the androgynous keeper of plushfrogs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossfortune) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2015-10-13 02:22 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-10-13 02:22 am
you're a hard soul to save
Name: Mischa
Story: the empty throne
Colors: elvish green (I have wished you joy since first I saw you), bistre (All I'm asking is that you stop treating me like I'm an actor miscast in your own personal tragedy through no fault of my own), spark (If I did it fast you know that's an act of kindness)
Supplies and Styles:
Word Count: 457
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: suicidal ideation
Summary: "I've wished you joy since I first saw you. And you're making this difficult." In the aftermath of another failed challenge, An Lieh is critically ill: Terribly Unlucky Pan ends up taking care of him. And having terrible luck in trying to figure him out.
Notes:
“I’ve wished you joy since I first saw you,” Pan grumbles, low, brushes with his unmarked hand the sweat-soaked hair from An Lieh’s closed eyes, much more gently than he ever would have done if the young swordsman was conscious. “And you’re making this difficult.”
He doesn’t expect the young man to reply - he rather hopes that he doesn’t. Beneath the rough-woven blanket, the boy shivers with fever, and Pan shakes his head. Stubborn and a fool - a pretty fool, but a fool nonetheless. He’d already warned him and beaten him once already, made it plain that Lieh has no chance against him without mastering his familial style, but he’s never met someone so determined to go to his death for misplaced loyalty.
Bad enough that he’d come after him again, still having failed in mastering his style. Failed in even making any more steps towards it. Worse still was that the boy had been sick when he’d challenged him, he could see it in fever-bright eyes. How could he still dance like that? But dance he’d had, as if he couldn’t even register how ill he was, drawn unthinkingly on sorrow and anguish to fuel his style instead of love.
“That was a mistake.” Pan growls, beneath his breath. “Stupid boy.”
The absence of love had been bad enough. But this? This very well might kill him, and it’d be more than a waste. More than simply the flawless swordsmanship, more than the fact he was lovely. An enigma wrapped in lovely flesh and bone. And much, much too loyal to those who would cast him aside.
Pan is still no closer to understanding him then he had been in their first meeting. Or their second. He prides himself on his ability to read people’s hearts, it’s one reason his men are so loyal to him, but An Lieh is still beyond his reach. He doesn’t know who he is beneath the shy reserve, or why he’s afraid of love. Or what he’s running from.
And he hates not knowing. In his ear, he hears the trilling laugh of his patron - the actual goddess he followed, free will and fortune, not the desperate prayer he’d made in younger years to the god of silence-and grumbles at her to shut up.
“If you die,” Pan tells the boy, leaning over him. “You’re haunting me.” he pauses, for a moment. “And if you live, you owe me your life. You’ll give me answers.”
Lieh doesn’t answer, still caught in feverish, dreaming silence.
“Don’t die, boy.” he says, roughly. “It’d be a waste.”
Story: the empty throne
Colors: elvish green (I have wished you joy since first I saw you), bistre (All I'm asking is that you stop treating me like I'm an actor miscast in your own personal tragedy through no fault of my own), spark (If I did it fast you know that's an act of kindness)
Supplies and Styles:
Word Count: 457
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: suicidal ideation
Summary: "I've wished you joy since I first saw you. And you're making this difficult." In the aftermath of another failed challenge, An Lieh is critically ill: Terribly Unlucky Pan ends up taking care of him. And having terrible luck in trying to figure him out.
Notes:
“I’ve wished you joy since I first saw you,” Pan grumbles, low, brushes with his unmarked hand the sweat-soaked hair from An Lieh’s closed eyes, much more gently than he ever would have done if the young swordsman was conscious. “And you’re making this difficult.”
He doesn’t expect the young man to reply - he rather hopes that he doesn’t. Beneath the rough-woven blanket, the boy shivers with fever, and Pan shakes his head. Stubborn and a fool - a pretty fool, but a fool nonetheless. He’d already warned him and beaten him once already, made it plain that Lieh has no chance against him without mastering his familial style, but he’s never met someone so determined to go to his death for misplaced loyalty.
Bad enough that he’d come after him again, still having failed in mastering his style. Failed in even making any more steps towards it. Worse still was that the boy had been sick when he’d challenged him, he could see it in fever-bright eyes. How could he still dance like that? But dance he’d had, as if he couldn’t even register how ill he was, drawn unthinkingly on sorrow and anguish to fuel his style instead of love.
“That was a mistake.” Pan growls, beneath his breath. “Stupid boy.”
The absence of love had been bad enough. But this? This very well might kill him, and it’d be more than a waste. More than simply the flawless swordsmanship, more than the fact he was lovely. An enigma wrapped in lovely flesh and bone. And much, much too loyal to those who would cast him aside.
Pan is still no closer to understanding him then he had been in their first meeting. Or their second. He prides himself on his ability to read people’s hearts, it’s one reason his men are so loyal to him, but An Lieh is still beyond his reach. He doesn’t know who he is beneath the shy reserve, or why he’s afraid of love. Or what he’s running from.
And he hates not knowing. In his ear, he hears the trilling laugh of his patron - the actual goddess he followed, free will and fortune, not the desperate prayer he’d made in younger years to the god of silence-and grumbles at her to shut up.
“If you die,” Pan tells the boy, leaning over him. “You’re haunting me.” he pauses, for a moment. “And if you live, you owe me your life. You’ll give me answers.”
Lieh doesn’t answer, still caught in feverish, dreaming silence.
“Don’t die, boy.” he says, roughly. “It’d be a waste.”