SGA Fic - 'Til Human Voices Wake Us
Dec. 8th, 2007 12:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielNot all the SGA fic I write involves Sheppard and McKay. Just most of it. About a year and a half ago I wrote this almost-drabble about Weir and only recently realized I never posted it outside of a private lock. I figured it was maybe time to post it publicly.
The title's from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which is one of those poems that I love (and isn't by John Donne) and one of those poems that I think everybody probably uses part of for a title. For whatever reason, parts of it have become connected with Elizabeth in my mind.
Weir. 110 words. Set after "Before I Sleep," but no spoilers for anything. Elizabeth dreams and walks.
'Til Human Voices Wake Us
Some nights she dreams Atlantis is still empty and quiet, asleep at the bottom of the ocean, waiting to rise.
She walks through the city, past the empty labs and the dark rooms, down corridors where the only sound is the soft shush her clothes make as they move around her. Some nights she savors the stillness of the sleeping city. Other nights she wakes and wants nothing more than to surround herself with her people, to remember that this time she is not alone.
It is her city. But as she walks down the halls, running her fingertips along the smooth paneling, they do not light to greet her.
The title's from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which is one of those poems that I love (and isn't by John Donne) and one of those poems that I think everybody probably uses part of for a title. For whatever reason, parts of it have become connected with Elizabeth in my mind.
Weir. 110 words. Set after "Before I Sleep," but no spoilers for anything. Elizabeth dreams and walks.
'Til Human Voices Wake Us
Some nights she dreams Atlantis is still empty and quiet, asleep at the bottom of the ocean, waiting to rise.
She walks through the city, past the empty labs and the dark rooms, down corridors where the only sound is the soft shush her clothes make as they move around her. Some nights she savors the stillness of the sleeping city. Other nights she wakes and wants nothing more than to surround herself with her people, to remember that this time she is not alone.
It is her city. But as she walks down the halls, running her fingertips along the smooth paneling, they do not light to greet her.
