fic: take my hand
Dec. 21st, 2020 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vvitchsdesireao3 || wattpad || ffnet
Title: take my hand
Fandom: Something Dark and Holy
Rating: G
Wordcount: 257
Summary: Malachiasz’s dead: that much Nadya knows. After all, she has seen Serefin kill him, has heard his last words. Logically, she knows he is gone.
Malachiasz’s dead: that much Nadya knows. After all, she has seen Serefin kill him, has heard his last words. Logically, she knows he is gone.
But can Malachiasz truly stay dead? He’s a god, although he was killed with a god-killer weapon. He’s powerful, unless he is not. Nadya curls herself up in bed, near the edge, eyes fixedly unfocused, her corrupt hand close to her chest. Her other hand is dangling out of the bed, as if beckoning someone to join her.
She snorts at the thought. The only person in her bed lately is Parijahan, spooned against her like a protective shield. It does not help much with her sleep - or lack of thereof, darkening bags under her eyes with every night spent painfully awake -, but the comfort of not being alone in bed helps a little.
A little. It is not enough. She closes her eyes and sees Marzenya falling, sees the dagger enter Malachiasz’s flesh. Nadya doesn’t close her eyes much, nowadays.
The clock ticks midnight. A clawed hand finds its way from underneath the darkness of her bed, and Nadya smiles at it, fingers intertwining. It’s a familiar weight, one Nadya barely realizes she misses, and when she closes her eyes, the hand grips itself tighter on her, as if making sure she was going to stay in bed, as if letting her know he would ward off her bad thoughts.
Malachiasz’s dead, but he has a tendency of proving himself hard to kill. Nadya can’t find it in herself to complain.
Title: take my hand
Fandom: Something Dark and Holy
Rating: G
Wordcount: 257
Summary: Malachiasz’s dead: that much Nadya knows. After all, she has seen Serefin kill him, has heard his last words. Logically, she knows he is gone.
Malachiasz’s dead: that much Nadya knows. After all, she has seen Serefin kill him, has heard his last words. Logically, she knows he is gone.
But can Malachiasz truly stay dead? He’s a god, although he was killed with a god-killer weapon. He’s powerful, unless he is not. Nadya curls herself up in bed, near the edge, eyes fixedly unfocused, her corrupt hand close to her chest. Her other hand is dangling out of the bed, as if beckoning someone to join her.
She snorts at the thought. The only person in her bed lately is Parijahan, spooned against her like a protective shield. It does not help much with her sleep - or lack of thereof, darkening bags under her eyes with every night spent painfully awake -, but the comfort of not being alone in bed helps a little.
A little. It is not enough. She closes her eyes and sees Marzenya falling, sees the dagger enter Malachiasz’s flesh. Nadya doesn’t close her eyes much, nowadays.
The clock ticks midnight. A clawed hand finds its way from underneath the darkness of her bed, and Nadya smiles at it, fingers intertwining. It’s a familiar weight, one Nadya barely realizes she misses, and when she closes her eyes, the hand grips itself tighter on her, as if making sure she was going to stay in bed, as if letting her know he would ward off her bad thoughts.
Malachiasz’s dead, but he has a tendency of proving himself hard to kill. Nadya can’t find it in herself to complain.
