The Hours: Prime
Apr. 10th, 2008 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunCharacters: Willow, Kennedy
Rating: PG-13
Summary:Willow reaches out, threading her fingers through her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands.
Warnings: religious references
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse prompt #90-colorless. The Hebrew translations were taken from The Jewish Publication Society Bible. I have modified them to avoid seeming blasphemous and also because I believe the modifications fit Willow's character. However, this fic may contain inaccuracies of the religious kind and for that I apologize.
Previous Chapters
Under the tree, a book open her lap, Willow feels foolish. Not the kind of foolish that comes from dating a cyber-demon or having a nervous breakdown over a crayon, but the kind of foolish that comes with being a poser. Not that she is one, she hastily assures herself. Because she’s not. A poser. She’s a real pencil spinning, world ending witch…
“Wow. That’s some fancy pencil work.” The voice, soft and very close to her ear, startles her and the pencil that had been scrawling frantically in mid-air dropped, suddenly impaled in the soft ground.
Willow shakes her head, not entirely comfortable with the woman next to her. She likes Kennedy, even if it’s clear the others don’t, and the sex between them is somewhere on the order of Holy with a side of Heck Yeah. But Kennedy isn’t a comfortable person. From her muscles to her mouth, everything about her is firm.
“Yeah,” Willow murmurs. “That’s me, just full of…fancy pencil work.”
The book on her lap is also full of…fancy pencil work. Actually, it’s not full of fancy pencil work. It’s full of colorless accounts of spells designed to destroy things. There are spells in here to conjure and destroy demons, spells to destroy other witches and spells to destroy something that Dawn has roughly translated as “sac of multitudinous cartilaginous omniscience” and that sounds worse when you break the words down to their constituent meanings, but there’s nothing in this book that deals with an evil so old it predates humanity.
“It’s early,” Kennedy offers with a solemn smile. “You can’t expect to save the world by 9 a.m.”
“No,” Willow agrees. “Saving the world by 9 a.m. is a lot. Usually we have to wait until after lunch.”
The joke falls flat because Willow isn’t joking. It’s 9 a.m. and Buffy’s gone. Buffy’s gone, and the fight is hers again and she just isn’t sure she can.
Willow reaches out, running her fingers over her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands. Holding Kennedy makes her feel fragile and small and inside her, she wonders if she’ll ever feel strong again. The girl she used to be is gone and the woman that sits under tree feels foolish and fragile, too fragile to fight an unstoppable evil.
She prays for strength. Her prayers are not to the Elohim of her childhood, though she stills believes deeply in the Lord of her ancestors. Her prayers are not to the Goddess of her youth, the deep wellspring of her power that she still reverences and respects. More often than not, her prayers are to Tara.
She whispers words of despair and comfort to the woman she loved and lost. Tara, whose hands weren’t strong, made Willow feel invincible. She needs that now, pleads in the prayers of her childhood to the shade of her dead lover.
Give ear to my words, consider my meditation. Hearken unto the voice of my cry, for unto Thee do I pray. In the morning shalt Thou hear my voice; in the morning will I order my prayer unto Thee, and will look forward.
She squeezes Kennedy’s fingers, praying for a breath of air or the chirp of a bird. Some sign that Tara is here and not gone; listening to her and still loving her. The world remains stubbornly, mundanely still.
She is short a miracle. But there are strong fingers, a strong hand, twining with hers. Those strong fingers are turning the pages of the book on her lap. They are looking for a solution, a way to save the world.
Willow smiles. The strong fingers have the right idea. In the midst of the apocalypse, there is still a solution to be found.
Rating: PG-13
Summary:Willow reaches out, threading her fingers through her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands.
Warnings: religious references
A/N: Written for
tamingthemuse prompt #90-colorless. The Hebrew translations were taken from The Jewish Publication Society Bible. I have modified them to avoid seeming blasphemous and also because I believe the modifications fit Willow's character. However, this fic may contain inaccuracies of the religious kind and for that I apologize. Previous Chapters
Under the tree, a book open her lap, Willow feels foolish. Not the kind of foolish that comes from dating a cyber-demon or having a nervous breakdown over a crayon, but the kind of foolish that comes with being a poser. Not that she is one, she hastily assures herself. Because she’s not. A poser. She’s a real pencil spinning, world ending witch…
“Wow. That’s some fancy pencil work.” The voice, soft and very close to her ear, startles her and the pencil that had been scrawling frantically in mid-air dropped, suddenly impaled in the soft ground.
Willow shakes her head, not entirely comfortable with the woman next to her. She likes Kennedy, even if it’s clear the others don’t, and the sex between them is somewhere on the order of Holy with a side of Heck Yeah. But Kennedy isn’t a comfortable person. From her muscles to her mouth, everything about her is firm.
“Yeah,” Willow murmurs. “That’s me, just full of…fancy pencil work.”
The book on her lap is also full of…fancy pencil work. Actually, it’s not full of fancy pencil work. It’s full of colorless accounts of spells designed to destroy things. There are spells in here to conjure and destroy demons, spells to destroy other witches and spells to destroy something that Dawn has roughly translated as “sac of multitudinous cartilaginous omniscience” and that sounds worse when you break the words down to their constituent meanings, but there’s nothing in this book that deals with an evil so old it predates humanity.
“It’s early,” Kennedy offers with a solemn smile. “You can’t expect to save the world by 9 a.m.”
“No,” Willow agrees. “Saving the world by 9 a.m. is a lot. Usually we have to wait until after lunch.”
The joke falls flat because Willow isn’t joking. It’s 9 a.m. and Buffy’s gone. Buffy’s gone, and the fight is hers again and she just isn’t sure she can.
Willow reaches out, running her fingers over her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands. Holding Kennedy makes her feel fragile and small and inside her, she wonders if she’ll ever feel strong again. The girl she used to be is gone and the woman that sits under tree feels foolish and fragile, too fragile to fight an unstoppable evil.
She prays for strength. Her prayers are not to the Elohim of her childhood, though she stills believes deeply in the Lord of her ancestors. Her prayers are not to the Goddess of her youth, the deep wellspring of her power that she still reverences and respects. More often than not, her prayers are to Tara.
She whispers words of despair and comfort to the woman she loved and lost. Tara, whose hands weren’t strong, made Willow feel invincible. She needs that now, pleads in the prayers of her childhood to the shade of her dead lover.
Give ear to my words, consider my meditation. Hearken unto the voice of my cry, for unto Thee do I pray. In the morning shalt Thou hear my voice; in the morning will I order my prayer unto Thee, and will look forward.
She squeezes Kennedy’s fingers, praying for a breath of air or the chirp of a bird. Some sign that Tara is here and not gone; listening to her and still loving her. The world remains stubbornly, mundanely still.
She is short a miracle. But there are strong fingers, a strong hand, twining with hers. Those strong fingers are turning the pages of the book on her lap. They are looking for a solution, a way to save the world.
Willow smiles. The strong fingers have the right idea. In the midst of the apocalypse, there is still a solution to be found.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2008-04-12 03:13 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-04-13 01:33 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-04-18 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-04-18 04:25 am (UTC)But after reading the comics and not having to listen to that bratty voice, I think I get what she brings to Willow and I wanted to explore that. I'm glad you thought it came across well!