thai m zoofquesque (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impactings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2012-03-04 12:33 pm
impactings) wrote in rainbowfic2012-03-04 12:33 pm
tyrian purple #13, opera mauve #12, alice blue #17
Name: Thai
Title: the rise of a king, the fall of a queen
Story: Blood Princess (Blue Prince AU; one of Asma's brothers survives instead of Asma)
Timeline: Mirza is 17; Mahir is Crazy Old but Not As Crazy Old As Everyone Else
Colors: Tyrian Purple #13 - children upon children; Opera Mauve #12 - baritone; Alice Blue #17 - it's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards
Supplies and Materials: Eraser (BP2.0)
Word Count: 619
Rating: PG-13 because Mirza is a foulmouthed little git
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was originally written as a response to a My Treat prompt at RaTs (thank ye kindly, Nikki!). You might want to read this piece first for the prompt's context; that particular piece involves character death. Also, the Rocmother being really really creepy. Oops.
His name was Mirza and he was pointless.
"It should have been a girl," he said resentfully to Mahir, as the two of them sat on the edge of the fountain. His shoulders twitched, a shiver ruffling down his skin, where feathers would be. Should be. He itched to be back in the sky. "She might have been able to keep Mama sane."
The elder Roc just raised an eyebrow at him and put a hand into the bed of the fountain. It was dry - it hadn't rained in ages. Mirza didn't remember the last time it had. "What makes you think anyone could do better?"
In frustration, Mirza kicked the wall of the fountain. The back of his heel would bruise, but he found himself not particularly caring. "Bright gods damn it, Mahir, half the reason she's so batshit is because there's not going to be a blood Rocmother." The resentful tone deepened. "Fuck. Think she'd be happier with a human on the throne, if it were a girl."
"She'd rip out her throat before she let that happen."
Mahir's tone was mild, but the reproof was still there. With a groan, Mirza dropped his head into his hands.
"Right, right, not since that day, blah blah," he mumbled. He dragged a hand through his hair, peering up at the sky. The itch trickled along his skin like cool water. "Bright gods. Nothing I do'll please her, though. Doesn't matter that I'm the best damn fighter or faster than anyone else, including you, I've got a cock and that means I'm useless."
Mahir patted his back. "Get over it."
Mirza shoved him. Mahir fell off the edge of the fountain with a loud oof, sending up a cloud of dust where he landed on the tile. Mirza had to laugh, leaned over and offered him his hand.
"You little shit," was all Mahir said, but he was grinning and he took Mirza's hand easily enough. The prince yanked him back up onto the fountain, and they leaned back as one, glancing up at the sky.
Bright gods. Mirza was practically dying to be up there.
"Can you still see him?"
Mahir shrugged. He jumped to his feet and, nimbly, clambered up the fountain until he was perched on the topmost bowl, ignoring the sear of the hot stone.
"Yep," he called down, and Mirza groaned, slumping back against the dry fountain. He covered his eyes with his hands.
"Fucking idiot," he grumbled. Mahir nodded, dropping down beside him again with a loud clunk. "When do you think he'll give up?"
"Knowing him? Never," Mahir replied dryly, settling back down. They watched the dark shadow pass across the sun again, and with needle-sharp eyes Mirza picked out the watchful pinpricks of blue. The Roc wheeled again, then shot off south, but Mirza didn't allow himself to hope.
"He'll circle around a few more times," he sighed, and settled his chin on his hand. "What's up with him, anyway?"
Mahir shrugged. "He's from England," he said carelessly. "Always was a funny guy. He had a falling-out of sorts with the Rocmother a couple years before you hatched. Which was why he went back to England anyhow."
The shadow whirled back, swooped down, and for a moment was invisible, before he returned to the sky, wheeling, whirling. Mirza yawned.
"Wherever the twit's from, I hope he leaves soon," he said idly. "Just lucky he hasn't found us yet. I dropped his book in a bucket the other day."
Mahir looked at him incredulously. "That's why you're avoiding Astor? 'Cause you dropped a moldy old tome of his in some water?"
"It may not've been accidental," Mirza said, and he grinned.
Title: the rise of a king, the fall of a queen
Story: Blood Princess (Blue Prince AU; one of Asma's brothers survives instead of Asma)
Timeline: Mirza is 17; Mahir is Crazy Old but Not As Crazy Old As Everyone Else
Colors: Tyrian Purple #13 - children upon children; Opera Mauve #12 - baritone; Alice Blue #17 - it's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards
Supplies and Materials: Eraser (BP2.0)
Word Count: 619
Rating: PG-13 because Mirza is a foulmouthed little git
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was originally written as a response to a My Treat prompt at RaTs (thank ye kindly, Nikki!). You might want to read this piece first for the prompt's context; that particular piece involves character death. Also, the Rocmother being really really creepy. Oops.
His name was Mirza and he was pointless.
"It should have been a girl," he said resentfully to Mahir, as the two of them sat on the edge of the fountain. His shoulders twitched, a shiver ruffling down his skin, where feathers would be. Should be. He itched to be back in the sky. "She might have been able to keep Mama sane."
The elder Roc just raised an eyebrow at him and put a hand into the bed of the fountain. It was dry - it hadn't rained in ages. Mirza didn't remember the last time it had. "What makes you think anyone could do better?"
In frustration, Mirza kicked the wall of the fountain. The back of his heel would bruise, but he found himself not particularly caring. "Bright gods damn it, Mahir, half the reason she's so batshit is because there's not going to be a blood Rocmother." The resentful tone deepened. "Fuck. Think she'd be happier with a human on the throne, if it were a girl."
"She'd rip out her throat before she let that happen."
Mahir's tone was mild, but the reproof was still there. With a groan, Mirza dropped his head into his hands.
"Right, right, not since that day, blah blah," he mumbled. He dragged a hand through his hair, peering up at the sky. The itch trickled along his skin like cool water. "Bright gods. Nothing I do'll please her, though. Doesn't matter that I'm the best damn fighter or faster than anyone else, including you, I've got a cock and that means I'm useless."
Mahir patted his back. "Get over it."
Mirza shoved him. Mahir fell off the edge of the fountain with a loud oof, sending up a cloud of dust where he landed on the tile. Mirza had to laugh, leaned over and offered him his hand.
"You little shit," was all Mahir said, but he was grinning and he took Mirza's hand easily enough. The prince yanked him back up onto the fountain, and they leaned back as one, glancing up at the sky.
Bright gods. Mirza was practically dying to be up there.
"Can you still see him?"
Mahir shrugged. He jumped to his feet and, nimbly, clambered up the fountain until he was perched on the topmost bowl, ignoring the sear of the hot stone.
"Yep," he called down, and Mirza groaned, slumping back against the dry fountain. He covered his eyes with his hands.
"Fucking idiot," he grumbled. Mahir nodded, dropping down beside him again with a loud clunk. "When do you think he'll give up?"
"Knowing him? Never," Mahir replied dryly, settling back down. They watched the dark shadow pass across the sun again, and with needle-sharp eyes Mirza picked out the watchful pinpricks of blue. The Roc wheeled again, then shot off south, but Mirza didn't allow himself to hope.
"He'll circle around a few more times," he sighed, and settled his chin on his hand. "What's up with him, anyway?"
Mahir shrugged. "He's from England," he said carelessly. "Always was a funny guy. He had a falling-out of sorts with the Rocmother a couple years before you hatched. Which was why he went back to England anyhow."
The shadow whirled back, swooped down, and for a moment was invisible, before he returned to the sky, wheeling, whirling. Mirza yawned.
"Wherever the twit's from, I hope he leaves soon," he said idly. "Just lucky he hasn't found us yet. I dropped his book in a bucket the other day."
Mahir looked at him incredulously. "That's why you're avoiding Astor? 'Cause you dropped a moldy old tome of his in some water?"
"It may not've been accidental," Mirza said, and he grinned.
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