Fanfic: Snowed [Highlander]
Mar. 27th, 2012 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
argentum_lsTitle: Snowed
Summary: Timing is everything.
Word Count: 646
Warnings: Death. No happy endings.
Notes: Composite history. The event is set during the Great Lakes Storm of 1913, with some descriptions based on those provided by survivors of the Children's Blizzard of 1888.
The snow started to fall just before Methos dismissed his school for the day. The fourteen children in his charge streamed from their benches to the coat room to don their coats and scarves while Methos set about shutting down the school for the night, maybe longer. The metal door of the coal stove clanged loudly on closing, startling him with the noise’s reverberation. He paused, listening. Urgent whispers and a hushed scramble came from the coat room as the children dressed for the outside as quickly and quietly as they could.
Methos exhaled, his breath visible in the rapidly chilling air inside the simple wooden building. The temperature had grown warm enough during the day that the pupils had been able to shed their coats during lessons, then had dropped so suddenly that his own teeth were chattering as he knelt in front of the coal stove. Only a thin band of heat emanated from its metal surface. He banked the coals, straightened his lesson books on his desk—his fingers lingering on the leather covers—then stepped into the coat room for his own belongings.
He had felt something more than the cold. The air was unnaturally dry despite the snow, and seemed to crackle with energy.
With the hands of the two youngest pupils wrapped in his, he paused in the doorway. Snowflakes fell in thick clumps from dark gray clouds that darkened to black toward the horizon. Methos turned toward the south and stared. He thought he could see the flashing of swords and the white lightning of spilled Quickenings beyond where the clouds met the ground.
He took a step toward it, and another, and would have continued through no agency of his own had it not been for the little girl on his right, tugging at his arm. Through the red woolen scarf that had been wound so carefully around her face that only a thin slit showed between it and her matching hat, she informed him that the town was the other direction.
He knew that.
He lived in town—along with half the children now trudging behind him—and the track from it to the country school was well worn in the prairie dirt, had been beaten again and again through the drifts of snow that the winter had deposited on the plains. The track ended at the schoolhouse door. He shuddered in horror at his own carelessness, his own lack of control. He had been about to lead the children into the wilderness. He shook his head and started for the track, which had already vanished under the first layer of snow.
A stiff wind picked up, pummeling Methos’ face. He ducked his head, tried to ignore the ice encrusting his eyes from his own tears. The going was slow, and again and again he had to correct his course, each time less sure that he had. There were no landmarks save the squat wooden building that soon disappeared into the blowing snow. His feet went numb even as he tried to pick up the pace.
Town was less than a half-mile away, an easy walk in calm weather.
The children following him had ceased speaking altogether, the howling wind stealing their voices. He couldn’t hear them, anyway, his ears trained to another voice that wove its cadences underneath the storm. Come, it whispered. Come and be the end. The anticipation of action tasted metallic, and fingers he couldn’t feel curled around the hands of the children in their frozen mittens, as if willing to accept any substitute for the hilt of a sword.
He couldn’t see, but he knew which way to walk, a path he had walked each day for a decade. He knew, but his feet took him where he was being summoned, and the children followed him.
END
Fulfills AU Bingo square #12: Early 20th Century
Summary: Timing is everything.
Word Count: 646
Warnings: Death. No happy endings.
Notes: Composite history. The event is set during the Great Lakes Storm of 1913, with some descriptions based on those provided by survivors of the Children's Blizzard of 1888.
The snow started to fall just before Methos dismissed his school for the day. The fourteen children in his charge streamed from their benches to the coat room to don their coats and scarves while Methos set about shutting down the school for the night, maybe longer. The metal door of the coal stove clanged loudly on closing, startling him with the noise’s reverberation. He paused, listening. Urgent whispers and a hushed scramble came from the coat room as the children dressed for the outside as quickly and quietly as they could.
Methos exhaled, his breath visible in the rapidly chilling air inside the simple wooden building. The temperature had grown warm enough during the day that the pupils had been able to shed their coats during lessons, then had dropped so suddenly that his own teeth were chattering as he knelt in front of the coal stove. Only a thin band of heat emanated from its metal surface. He banked the coals, straightened his lesson books on his desk—his fingers lingering on the leather covers—then stepped into the coat room for his own belongings.
He had felt something more than the cold. The air was unnaturally dry despite the snow, and seemed to crackle with energy.
With the hands of the two youngest pupils wrapped in his, he paused in the doorway. Snowflakes fell in thick clumps from dark gray clouds that darkened to black toward the horizon. Methos turned toward the south and stared. He thought he could see the flashing of swords and the white lightning of spilled Quickenings beyond where the clouds met the ground.
He took a step toward it, and another, and would have continued through no agency of his own had it not been for the little girl on his right, tugging at his arm. Through the red woolen scarf that had been wound so carefully around her face that only a thin slit showed between it and her matching hat, she informed him that the town was the other direction.
He knew that.
He lived in town—along with half the children now trudging behind him—and the track from it to the country school was well worn in the prairie dirt, had been beaten again and again through the drifts of snow that the winter had deposited on the plains. The track ended at the schoolhouse door. He shuddered in horror at his own carelessness, his own lack of control. He had been about to lead the children into the wilderness. He shook his head and started for the track, which had already vanished under the first layer of snow.
A stiff wind picked up, pummeling Methos’ face. He ducked his head, tried to ignore the ice encrusting his eyes from his own tears. The going was slow, and again and again he had to correct his course, each time less sure that he had. There were no landmarks save the squat wooden building that soon disappeared into the blowing snow. His feet went numb even as he tried to pick up the pace.
Town was less than a half-mile away, an easy walk in calm weather.
The children following him had ceased speaking altogether, the howling wind stealing their voices. He couldn’t hear them, anyway, his ears trained to another voice that wove its cadences underneath the storm. Come, it whispered. Come and be the end. The anticipation of action tasted metallic, and fingers he couldn’t feel curled around the hands of the children in their frozen mittens, as if willing to accept any substitute for the hilt of a sword.
He couldn’t see, but he knew which way to walk, a path he had walked each day for a decade. He knew, but his feet took him where he was being summoned, and the children followed him.
END
Fulfills AU Bingo square #12: Early 20th Century
