism is all very well, but John would never permit her to sacrifice herself like this.
John watches as the trucks strike out across the fields, slow and quiet, their lights off, their loads heavy.
The night falls silent.
He's not sure what prompts him to go down to the farm as the truck roars up to the gates. There's no rage in him now, no anger as he slips in and out of shadows, his knife cutting off the harsh German words as they spill out in panic and fear.
This is needful, nothing more.
When he is done, his head lifts to the darkened windows of the farmhouse, and pale faces draw back, terrified of the monster that walks cloaked in the chill night.
He smiles. One hand lifts to beckon them out to the truck.
John does not wait to see them leave.
Helen will never thank him for it, yet he finds he does not much care.
- fin -
ADDITIONAL NOTES: The ending has been rejigged after
sholio pointed out some structural issues with the format and the implied ending. Thanks, L, for the heads up!Tags: