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Entry tags:
Les vagues de l'oubli, by Amonitrate
Fandom: HIGHLANDER
Pairing: Duncan/OMC (implied) Duncan/Methos
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amonitrate
Author Website: Amonitrate on HLFiction
Why this must be read:
A brilliant and atmospheric story from an unusual perspective. This story actually inspired me to poetry (the poem can be found here).
Originally written for the Highlander Holiday Shortcuts fic exchange.
The clash of swords startled him out of a daze and he opened his eyes to the dark of his hotel room. After his gasps faded he realized he was alone and the sound - metal grinding on metal - was nothing but an echo.
He looked at his empty hands and wondered where he'd left his weapon.
When he flicked the switch in the bathroom the glare of yellow light felt like staring into the sun. Reddish brown stood out under his fingernails, the lines of his palms, the beds of his nails, as if he was rusting away at the edges. He avoided the mirror. The tile was cool under his bare feet and gleamed the white of boiled bones.
His short sword, smeared with blood, was propped against the tile walls of the shower stall. He didn't remember putting it there.
Les vagues de l'oubli
Pairing: Duncan/OMC (implied) Duncan/Methos
Author on LJ:
amonitrateAuthor Website: Amonitrate on HLFiction
Why this must be read:
A brilliant and atmospheric story from an unusual perspective. This story actually inspired me to poetry (the poem can be found here).
Originally written for the Highlander Holiday Shortcuts fic exchange.
The clash of swords startled him out of a daze and he opened his eyes to the dark of his hotel room. After his gasps faded he realized he was alone and the sound - metal grinding on metal - was nothing but an echo.
He looked at his empty hands and wondered where he'd left his weapon.
When he flicked the switch in the bathroom the glare of yellow light felt like staring into the sun. Reddish brown stood out under his fingernails, the lines of his palms, the beds of his nails, as if he was rusting away at the edges. He avoided the mirror. The tile was cool under his bare feet and gleamed the white of boiled bones.
His short sword, smeared with blood, was propped against the tile walls of the shower stall. He didn't remember putting it there.
Les vagues de l'oubli