The Toybox

people for the conservation of limited amounts of indignation


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spnfic: it's the stars that lie, 3/11
children of dune - leto 1
seperis
Title: It's the Stars that Lie, 3/11
Author: Seperis
Series: Down to Agincourt, Book 2
Codes: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Summary: We fight, we lose, everyone dies anyway, I know. However, I don’t see why, if we're going to fight anyway, we shouldn't believe we're going to win.
Author Notes: Thanks to nrrrdygrrrl and obscureraison for beta services, with advice from lillian13, scynneh, and norabombay.
Thanks to bratfarrar for the series name and summary from her sonnet Harry Takes the Field.
Spoilers: Seasons 5, 6, and 7

Series Links - AO3
Series: Down to Agincourt
Book 1: Map of the World

Story Links:
AO3 - All, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3
DW - Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

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So, I hope your 'vacation' is going better than anticipated--at least at this point it's almost over, right?

Was talking with a friend the other day about your title issue, and she suggested "They shall have none, I swear". Quite oblique, but definitely fits Dean's mindset. Continuing to play with the Agincourt idea from our previous discussion, if you want to make a phrase of it: Harry Went to Agincourt. Which, admittedly, might also be a bit oblique. But it feels like it should come from a marching song or something--"Harry went to Agincourt [da dumpty dumpty dee]"

...

Here, have an unexpected poem, because apparently that's the way I roll. (No, I don't know why either.)

Harry went to Agincourt, ankle deep
in mud, and wistful, weary, thought of sleep;
thought of crowns and souls, and old life-goals told
to empty rooms when he was young and brash.
The world still thought him young, beguiled by gold
and trinkets made of names. Names are just ash,
he'd learned, had taught himself, but writ in blood
they thicken, may be set and shaped like mud.
But spilt in love it must be, willingly,
and for a cause near-just (but only near--
for mortal men justice runs crookedly
as any crab). He held his soldiers dear,
like children, brothers, even as he spent
their lives like coin.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The royal French, they bent
the weight of all their bitter scorn on him,
and vowed they'd eat his heart where all could see,
would drive his army down into the grim
shadow of the grave. Surely victory,
they said (and all the world with them agreed)
must go to those with strength, with eager steed
and arms still fresh, not yet worn down like teeth
on sand or bone. The outcome's known. Why try?
Return your rusty sword to battered sheath,
bow your head and bend your stubborn knee. Why
take the field when you cannot win the war?
But Harry -- he went down to Agincourt.

That wasn't where it was going when I started it.

Edited at 2014-08-09 03:41 pm (UTC)

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