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rainbowfic2015-05-27 02:39 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-05-27 02:39 am
meditation on war
Name: Mischa
Story: fragments of stars falling
Colors: atomic tangerine (nuclear bomb), octarine (It is almost impossible for anyone to be in a street without breaking the law), verdigris (scavengers), halloween orange (you can't unmake your own mistakes)
Supplies and Styles: canvas
Word Count: 439
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: death, child/teenage soldiers, Zorya's swearing
Summary: A very long time ago, Alexia Laskaris made seven enchanted weapons for humanity. Zorya Starfall is taking one back (or: "so how did Zorya get her fancy magic sword, anyway").
Zorya growls in frustration, as she pulls the cloth back (embroidered, maybe even silk): the Seven Seals were not fucking holy relics. Alexia hadn’t made them to be, back when she was still Alexia. Nuclear bombs were the strongest weapons of the old world and they couldn’t even scratch a Wisp, whether in human or alter form: wasn’t like she had gotten any dropped on her, but she’d felt the echoes, through earth and air and flame.
She’d made the Seven Seals to be a fucking replacement for nukes, to give humanity a fighting chance, and it’s still three dozen fucking miracles that she’d even managed to make the damn things in the first place. Seven weapons with a fragment of divinity each locked in the heart: she can’t undo the apocalypse, she can’t undo everything that was her fucking fault, she can’t undo any of her mistakes, but at least she could give humanity the passing semblance of hope, right?
And what the fuck do they do with these weapons? Holy fucking relics, blessed by some loving compassion merciful goddess that doesn’t even fucking exist. It’s a fucking miracle and a half they’ve lasted this long, honestly. Maybe there weren’t enough goddamn sorcerers with enough power to attune to one of the Seals, but they were meant to be used. And there ain’t enough being used. Too many deaths. Too many fucking kids dying, just like the bunch she’s got on a funeral pyre now, came across their bodies and the sword. Teenagers, barely more than kids, and they’re dead now, too, like so many others.
Taking it somewhere. Giving it to someone who could use it, maybe. Hah. Not like she’s going to go give it back, not that she had any idea where they were going or why. Call it originally a fucking loan, really, and she’s calling it in now. Picking up the sword and walking away with it: they can keep the other six Seals until the sky falls in and they have enough wielders for them all.
Zorya doesn’t even blink as she tosses the cloth - and her old sword - aside, lifts the flame-bladed zweihander one-handed. The First Seal hums in her hand, the closest to her heart of any of the weapons she’d made when she was still Alexia, and maybe she should never have given it away. She can’t undo her own mistakes, isn’t even close to ending this whole mess despite how long it’s been, but at least she can make a start.
She’s taking the damn sword, and she almost wants to see what they’ll do about it. Almost.
Story: fragments of stars falling
Colors: atomic tangerine (nuclear bomb), octarine (It is almost impossible for anyone to be in a street without breaking the law), verdigris (scavengers), halloween orange (you can't unmake your own mistakes)
Supplies and Styles: canvas
Word Count: 439
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: death, child/teenage soldiers, Zorya's swearing
Summary: A very long time ago, Alexia Laskaris made seven enchanted weapons for humanity. Zorya Starfall is taking one back (or: "so how did Zorya get her fancy magic sword, anyway").
Zorya growls in frustration, as she pulls the cloth back (embroidered, maybe even silk): the Seven Seals were not fucking holy relics. Alexia hadn’t made them to be, back when she was still Alexia. Nuclear bombs were the strongest weapons of the old world and they couldn’t even scratch a Wisp, whether in human or alter form: wasn’t like she had gotten any dropped on her, but she’d felt the echoes, through earth and air and flame.
She’d made the Seven Seals to be a fucking replacement for nukes, to give humanity a fighting chance, and it’s still three dozen fucking miracles that she’d even managed to make the damn things in the first place. Seven weapons with a fragment of divinity each locked in the heart: she can’t undo the apocalypse, she can’t undo everything that was her fucking fault, she can’t undo any of her mistakes, but at least she could give humanity the passing semblance of hope, right?
And what the fuck do they do with these weapons? Holy fucking relics, blessed by some loving compassion merciful goddess that doesn’t even fucking exist. It’s a fucking miracle and a half they’ve lasted this long, honestly. Maybe there weren’t enough goddamn sorcerers with enough power to attune to one of the Seals, but they were meant to be used. And there ain’t enough being used. Too many deaths. Too many fucking kids dying, just like the bunch she’s got on a funeral pyre now, came across their bodies and the sword. Teenagers, barely more than kids, and they’re dead now, too, like so many others.
Taking it somewhere. Giving it to someone who could use it, maybe. Hah. Not like she’s going to go give it back, not that she had any idea where they were going or why. Call it originally a fucking loan, really, and she’s calling it in now. Picking up the sword and walking away with it: they can keep the other six Seals until the sky falls in and they have enough wielders for them all.
Zorya doesn’t even blink as she tosses the cloth - and her old sword - aside, lifts the flame-bladed zweihander one-handed. The First Seal hums in her hand, the closest to her heart of any of the weapons she’d made when she was still Alexia, and maybe she should never have given it away. She can’t undo her own mistakes, isn’t even close to ending this whole mess despite how long it’s been, but at least she can make a start.
She’s taking the damn sword, and she almost wants to see what they’ll do about it. Almost.