Tarot Fic: The Chariot
Nov. 11th, 2007 09:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
infiniteprydeRequested by: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evilbeej
Fandom: Legion of Super-Heroes (Cosmic Boy and XS)
Spoilers: BNB continuity.
Lyric from: Seanan McGuire, "Sycamore Tree"
She had the colors, now. She didn't have the name, but she had the colors: red and yellow and a touch of white, the colors her family had always worn, the colors of the legacy in her blood and in her eyes. Lightning sang through her. Genetic or not, it *was*, and that was all that mattered to it. Freak lab accidents? She could laugh at the idea: her grandfather had believed it, and Wally had believed it, but she knew better. There was no accident about them, or about her, or about Bart.
They were the Flash. They always had been. She didn't need the name to pin it on her. It's what she was born to be; the first decade of her life meant nothing except for the glimpses of her mother darting past, or the stories about Barry, the grandfather even her mother had never know. Her father ...
She felt sorry for her father, sometimes. He'd never understood. Probably he never could. The Legion understood, after all, and they'd known her a far shorter time. But then, the Legion swam in the stories of heroes, gestated legends. She'd seen some of them -- she knew just how deep the currents that the Legion founded would run, and how far. It was a joy to be a part of that, and a greater joy to help in her own person to connect the Legion's work to the work that had inspired it.
Not that she was the only one, either. Her grandfather. Querl's great-grandfather. Superboy himself.
(She wondered, sometimes, what had ever happened to the Amazons, or to the detectives; but it was better not to ask.)
The only problem was that it was hard, increasingly hard, to be more than the Flash. Even without the name. It shouldn't have been; she held so much more... the joy in running was hers, too; music was hers, not her grandfather's or her cousin's (well, not one of them, anyhow); starfields and mechanics and deserts and jungles. She threw herself into things wholeheartedly, and her heart stayed with each of them. She *was*, and that, again, was all that mattered to it.
Except that what she'd thrown herself into most wholeheartedly was being head over heels with one young man, the first one ever to voice real belief in her. That had dropped her deep into love, a long time ago. She'd wanted nothing more. For a while she'd considered something else instead, but she'd gotten her chance, and she'd held on to it with both hands. He meant more to her than even the lightning's song.
He'd proposed to her; but that wasn't true. His eyes had lit looking at her, red and yellow and white. He'd proposed to the Flash. He'd loved the legend more than the girl who lived in it.
He still did: it wasn't wearing off.
She could try to turn away, and see if the other choice she'd almost made would still take her; or she could force the issue, and risk losing both; or she could be what he wanted out of her, the legend and nothing more.
Always before, she'd thrown herself into the speed and the lightning for consolation when the world hurt or confused her. She did that now, too.
And ignored the faint nagging suspicion that the faster she tried to run away from the decision, the more he was making it for her.
evilbeejFandom: Legion of Super-Heroes (Cosmic Boy and XS)
Spoilers: BNB continuity.
Lyric from: Seanan McGuire, "Sycamore Tree"
She had the colors, now. She didn't have the name, but she had the colors: red and yellow and a touch of white, the colors her family had always worn, the colors of the legacy in her blood and in her eyes. Lightning sang through her. Genetic or not, it *was*, and that was all that mattered to it. Freak lab accidents? She could laugh at the idea: her grandfather had believed it, and Wally had believed it, but she knew better. There was no accident about them, or about her, or about Bart.
They were the Flash. They always had been. She didn't need the name to pin it on her. It's what she was born to be; the first decade of her life meant nothing except for the glimpses of her mother darting past, or the stories about Barry, the grandfather even her mother had never know. Her father ...
She felt sorry for her father, sometimes. He'd never understood. Probably he never could. The Legion understood, after all, and they'd known her a far shorter time. But then, the Legion swam in the stories of heroes, gestated legends. She'd seen some of them -- she knew just how deep the currents that the Legion founded would run, and how far. It was a joy to be a part of that, and a greater joy to help in her own person to connect the Legion's work to the work that had inspired it.
Not that she was the only one, either. Her grandfather. Querl's great-grandfather. Superboy himself.
(She wondered, sometimes, what had ever happened to the Amazons, or to the detectives; but it was better not to ask.)
The only problem was that it was hard, increasingly hard, to be more than the Flash. Even without the name. It shouldn't have been; she held so much more... the joy in running was hers, too; music was hers, not her grandfather's or her cousin's (well, not one of them, anyhow); starfields and mechanics and deserts and jungles. She threw herself into things wholeheartedly, and her heart stayed with each of them. She *was*, and that, again, was all that mattered to it.
Except that what she'd thrown herself into most wholeheartedly was being head over heels with one young man, the first one ever to voice real belief in her. That had dropped her deep into love, a long time ago. She'd wanted nothing more. For a while she'd considered something else instead, but she'd gotten her chance, and she'd held on to it with both hands. He meant more to her than even the lightning's song.
He'd proposed to her; but that wasn't true. His eyes had lit looking at her, red and yellow and white. He'd proposed to the Flash. He'd loved the legend more than the girl who lived in it.
He still did: it wasn't wearing off.
She could try to turn away, and see if the other choice she'd almost made would still take her; or she could force the issue, and risk losing both; or she could be what he wanted out of her, the legend and nothing more.
Always before, she'd thrown herself into the speed and the lightning for consolation when the world hurt or confused her. She did that now, too.
And ignored the faint nagging suspicion that the faster she tried to run away from the decision, the more he was making it for her.
