jibrail_rising (jibrail_rising) wrote,

Crucible Slash - wahoo

Way too much Crucible homework here. I've been meaning to write another dossage of Parris insanity anyway so here it is.

Title: Screams
Rating: R just to be safe
Pairings: Parris/Hale (as usual for me)
Summary: Parris and the Salem Witch trials, just random side stuff that goes on and his dreams.
Notes: Italics are his dreams, regular is what is actually going on
X-Posted - Life_of_Amesu, and Historic_slash

A bird cried out in the distance, a nightingale by the sound. Reverend Parris sipped his glass of wine, eyes lidded as he gazed over at his companion, a young Reverend Hale. His plate was untouched, food cooling and starting to look a little unappetizing. His servant didn’t clear it though even when his guest moved on to desert.

    “They say, Hale, that carnal desire runs hand in hand with a lust for wines and sweet foods.” Parris said as he watched Hale eat the raspberry from atop his custard.

    “Then your house must be in the full swing of lust a good portion of the day for I never see Betty or Abigail with out a sweet of some sort.” This earned the desired effect, a small pout seated perfectly on Parris’s lips. In reply the older man chose to sip his wine and look pensive. Hale thought it highly attractive but chose to keep it to himself, only two weeks in and he was already going after someone.

    “No harm meant by the comment.” Hale said at last, deciding that the uncomfortable silence needed to end. Really, Parris could be so moody.

    “None taken. I believe that the cook is a little to kind with them.” He mentally noted to speak with her about that, the girls couldn’t be indulged too much it would lead to wild behaviors.

Fists hitting the ground, legs flying up and down, body arching then falling. Screams, screams filling the room as they called out the names. Chilled to the bone Parris sat frozen in his seat, Danforth repeating the names and issuing an arrest. It was an act, all an act. The malicious glint from Abigail’s eyes told him that. An act, the names, all entwined into one.
Swinging, swinging, swinging, creaks and groans from the tree.
Elizabeth Proctor, Goody Nurse, Tituba, Reverend Parris…He woke with a start

    “I believe that it’s all going to come to nothing.” Hale and Parris were walking up the hill, cold wind sweeping along nipping at their heels. The knarled tree curled over at them, looking down with knotted eyes black as the night.

    “The ridding of the devil will do Salem good.” Parris countered a growl hiding in his throat.

    “Ridding Salem of the devil…or inviting him in?” A scowl.

    “You’ve been talking to Proctor too much.”

A tightening around his neck which had started out so soft and gentle. The rope biting into it, cutting off his breath. No, it was teeth, teeth and lips soft against him. Sheets splayed out under him hiding the stains on the bed. Hale settled on top, letting his fingers linger on his chest then lower.


    “You should try this.” They were lying in bed, Hale propped up on a pillow and Parris straddling his hips, raspberry between his thumb and forefinger. “They’re in season.” It touched Hale’s lips and it disappeared into the mouth along with part of Parris’s finger as he sucked on it, licking the juice off.

    “Hmm, liked the orange better.” He murmured with a lazy voice. Parris reached over to the tray of food next to the bed, dipping his fingers into the melted chocolate.

    “Tsk, tsk I said no talking.” He pushed his fingers into Hale’s mouth smirking at the smile the merged onto the younger man’s lips.

Walking around the tree, two, three, four times before finally stopping. The town was up in arms, coming at him rope ready. He didn’t try to run, stood still as a dead man as the rope was wrapped around his neck. It was no longer rope but wire, slicing at him. Warm blood dripping down his neck and soaking his shirt. Abigail stood to the side, her hands as red as her eyes. Hale a heap on the ground before her.

He stood under the chestnut tree, fingers laced. A peaceful night after the trials. The nerve of the woman, to wear a cherry red bodice and speak of the town in such a fashion.  A branch hung before him stripped of leaves and cutting the full moon in half. Parris reached forward and tugged, it came out easy enough as it was dead as the base. Danforth said that the witches were servants of the devil, Hale said that Danforth was the servant of the devil. The moon was whole now, not a shadow cast on it.

    “Uncle?” He started, a flash of a memory…dream.


    “You know whose next.” Abigail gave him a funny look before trouncing off. He had long ago stopped trying to keep her under his control.

The room was full of men, all staring at him, eyes dark and accusing. They lusted for his blood, lusted for his death. He was scared, cold fear clasping its claws around his chest. The room was too small, screams echoing as the girls twisted and rolled on the ground. Displays not fit for public, displays that were erotic and disgusting all at once.

Five bodies swung from the tree that day, Sarah Good, Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Wilds, Elizabeth Howe, and Susannah Martin. The cart had groaned under their weight as it brought them up to the hill, all were quiet. Parris looked away from the spectacle not sure if what had been done was right. Rebecca Nurse was an elderly woman, a harmless pious elderly woman. Not a witch. Abigail turned to look at him, her eyes cold and emotionless. No, he knew who the witch was and it was not one of the dead women.

The bird swooped low over the field. Yellow feathers floating softly down to the white turned pink snow. Parris picked them up crushing them in his fists anger taking hold when there should be logic. Abigail stood in the distance, stomach swollen and hips thick pregnant with Proctor’s child.

Abigail was dead before him, child in her arms slaughtered by her own hate and greed. The poor thing. Used by the man then left as if she was nothing better than a common whore.

Wine dribbled down his back as candlelight flickered creating a warmth that was usually lacking in his pale skin. Hale’s tongue licked up the spilled drink making Parris shiver beneath him. Warm hands on cool skin sliding between already slick thighs, parting them. Wine dripping down his legs and quickly lapped up. Parris moaned as Hale’s tongue went back up his legs then in between them. A sharp hiss escaped his mouth as sweet pleasure engulfed him.

Once again, around the tree in a circle, retracing retraced footsteps. A permanent mark of his place. The grim reaper here to stay. The devil on devil’s hill. Satan hides his servants well and Parris knows this.

More screams, they never stop. Young Dorcas, only four and locked away in the Massachusetts prison. Her screams echo in his mind, pleading for help, for her mother, for anyone. So scared, she didn’t want to be there, didn’t like the dark prison, the cold wall, the cold steel holding her down to hard rock. Didn’t like being alone with only broken women for company. Her screams slowly dying away to pleas and whimpers then nothing as the noose tightened around his neck.

    “I wonder what it feels like.” Parris murmured as he and Hale took their customary walk around the tree. “To be hung by the neck till dead.” Hale had grown used to the older man’s morbid interests.

    “I am assuming that it’s not pleasant, there’s a reason that the hangman puts a bag on the victims heads.”

    “Victims.” The tone was accusing but his eyes showed pure interest, not condemnation.

    “You agree with me Parris, the women are innocent.” Parris pursed his lips but said nothing. To agree would put his own life at risk, something he was not willing to do. A part of an old rope hung from the tree, swaying softly in the breeze. It had once belonged to a swing that the children had played on till it broke. A storm came through the area, tearing at everything and everyone. The swing, sadly, didn’t make it. It had been a year and four days before Parris had come.

Back and forth leaves then stars. Barbados heat sweltering around him. His jacket cast to the side and chemise open to the stale night air, any breeze was good even if it was self made. Higher and higher till he could touch the branches and reach for the moon. Leaning back his hair, a little too long, touched the dirt before he was swooped back up again. Over and over and over before he fell. Crumpling on the ground, rope tangled around him, strangling him, never letting him go.

The high road out of hell is best taken at a fast pace. He left, leaving everyone and everything behind him. He had to leave, get away from the town, from the insanity of it all. Parris walked as fast as he could, long legs kept at a punishing pace. Walking and walking, hills, valleys, trees, rocks, and finally the ocean. Past the sand, the serf out to the cold water. Nothingness, just blessed release from it all.
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