![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
mrua7.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuLink to chapter two: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/86748.html
reminder: these are half drabbles prompted from lines from a single poem.
_________________________________________________________
Prompted by: A Valediction Forbidding Mourning~Adrienne Rich
They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
He lay in medical with eyes glazed over and unresponsive. Illya had never seen Napoleon like this before. Wounded, unconscious yes, but never zombie-like.
The nurse came in to change his dressings. “They’re not healing,” she said.
“Napoleon, come back to us, you need to get well.” Illya entreated.
.
A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.
When U.N.C.L.E. lost one of their own, the memorial was always brief and few attended the burial. It was too close a reminder of their mortality.
Napoleon paused as the last of the dirt covered the sealed vault, sadly tossing a red rose on top of it, lowering his head.
.
To do something very common, in my own way.
He heard a tiny squeak coming from the bushes; upon investigation Illya discovered it was a grey kitten; it’s eyes still closed.
With no sign of the mama, he tucked it under his sweatshirt for warmth; bringing it home. An eye dropper would do to feed it.
“Live,” he whispered.
reminder: these are half drabbles prompted from lines from a single poem.
_________________________________________________________
Prompted by: A Valediction Forbidding Mourning~Adrienne Rich
They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
He lay in medical with eyes glazed over and unresponsive. Illya had never seen Napoleon like this before. Wounded, unconscious yes, but never zombie-like.
The nurse came in to change his dressings. “They’re not healing,” she said.
“Napoleon, come back to us, you need to get well.” Illya entreated.
.
A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.
When U.N.C.L.E. lost one of their own, the memorial was always brief and few attended the burial. It was too close a reminder of their mortality.
Napoleon paused as the last of the dirt covered the sealed vault, sadly tossing a red rose on top of it, lowering his head.
.
To do something very common, in my own way.
He heard a tiny squeak coming from the bushes; upon investigation Illya discovered it was a grey kitten; it’s eyes still closed.
With no sign of the mama, he tucked it under his sweatshirt for warmth; bringing it home. An eye dropper would do to feed it.
“Live,” he whispered.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-08-01 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-01 08:56 pm (UTC)