Disclaimers: Not mine. Slash implied/remembered. Follows on from Too Long a Sacrifice. The title is from the poem "Easter 1916", by W.B. Yeats. Somehow, it just seemed... appropriate.

Many thanks to betas Sue and Anika. And to Rhi for encouragement and friendship--I'm sure I could find a way to lay this one at your feet if I wanted to *g*. -- tarsh

O When May it Suffice?

He should have expected the gun.

In a way, he had. It wasn't reasonable to expect otherwise. No one who had an option would choose to answer a mysterious summons to a deserted field unarmed. Certainly not anyone who'd ever had any dealings with an organisation like the Consortium.

He hadn't really expected the man would shoot, though.

Even now, as his blood soaked into the thirsty earth beneath his knees (and what was the earth doing beneath his knees, anyway? Last he'd known about it, it had been beneath his feet, where it belonged). As it glistened dark and viscous in the faint moonlight, flowed silent and steady from his body--even now, he couldn't quite believe it.

Damn.

On to What is it But Nightfall?
Back to:
Too Long a Sacrifice
A Terrible Beauty is Born

Write tarsh at tarshaan@moonlit-eyrie.com!

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