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Something that just randomly popped into my head, and wouldn't leave. Strange. Warning you now. Strange.
Title: Land of Broken Men
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Tin Man
Characters/Pairings: People of the OZ, mentions of the big seven
Summary: We are remembering, slowly but surely, what it is like to live in a fair and decent land
Wordcount: 849
Disclaimer: I own nothing
The O.Z is a good place, when it comes down to it. Not perfect, but then nowhere really is, or was, despite what aging ancestors nostalgically claim. Not perfect, never that, but a good place despite it all. Lying broken and barely healed beneath the suns, memories like fresh wounds laid out across the land, but good. Yes. Still good.
We are remembering that, now. We are remembering, slowly but surely, what it is like to live in a fair and decent land. What it is like to have rulers you can trust. What it is like to look a patrolman in the eye, and know he is there to protect you. What it is like to walk down a street and not fear for your life, or the lives of those waiting for you at home. What it is like to say the word 'sorceress', and not swallow convulsively in terror. What it is like to greet a stranger in the street, and not wonder if one of you will die for the cost of speaking. What it is like to be free. That's what we're remembering, now. What freedom feels like.
There is a kind of manic happiness in the air, these days. A kind of fierce, determined celebration, of smiles settled firmly over haunted eyes, and drinks in hands worn thin beneath the rod. Talk is free and fierce, and voices rise high in bright, terrified joy as we dare ourselves to say her name, to think on what has gone before, and gain a tiny victory every time. Every time we say her name, and are not struck down. It is a whisper, a shout, a proud, daring boast, and we say it with relish, and strive to forget what was once the cost.
There is no mention made of the wounds, in this bright, good, desperate land. No mention made, beyond that name. There are things that are not spoken of, things that live now only in the shadows behind our eyes. The names of those we have lost. The prices we once paid.
There are broken men who walk the streets, and none dares put a name to them. There are hard young men who carry guns, whose hands habit clenched around the stocks, and we let them pass, and never whisper 'rebel'. There are weary, dusty people, worn down to the last inch, bones bright and jutting as they pass, and we let them, and never mention the prisons, never mention the Tower. There are madmen, fragmented and torn, silver teeth gleaming in torn skulls, and we watch them go, and never call them by the old words, never challenge 'headcase'. Not now. Not again. These are wounds we dare not mention, for fear we will lay them open once again. We dare not say their name. But neither do we dare forget their passing.
We have our freedom, now. We have our Princess, our Queen, our heroes. We have the bright, sad remnants of a desperate war, and we cling to them, and hate them too, in our own sad way. Our Princess, who saved us all, who came from another world to do it. Who never felt the pain we endured before she came. Our Queen, who watched our suffering, and could do nothing. Our King Consort, who disappeared, who hid, who waited while we slowly fell. Our rebels, whose actions cost our lives, our freedoms. Our Tin Man, who lay down beside a woodland grave and left us to our fate. Our Viewer, who betrayed us all. Our Advisor, who smiles with silver teeth, and flinches at our voices.
Our heroes, who gave us our freedom. And our ghosts, who remind us always of why they had to, of what was done to them before they could. The walking remnants of our wounding, who watch us with sad eyes and bright smiles, and promise that our land is good. Promise our kingdom is great. Promise that the scars they bear across their souls will never be laid across another's. Promise we are free, and will remain so, so long as we can bear their presence, so long as we can bear the reminder of what was, and guard against its repeat.
We can. We must, or it was all for naught. We have to hold them close, hold them up. Have to look them in the eye, and remember what was done, and strive to never see it done again. Have to lay open our wounds just that little bit every day, just that fragment of those old pains and fears, so we can remember what caused them. So we can fight them. We have to let them heal, but never fully. Never all the way. Though it hurts us, though we are so very weary, though our eyes are haunted behind our smiles. We have to suffer just that little bit, in this new and decent land of ours, in this bright and happy freedom. We have to, or it was all for naught.
We have to, or it could come again.
Title: Land of Broken Men
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Tin Man
Characters/Pairings: People of the OZ, mentions of the big seven
Summary: We are remembering, slowly but surely, what it is like to live in a fair and decent land
Wordcount: 849
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Land of Broken Men
The O.Z is a good place, when it comes down to it. Not perfect, but then nowhere really is, or was, despite what aging ancestors nostalgically claim. Not perfect, never that, but a good place despite it all. Lying broken and barely healed beneath the suns, memories like fresh wounds laid out across the land, but good. Yes. Still good.
We are remembering that, now. We are remembering, slowly but surely, what it is like to live in a fair and decent land. What it is like to have rulers you can trust. What it is like to look a patrolman in the eye, and know he is there to protect you. What it is like to walk down a street and not fear for your life, or the lives of those waiting for you at home. What it is like to say the word 'sorceress', and not swallow convulsively in terror. What it is like to greet a stranger in the street, and not wonder if one of you will die for the cost of speaking. What it is like to be free. That's what we're remembering, now. What freedom feels like.
There is a kind of manic happiness in the air, these days. A kind of fierce, determined celebration, of smiles settled firmly over haunted eyes, and drinks in hands worn thin beneath the rod. Talk is free and fierce, and voices rise high in bright, terrified joy as we dare ourselves to say her name, to think on what has gone before, and gain a tiny victory every time. Every time we say her name, and are not struck down. It is a whisper, a shout, a proud, daring boast, and we say it with relish, and strive to forget what was once the cost.
There is no mention made of the wounds, in this bright, good, desperate land. No mention made, beyond that name. There are things that are not spoken of, things that live now only in the shadows behind our eyes. The names of those we have lost. The prices we once paid.
There are broken men who walk the streets, and none dares put a name to them. There are hard young men who carry guns, whose hands habit clenched around the stocks, and we let them pass, and never whisper 'rebel'. There are weary, dusty people, worn down to the last inch, bones bright and jutting as they pass, and we let them, and never mention the prisons, never mention the Tower. There are madmen, fragmented and torn, silver teeth gleaming in torn skulls, and we watch them go, and never call them by the old words, never challenge 'headcase'. Not now. Not again. These are wounds we dare not mention, for fear we will lay them open once again. We dare not say their name. But neither do we dare forget their passing.
We have our freedom, now. We have our Princess, our Queen, our heroes. We have the bright, sad remnants of a desperate war, and we cling to them, and hate them too, in our own sad way. Our Princess, who saved us all, who came from another world to do it. Who never felt the pain we endured before she came. Our Queen, who watched our suffering, and could do nothing. Our King Consort, who disappeared, who hid, who waited while we slowly fell. Our rebels, whose actions cost our lives, our freedoms. Our Tin Man, who lay down beside a woodland grave and left us to our fate. Our Viewer, who betrayed us all. Our Advisor, who smiles with silver teeth, and flinches at our voices.
Our heroes, who gave us our freedom. And our ghosts, who remind us always of why they had to, of what was done to them before they could. The walking remnants of our wounding, who watch us with sad eyes and bright smiles, and promise that our land is good. Promise our kingdom is great. Promise that the scars they bear across their souls will never be laid across another's. Promise we are free, and will remain so, so long as we can bear their presence, so long as we can bear the reminder of what was, and guard against its repeat.
We can. We must, or it was all for naught. We have to hold them close, hold them up. Have to look them in the eye, and remember what was done, and strive to never see it done again. Have to lay open our wounds just that little bit every day, just that fragment of those old pains and fears, so we can remember what caused them. So we can fight them. We have to let them heal, but never fully. Never all the way. Though it hurts us, though we are so very weary, though our eyes are haunted behind our smiles. We have to suffer just that little bit, in this new and decent land of ours, in this bright and happy freedom. We have to, or it was all for naught.
We have to, or it could come again.
