I'm not supposed to be here. Uh-uh. I'm already happily sunk in two other fandoms. I don't need another one. Nope, no way.
Then three friends who will NOT remain anonymous decided that my life wasn't complete until I watched this show.
They sent me a tape with several episodes and told me I only had to watch the first two. If I could prove to them that I didn't like the show after those two episdoes, they would never try to tempt me again.
So I watched "Hawk and a Handsaw" and said, "Cute. LIKE the Mountie. LIKE the Mountie in a leather jacket. Like the scene where he talks about how his father was recovering from his mother's death. But, you know, no big deal."
The next episode on the tape was "Victoria's Secret." What do you think?
So this story is dedicated to Dianne, Cath and Chris, who decided that my life wasn't insane enough already. Do you think Baltimore can hold all four of us?
Hmmm, let's see... disclaimers: Don't own any of these character or their situations, aren't making any money off of them. This is a Victoria story, BTW, for those of you who would rather see her torn to shreds. Enjoy! Comments to lizbet@primenet.com ------------------------------
He looked the same in that icy hell where we both knew we would die. It was the calm acceptance of inevitability. That's when I knew the sound had been a gun, that the damp warmth spreading across my hand was his life's blood, and then he was falling, out of my arms, out of my life.
I almost jumped. I heard him crash to the ground, an awful sound of vulnerable bone and flesh striking pavement. I kept seeing his eyes, staring into mine, farewell in his gaze. He knew, in that moment. It had all happened so fast. One moment I'd been holding a gun on him, the next I was leaving him behind. The next he was running toward me, hand outstretched. And I'd been reaching for him too. I had forgiven him. Forgiven him for betraying me, for stealing ten years of my life. He had forgiven me for betraying him, for stealing his honor and his pride.
How many times has that image echoed throughout history, two hands reaching, but not quite touching? As a child, I fell in love with a legend about two lovers who were separated by birth and circumstance. Her father gave her lover a year and a day to earn her hand by earning his fortune. If he failed to return in time, she would be wed to another. Her lover returned, triumphant -- only to find that he had neglected to count the day of his departure in the stipulated time. She was wed to another. They both died of grief and were buried in one tomb, effigies of their hands not quite meeting symbolizing their hopeless love.
I almost jumped. Damn you, I did. But what would have waited for me if I had? His whole life was based on truth and honor. With me, only with me, he could have put those aside. In our own world, it didn't matter what he was, what I was. If he had come with me, we could have been together. But I couldn't stay in his world. I would have been hated there. He would have hated me there. Everyone would have joined forces against me, to convince him that I didn't love him.
I did. I do. That's the hell of it all. I love him. I loved him on that cold mountainside when we thought we were going to die. I hated him when he ignored my pleading and sent me to jail for my sins. I hated him until the moment he told me that he had been wrong, that he should have let me go. That's when my heart simply broke.
I almost jumped. There was so little time to decide. I wanted to jump, I wanted to stay with him. But they clustered about and over him like vultures. Ray probably would have turned the gun on me. I'd be arrested before I reached his side. Even if I had jumped off the train, we wouldn't have been allowed to be together. I lost him the moment the gun roared and he fell from my arms.
So little time. So damn little time. It isn't fair. Ten years ago, now. How could you know someone so well when you barely knew them? We had spent a week together, no more, spread over ten years. How could you love so much? The rage of pain and desire in me tore my soul to pieces as the train took me out of sight in moments. I didn't dare contact him again, for fear they would find me. I had to disappear completely, change my name, leave my past behind. I could never see him again. I could never know if he lived or died on that train platform that night. Never.
I almost jumped.
But I didn't.
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Lizbet ~*~ lizbet@primenet.com ~ Lizbetann@aol.com
Arnyd yw Ewyll hyd yw, "Passion is the will to be" ~~*~~
http://members.aol.com/Lizbetann/mypage.html