Okay everyone, Erin here. I just wrote this little oneshot while talking to Anna and she said I should post it...so...here it is. This is sort of embarrassing (posting something like this), but hey. Blame Anna.
Just so you're warned, this is borderline crack!fic and not meant to be taken seriously. Tongue-in-cheek, and all that. Anyway, enjoy it. :)
The Horror of Reality (an Eagle of the Ninth oneshot)
Marcus winced as his leg twinged in irritation. He really shouldn't be wandering about just now, so soon after the quest for the Eagle and the whole running-from-the-Seal-people thing, but the spring air and his restless nature insisted he be outside. He lowered himself carefully onto the stone bench in the garden, looking out over the pond and smiling as he remembered all the times he and Esca had fished in it before they had left for the north.
His reminiscing was shattered cruelly by the sound of a slammed door in the house. Heavy, rushed footsteps pounded through the atrium and burst through the back entrance. Esca appeared on the steps, panting and looking about himself wildly. The Briton caught sight of him and instantly ran over.
“Esca,” he said, his brow furrowing in worry as he stood up. “What's going on? You look like you've seen a—”
“I had a dream, Marcus,” Esca broke in. His hands were shaking; he ran them nervously through his already mussed hair. His eyes darted around frantically, as if making sure everything was the same. “I had this horrible dream, there was a woman, she was in strange clothes and sat in some sort of odd chair and her face was painted with a lot of cosmetics and—”
“Wait, wait, calm down.” Marcus gripped his former slave's arms tightly and forced him to sit down. “Just calm down and tell me slowly, eh? What did the woman do?”
Esca gulped down air as if he had had none for hours. Gradually his limbs stopped shuddering, though his eyes were still frightened and muscles tense. “I dreamed—I dreamed that she...created us,” he whispered in horror.
Marcus's eyebrows lifted in confusion. “Created us?” he asked slowly. Do I really want to know what this means? he added in thought.
“She imagined us,” the Briton explained with a shudder. “We were nonexistent and she—she invented us in her mind. I dreamed that we—we were only characters in some created story. I dreamed—I dreamed—” His voice broke and he bent over, as if in pain. “I dreamed that we aren't real.”
The Roman's eyes widen in sudden horrific understanding. “You mean—you mean that we're—we're just a figment of someone's imagination?”
Esca nodded solemnly, the despair evident in his face. “What if it's true? What if we're just shadows in somebody's mind and they things we say and do are not our own?”
“I will pray to Mithras,” Marcus said abruptly, standing and beginning to make his way to the house. “Surely he will show us what to do.”
“But don't you see?” Esca gasped desperately. “If what we do is made up by this woman—then how do we know she does not control our prayers as well?”
Marcus stopped short, the terror creeping up on him and hunching over him like a ghost. “No—no it can't—it can't be possible...” Tears flooded his eyes and he fell to his knees. “I'm not real! I'm not real! I'm not real...”
* * *
Years later, a woman in a wheelchair bent over her desk and scribbled away at a scrap piece of paper. Her powdered face bent in concentration as she emptied her creativity onto the page. Now, if only this one scene would come out correctly...
With a curse she let fly the crumpled paper. It hit the wall with a smack and fell to the floor. “In the name of all that is holy, Marcus,” she muttered through her teeth. “I wish you wouldn't be so dramatic!”
Just so you're warned, this is borderline crack!fic and not meant to be taken seriously. Tongue-in-cheek, and all that. Anyway, enjoy it. :)
The Horror of Reality (an Eagle of the Ninth oneshot)
Marcus winced as his leg twinged in irritation. He really shouldn't be wandering about just now, so soon after the quest for the Eagle and the whole running-from-the-Seal-people thing, but the spring air and his restless nature insisted he be outside. He lowered himself carefully onto the stone bench in the garden, looking out over the pond and smiling as he remembered all the times he and Esca had fished in it before they had left for the north.
His reminiscing was shattered cruelly by the sound of a slammed door in the house. Heavy, rushed footsteps pounded through the atrium and burst through the back entrance. Esca appeared on the steps, panting and looking about himself wildly. The Briton caught sight of him and instantly ran over.
“Esca,” he said, his brow furrowing in worry as he stood up. “What's going on? You look like you've seen a—”
“I had a dream, Marcus,” Esca broke in. His hands were shaking; he ran them nervously through his already mussed hair. His eyes darted around frantically, as if making sure everything was the same. “I had this horrible dream, there was a woman, she was in strange clothes and sat in some sort of odd chair and her face was painted with a lot of cosmetics and—”
“Wait, wait, calm down.” Marcus gripped his former slave's arms tightly and forced him to sit down. “Just calm down and tell me slowly, eh? What did the woman do?”
Esca gulped down air as if he had had none for hours. Gradually his limbs stopped shuddering, though his eyes were still frightened and muscles tense. “I dreamed—I dreamed that she...created us,” he whispered in horror.
Marcus's eyebrows lifted in confusion. “Created us?” he asked slowly. Do I really want to know what this means? he added in thought.
“She imagined us,” the Briton explained with a shudder. “We were nonexistent and she—she invented us in her mind. I dreamed that we—we were only characters in some created story. I dreamed—I dreamed—” His voice broke and he bent over, as if in pain. “I dreamed that we aren't real.”
The Roman's eyes widen in sudden horrific understanding. “You mean—you mean that we're—we're just a figment of someone's imagination?”
Esca nodded solemnly, the despair evident in his face. “What if it's true? What if we're just shadows in somebody's mind and they things we say and do are not our own?”
“I will pray to Mithras,” Marcus said abruptly, standing and beginning to make his way to the house. “Surely he will show us what to do.”
“But don't you see?” Esca gasped desperately. “If what we do is made up by this woman—then how do we know she does not control our prayers as well?”
Marcus stopped short, the terror creeping up on him and hunching over him like a ghost. “No—no it can't—it can't be possible...” Tears flooded his eyes and he fell to his knees. “I'm not real! I'm not real! I'm not real...”
* * *
Years later, a woman in a wheelchair bent over her desk and scribbled away at a scrap piece of paper. Her powdered face bent in concentration as she emptied her creativity onto the page. Now, if only this one scene would come out correctly...
With a curse she let fly the crumpled paper. It hit the wall with a smack and fell to the floor. “In the name of all that is holy, Marcus,” she muttered through her teeth. “I wish you wouldn't be so dramatic!”
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