Fic: the nameless dead (Alias/SPN)
Oct. 19th, 2006 06:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiTitle: the nameless dead
Author: Vanzetti
Supernatural/Alias
R; slash; John Winchester, Julian Sark
prompt 51: water
summary: "You will find on the right in Hades' halls a spring, and by it stands a ghostly cypress-tree, where the dead souls descending wash away their lives. Do not even draw near this spring. Further on you will find chill water, flowing from the pool of Memory: over this stand guardians. They will ask you with keen minds what is your quest in the gloom of deadly Hades. They will ask why you have come..."
warnings: Spoilers through the end of Alias, and through SPN 2x01. Dead characters.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rez_lo for hand-holding and not having me committed.
The underworld landscape mutates around him: one step in fire and the next into shadow, neck-deep water one moment, dark forest the next. The nameless dead are shadows as well, ice-cold breath on his neck, burning fingers on his arm. Sark's feet carry him forward, though he could wander here a hundred years, life in a vial around his neck, and never know it, never find her.
He closes his eyes and lets the eerie tides of the place draw him out, lets its gravity guide him to a patch of solid ground. Such things exist, even here: his sources assured him of it. His eyes open on flame and darkness: the forest again, a small fire, a man seated on the other side of it, the glow casting shadows on his face. No one he knows, Sark thinks, but dark hair and dark eyes and a watchfulness he recognizes nonetheless. The man stares with disinterest as Sark crouches beside the fire and reaches out to warm his hands. Outside the circle of firelight, the shadows are watching them both: it's the man keeping them back, not the fire. Sark shudders at that, despite the warmth.
"You're alive," the man says.
Sark's head snaps up: the dead don't speak first. "I'm looking for a woman," he says. He would describe her, but he has no idea how she might appear here. He would give her name, but the dead have no names. He's amazed at his own foolish devotion.
"Your wife?" the man asks. His voice is rough and low, as if he has had little use for it.
Sark smiles. "When she died, she would have been your own age."
"Your mother."
His smile fades. "Not in any way that matters."
The fire's snuffed out. "You can't lie here," the man says.
Now they're standing in a desert, red sun above them and dusty sand blowing around their legs. "I need to find her," Sark says. He starts walking, and the dead man follows him.
"If you spill your blood, she'll be drawn to it," the man says.
"Not to my blood." His feet are slipping a little in the sand; the dead man trudges on as if on solid ground.
"You walked into hell to find a woman who feels no tie to you?"
"At the time, it seemed like an excellent plan."
The dead man's grin is a wolfish expression, more hunger than humor. "Do you know your own name?"
"Julian," Sark says. Anything beyond that is conjecture.
"John Winchester," the dead man says.
Sark stops, and the world shifts around them: warm darkness, jungle noises, moonlight. They're standing in a river. The dead man lays a hand on Sark's arm and is still, listening. A gesture with his head and a little pressure from his hand, and they back up onto the shore. A bird calls, and despite the perfect darkness Sark can see fire reflected in the dead man's eyes.
"The dead don't know their own names, John Winchester," he says.
Teeth flash in another predatory grin. "Tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine."
Sark's heart is beating fast: the dead drink forgetfulness, and though his sources all told him that there is memory here too, none of them knew where. "Tell me where the spring is," he demands.
"Give me what you have in the vial around your neck."
Sark takes a step back. "No."
"It's not your life," he says.
"It's mine to give," Sark answers. "It's for her; it was her life's work." Rambaldi's ambrosial drink: immortality even for the dead. It's taken him years to discover the source, to dig into what he'd thought was Sloane's tomb.
"She doesn't know that now. It's a simple trade; life for memory," he says. "There are two springs. You'll need me to tell you which to take the water from, if you want her to remember you."
"On second thought," Sark says, "perhaps I'd rather she didn't remember how little she cares for me." The world doesn't shift around him. His mouth is dry.
This time Winchester's smile is a little gentler. "I had to try it," he says. They're standing in dry grass now, snowflakes whirled around them by a sharp wind. "When you get back, talk to my boys. Sam and Dean." He lingers on the names, his voice low and soft. "There's more of that, of what you're carrying?"
"Some," Sark admits. "Enough for one, at least."
"Give it to them, and I'll tell you where the spring is, how to get the water. I'll guide you there." Snow in his hair, gray in his beard; he meets Sark's eyes. "You know it will work."
"You're very sure that they'll find you."
"If you knew my boys," he says, and there it is, that same note of pride; Sark shivers, and it's not from the cold. "If you knew my boys, you'd understand why."
"What makes you think I'll keep my word?"
Winchester smiles at him. "You walked into hell to bring back a woman who won't acknowledge you. You'll keep a promise." He turns and starts walking: as Sark follows, snow gives way to hot mud raining down on them, to the damp chill of a forest before down, to a rocky slope and a row of cypress trees in the valley below. They head downhill, and the world changes again, flickering to black earth and white trees. Winchester stops and takes hold of Sark's arm, turning toward him. "Swear to me," he says. "Swear that you'll give my sons that ambrosia."
"I swear it," Sark says.
There's nothing gentle in Winchester's kiss. He smells of earth and charcoal and Sark chokes on the taste of it, ash on his tongue. The world flickers from positive to negative and back again; he closes his eyes against the vertigo, presses back against Winchester's body, the vial crushed between them, Winchester's stubble rough against his face. He needs to know that he's alive right now, he needs to be reminded that his body is solid.
That he can feel: but what he feels is cold. Winchester steps back, the knife in his hand red. Sark looks down at his own blood, up at the dead man's face. Winchester stands, grim and silent, as Sark's legs weaken and he lowers himself to the ground, leaning on his one free hand. The other, pressed against his side, is doing nothing to stop the blood.
The dead don't remember their names, and the dead don't carry weapons, and it seems that John Winchester is an exception to both rules.
* * *
He doesn't know what will happen to a living man who dies down here; he wasn't sure it could be done until he needed to do it. Perhaps the boy will wake up as a shade, perhaps he'll return to life. John doesn't really care. When he thinks it's safe, when he knows the blue eyes can't see it any more, he reaches down with his free hand to take the vial on its cord from around the boy's neck, and hangs it around his own. He won't drink from it, not yet. He can't be living for what he intends to do. But once it's over... Once it's over.
The boy's blood is soaking into the ground, and there are spirits gathering: they cluster around the body, all but one, a woman who stands and watches John go back up the hillside. He nods as he passes her and speaks her name. He'll remember her. He'll bring her chill water, when this is done; he owes the boy that much.
end.
Author's note: I could not find my copy of the B-series Dionysiac "Orphic" texts, and am using Janko's 1984 reconstruction as a basis.
Author: Vanzetti
Supernatural/Alias
R; slash; John Winchester, Julian Sark
prompt 51: water
summary: "You will find on the right in Hades' halls a spring, and by it stands a ghostly cypress-tree, where the dead souls descending wash away their lives. Do not even draw near this spring. Further on you will find chill water, flowing from the pool of Memory: over this stand guardians. They will ask you with keen minds what is your quest in the gloom of deadly Hades. They will ask why you have come..."
warnings: Spoilers through the end of Alias, and through SPN 2x01. Dead characters.
Thanks to
rez_lo for hand-holding and not having me committed.The underworld landscape mutates around him: one step in fire and the next into shadow, neck-deep water one moment, dark forest the next. The nameless dead are shadows as well, ice-cold breath on his neck, burning fingers on his arm. Sark's feet carry him forward, though he could wander here a hundred years, life in a vial around his neck, and never know it, never find her.
He closes his eyes and lets the eerie tides of the place draw him out, lets its gravity guide him to a patch of solid ground. Such things exist, even here: his sources assured him of it. His eyes open on flame and darkness: the forest again, a small fire, a man seated on the other side of it, the glow casting shadows on his face. No one he knows, Sark thinks, but dark hair and dark eyes and a watchfulness he recognizes nonetheless. The man stares with disinterest as Sark crouches beside the fire and reaches out to warm his hands. Outside the circle of firelight, the shadows are watching them both: it's the man keeping them back, not the fire. Sark shudders at that, despite the warmth.
"You're alive," the man says.
Sark's head snaps up: the dead don't speak first. "I'm looking for a woman," he says. He would describe her, but he has no idea how she might appear here. He would give her name, but the dead have no names. He's amazed at his own foolish devotion.
"Your wife?" the man asks. His voice is rough and low, as if he has had little use for it.
Sark smiles. "When she died, she would have been your own age."
"Your mother."
His smile fades. "Not in any way that matters."
The fire's snuffed out. "You can't lie here," the man says.
Now they're standing in a desert, red sun above them and dusty sand blowing around their legs. "I need to find her," Sark says. He starts walking, and the dead man follows him.
"If you spill your blood, she'll be drawn to it," the man says.
"Not to my blood." His feet are slipping a little in the sand; the dead man trudges on as if on solid ground.
"You walked into hell to find a woman who feels no tie to you?"
"At the time, it seemed like an excellent plan."
The dead man's grin is a wolfish expression, more hunger than humor. "Do you know your own name?"
"Julian," Sark says. Anything beyond that is conjecture.
"John Winchester," the dead man says.
Sark stops, and the world shifts around them: warm darkness, jungle noises, moonlight. They're standing in a river. The dead man lays a hand on Sark's arm and is still, listening. A gesture with his head and a little pressure from his hand, and they back up onto the shore. A bird calls, and despite the perfect darkness Sark can see fire reflected in the dead man's eyes.
"The dead don't know their own names, John Winchester," he says.
Teeth flash in another predatory grin. "Tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine."
Sark's heart is beating fast: the dead drink forgetfulness, and though his sources all told him that there is memory here too, none of them knew where. "Tell me where the spring is," he demands.
"Give me what you have in the vial around your neck."
Sark takes a step back. "No."
"It's not your life," he says.
"It's mine to give," Sark answers. "It's for her; it was her life's work." Rambaldi's ambrosial drink: immortality even for the dead. It's taken him years to discover the source, to dig into what he'd thought was Sloane's tomb.
"She doesn't know that now. It's a simple trade; life for memory," he says. "There are two springs. You'll need me to tell you which to take the water from, if you want her to remember you."
"On second thought," Sark says, "perhaps I'd rather she didn't remember how little she cares for me." The world doesn't shift around him. His mouth is dry.
This time Winchester's smile is a little gentler. "I had to try it," he says. They're standing in dry grass now, snowflakes whirled around them by a sharp wind. "When you get back, talk to my boys. Sam and Dean." He lingers on the names, his voice low and soft. "There's more of that, of what you're carrying?"
"Some," Sark admits. "Enough for one, at least."
"Give it to them, and I'll tell you where the spring is, how to get the water. I'll guide you there." Snow in his hair, gray in his beard; he meets Sark's eyes. "You know it will work."
"You're very sure that they'll find you."
"If you knew my boys," he says, and there it is, that same note of pride; Sark shivers, and it's not from the cold. "If you knew my boys, you'd understand why."
"What makes you think I'll keep my word?"
Winchester smiles at him. "You walked into hell to bring back a woman who won't acknowledge you. You'll keep a promise." He turns and starts walking: as Sark follows, snow gives way to hot mud raining down on them, to the damp chill of a forest before down, to a rocky slope and a row of cypress trees in the valley below. They head downhill, and the world changes again, flickering to black earth and white trees. Winchester stops and takes hold of Sark's arm, turning toward him. "Swear to me," he says. "Swear that you'll give my sons that ambrosia."
"I swear it," Sark says.
There's nothing gentle in Winchester's kiss. He smells of earth and charcoal and Sark chokes on the taste of it, ash on his tongue. The world flickers from positive to negative and back again; he closes his eyes against the vertigo, presses back against Winchester's body, the vial crushed between them, Winchester's stubble rough against his face. He needs to know that he's alive right now, he needs to be reminded that his body is solid.
That he can feel: but what he feels is cold. Winchester steps back, the knife in his hand red. Sark looks down at his own blood, up at the dead man's face. Winchester stands, grim and silent, as Sark's legs weaken and he lowers himself to the ground, leaning on his one free hand. The other, pressed against his side, is doing nothing to stop the blood.
The dead don't remember their names, and the dead don't carry weapons, and it seems that John Winchester is an exception to both rules.
* * *
He doesn't know what will happen to a living man who dies down here; he wasn't sure it could be done until he needed to do it. Perhaps the boy will wake up as a shade, perhaps he'll return to life. John doesn't really care. When he thinks it's safe, when he knows the blue eyes can't see it any more, he reaches down with his free hand to take the vial on its cord from around the boy's neck, and hangs it around his own. He won't drink from it, not yet. He can't be living for what he intends to do. But once it's over... Once it's over.
The boy's blood is soaking into the ground, and there are spirits gathering: they cluster around the body, all but one, a woman who stands and watches John go back up the hillside. He nods as he passes her and speaks her name. He'll remember her. He'll bring her chill water, when this is done; he owes the boy that much.
end.
Author's note: I could not find my copy of the B-series Dionysiac "Orphic" texts, and am using Janko's 1984 reconstruction as a basis.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 01:38 am (UTC)Poor Sark. I feel a little bad about what I do to him here. But John Winchester actually is a creepy bastard, when you get down to it, and ruthless too. And death would only make that worse, I think.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 11:06 am (UTC)I have no idea who Sark is, not being familiar with this other show. So let me respond just to the John aspects.
The story is beautifully told. The mood is creepy and stark and hard. It's thought provoking, making me question my perceptions of John and
that being said, I don't see this view of John at all.
Yes, John is a hard man, and does what needs to be done, but at GREAT personal cost always. His decisions weigh on him so heavily. His actions cause him tremendous grief. You say "John doesn't really care." But John does CARE, he cares so much that it's almost destroying him. THAT'S why he has built such strong walls between himself and the world, because he cares so much. His PRIMARY goal is to protect the boys, then revenge for Mary's death, but then the other major moving factor in John, is his need to help and protect people, innocent people, victims in a war they don't even know is being fought. John has placed himself between humanity and evil. If he wore his heart on his sleeve, he couldn't be an effective guardian. Even dead I don't see this level of COLD, selfish, ruthlessness in him.
John walks a very fine line, between good and evil, between sanity and madness, but I have always believed that he walks on this side of the line. I can see him making any sacrifice...of HIMSELF for the boys. But if I take your meaning correctly from the story, Sark is alive, a living human being, if not exactly an "innocent" and I can not see John committing a murder for the boys. Even dead and in hell.
Sorry, I don't agree with your comment further down this page either, that John is a cruel son of a bitch. Maybe it's being dead that's doing to him here, but I really don't like THIS John. And I ADORE John! (:-)Could you tell?
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 02:50 pm (UTC)Also, you kind of have to know Sark. Although your comment actually is more interesting because you don't know Sark, and neither does John ... but the irony of Sark dying in hell ought not to be lost on the reader.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 06:54 pm (UTC)(:-)...I just don't LIKE it...lol
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 04:05 pm (UTC)I'm glad the story made you think. I think that there are a number of possible views of John's character, and I admit that I tend to see the characters I like as... rather darker than the majority of their fans do. And this is a particularly dark take on John.
I adore John as well. This particular John frightens me a little.
My view is that John has doen some bad things, and that he's always been able to justify them to himself as being for the greater good. I agree that he's put himself "between humanity and evil," as you say, but I think that the evil he's devoted his life to fight him has touched him deeply.
I think that being in the underworld, or in hell, has affected him here -- he's starker, there's nothing between the light and the shadow, and I think it's one thing to say that you're willing to die, and to give up your life, and another to actually be dead -- even Achilles says he'd rather be the lowest slave of a poor man, and alive, than king of all the dead. I think that for John, the possibility of escaping death is a strong lure, too strong to resist. What he does here is a gamble -- he doesn't know whether or not it will work -- but it's a gamble he has to take.
I also think it's significant that he intends to keep his side of the bargain -- that he'll give Irina (the woman) the water he promised Sark he'd help him get. He's not lost to honor, here, although he's become even more ruthless, more focused, than he was when he was alive.
There is a certain amount of irony to Sark's death here, in this particular way; for one thing, he had his father killed.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 06:58 pm (UTC)I DO see where you're coming from in this story, many people dislike John intensely, and I'm not so blind to his character flaws that I don't sometimes feel an overwhelming desire to kick John's butt, but I really do have a hard time accepting John as anything other than one of the good guys... the result of seeing characters I like rather more sympathetically than many of their fans do. (;-)