Another Buffy Xmas Ficlet
Dec. 23rd, 2005 12:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alixtiiTitle: A Christmas Carol
Character: Drusilla
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Note: For the "Christmas" prompt of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100. I'll link to the Windows of My Soul masterlist when I'm not quite so busy.
A Christmas Carol
But now her world had been turned upside-down. Or right side-up. Or inside-out. Whatever happened, she didn’t like it. She could feel this new soul inside her, like licorice. Now the pixies were all flustered, and kept screaming things at her that she didn’t understand. Were they angry at her? Would the horse ever pull the cart through the city again? Or would Lady Godiva just shiver and die?
From inside one of the abandoned buildings, she could hear frenzied chanting as she passed. A nest of vampires, no doubt, their voices raised in cheerful revelry to celebrate Gurnenthar's Ascendance, with hollering and dolls and knives. A tea party.
And of course, as with any good tea party, there would be a virgin sacrifice. Drusilla made her way into the building, eager to catch sight of the festivities. A circle of a half-dozen vampires stood around their human victim, who laid on the floor, gagged and stripped down to her underwear. A lamb for the slaughter. Two of them chanted, the others standing around chugging beers. Like tin soldiers.
The first vampire didn’t even see her as she plunged a sprig of holly into his heart.
The other vampires turned on her, suddenly alert. They came closer, closer—then! Her body was poetry as it moved, as she danced, as she blocked their blows and returned each of them to the dust from which they had been made. Such delicious, delightful violence.
They were young, fresh from the grave, children with sugarplums dancing in their heads. They did not know how to make their dances into poetry, preferring to rely on brute strength.
They would never grow up, never become the artists that her Angelus and her William had been. Drusilla stood alone now, surrounded by dust, and turned to the young girl, bound, gagged, and stripped.
“Tsk, tsk,” she said. “What will your mother say?”
And she left.
Character: Drusilla
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Note: For the "Christmas" prompt of
fanfic100. I'll link to the Windows of My Soul masterlist when I'm not quite so busy.A Christmas Carol
God rest ye merry, gentlemen,Drusilla sang the carol softly to herself as she walked through the streets of Los Angeles at night. She liked songs, always had since her mother would sing to her as a child to calm her, even if this song had it all wrong. Why would one need to be saved from Satan’s power? She was a devil’s child, and she excelled at it. Angelus had taught that to her so many years ago.
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born upon this day;
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray.
But now her world had been turned upside-down. Or right side-up. Or inside-out. Whatever happened, she didn’t like it. She could feel this new soul inside her, like licorice. Now the pixies were all flustered, and kept screaming things at her that she didn’t understand. Were they angry at her? Would the horse ever pull the cart through the city again? Or would Lady Godiva just shiver and die?
From inside one of the abandoned buildings, she could hear frenzied chanting as she passed. A nest of vampires, no doubt, their voices raised in cheerful revelry to celebrate Gurnenthar's Ascendance, with hollering and dolls and knives. A tea party.
And of course, as with any good tea party, there would be a virgin sacrifice. Drusilla made her way into the building, eager to catch sight of the festivities. A circle of a half-dozen vampires stood around their human victim, who laid on the floor, gagged and stripped down to her underwear. A lamb for the slaughter. Two of them chanted, the others standing around chugging beers. Like tin soldiers.
The first vampire didn’t even see her as she plunged a sprig of holly into his heart.
The other vampires turned on her, suddenly alert. They came closer, closer—then! Her body was poetry as it moved, as she danced, as she blocked their blows and returned each of them to the dust from which they had been made. Such delicious, delightful violence.
They were young, fresh from the grave, children with sugarplums dancing in their heads. They did not know how to make their dances into poetry, preferring to rely on brute strength.
They would never grow up, never become the artists that her Angelus and her William had been. Drusilla stood alone now, surrounded by dust, and turned to the young girl, bound, gagged, and stripped.
“Tsk, tsk,” she said. “What will your mother say?”
And she left.