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Title: The Claw 1/1
Characters: Claire, Mr. Muggles, Original Characters
Rating: PG-13 for themes
Type: Gen, Angst, AU
Disclaimer: Copyright of Heroes is held by the respective owners. No infringement is intended.
Spoiler alert: None
Summary: Claire confronts Mr. Muggles’ nightmare.
Notes: This story is set in the same AU as “Perchance To Dream” and provides background for an original character I referenced in “Danse Macabre.” The painting’s title translates as “My love, I die painting repetitions of your death.”
Claire Bennet watched Mr. Muggles, asleep at the foot of her bed. Whining, legs twitching, the little dog was having a bad dream, again. Claire decided to confront the now nightly disturbance.
She bit down on one of her father’s cyanide capsules. Claire, frightened by the implications, fought her desire to know why he needed them. It was enough that her mother’s suppressed memory of the poison returned after a relapse required her daughter’s healing blood. She used her mother’s memory of her father’s risk to give their dog solace.
Dead, Claire watched Mr. Muggles cower within the living Dreamscape, as a giant claw hovered over him. As paint dripped from the menacing talons, Claire realized that the tiny dog’s perspective morphed a painter’s hand into a monster. The painter, too caught up, did not register the terrified Pomeranian.
“Excuse me, Sir,” said Claire. “Could you please move? You’re scaring my dog.”
“No,” said the painter moodily. “I’m working. You must move the animal.”
“I can’t,” said Claire. “He’s alive.”
The painter turned away from his work, as a dead girl with a living dog was a true revelation to him. Beholding Claire, he gasped. “You are his princess!”
A tri-paneled painting materialized beside the one on which he labored. The first panel depicted a princess with golden hair offering a golden chalice to a knight. The knight, a skeleton in black armor with a white plumed helmet, wore glasses where his visor should’ve been. The blood red, heart-shaped ruby set in the chalice contrasted with the blues in the princess’ rich floor-length gown. The second panel depicted the half-skeletal, half-living knight and the half-skeletal, half-living princess touching palm to palm, while the knight held the chalice in his free hand. The third panel depicted the knight sitting in a dungeon. Fully alive, he wore a gray death shroud and glasses, his helmet and the chalice at his feet. For entertainment, he threw a blood red ball against his captor’s wall.
Claire recognized the painting from her father’s description. “You’re Hubert,” she realized. “This painting survived you.”
“Did it?,” he asked, sadly. “If only my Alais could have survived me, as well.”
With that, the painting disappeared, and the one on Hubert’s easel changed, engulfing the space, as a giant moving tableau. Within this Deathscape artwork, Claire saw a woman with paint-like flesh die in childbirth. Then, she watched the golden-haired child gradually grow in front of her father, Hubert. Then, the tableau shifted, and Claire saw Hubert paint his daughter’s death within a precognitive trance. He also painted himself painting her death, again and again. Finally, Claire watched, horrified, as Hubert’s daughter died suddenly in front of him, hands over her heart, while he painted her death. Claire watched, as Hubert grieved, rendering her and her father in a future that he could never reach. Then, he poured paint over himself and touched a large candle to his clothes. Amid immolation, the artist’s hands became charred claws. Mr. Muggles barked at Hubert’s still corpse within the moving canvas.
The tableau faded, and the long dead Hubert spoke: “It was inconceivable to me that God would grant me future-sight of Alais’ death and no remedy for it, so I cast my eyes as far ahead as I could to find her life, again. I found your resurrections, little princess, and your father, saving and saved. But, I could only see the future, not traverse it, and my Alais remained lost to me.”
Seeking comfort, Hubert futilely tried to pet Mr. Muggles. He forgot that he could make no physical connection with this living creature. “She is lost to me still,” he said, despairingly.
“No, she isn’t,” countered Claire. “Since you’re both dead, you can be together.”
Hubert shook his head. “No, I am a suicide,” he replied. “My remains lie in unconsecrated ground. I am separated from God and Alais through my mortal sin.”
“That’s not how it works here,” assured Claire.
“Truly?,” asked the father.
“Truly, Papa,” responded the daughter. “I have been waiting for you to understand and see me.” With those words, Alais’ voice became Alais’ form. A petite girl, very like Claire, laid her head on Hubert’s shoulder. The gray in his hair contrasted with the gold in hers.
The two became lost in each other, and Claire knew they should be alone. “It’s time to go home, Boy.” Mr. Muggles chased his tail, fading awake.
Alive, at the library, Claire searched The Linderman Archives. She found Hubert’s painting of a certain princess and her beloved black knight. “Dad,” she whispered, smiling. The painting of a daughter saving her father contrasted achingly with a second Hubert work, depicting a father painting the loss of his daughter. It was entitled Mon amour, je meurs des répétitions de peinture de votre mort. Claire read the translation in the caption, marveling at how everyone spoke the same language within the Deathscape.
Characters: Claire, Mr. Muggles, Original Characters
Rating: PG-13 for themes
Type: Gen, Angst, AU
Disclaimer: Copyright of Heroes is held by the respective owners. No infringement is intended.
Spoiler alert: None
Summary: Claire confronts Mr. Muggles’ nightmare.
Notes: This story is set in the same AU as “Perchance To Dream” and provides background for an original character I referenced in “Danse Macabre.” The painting’s title translates as “My love, I die painting repetitions of your death.”
Claire Bennet watched Mr. Muggles, asleep at the foot of her bed. Whining, legs twitching, the little dog was having a bad dream, again. Claire decided to confront the now nightly disturbance.
She bit down on one of her father’s cyanide capsules. Claire, frightened by the implications, fought her desire to know why he needed them. It was enough that her mother’s suppressed memory of the poison returned after a relapse required her daughter’s healing blood. She used her mother’s memory of her father’s risk to give their dog solace.
Dead, Claire watched Mr. Muggles cower within the living Dreamscape, as a giant claw hovered over him. As paint dripped from the menacing talons, Claire realized that the tiny dog’s perspective morphed a painter’s hand into a monster. The painter, too caught up, did not register the terrified Pomeranian.
“Excuse me, Sir,” said Claire. “Could you please move? You’re scaring my dog.”
“No,” said the painter moodily. “I’m working. You must move the animal.”
“I can’t,” said Claire. “He’s alive.”
The painter turned away from his work, as a dead girl with a living dog was a true revelation to him. Beholding Claire, he gasped. “You are his princess!”
A tri-paneled painting materialized beside the one on which he labored. The first panel depicted a princess with golden hair offering a golden chalice to a knight. The knight, a skeleton in black armor with a white plumed helmet, wore glasses where his visor should’ve been. The blood red, heart-shaped ruby set in the chalice contrasted with the blues in the princess’ rich floor-length gown. The second panel depicted the half-skeletal, half-living knight and the half-skeletal, half-living princess touching palm to palm, while the knight held the chalice in his free hand. The third panel depicted the knight sitting in a dungeon. Fully alive, he wore a gray death shroud and glasses, his helmet and the chalice at his feet. For entertainment, he threw a blood red ball against his captor’s wall.
Claire recognized the painting from her father’s description. “You’re Hubert,” she realized. “This painting survived you.”
“Did it?,” he asked, sadly. “If only my Alais could have survived me, as well.”
With that, the painting disappeared, and the one on Hubert’s easel changed, engulfing the space, as a giant moving tableau. Within this Deathscape artwork, Claire saw a woman with paint-like flesh die in childbirth. Then, she watched the golden-haired child gradually grow in front of her father, Hubert. Then, the tableau shifted, and Claire saw Hubert paint his daughter’s death within a precognitive trance. He also painted himself painting her death, again and again. Finally, Claire watched, horrified, as Hubert’s daughter died suddenly in front of him, hands over her heart, while he painted her death. Claire watched, as Hubert grieved, rendering her and her father in a future that he could never reach. Then, he poured paint over himself and touched a large candle to his clothes. Amid immolation, the artist’s hands became charred claws. Mr. Muggles barked at Hubert’s still corpse within the moving canvas.
The tableau faded, and the long dead Hubert spoke: “It was inconceivable to me that God would grant me future-sight of Alais’ death and no remedy for it, so I cast my eyes as far ahead as I could to find her life, again. I found your resurrections, little princess, and your father, saving and saved. But, I could only see the future, not traverse it, and my Alais remained lost to me.”
Seeking comfort, Hubert futilely tried to pet Mr. Muggles. He forgot that he could make no physical connection with this living creature. “She is lost to me still,” he said, despairingly.
“No, she isn’t,” countered Claire. “Since you’re both dead, you can be together.”
Hubert shook his head. “No, I am a suicide,” he replied. “My remains lie in unconsecrated ground. I am separated from God and Alais through my mortal sin.”
“That’s not how it works here,” assured Claire.
“Truly?,” asked the father.
“Truly, Papa,” responded the daughter. “I have been waiting for you to understand and see me.” With those words, Alais’ voice became Alais’ form. A petite girl, very like Claire, laid her head on Hubert’s shoulder. The gray in his hair contrasted with the gold in hers.
The two became lost in each other, and Claire knew they should be alone. “It’s time to go home, Boy.” Mr. Muggles chased his tail, fading awake.
Alive, at the library, Claire searched The Linderman Archives. She found Hubert’s painting of a certain princess and her beloved black knight. “Dad,” she whispered, smiling. The painting of a daughter saving her father contrasted achingly with a second Hubert work, depicting a father painting the loss of his daughter. It was entitled Mon amour, je meurs des répétitions de peinture de votre mort. Claire read the translation in the caption, marveling at how everyone spoke the same language within the Deathscape.