ext_10837 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2005-09-23 12:38 am
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-23 12:38 am
[Sept. 23] [James Bond] Master of the World
Title: Master of the World
Day/Theme: Sept. 23 - To Aurora, not to hurry
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/Figure it out
Rating: PG-13
Thy dawn, o master of the world, thy dawn;
The hour the lillies open on the lawn,
The hour the gray wings pass beyond the mountains,
The hour of silence, when we hear the fountains,
The hour that dreams are brighter and winds colder,
The hour that young love wakes on a white shoulder,
O master of the world the Persian dawn.
That hour, O master, shall be bright for thee;
Thy merchants chase the morning down to the sea,
The braves who fight thy war unsheathe the sabre,
The slaves who work thy mines are lashed to labour,
For the wagons of the world are drawn,
The ebony of night, the red of dawn!
- from Hassan: a Soldier's Story by James Elroy Flecker [misquoted by the Contessa Teresa di Vicenzo, James Bond's fiancée, in the film On Her Majesty's Secret Service]
His face is, as always, set - jaw clenched now, clenched tight to the point of quivering, features set in concentration that could mean pleasure or pain. But in his eyes I can see that he would, in this moment, do anything for me.
The moment passes.
My hand is on his neck, and his pulse feels like a trapped butterfly underneath my fingers. He heaves himself away from me, just a few inches, enough to separate our fevered skin and let his head rest on the pillow beside me. He smiles - his smile is so cruel, but his cruelty is sweet.
So sweet it makes me want to cry.
There are tears running down my cheeks. There have been for some time, maybe. His thumb brushes them away, roughly.
"Silly girl," he says, his voice still husky.
I take hold of his wrist and keep his hand where it is, on the side of my face. I don't want to lose anything - not even this moment.
And he, for all his power, cannot stop the dawn.
He leaves tomorrow. This morning, rather. It's only been a week, and I know what we had will be gone when he returns. In months, maybe. A year. Or never.
He's not the sort of man you keep.
I wouldn't want to, anyway, I keep telling myself. It would be like shutting up a firefly in a jar until it suffocated. There's no point, no benefit for anyone involved. And the firely dies.
So much of him has died already, there's not enough left for any one girl to keep. Especially not me - I know he doesn't love me, and neither do I him - then why tears? Why does he hold me now, letting the now-steady beat of his heart say what words can't?
An incurable romantic, that's what he called me the first day we met.
So are you, James. So are you.
I don't think he believed me. But nobody ever puts on that cold, cold veneer unless there's passion and heartbreak underneath. I should know.
This is not a time for talking. Anything we said to each other now would be a lie or a hypocrisy.
"I'll miss you," I say at last.
"Yes," he says.
I don't know what that means.
I want to tell him he's destined for great things, but the words sound like treacle in my own head. How could I know that? He's just another boy. Another boy going into the Queen's Navy.
And I'm just a girl who is saying goodbye.
The first light has already made the stars invisible. It feels like the sped-up sunrise in a planetarium show, all condensed into thirty seconds so people won't trip over each other in the dark as they're leaving. I close my eyes, as if they can shut it out - make the sun sink again, make the world spin backwards, take me to the time when James and I first met and I thought he must be at least twenty or twenty-five, he was so tall and sure and handsome. He told me he was seventeen, but nineteen if anyone asked, because he was going into the Navy. I told him I was seventeen too, and he didn't believe me. Then I told him my parents had both died, and I could see he understood. Orphans have a way of growing up fast, if they grow up at all.
I'm told I'm smart for my age. Maybe I am, but not smart enough to stay away from someone I knew I couldn't keep.
What if he were the master of the world? What if he had the power to stop this sunrise, or to rush past it and be rid of me? What would he do?
Some questions best remain unanswered.
In a few hours, I will let go of him and he will walk away, and we will never meet again.
I've decided that if I ever see him, I will pretend we were friends. Nothing more. It's best that way - and anyway, we'll never meet again. The world's a big place. Maybe when I'm older, I'll understand why my heart aches, even though I don't love him.
Because I don't.
"Goodnight, James," I whisper, even though it's four in the morning, and I know he won't sleep now.
I think he is smiling. I can't be sure.
"Goodnight, Della."
But it's dawn.
A/N: This was my poor attempt to explain the obvious chemistry between Bond and Della Churchill in the film License to Kill. Anybody who tries to tell me that "OMG THERE'S NO WAY THEY COULD BE THE SAME AGE, OMG" will get slapped in the face with a trout, because the Bond timeline never makes sense. Ever. Anywhere.
Day/Theme: Sept. 23 - To Aurora, not to hurry
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/Figure it out
Rating: PG-13
The hour the lillies open on the lawn,
The hour the gray wings pass beyond the mountains,
The hour of silence, when we hear the fountains,
The hour that dreams are brighter and winds colder,
The hour that young love wakes on a white shoulder,
O master of the world the Persian dawn.
That hour, O master, shall be bright for thee;
Thy merchants chase the morning down to the sea,
The braves who fight thy war unsheathe the sabre,
The slaves who work thy mines are lashed to labour,
For the wagons of the world are drawn,
The ebony of night, the red of dawn!
- from Hassan: a Soldier's Story by James Elroy Flecker [misquoted by the Contessa Teresa di Vicenzo, James Bond's fiancée, in the film On Her Majesty's Secret Service]
His face is, as always, set - jaw clenched now, clenched tight to the point of quivering, features set in concentration that could mean pleasure or pain. But in his eyes I can see that he would, in this moment, do anything for me.
The moment passes.
My hand is on his neck, and his pulse feels like a trapped butterfly underneath my fingers. He heaves himself away from me, just a few inches, enough to separate our fevered skin and let his head rest on the pillow beside me. He smiles - his smile is so cruel, but his cruelty is sweet.
So sweet it makes me want to cry.
There are tears running down my cheeks. There have been for some time, maybe. His thumb brushes them away, roughly.
"Silly girl," he says, his voice still husky.
I take hold of his wrist and keep his hand where it is, on the side of my face. I don't want to lose anything - not even this moment.
And he, for all his power, cannot stop the dawn.
He leaves tomorrow. This morning, rather. It's only been a week, and I know what we had will be gone when he returns. In months, maybe. A year. Or never.
He's not the sort of man you keep.
I wouldn't want to, anyway, I keep telling myself. It would be like shutting up a firefly in a jar until it suffocated. There's no point, no benefit for anyone involved. And the firely dies.
So much of him has died already, there's not enough left for any one girl to keep. Especially not me - I know he doesn't love me, and neither do I him - then why tears? Why does he hold me now, letting the now-steady beat of his heart say what words can't?
An incurable romantic, that's what he called me the first day we met.
So are you, James. So are you.
I don't think he believed me. But nobody ever puts on that cold, cold veneer unless there's passion and heartbreak underneath. I should know.
This is not a time for talking. Anything we said to each other now would be a lie or a hypocrisy.
"I'll miss you," I say at last.
"Yes," he says.
I don't know what that means.
I want to tell him he's destined for great things, but the words sound like treacle in my own head. How could I know that? He's just another boy. Another boy going into the Queen's Navy.
And I'm just a girl who is saying goodbye.
The first light has already made the stars invisible. It feels like the sped-up sunrise in a planetarium show, all condensed into thirty seconds so people won't trip over each other in the dark as they're leaving. I close my eyes, as if they can shut it out - make the sun sink again, make the world spin backwards, take me to the time when James and I first met and I thought he must be at least twenty or twenty-five, he was so tall and sure and handsome. He told me he was seventeen, but nineteen if anyone asked, because he was going into the Navy. I told him I was seventeen too, and he didn't believe me. Then I told him my parents had both died, and I could see he understood. Orphans have a way of growing up fast, if they grow up at all.
I'm told I'm smart for my age. Maybe I am, but not smart enough to stay away from someone I knew I couldn't keep.
What if he were the master of the world? What if he had the power to stop this sunrise, or to rush past it and be rid of me? What would he do?
Some questions best remain unanswered.
In a few hours, I will let go of him and he will walk away, and we will never meet again.
I've decided that if I ever see him, I will pretend we were friends. Nothing more. It's best that way - and anyway, we'll never meet again. The world's a big place. Maybe when I'm older, I'll understand why my heart aches, even though I don't love him.
Because I don't.
"Goodnight, James," I whisper, even though it's four in the morning, and I know he won't sleep now.
I think he is smiling. I can't be sure.
"Goodnight, Della."
But it's dawn.
A/N: This was my poor attempt to explain the obvious chemistry between Bond and Della Churchill in the film License to Kill. Anybody who tries to tell me that "OMG THERE'S NO WAY THEY COULD BE THE SAME AGE, OMG" will get slapped in the face with a trout, because the Bond timeline never makes sense. Ever. Anywhere.