Havelock Vetinari :: mid-2005 timewarp AU :: Milliways

[oneman_onevote]

When Havelock pushes open the door to the bar, it takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch back from the sudden wash of noise and light into the dead silence of the dark alley behind him.

He is dressed in full assassin's black, for once - but it is torn and dirty, and there is blood on one shoulder bared by a rip in the cloth, and on both his hands. His face is covered in dark smudged paint, obscuring the pallor of his skin and making his eyes look very pale under the hood. He hesitates a moment, but slowly enters instead of leaving; glancing carefully about before heading in silence to the door.

Once outside, he heads slowly to the lake, welcoming the dark and the quiet.

The Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May is not, to Havelock, feeling all that glorious.

Comments

[oneman_onevote]

There is a moment of silence; then Havelock casts the stone out into the waters.

"I seek to make an adversary out of no-one," he says.

Not entirely true.

But true enough for Milliways.

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

There is no reply to that, but nor does the wind still.

Puck should take comfort from the response-- perhaps, at any rate. There is nevertheless a niggling, gut-deep dread that murmurs that reassurances, however solemn, are too easily cast aside.

He has done it himself, after all, and he shouldn't be able to.

He of all creatures was meant not to.

[oneman_onevote]

Well.

Havelock never sought to make friends, either.

It's never been something for which he has a particular talent.

He leans back on his hands - favouring the right one slightly, easing his weight onto it carefully before letting it take any strain - and doesn't look around, letting the silence grow instead.

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

The little breeze hangs in the air for a moment, swirling this way and that and rustling a few swaying grasses by the water.

Puck is not sure what more he can learn now. And there is something about the trees, something that seems somehow blacker than the night should be able to make them.

He ought not to stay.



Puck's only hope, as he zips invisibly away, is that the wretched mortal will spend quite a bit of time after he is gone staring fruitlessly across the lake or into the trees, trying to determine whether he has really gone.

As jests go, it leaves something to be desired.