fic: Guidestone
Sep. 19th, 2010 10:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Guidestone
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
measuringlife
Challenge #008: Flying through the rainbow sky
Game: Fire Emblem 9
Word Count: 675
Characters: Sephiran, Sanaki
Author's note: Hints at major spoilers. Formyaru, as ever, as always when it comes to these two. (My original one written for the theme was this --it's a bit sill for the contest, though.)
He sweeps into her large chambers, the bottom of his robes trailing on the stone floor. There is much white, the symbol of purity – befitting any Apostle. There is a veil of white across her four-poster bed and white gauzy curtains that lift like spirits rising. What isn't white, is edged in gold, for an empress. Gold trim, gold jewelry. Perhaps he is the only one in the land who knows she despises the color white, if only because there are irritations that even she does not share, and only can be read between the lines. She's tucked in tight and crossing her arms. Her lips make a compressed line, and she narrows her eyes at him. He's guessed she's angry at him long before he came in, but this of course, clinches it.
"Do you wish to be sung to, my lady?" Sephiran says. He means no lilt by it, but he still sounds sardonic, as if he is aping a chambermaid.
"I don't want to hear about stupid flying horses going through the rainbow skies," she says indignantly.
"You've ridden on Pegasi before," Sephiran points out.
"That is not the point," she says, rolling her eyes.
"Ahh, I see. It has been a long time since I last came here. You've already reached the ripe old age of nineteen and you've grown too much for lullabies."
"We both know that if you missed my birthday I'd never let you into my chambers again, nor set eyes on you," she says, spitting out the words like a curse.
"True, true," Sephiran says. "I suppose you aren't interested in the spices and tomes I have brought from Crimea, or the armor specially made from Daein?"
"Give them to your lackey – Begnion has all I ever need," she responds. "It is the jewel of Tellius. Everything else is dross." She raises her chin, arch and defiant, with the wisdom of someone far older in her eyes. What happened to her childhood? He and others have worn it away, and left an almost-woman in the body of a child.
He moves to rise. "All right then, I suppose you're not interested in hearing my stories or the new songs I have gleaned from tomes...."
"Well, you might as well stay," she says, feigning indifference. "Tanith is a bore and Sigrun is a worrywort. They never have any interesting stories – not that I need any, mind you. I simply like having my mind stimulated before I take my repose."
He thinks she's grown so very much, despite acting like a spoiled child. All this fussing is just I missed you in a tempestuous furor. So he bends down to kiss her forehead, and sings to her of songs which have no translation and are in no tome but that of his own heart. His memories are long, deep crevasses that tear across his mind, urging him on towards what must be.
He tells of the king of Crimea in all his gentle wisdom and the roughness of the Daein settlers. Of feathers and broken wings and travelers he has seen along the way. And she listens, almost mollified, yet still flickering with anger.
And when he wishes her goodnight, and snuffs the lamps to dark, he tries not to think of innocents like her that will be caught in the flames of destruction. The song, a broken lullaby hangs in the air.
Beauty turns to dross and so it must be lost. Love it turns to lies, and so we are denied. Living turns to rust, so dying is a must. And so it is the flames, that become all of our aims....
As he walks down the hall it echos in his mind, not a love song, not a lullaby, but a mantra.
Author:
measuringlifeChallenge #008: Flying through the rainbow sky
Game: Fire Emblem 9
Word Count: 675
Characters: Sephiran, Sanaki
Author's note: Hints at major spoilers. For
myaru, as ever, as always when it comes to these two. (My original one written for the theme was this --it's a bit sill for the contest, though.)He sweeps into her large chambers, the bottom of his robes trailing on the stone floor. There is much white, the symbol of purity – befitting any Apostle. There is a veil of white across her four-poster bed and white gauzy curtains that lift like spirits rising. What isn't white, is edged in gold, for an empress. Gold trim, gold jewelry. Perhaps he is the only one in the land who knows she despises the color white, if only because there are irritations that even she does not share, and only can be read between the lines. She's tucked in tight and crossing her arms. Her lips make a compressed line, and she narrows her eyes at him. He's guessed she's angry at him long before he came in, but this of course, clinches it.
"Do you wish to be sung to, my lady?" Sephiran says. He means no lilt by it, but he still sounds sardonic, as if he is aping a chambermaid.
"I don't want to hear about stupid flying horses going through the rainbow skies," she says indignantly.
"You've ridden on Pegasi before," Sephiran points out.
"That is not the point," she says, rolling her eyes.
"Ahh, I see. It has been a long time since I last came here. You've already reached the ripe old age of nineteen and you've grown too much for lullabies."
"We both know that if you missed my birthday I'd never let you into my chambers again, nor set eyes on you," she says, spitting out the words like a curse.
"True, true," Sephiran says. "I suppose you aren't interested in the spices and tomes I have brought from Crimea, or the armor specially made from Daein?"
"Give them to your lackey – Begnion has all I ever need," she responds. "It is the jewel of Tellius. Everything else is dross." She raises her chin, arch and defiant, with the wisdom of someone far older in her eyes. What happened to her childhood? He and others have worn it away, and left an almost-woman in the body of a child.
He moves to rise. "All right then, I suppose you're not interested in hearing my stories or the new songs I have gleaned from tomes...."
"Well, you might as well stay," she says, feigning indifference. "Tanith is a bore and Sigrun is a worrywort. They never have any interesting stories – not that I need any, mind you. I simply like having my mind stimulated before I take my repose."
He thinks she's grown so very much, despite acting like a spoiled child. All this fussing is just I missed you in a tempestuous furor. So he bends down to kiss her forehead, and sings to her of songs which have no translation and are in no tome but that of his own heart. His memories are long, deep crevasses that tear across his mind, urging him on towards what must be.
He tells of the king of Crimea in all his gentle wisdom and the roughness of the Daein settlers. Of feathers and broken wings and travelers he has seen along the way. And she listens, almost mollified, yet still flickering with anger.
And when he wishes her goodnight, and snuffs the lamps to dark, he tries not to think of innocents like her that will be caught in the flames of destruction. The song, a broken lullaby hangs in the air.
Beauty turns to dross and so it must be lost. Love it turns to lies, and so we are denied. Living turns to rust, so dying is a must. And so it is the flames, that become all of our aims....
As he walks down the hall it echos in his mind, not a love song, not a lullaby, but a mantra.
