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[Going Home]
Mar. 24th, 2008 07:22 pmROTM 185.2 Write a prompt fic of your muse interacting with another muse in their life, years from now, where your muse is telling someone something that they don’t want to hear.
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Sixteen years, she had chosen to stay away from Nicholas. Sixteen long years, even after Erastos had gone. She had hidden in her London home. Taking a chance, she appeared to her husband, just to see...
... and now a year had gone by. Where mistakes had been admitted and forgotten. Where they had picked up where they had left off. Only now...
It was time.
There was a deep unhappiness in her and she had been unhappy for more than a year. Not with him, no. When she was with him, she was happy. The only time she was happy. It was in her thoughts that she had time to relive her past.
Her lonely past. Alone? No. Lonely? Yes.
She missed her home. Not the large, sweeping house her father had bought her so many years before. The one of beaches and sand. Sunlight and ancient walls that spoke volumes upon volumes of history.
Antigone wanted to go home.
Could she? Could she doom thousands simply to make herself happy? Force others to live in her time warp of bliss? Call upon servants to live in her world, to serve again after nearly twenty of rest? They had worked for three thousand years, could she really ask them to do it again, simply to make her happy?
Her birthright. All that history.
She ached with the need to be free to touch and feel and breathe her homeland again. Not the modern travesty that was Greece, but the golden past that existed where she alone could build it.
Antigone smiled at dinner. She moaned during their lovemaking, and it was, in fact, exquisite. She made breakfast the next morning and kissed him goodbye, lingering only the smallest moment.
Then, and only then, did she say her goodbyes.
( ================== )
With a thought, she appeared in her London home, the furniture covering itself as she walked through the rooms, shutting it down. She knew she wouldn't return, knew her actions were futile.
She changed into the traditional dress of the age, her hair twisting itself into the old style, and appeared on the beach where the magnificent city had once stood. There, growing impossibly in the sand, was the crocus plant her father had planted when she was born. She gave it a sad smile and faced the open space.
Raising her arms slowly, she watched with awe as the city appeared in all it's white and gold glory, the turrets and walls as tall as ever. The bustle of the people was instantaneous. She smiled, not a satisfied smile, still sad.
Inside, she walked down the hall, nodding at those who deferred. And, at the doors to her suite, she paused before nodding at the guards. When she did, they pulled open the double doors and Antigone closed her eyes and smiled against the rush of wind from the ocean as it blew through the room.
Home.
=======
Sixteen years, she had chosen to stay away from Nicholas. Sixteen long years, even after Erastos had gone. She had hidden in her London home. Taking a chance, she appeared to her husband, just to see...
... and now a year had gone by. Where mistakes had been admitted and forgotten. Where they had picked up where they had left off. Only now...
It was time.
There was a deep unhappiness in her and she had been unhappy for more than a year. Not with him, no. When she was with him, she was happy. The only time she was happy. It was in her thoughts that she had time to relive her past.
Her lonely past. Alone? No. Lonely? Yes.
She missed her home. Not the large, sweeping house her father had bought her so many years before. The one of beaches and sand. Sunlight and ancient walls that spoke volumes upon volumes of history.
Antigone wanted to go home.
Could she? Could she doom thousands simply to make herself happy? Force others to live in her time warp of bliss? Call upon servants to live in her world, to serve again after nearly twenty of rest? They had worked for three thousand years, could she really ask them to do it again, simply to make her happy?
Her birthright. All that history.
She ached with the need to be free to touch and feel and breathe her homeland again. Not the modern travesty that was Greece, but the golden past that existed where she alone could build it.
Antigone smiled at dinner. She moaned during their lovemaking, and it was, in fact, exquisite. She made breakfast the next morning and kissed him goodbye, lingering only the smallest moment.
Then, and only then, did she say her goodbyes.
( ================== )
With a thought, she appeared in her London home, the furniture covering itself as she walked through the rooms, shutting it down. She knew she wouldn't return, knew her actions were futile.
She changed into the traditional dress of the age, her hair twisting itself into the old style, and appeared on the beach where the magnificent city had once stood. There, growing impossibly in the sand, was the crocus plant her father had planted when she was born. She gave it a sad smile and faced the open space.
Raising her arms slowly, she watched with awe as the city appeared in all it's white and gold glory, the turrets and walls as tall as ever. The bustle of the people was instantaneous. She smiled, not a satisfied smile, still sad.
Inside, she walked down the hall, nodding at those who deferred. And, at the doors to her suite, she paused before nodding at the guards. When she did, they pulled open the double doors and Antigone closed her eyes and smiled against the rush of wind from the ocean as it blew through the room.
Home.
