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rainbowfic2015-04-18 04:43 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-04-18 04:43 am
Entry tags:
never a dawn like this
Name: Mischa
Story: tales from the drowned world
Colors: white opal (There's nothing more boring than hearing someone else's dream), octarine (he had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo), dove grey (Light, dark, light. The dark was just an interval.)
Supplies and Styles: canvas, fingerpainting
Word Count: 1281
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Neha of House Taviot has a visitor in her dreams. It doesn't go entirely well.
Notes: Finally finished a color, yay.
Neha sits in her solar, with a teacup in her hand: her beloved lounges on the edge of her desk, feet dangling casually as if he was stretched out on the long couch in his own quarters. Without thinking, she begins to smile and gently reprove him, though she never means it (and Vasilis will lounge on any piece of furniture that he can, especially any piece that is entirely unsuitable for it): but she knows, just as she knows her own name, that this is a dream. She’d lain down to rest not long before, blown out her candles, but for the barest of breaths, she can almost believe that this is real.
(A moment of peace, nothing more, and she holds onto it only for the space of a breath, of a heartbeat-)
This is a dream, she begins to say, but the words die in her throat, unspoken, as she meets the eyes of the man sitting on her desk. The blood of the Lord of the Crossroads runs strongly in his descendants: there is a certain androgynous look that most of the scions of House Valeth share, slender, pale, and dark-haired, dark-eyed, and Vasilis is no exception. But the almond-shaped black eyes that meet hers are too-bright, reflecting back moonlight that isn’t present in the room, black eyes without pupil or iris. These eyes have never belonged to a human, no matter the shape that their owner is wearing - and Neha swallows despite herself.
Carefully, she sets her teacup down and folds her hands in her lap, to keep them still. She is a daughter of the Watchful Sword, of the House of Storms, she has been taught to be brave - but even she can’t help but be nervous.
“Lord of the Crossroads,” she instead addresses Eilian (and tries not to think his name too loudly), and bows her head, gracefully: the god laughs (and it is that laugh, and his suddenly-tangled long hair, that gives away that it’s him and not his twin), the sound like a music box in a too-wide room. Neha has been schooled in courtly manners, but even though she is the daughter of a god, she had never expected to speak with any of the Eight besides her own father. Even if the others are her family, and this is her uncle, as well as her future father-in-law. “You honor me, my lord.”
Neha takes no comfort in that it is the Walker of the Broken Path that sits in her dreams, now, rather than his twin sister, the Dreaming Princess: she knows the stories, as anyone does, and would almost rather face Ethniu’s fickle whims and capricious nature than Eilian, knower of secrets and keeper of all knowledge, her father’s second-least favorite sibling.
“Such pretty words,” Eilian says, leaning back on the desk. “Such pretty words from my eldest brother’s youngest daughter - wield those pretty, pretty, words well, for a storm is coming - but you knew that already, did you not?”
His smile doesn’t waver, broken glass edged with thorns, long eyelashes not even fluttering, he doesn’t even blink. The laughing, mad god of time and prophecy, who sees what will - and won’t- be, the messenger of the gods, and a chill runs up Neha’s spine. Lady Melantha’s madness is nothing compared to her father’s, the original twin left behind and alone.
“The tide is rising, daughter of storms,” he says. “I told my favorite children a secret, but no one hears them, no one hears them though they speak with one voice - but I have told them, and it is their secret, and I can tell no more. Hear, feel, think - and yet no one does, no one hears.”
He pauses, for a moment, and glances at her, and for a moment, she can almost see him as he was at the beginning, before the Breaking of the World, before the Dreaming Princess dreamed eternally, before he was the Changer of Ways, before he walked the broken path, alone. Whole. The smile drops from his face, his hair untangling, and Neha finds herself terrified, not simply nervous.
Eilian never remembers that he was once whole without reason: the stories say that he cast his old remnants away, that he is at his most dangerous when he seems sane, when he seems whole, because it hurts him more to remember what he once was.
“I cannot tell you that secret,” Eilian says, his voice soft, and she cannot, will not, look away, as much as she would want to. “But I can tell you another. Will you hear?”
Neha knows that she can say no - that she can say no, Eilian will let her go, and she will wake knowing that this was merely a dream. But she is the youngest daughter of the Watchful Sword: war runs in her blood, and love is sacrifice, as her brother had so often impressed on her. The gods had called on Kyrion to sacrifice so much already - and she will not run from whatever they will ask of her.
“Yes,” she says, and Eilian leans forward, leans forward, and whispers in her ear. It hurts to hear (was this why the children of House Valeth were so frail? knowing secrets no one was meant to know, with the madness of their forefather in their blood), and she screams, but holds on regardless-
(without love, you cannot be saved-)
***
Neha wakes, with the light of dawn, entirely unsteady for a moment before she rises, first to bathe and dress. She chooses her clothing carefully: she knows how to move and how to fight in every piece of clothing in her wardrobe, but today, she eschews the layers of formal court dress. Instead, she chooses a simple, long dress, slit up the sides for freedom of movement, and sturdy shoes, not the delicate embroidered slippers she wears to court.
Last of all, she coils her urumi around her waist, fastening it, with the hilt at her side, before she goes to find her half-sister. Nalinda is, as she expected, in the training yard, finishing her morning exercises: alone, save for High Lady Esen, who watches with a hawk’s eye. Neha is fond of her half-sister, and Nalinda is a good enough heir, good enough First Lady, and she almost regrets what she must do: but ‘good enough’ isn’t simply good enough now, now with what was coming.
“Neha,” Nalinda greets her warmly, just before her eyes flick to the hilt of the sword at her side. The older girl knows what that means, as surely as anyone born into House Taviot does, before Neha bows in respectful greeting, her spine bending the precise degree for proper respect.
“First Lady,” Neha says, the ritual words spilling off her lips as easily as if she’d practiced speaking them. “I challenge you, for your place as strongest: I challenge you, for your place as heir.”
“I accept your challenge,” Nalinda replies, after the barest moment’s hesitance. “It is a time of peace: I will defend my claim as strongest. Come and take it, if you may.”
“Very well,” Esen says, breaking her silence, arms folding across her chest as she gravely intones, as Neha and Nalinda face each other from across the practice grounds, something they’ve done so many times before. This time, however, despite their location, this isn’t practice: completely different, with much higher stakes. This would be no duel to first blood: not when challenging to the heirship of House Taviot, the House of Storms. Yield or die. There were no other options. “So let it be.”
And there would be no backing down now.
Story: tales from the drowned world
Colors: white opal (There's nothing more boring than hearing someone else's dream), octarine (he had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo), dove grey (Light, dark, light. The dark was just an interval.)
Supplies and Styles: canvas, fingerpainting
Word Count: 1281
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Neha of House Taviot has a visitor in her dreams. It doesn't go entirely well.
Notes: Finally finished a color, yay.
Neha sits in her solar, with a teacup in her hand: her beloved lounges on the edge of her desk, feet dangling casually as if he was stretched out on the long couch in his own quarters. Without thinking, she begins to smile and gently reprove him, though she never means it (and Vasilis will lounge on any piece of furniture that he can, especially any piece that is entirely unsuitable for it): but she knows, just as she knows her own name, that this is a dream. She’d lain down to rest not long before, blown out her candles, but for the barest of breaths, she can almost believe that this is real.
(A moment of peace, nothing more, and she holds onto it only for the space of a breath, of a heartbeat-)
This is a dream, she begins to say, but the words die in her throat, unspoken, as she meets the eyes of the man sitting on her desk. The blood of the Lord of the Crossroads runs strongly in his descendants: there is a certain androgynous look that most of the scions of House Valeth share, slender, pale, and dark-haired, dark-eyed, and Vasilis is no exception. But the almond-shaped black eyes that meet hers are too-bright, reflecting back moonlight that isn’t present in the room, black eyes without pupil or iris. These eyes have never belonged to a human, no matter the shape that their owner is wearing - and Neha swallows despite herself.
Carefully, she sets her teacup down and folds her hands in her lap, to keep them still. She is a daughter of the Watchful Sword, of the House of Storms, she has been taught to be brave - but even she can’t help but be nervous.
“Lord of the Crossroads,” she instead addresses Eilian (and tries not to think his name too loudly), and bows her head, gracefully: the god laughs (and it is that laugh, and his suddenly-tangled long hair, that gives away that it’s him and not his twin), the sound like a music box in a too-wide room. Neha has been schooled in courtly manners, but even though she is the daughter of a god, she had never expected to speak with any of the Eight besides her own father. Even if the others are her family, and this is her uncle, as well as her future father-in-law. “You honor me, my lord.”
Neha takes no comfort in that it is the Walker of the Broken Path that sits in her dreams, now, rather than his twin sister, the Dreaming Princess: she knows the stories, as anyone does, and would almost rather face Ethniu’s fickle whims and capricious nature than Eilian, knower of secrets and keeper of all knowledge, her father’s second-least favorite sibling.
“Such pretty words,” Eilian says, leaning back on the desk. “Such pretty words from my eldest brother’s youngest daughter - wield those pretty, pretty, words well, for a storm is coming - but you knew that already, did you not?”
His smile doesn’t waver, broken glass edged with thorns, long eyelashes not even fluttering, he doesn’t even blink. The laughing, mad god of time and prophecy, who sees what will - and won’t- be, the messenger of the gods, and a chill runs up Neha’s spine. Lady Melantha’s madness is nothing compared to her father’s, the original twin left behind and alone.
“The tide is rising, daughter of storms,” he says. “I told my favorite children a secret, but no one hears them, no one hears them though they speak with one voice - but I have told them, and it is their secret, and I can tell no more. Hear, feel, think - and yet no one does, no one hears.”
He pauses, for a moment, and glances at her, and for a moment, she can almost see him as he was at the beginning, before the Breaking of the World, before the Dreaming Princess dreamed eternally, before he was the Changer of Ways, before he walked the broken path, alone. Whole. The smile drops from his face, his hair untangling, and Neha finds herself terrified, not simply nervous.
Eilian never remembers that he was once whole without reason: the stories say that he cast his old remnants away, that he is at his most dangerous when he seems sane, when he seems whole, because it hurts him more to remember what he once was.
“I cannot tell you that secret,” Eilian says, his voice soft, and she cannot, will not, look away, as much as she would want to. “But I can tell you another. Will you hear?”
Neha knows that she can say no - that she can say no, Eilian will let her go, and she will wake knowing that this was merely a dream. But she is the youngest daughter of the Watchful Sword: war runs in her blood, and love is sacrifice, as her brother had so often impressed on her. The gods had called on Kyrion to sacrifice so much already - and she will not run from whatever they will ask of her.
“Yes,” she says, and Eilian leans forward, leans forward, and whispers in her ear. It hurts to hear (was this why the children of House Valeth were so frail? knowing secrets no one was meant to know, with the madness of their forefather in their blood), and she screams, but holds on regardless-
(without love, you cannot be saved-)
***
Neha wakes, with the light of dawn, entirely unsteady for a moment before she rises, first to bathe and dress. She chooses her clothing carefully: she knows how to move and how to fight in every piece of clothing in her wardrobe, but today, she eschews the layers of formal court dress. Instead, she chooses a simple, long dress, slit up the sides for freedom of movement, and sturdy shoes, not the delicate embroidered slippers she wears to court.
Last of all, she coils her urumi around her waist, fastening it, with the hilt at her side, before she goes to find her half-sister. Nalinda is, as she expected, in the training yard, finishing her morning exercises: alone, save for High Lady Esen, who watches with a hawk’s eye. Neha is fond of her half-sister, and Nalinda is a good enough heir, good enough First Lady, and she almost regrets what she must do: but ‘good enough’ isn’t simply good enough now, now with what was coming.
“Neha,” Nalinda greets her warmly, just before her eyes flick to the hilt of the sword at her side. The older girl knows what that means, as surely as anyone born into House Taviot does, before Neha bows in respectful greeting, her spine bending the precise degree for proper respect.
“First Lady,” Neha says, the ritual words spilling off her lips as easily as if she’d practiced speaking them. “I challenge you, for your place as strongest: I challenge you, for your place as heir.”
“I accept your challenge,” Nalinda replies, after the barest moment’s hesitance. “It is a time of peace: I will defend my claim as strongest. Come and take it, if you may.”
“Very well,” Esen says, breaking her silence, arms folding across her chest as she gravely intones, as Neha and Nalinda face each other from across the practice grounds, something they’ve done so many times before. This time, however, despite their location, this isn’t practice: completely different, with much higher stakes. This would be no duel to first blood: not when challenging to the heirship of House Taviot, the House of Storms. Yield or die. There were no other options. “So let it be.”
And there would be no backing down now.
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