Mad Sweeney (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onlythebranch) wrote2020-08-03 03:19 pm
onlythebranch) wrote2020-08-03 03:19 pm
Entry tags:
[august 1]
A year ago, Mad Sweeney had been wandering around this bloody city calling himself the God-King of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and while that isn't inaccurate, he sure as hell prefers knowing who he actually is and remembering most of the years between Lugh and now.
Still, the first of August arrives and with it, Lughnasadh. His bloody day.
He does everything in his power to ignore it, seeing no point to any of it. Maybe he had been Lugh once, but he's not that god-king any longer. He doesn't need a day, doesn't deserve one, and he'd rather not be associated with the gods in such a way. Being a leprechaun is fine by him. Better, really. It all boils down to his luck and his coins and he's perfectly content living with all that.
But the world has other plans for him, it seems, and in the early evening, as he contemplates either stopping for a drink or just heading home, a young woman with fine braids woven delicately into her hair, like those Lugh had worn into battle, stops him with her hand on his arm. She smiles up at him, her expression open and bright, then passes a corn doll into his hands.
"I think this is yours," she says, then she's off again, leaving Mad Sweeney to stare down at the corn doll representation of the god he used to be.
The weather is fine, warm and overcast without any suggestion of rain, and he makes his way to the park where he sits down on a bench. His flask is full and he presses an unlit cigarette between his lips as he stares down at the doll. Lughnasadh is a day of offering and sacrifice. He has no bull, no harvest, but as he takes out his lighter for his cigarette, he holds it, still unlit, to the edge of the doll's arm.
"Ought t'burn you up," he says to it. "Make myself the sacrifice."
Still, the first of August arrives and with it, Lughnasadh. His bloody day.
He does everything in his power to ignore it, seeing no point to any of it. Maybe he had been Lugh once, but he's not that god-king any longer. He doesn't need a day, doesn't deserve one, and he'd rather not be associated with the gods in such a way. Being a leprechaun is fine by him. Better, really. It all boils down to his luck and his coins and he's perfectly content living with all that.
But the world has other plans for him, it seems, and in the early evening, as he contemplates either stopping for a drink or just heading home, a young woman with fine braids woven delicately into her hair, like those Lugh had worn into battle, stops him with her hand on his arm. She smiles up at him, her expression open and bright, then passes a corn doll into his hands.
"I think this is yours," she says, then she's off again, leaving Mad Sweeney to stare down at the corn doll representation of the god he used to be.
The weather is fine, warm and overcast without any suggestion of rain, and he makes his way to the park where he sits down on a bench. His flask is full and he presses an unlit cigarette between his lips as he stares down at the doll. Lughnasadh is a day of offering and sacrifice. He has no bull, no harvest, but as he takes out his lighter for his cigarette, he holds it, still unlit, to the edge of the doll's arm.
"Ought t'burn you up," he says to it. "Make myself the sacrifice."
no subject
"Awh, I thought I was supposed to be the suicidal one in our relationship," she grouses melodramatically pouting as she plops gracelessly down on the bench beside him. "Or is it your month to try that particular brand of self-destruction on for size? Cause I really do think I wear it better."
She nudges his shoe with the foot of her own boot. "More weird god shit I assume?"
no subject
He and Spike both know he loves her. They both know he'll probably always love her, at least a little. That changes nothing about how he feels for Spike. Changes nothing about how he feels about what they've done.
It's still going to be weird as fuck to tell her.
"Today is Lughnasadh," he says. "My fuckin' day."
no subject
"Did the ancient Irish ever meet a consonate they didn't want to fellate into sounding like a vowel?"
It is probably an offensive question to ask. Especially in light of what he just told her about this being his day, but Laura thinks that there's a need to lighten some sort of mood. Turning her body slightly on the bench, she holds out her hand for the little straw man. "Happy holiday. How do you celebrate it? Drinking and fucking?"
no subject
His and not his all at once maybe.
"You got a bull for us to slaughter?" he asks, looking over at Laura before he passes her the corn doll. "Or should we burn this little fucker instead? Don't think it's that good a likeness anyway."
no subject
"Thought so," she settles on instead, taking the little straw man. Once its in her hands she realizes that it isn't made of straw at all, rather a corn husk. Her grandmother had a collection of corn husk dolls, all angels. "These are big in Indiana," she comments, giving the doll a little shake. "But shit, fresh out of bulls. Only have bullshit on hand. So I guess burning is our only option. What do you think, Corn Sweeney?"
The last question is directed at the doll, whose little husk arms she moves to be beside its head, like its silently shocked by the suggested. Cracking a smile, she makes it move like its trying to flee before stopping, looking at it closer. "He's not a fan, but he's also not ginger enough to be a flattering likeness of you."
no subject
It makes his chest ache when she smiles. The expression is so fucking rare from her and he knows she knows how to fake it, but she isn’t faking it right now and it makes something inside his chest feel as though it’s cracking open.
“Burn him anyway,” he says, then offers her his lighter. “Don’t wanna piss off the gods, right?”