Mada’s Cursed 7:
By: Stacy L.
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, POV, Vingette
TABLE FIC PROMPT: #071. Broken
WARNINGS: Dark Themes
AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is the seventh and final installment of the “Mada’s Cursed” series.
This story is a response to the stargatefic100 LiveJournal challenge community for my Daniel Jackson prompt table.
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We all fall at some point in our lives whether it be because
we've lost someone, life has become too hectic to keep up with or we're
wallowing away in self-pity. We all fall at some point, but we find our way
again. Some how, in some way we find our way and return once again to what
dreamers dare to call "normalcy". It happens to the best of us and
the worst of us. Some spend years trying to regain that which they have lost.
Some take merely hours to pull themselves back from the brink, and then there
are those of us who remain forever trapped...those of us who become trapped and
give up the fight. We become fallen angels. We become lost and ruined. We
become conquered and beaten. We are destroyed, and we are labeled the sinful,
the wicked, the immoral...
Fallen angels are Mada's favorites. He rejoices when one of us falls and joins his legions becoming monsters like him, having fallen off our pedestals and having lost our wings. For those of us who fall there is no escape, for we become one of a thousand nameless faces peering into darkness, our skin pale and grotesque, clashing with the endless night...fallen angels every one.
Strange things happen when one slips, losing their grasp. Those of us who cling desperately to retain what Mada spends countless hours, days, weeks, months, years driving from us are never alone. At first it seems as if we are alone in the world, one lost soul, a forgotten spirit slowly dying. Our brilliant light waning, flickering as if upon a wick, dancing in shadows, forever glimmering, forever sparkling, forever on the verge of winking out...one tiny little light burning in a sea of desolation. But those of us who are actively slipping are never truly alone for there are some who care. There are some who watch and wait. There are some who only appear, only visit when our grips release. There is someone, something there ready to catch us and as I find myself surrendering, finally at the end of my endurance, ready to immerse myself in eternal damnation, unable to hold on any longer, prepared to plummet into the abyss I release my hold and allow hopelessness and despair to crash down upon me...
As I rapidly descend towards iniquity I find myself opening my mouth not to scream but to cry out, to cry out in desperation, begging for someone to save me. As no one answers I lower my head beginning to accept that I am forever lost. As the tears begin to tumble down across my cheeks I come to a jarring halt fearing I have just hit bottom, but as I attempt to place my feet firmly on the ground I quickly discover that I'm merely dangling, swaying, suspended in mid-air halfway between brightness and darkness. As I look up I see a soft pale face peering back at me. I blink back tears as the face continues to gaze upon me and a soft musical voice quietly whispers, "I won't let you go, for it is not yet your time."
And as the words are spoken her features become clear, her body bathed in a soft gentle light revealing a young woman with skin of snow white and wings all unfurled. I close my eyes as fresh tears tumble forth suddenly aware that I've not been forgotten after all. I feel her grip tight and firm as she holds me and refuses to release me. I feel relieved and thankful hearing her words drift towards me again, "It's not yet your time..." and as I open my eyes again I gasp finding that I still lay upon a bloody floor chained in place, alone in a dirty filthy cage my captor calls a cell.
As I feel despair stalking me I want to scream, but something draws my gaze upwards and as I focus I see her again kneeling beside me, smiling. She leans down as if to kiss my cheek and I feel a strange tingling coolness as if her soft lips have pressed against my skin, but she does not touch me, for to do so would bring about my death. Instead she whispers softly in my ear, "Sleep, Daniel, sleep for it is not yet your time."
As my eyes slide closed I manage to softly whisper, "Who are you?" and as a calming sleep descends upon me I hear her answer coming back to me:
"Some call me Serqet, but to most I am called..."
"The angel of death."
** The End **
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