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femslashficlets2019-02-22 08:41 am
ilthit) wrote in femslashficlets2019-02-22 08:41 am
Entry tags:
[[197]] Iron On Her Lips (The Ulster Cycle)
Title: Iron On Her Lips
Fandom: The Ulster Cycle, or Irish mythology
Characters/Pairings: Deirdre/the Morrigan
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 200
Notes: Mention of violence.
For three nights, Leabharcham was woken up in the night by the cries of her foster-daughter Deirdre. “What is it?” she asked her every night. “Nothing,” Deirdre would say. “Only a nightmare.”
On the third night, Deirde told Leabharcham more. “A woman came to me in a dream, her mouth red, her hair tangled with the blood of men, and a crow upon her shoulder. She told me I would litter many fields with her seeds and grow a great crop that would live in legend for a thousand years.”
Leabharcham said nothing, for she knew of the dire prophecy that had been given on the day of Deirdre’s birth. Surely the visits were from the war goddess Morrigan.
What Deirdre did not tell her foster-mother was that the woman had then continued, “You will not love me, but I will love you, and sleep by your side every night your husband does not. You will never want for love, until you no longer wish for love.” She had then laughed and kissed Deirdre with her bloodied mouth. And, young fawn that she was, Deirdre had matched that iron-flavoured mouth kiss for kiss, the madness of passion under her skin.
Fandom: The Ulster Cycle, or Irish mythology
Characters/Pairings: Deirdre/the Morrigan
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 200
Notes: Mention of violence.
For three nights, Leabharcham was woken up in the night by the cries of her foster-daughter Deirdre. “What is it?” she asked her every night. “Nothing,” Deirdre would say. “Only a nightmare.”
On the third night, Deirde told Leabharcham more. “A woman came to me in a dream, her mouth red, her hair tangled with the blood of men, and a crow upon her shoulder. She told me I would litter many fields with her seeds and grow a great crop that would live in legend for a thousand years.”
Leabharcham said nothing, for she knew of the dire prophecy that had been given on the day of Deirdre’s birth. Surely the visits were from the war goddess Morrigan.
What Deirdre did not tell her foster-mother was that the woman had then continued, “You will not love me, but I will love you, and sleep by your side every night your husband does not. You will never want for love, until you no longer wish for love.” She had then laughed and kissed Deirdre with her bloodied mouth. And, young fawn that she was, Deirdre had matched that iron-flavoured mouth kiss for kiss, the madness of passion under her skin.