La belle

Note: Written after "Billy", blatantly ignoring the following episodes. Because I like Darla like I like my evil: evil.

Let them bleed her, wrap her body with herbs and ointments, chant and pray for all they want. They persist, because it is procedure and their consciences demand it. To be able to stand over the body of the whore, pity and condemn her, yet still feel at peace by having done what they could. They pray, not truly believing it will save her.

When the end comes, she does not think of salvation anyway. There are matters more important to consider, such as whether the maid would have stolen from the silver during her absence. The gown recently ordered from the seamstress, a garish red that would set off well against the pallor of her skin.

Red on white, like the specks of blood staining the shift they had put her in. Her mother never could stand the sight of blood, she remembered. It was surely fortunate that the woman never lived long enough to endure being poor; to watch the animals slaughtered one by one as the winter grew colder.

With own her bare hands, she wrung the thin necks of the poultry, sliced the throat of the boar. It was messy work; cracking the bones and carving out the insides, rubbing goose fat and salt into the skin. But blood never bothered her as much as poverty did, though the days when she bled became an inconvenience as she grew older.

No man wanted a bleeding whore. No whore fancied being on her knees, working them all with her mouth for almost a week straight. They do not want her mouth, or the tricks she had learned. Simply to shove their cocks between her legs, which she rather have them do than to be poor again, or worse, let them place a ring on her finger. Marriage would only tie her here, and she isn't planning on staying. Knows she's meant for something different. Better. Maybe not love, if there ever was such a thing. But *something*.

She will remember the smell of the alleyway distinctly, no matter how many years would pass. It almost discouraged her; the rank odour of the filth and rat droppings, the cheap alcohol that lined his breath as he staggered up to her. No, this was not how she had pictured it, though the man himself was more than she could possibly have hoped for. No more than a young boy, yet with an air of confidence that belied his age, a knowing sparkle in his eyes as he regarded her, knowing he would not be refused.

But he was beautiful, and kept his eyes dutifully closed as she leaned in, doing a quick sweep of her tongue over the skin before she broke it, tasting the heat and salt, the copper of his blood. Presses his mouth to the wetness seeping from her breast, watches him suckle like a newborn.

Feels his hardness against her, even through the clothing. Reaches down with her left hand, undoing the drawstring to his breeches, letting him slip his hands underneath her skirt and petticoat. Backing up, pulling him closer until her back hits the wall, the rough surface scraping the bared skin of her shoulders. Moves the fabrics aside, pushing him inside her, into the womb a son would have made his way out from.

He's warm inside her, a sensation that's always too brief nowadays, the moments of stolen warmth from blood and love-making never long enough to satisfy. She tilts her head back, raking his back with her fingernails, slicing clean through the fabric. The moans are echoing off the walls, and he grips her tighter, fists clenching in her skirts. Makes a low noise in his throat, movements slowing down. She releases her hold, allowing him to slide down to his knees, head bowed down as if in a prayer.

A slight *push* on his shoulder and he falls backwards down on the ground. His eyes are still glazed, wide open--the colour of aged wood. Touches his cheek with her fingertips, tracing the soft curve of his lips, still stained by the blood. Nods to herself, approving her choice. A son, conceived by no one else save herself. She alone has made him. Flesh to flesh. Blood to blood. An immaculate conception by a whore.

Once upon a time, when she was still a girl, she would attend church every Sunday with her father, lighting a candle together for mother's soul. He would kneel beside her, square brown hands folded, lips moving silently as he prayed. What he was praying for he never told her, but she knew what things he wished for, the hopes he carried about the crops next spring.

He continued to believe when the crops failed. Remained steadfast 'till the first snowflakes blanketed the ground. Reassured in his belief when the copper coins in the chest 'miraculously' remained constant, no matter how much would be spent on fodder for the animals.

After his death, she continues the tradition, placing the dry lump of bread in her mouth, sipping delicately from the wine in the wooden chalice. Corpus Christi, the priest intones. The body of Christ.

To Darla it's a piece of bread like any other, a mouthful of wine no sweeter than any bottle found on the table of the poorest farmer, no holier than what the peddler liked to douse himself with. And as surely as she once knew where the copper coins came from, she is certain that whatever grows inside her now could be no more of a miracle than a simple meal of bread and wine. She does not believe in miracles.

She reminds herself of this each day that passes, to keep from forgetting. There isn't much enjoyment these days, and she strives to keep them bearable any way she can. It does not matter whether they are bittersweet memories or not. Her belly is full with them, and that's all she needs. Though some do not, she still remembers what she is.


	The Last Time I Saw You has moved to... http://www.fangedfour.com/lasttime You will be redirected in 10 seconds. Fanfiction by Author Title Rating/Pairing La Belle Dame Sans Merci by nepthys Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Darla, Darla/Angel Improv: bittersweet, crack, candle, ring Feedback: Much appreciated. Summary: "When the end comes, she does not think of salvation anyway." Disclaimer: It'll be Joss' name I'll be muttering when they take away my shoelaces. Note: Written after "Billy", blatantly ignoring the following episodes. Because I like Darla like I like my evil: evil. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Let them bleed her, wrap her body with herbs and ointments, chant and pray for all they want. They persist, because it is procedure and their consciences demand it. To be able to stand over the body of the whore, pity and condemn her, yet still feel at peace by having done what they could. They pray, not truly believing it will save her. When the end comes, she does not think of salvation anyway. There are matters more important to consider, such as whether the maid would have stolen from the silver during her absence. The gown recently ordered from the seamstress, a garish red that would set off well against the pallor of her skin. Red on white, like the specks of blood staining the shift they had put her in. Her mother never could stand the sight of blood, she remembered. It was surely fortunate that the woman never lived long enough to endure being poor; to watch the animals slaughtered one by one as the winter grew colder. With own her bare hands, she wrung the thin necks of the poultry, sliced the throat of the boar. It was messy work; cracking the bones and carving out the insides, rubbing goose fat and salt into the skin. But blood never bothered her as much as poverty did, though the days when she bled became an inconvenience as she grew older. No man wanted a bleeding whore. No whore fancied being on her knees, working them all with her mouth for almost a week straight. They do not want her mouth, or the tricks she had learned. Simply to shove their cocks between her legs, which she rather have them do than to be poor again, or worse, let them place a ring on her finger. Marriage would only tie her here, and she isn't planning on staying. Knows she's meant for something different. Better. Maybe not love, if there ever was such a thing. But something. **** She will remember the smell of the alleyway distinctly, no matter how many years would pass. It almost discouraged her; the rank odour of the filth and rat droppings, the cheap alcohol that lined his breath as he staggered up to her. No, this was not how she had pictured it, though the man himself was more than she could possibly have hoped for. No more than a young boy, yet with an air of confidence that belied his age, a knowing sparkle in his eyes as he regarded her, knowing he would not be refused. But he was beautiful, and kept his eyes dutifully closed as she leaned in, doing a quick sweep of her tongue over the skin before she broke it, tasting the heat and salt, the copper of his blood. Presses his mouth to the wetness seeping from her breast, watches him suckle like a newborn. Feels his hardness against her, even through the clothing. Reaches down with her left hand, undoing the drawstring to his breeches, letting him slip his hands underneath her skirt and petticoat. Backing up, pulling him closer until her back hits the wall, the rough surface scraping the bared skin of her shoulders. Moves the fabrics aside, pushing him inside her, into the womb a son would have made his way out from. He's warm inside her, a sensation that's always too brief nowadays, the moments of stolen warmth from blood and love-making never long enough to satisfy. She tilts her head back, raking his back with her fingernails, slicing clean through the fabric. The moans are echoing off the walls, and he grips her tighter, fists clenching in her skirts. Makes a low noise in his throat, movements slowing down. She releases her hold, allowing him to slide down to his knees, head bowed down as if in a prayer. A slight push on his shoulder and he falls backwards down on the ground. His eyes are still glazed, wide open--the colour of aged wood. Touches his cheek with her fingertips, tracing the soft curve of his lips, still stained by the blood. Nods to herself, approving her choice. A son, conceived by no one else save herself. She alone has made him. Flesh to flesh. Blood to blood. An immaculate conception by a whore. *** Once upon a time, when she was still a girl, she would attend church every Sunday with her father, lighting a candle together for mother's soul. He would kneel beside her, square brown hands folded, lips moving silently as he prayed. What he was praying for he never told her, but she knew what things he wished for, the hopes he carried about the crops next spring. He continued to believe when the crops failed. Remained steadfast 'till the first snowflakes blanketed the ground. Reassured in his belief when the copper coins in the chest 'miraculously' remained constant, no matter how much would be spent on fodder for the animals. After his death, she continues the tradition, placing the dry lump of bread in her mouth, sipping delicately from the wine in the wooden chalice. Corpus Christi, the priest intones. The body of Christ. To Darla it's a piece of bread like any other, a mouthful of wine no sweeter than any bottle found on the table of the poorest farmer, no holier than what the peddler liked to douse himself with. And as surely as she once knew where the copper coins came from, she is certain that whatever grows inside her now could be no more of a miracle than a simple meal of bread and wine. She does not believe in miracles. * Her belly is full. She reminds herself of this each day that passes, to keep from forgetting. There isn't much enjoyment these days, and she strives to keep them bearable any way she can. It does not matter whether they are bittersweet memories or not. Her belly is full with them, and that's all she needs. Though some do not, she still remembers what she is. And would she do it all again? Yes. Yes, she would. Home Updates Fanfiction Essays Betas Resources Video Links Desktop Timeline Family Contact