odette_river: (xfiles; i want to believe)
[personal profile] odette_river
Prompt: Mary Magdalene, i'll be my own savior
She doesn't need saving; she's never needed saving, never wanted it, and that's what she thinks as she's crouched in the dirt, waiting for the first rock to fall, and not even knowing to think of a strange man who, two minutes from now, will sit in front of her and draw symbols in the dust until everyone leaves.

Prompt: general AU, going to Nashville
part of this 'verse
"Why not Nashville?" Susannah said, and so Andrew nodded his head in agreement and so they ended up driving the bus to Nashville.

Trying, anyway.

Even Josh admitted letting him drive was a mistake in his speech in Kentucky while Mary and John were out back with the despondent mechanic.

Title: searching for you
Prompt: cities lost in sand
Rating: PG
Word count: 195
Summary: “He loves us all,” she says.

“He likes you better than the rest of us.”

She looks up at Judas. They're a bit apart from the group. Everyone else is still sitting in the shade of the fig tree, but she'd walked out into the sunlight even though it's hot. And now Judas is here.

He looks back at her, saying nothing else.

It isn't the first time she's heard it, but at least he doesn't say it in that accusatory way Peter has, as if she's stolen something, as if she has this whole thing planned. She has nothing planned.

“He loves us all,” she says.

“Oh, yes. But he thinks you're smarter, or, or... I don't understand it.” He shakes his head. “I feel stupid.”

“I'm not smarter,” she says. Not sure why she does it, she takes his hand in hers.

He jerks, dislodging the fragile grip of their fingers.

“I'm not better than anyone,” she says, looking away.

The wind picks up then, blowing dust over their shoes. She tucks her scarf closer around her face and they turn back toward the fig tree, eyes blinking against dust and sun and time.

Title: already gone
Prompt: Do not stand at my grave and weep, / I am not there; I do not sleep.
Rating: PG
Word count: 250
Summary: He is not here.

Her first thought is that perhaps she's finally gone mad. She puts her palm flat against the cold stone of his tomb (cold like his body when she'd anointed it with myrrh) and thinks, But this feels real.

Except, except.

Except that he is not here. She has actually brushed the tears from her eyes (it seems as if she's been crying for three days) to make sure. He is not here.

And suddenly she is angry, so frightfully angry. She feels a scream building inside her, wanting to burst out and echo and echo the way it's already echoing in her chest. It's not fair. They've taken everything and now to take this too, to take him so that he can't even rest—

Her fingers scrabble against the wall, her knuckles whitening as she tries to grasp the wall, tries to hold on to something.

She's going to have to tell his mother. She's going to have to tell everyone. And they're going to look at her, not with blame exactly, but with something like it, and she's going to hate it because really she'll be back here, living out this final injustice over and over. Judas will never leave that garden. Peter will never leave that courtyard, the fading call of a rooster always in his head. And she, she will never leave this tomb.

Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Because that's the only way to know, isn't it, and she will never know.


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March 2014

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