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rainbowfic2015-03-16 02:01 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-03-16 02:01 am
Entry tags:
edge of seventeen;
Name: Mischa
Story: tales from the drowned world
Colors: white opal (fantasy), dove grey (In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.), octarine (The truth may be out there, but lies are inside your head.)
Supplies and Styles: canvas
Word Count: 1015
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: implications of past sexual activity involving teenagers (both sixteen, both considered adults by the setting).
Summary: Two lovers and a prophecy.
Notes: I need to fix the ending, no idea what I'm doing with this, etc. Another piece filling in the backstory of tales from the drowned world. Also involves a happy and stable polyamorous relationship, because once upon a time Kyrion was happy and dating both Melantha and Myca Valeth.
Myca lies on his stomach by the garden pool, pale bare feet dangling in the water and lilies: his attention is focused on the book in front of him, and Kyrion grins fondly. He can’t see the other young man’s face, between the curtain of long, loose black hair and the fact that it’s currently buried in the book, but he’s known him long enough to know that his expression’s as soft as it ever gets.
Kyrion crosses the path slowly and quietly, trying to make as little sound as possible: it’s become more than a bit of a game between him and the twins, trying to see if he can ever sneak up on either of them. He’s not a small man - tall and broad-shouldered already, and he’s not quite finished his growth - but he’s learned to walk quietly, or as quietly as he can.
Melantha usually lets him win, now that he’s learned to walk as quietly as he can without the knowledge or the blood affinity for shadow, or at least never says that she’s heard him coming, but Myca never, ever, does. She hadn’t let him win today, though, - she’d promised to take some of her younger cousins to the market- but she’d directed him to the right garden to find her brother, with a smile, a kiss, and a promise to see him soon.
“Don’t try to sneak up on me,” Myca says, tartly, without even turning to look at him: instead, he turns another page. “There are shadows everywhere.”
“Pleasant as ever,” Kyrion teases dryly, as he closes the distance between them, settles down next to him. “And I’m pleased to see that if I have to share you, it’s with a book.”
“And I share you with my sister,” The soft-spoken retort has only a slight edge to it: positively pleasant for Myca, who is sharp-tongued at the best of times even with the people he actually likes. “I thought you’d be used to sharing me with my library. Is that a problem?”
Kyrion shrugs, as he runs a brief caressing hand through long black hair. Something is bothering Myca, he’s sure, but he can’t tell exactly what it is - he’s certain it has something to do with family, but no more than that. “It won’t be unless you bring a book into bed.”
Myca glances away from his book for a moment, long enough to glare at him witheringly, moon-pale skin flushing around the edges. “Your suggestions are ridiculous,”
“Sometimes you enjoy them,” Kyrion bats back: he’s not usually one for over-talking, unless he’s either talking to the Valeth twins or telling his sister Neha stories, but he’s always enjoyed the challenge of trying to draw Myca out of either his prickly, less-than-talkative shell or trying to make him smile or laugh.
Nothing. Myca’s stopped turning pages in his book: his attention’s elsewhere, looking into the distance. Kyrion’s not certain what he’s even looking at, for a moment, until he follows Myca’s gaze to see where he’s looking and notices the unusually tall, gaunt man with severely tied-back hair (‘unusually tall’ for House Valeth, who all tend to be middle height at tallest: Kyrion’s still a head and more taller).
“...Symeon?” Kyrion asks, quietly: he’s never liked Symeon Valeth, who has always seemed a little off to him in a way he can’t quite describe, even for a son of House Valeth. He’s never liked the man because of the way he treats Myca: it’s hard to pin down, because he’s never been good at labeling things, but there’s something wrong there.
“He worries me,” Myca says, finally, and looks at him, almond-shaped dark eyes unreadable and opaque. “I don’t like him-” and if this were any other time, Kyrion might have jabbed back that Myca didn’t like anyone, because it’s very nearly true, but he holds his tongue. Dark, sarcastic remarks had no place right now. “I love him, because he’s family, but he worries me.”
“How?” Kyrion asks, cautiously.
“Darkness, and the sound of the sea. That’s all I see and all I hear, when I look at him.” Myca rolls over and sits up, for the first time, water droplets splashing across the stones. The book lies forgotten in his lap. “...and you won’t marry Melantha, Kyrion.”
“...what?” he doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing he can say, because the very idea is ridiculous - their wedding is soon, the arrangements are made, and the only thing he’s ever wanted more than marrying Melantha is the fleeting, impossible dream of marrying both her and Myca. “What do you even mean?”
“It won’t be you who shatters her heart,” Myca says, his voice dead calm with the weight of true prophecy, but his fingers clutching his book (and unspoken, heavy between them, is I would kill you if you did, because the only person Myca loves more than Kyrion is his twin, and if I did, I’d want you to). “But shatter it will. A storm, and the sea, and time that passes and doesn’t pass.”
Gently, as gently as he can, Kyrion reaches out to cup Myca’s delicate jaw with his fingers, trying to soothe him, even as he can’t make sense of this. Melantha knows, Kyrion is certain, because they often share visions - and even if they hadn’t, there are no secrets between her and Myca. Melantha knows, and had sent him so that Myca could tell him.
But he won’t let this happen. He won’t let this be a future that comes to pass. He’d die a thousand times if it meant averting it.
“Stay,” Myca says, softly, and it’s not a question: without words, Kyrion gathers him into his arms, holds him close, and wonders, all over again though he’ll never ask, how much magic is in his bones. How much painful, painstaking magic Myca had done to shape himself right. “As long as you can.”
“Always,” Kyrion says, and Myca rolls his eyes.
“You can’t,” he says, sharply, and buries his head in Kyrion’s shoulder. “No one can.”
Story: tales from the drowned world
Colors: white opal (fantasy), dove grey (In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.), octarine (The truth may be out there, but lies are inside your head.)
Supplies and Styles: canvas
Word Count: 1015
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: implications of past sexual activity involving teenagers (both sixteen, both considered adults by the setting).
Summary: Two lovers and a prophecy.
Notes: I need to fix the ending, no idea what I'm doing with this, etc. Another piece filling in the backstory of tales from the drowned world. Also involves a happy and stable polyamorous relationship, because once upon a time Kyrion was happy and dating both Melantha and Myca Valeth.
Myca lies on his stomach by the garden pool, pale bare feet dangling in the water and lilies: his attention is focused on the book in front of him, and Kyrion grins fondly. He can’t see the other young man’s face, between the curtain of long, loose black hair and the fact that it’s currently buried in the book, but he’s known him long enough to know that his expression’s as soft as it ever gets.
Kyrion crosses the path slowly and quietly, trying to make as little sound as possible: it’s become more than a bit of a game between him and the twins, trying to see if he can ever sneak up on either of them. He’s not a small man - tall and broad-shouldered already, and he’s not quite finished his growth - but he’s learned to walk quietly, or as quietly as he can.
Melantha usually lets him win, now that he’s learned to walk as quietly as he can without the knowledge or the blood affinity for shadow, or at least never says that she’s heard him coming, but Myca never, ever, does. She hadn’t let him win today, though, - she’d promised to take some of her younger cousins to the market- but she’d directed him to the right garden to find her brother, with a smile, a kiss, and a promise to see him soon.
“Don’t try to sneak up on me,” Myca says, tartly, without even turning to look at him: instead, he turns another page. “There are shadows everywhere.”
“Pleasant as ever,” Kyrion teases dryly, as he closes the distance between them, settles down next to him. “And I’m pleased to see that if I have to share you, it’s with a book.”
“And I share you with my sister,” The soft-spoken retort has only a slight edge to it: positively pleasant for Myca, who is sharp-tongued at the best of times even with the people he actually likes. “I thought you’d be used to sharing me with my library. Is that a problem?”
Kyrion shrugs, as he runs a brief caressing hand through long black hair. Something is bothering Myca, he’s sure, but he can’t tell exactly what it is - he’s certain it has something to do with family, but no more than that. “It won’t be unless you bring a book into bed.”
Myca glances away from his book for a moment, long enough to glare at him witheringly, moon-pale skin flushing around the edges. “Your suggestions are ridiculous,”
“Sometimes you enjoy them,” Kyrion bats back: he’s not usually one for over-talking, unless he’s either talking to the Valeth twins or telling his sister Neha stories, but he’s always enjoyed the challenge of trying to draw Myca out of either his prickly, less-than-talkative shell or trying to make him smile or laugh.
Nothing. Myca’s stopped turning pages in his book: his attention’s elsewhere, looking into the distance. Kyrion’s not certain what he’s even looking at, for a moment, until he follows Myca’s gaze to see where he’s looking and notices the unusually tall, gaunt man with severely tied-back hair (‘unusually tall’ for House Valeth, who all tend to be middle height at tallest: Kyrion’s still a head and more taller).
“...Symeon?” Kyrion asks, quietly: he’s never liked Symeon Valeth, who has always seemed a little off to him in a way he can’t quite describe, even for a son of House Valeth. He’s never liked the man because of the way he treats Myca: it’s hard to pin down, because he’s never been good at labeling things, but there’s something wrong there.
“He worries me,” Myca says, finally, and looks at him, almond-shaped dark eyes unreadable and opaque. “I don’t like him-” and if this were any other time, Kyrion might have jabbed back that Myca didn’t like anyone, because it’s very nearly true, but he holds his tongue. Dark, sarcastic remarks had no place right now. “I love him, because he’s family, but he worries me.”
“How?” Kyrion asks, cautiously.
“Darkness, and the sound of the sea. That’s all I see and all I hear, when I look at him.” Myca rolls over and sits up, for the first time, water droplets splashing across the stones. The book lies forgotten in his lap. “...and you won’t marry Melantha, Kyrion.”
“...what?” he doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing he can say, because the very idea is ridiculous - their wedding is soon, the arrangements are made, and the only thing he’s ever wanted more than marrying Melantha is the fleeting, impossible dream of marrying both her and Myca. “What do you even mean?”
“It won’t be you who shatters her heart,” Myca says, his voice dead calm with the weight of true prophecy, but his fingers clutching his book (and unspoken, heavy between them, is I would kill you if you did, because the only person Myca loves more than Kyrion is his twin, and if I did, I’d want you to). “But shatter it will. A storm, and the sea, and time that passes and doesn’t pass.”
Gently, as gently as he can, Kyrion reaches out to cup Myca’s delicate jaw with his fingers, trying to soothe him, even as he can’t make sense of this. Melantha knows, Kyrion is certain, because they often share visions - and even if they hadn’t, there are no secrets between her and Myca. Melantha knows, and had sent him so that Myca could tell him.
But he won’t let this happen. He won’t let this be a future that comes to pass. He’d die a thousand times if it meant averting it.
“Stay,” Myca says, softly, and it’s not a question: without words, Kyrion gathers him into his arms, holds him close, and wonders, all over again though he’ll never ask, how much magic is in his bones. How much painful, painstaking magic Myca had done to shape himself right. “As long as you can.”
“Always,” Kyrion says, and Myca rolls his eyes.
“You can’t,” he says, sharply, and buries his head in Kyrion’s shoulder. “No one can.”
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I think maybe the end /not/ being banter is providing the illusion of a broken flow. Maybe a handful more sentences for pacing would mitigate this, but, you know, prophecies don't sneak in. They fall and go smack (as is my understanding; please correct me if I am wrong).
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Yeah, the flow was definitely bothering me, but I wasn't sure on it since prophecies don't generally sneak in most of the time (and even if they do, this isn't one of those). I might go back and rework some of it.
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