Soulcatcher

For the highlander100 Challenge #122 Dark, Light and Shadows
Title: Soulcatcher
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: Koren or Kronos is not mine. The OC is, but he’s dead, anyway.
Notes: Because I promised to sparklebutch to write about an old, grainy photo of Koren (after all, I brought it up). But it seems Kronos has an intense dislike of photographers.

Rogues rode in, spilled blood, created mayhem. Law tracked them down and retaliated. The man half-hidden behind the corner of the tavern wasn’t interested in black and white, in blood and predictability.

His passion lay in capturing the soul of the subjects in smooth shades of a ferrotype.

He glanced down at the rough sketch above the promise of a reward. Koren. Yes, definitely the notorious outlaw with the intriguing physiognomy. He adjusted the camera.

Later, in the swirling chaos nobody noticed the crumpled body in the shadows. Blood dried dark, and this time, power remained locked in the camera.

Too much love will kill you, too much "Innocence" will make Cali write

I suppose I watched "Innocence" too much, or I can blame the fact that I used to know the "Ballad of Reading Gaol" by heart.
Untitled.
Fandom: BtVS
Disclaimer: Nothing I have is really mine. Anything from Jossverse, even less. Methinks Oscar Wilde's works are already in the public domain.
Notes: Sincere thanks go to sparklebutch and ceruleancat for beta and advice and support. Also, for pimping. Everything that is still wrong is my fault:)
Takes place during Buffy season 2 ep "Innocence". The quote in the beginning is straight from the episode.
Poem quoted isThe Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde
So, in the words of two dead Irishmen (and Drusilla, who knows Angelus so well)...


Angelus: Spike, my boy, you *really* don't get it! Do you? You tried to kill her, but you couldn't. Look at you. You're a wreck! She's stronger than any Slayer you've ever faced. Force won't get it done. You gotta work from the inside. To kill this girl ... you have to love her.

Spike smiled, an appreciative, secret smile and drawled, "For each man kills the thing he loves ..." There was mockery in his voice that - for a reason Angelus preferred not to dwell on - failed to reach his eyes.

Later, in the lazy sated predawn, with Spike curled up by his side and Drusilla lying with her head on his chest, the words of the dead Irishman came back to whisper quietly in his head.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves ...

He reached to comb through Dru’s dark locks with his fingers in the unspoken rhythm of the cadenzas. Lovely, deadly, dead.

The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

The harsh lamplight broke on the sleek surface of the hair and for a moment it appeared not dark chestnut, but light wheat under his hand.

Angelus smiled. He was not a kind man. He had never been known for that particular trait.