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rainbowfic2017-07-18 06:04 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2017-07-18 06:04 am
sacrifice and loss
Name: Mischa
Story: tales from the drowned world
Colors: bistre (all is forgiven, though nothing is the same), elvish green (you shall not pass!), vienna orange (My made-up mind was not put here for you to try and change)
Supplies and Styles: charcoal, pastels (origific bingo, prompt "reunions"), graffiti (indie film, shojo/shonen ai)
Word Count: 558
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: one-sided incest (tagged to be safe: Symeon and Myca Valeth are distant cousins).
Summary: What is the difference between losing something and giving it up? Symeon formerly-of-House-Valeth and Kyrion Taviot are about to have a discussion about that topic. A very violent discussion.
The last time they had met, they had both been young, and in love with the same (dead) boy: Kyrion just barely an adult, and Symeon only three years older. The last time they had met, was supposed to be the last, and yet both of them had lived, somehow, bitter broken impossibilities with the power of the gods that had acted through them - and yet, and yet. Betrayal and blood and madness and grief: everything they had been, who and what they had been, washed away in storm and tide.
“I have given up more than you know.” Symeon says, tonelessly, as he strides forward. Physically, the man hasn’t changed much in thirteen years: still unusually tall for a former child of House Valeth, still gaunt and narrow-eyed, his tied-back hair still black. Time passes slowly for the children of Eilian, the god of time and secrets, and no one could take his blood from him - not even the god he serves.
Kyrion thinks of Melantha and her lovely eyes filled with nothing, her broken time: thinks of Myca, beloved and dead, thinks of all the possibilities beneath the High Lord Valeth’s masked gaze that will never, ever be, and grasps the metal of his hanbo tight, sparks of electricity skating down the half-staff. He has never hated anyone so much in his life - and likely never will again. “You have lost nothing,” he snaps: he knows it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he regrets nothing.
(His blind eye aches, as does his ankle, but that physical pain is easily put aside, small in the reminder of failure and loss and sins he cannot, will not, ever forgive, remembers the blood on Symeon’s hands and Myca, small and still in his arms and Melantha screaming and screaming and screaming-)
Symeon’s head tilts like a heron stooping and his deepset eyes are empty pools of nothing: not like his cousin’s, here-but-no-longer-all-here, but instead he was hollowed out from the inside out, left a husk. Shadows and the sea and a quest that has consumed him, and Kyrion cannot, will not, ever pity or forgive him. Forgiveness is for better men and the All-Compassionate: he was a hero once, or so others name him, but he has never been a better man.
(“This is what my father does to them,” Rusalka says, bitterly, his mockery of a smile cuts even more like a knife, with his iridescent eyes far away. “Leaves them husks.”)
“I have given up everything,” Symeon says, lips curved into a grim, empty smile, as the shadows roil. Another man would have been vicious, but there is not enough left of him for that, only a hollow shell stretched tight over the sea’s whispers, the search for a lost name and an enduring, eternal obsession with a boy thirteen years dead at his hands.“And you, Stormbringer? What have you given up? What will you, before the end?”
Another step forward, and his hands are empty: Kyrion tenses, waiting for the right moment, as the air crackles with tension and electricity.
“Or will you always simply be content to lose, rather than give up?”
“Why don’t I show you?” Kyrion says, and calls down the lightning.
Story: tales from the drowned world
Colors: bistre (all is forgiven, though nothing is the same), elvish green (you shall not pass!), vienna orange (My made-up mind was not put here for you to try and change)
Supplies and Styles: charcoal, pastels (origific bingo, prompt "reunions"), graffiti (indie film, shojo/shonen ai)
Word Count: 558
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: one-sided incest (tagged to be safe: Symeon and Myca Valeth are distant cousins).
Summary: What is the difference between losing something and giving it up? Symeon formerly-of-House-Valeth and Kyrion Taviot are about to have a discussion about that topic. A very violent discussion.
The last time they had met, they had both been young, and in love with the same (dead) boy: Kyrion just barely an adult, and Symeon only three years older. The last time they had met, was supposed to be the last, and yet both of them had lived, somehow, bitter broken impossibilities with the power of the gods that had acted through them - and yet, and yet. Betrayal and blood and madness and grief: everything they had been, who and what they had been, washed away in storm and tide.
“I have given up more than you know.” Symeon says, tonelessly, as he strides forward. Physically, the man hasn’t changed much in thirteen years: still unusually tall for a former child of House Valeth, still gaunt and narrow-eyed, his tied-back hair still black. Time passes slowly for the children of Eilian, the god of time and secrets, and no one could take his blood from him - not even the god he serves.
Kyrion thinks of Melantha and her lovely eyes filled with nothing, her broken time: thinks of Myca, beloved and dead, thinks of all the possibilities beneath the High Lord Valeth’s masked gaze that will never, ever be, and grasps the metal of his hanbo tight, sparks of electricity skating down the half-staff. He has never hated anyone so much in his life - and likely never will again. “You have lost nothing,” he snaps: he knows it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he regrets nothing.
(His blind eye aches, as does his ankle, but that physical pain is easily put aside, small in the reminder of failure and loss and sins he cannot, will not, ever forgive, remembers the blood on Symeon’s hands and Myca, small and still in his arms and Melantha screaming and screaming and screaming-)
Symeon’s head tilts like a heron stooping and his deepset eyes are empty pools of nothing: not like his cousin’s, here-but-no-longer-all-here, but instead he was hollowed out from the inside out, left a husk. Shadows and the sea and a quest that has consumed him, and Kyrion cannot, will not, ever pity or forgive him. Forgiveness is for better men and the All-Compassionate: he was a hero once, or so others name him, but he has never been a better man.
(“This is what my father does to them,” Rusalka says, bitterly, his mockery of a smile cuts even more like a knife, with his iridescent eyes far away. “Leaves them husks.”)
“I have given up everything,” Symeon says, lips curved into a grim, empty smile, as the shadows roil. Another man would have been vicious, but there is not enough left of him for that, only a hollow shell stretched tight over the sea’s whispers, the search for a lost name and an enduring, eternal obsession with a boy thirteen years dead at his hands.“And you, Stormbringer? What have you given up? What will you, before the end?”
Another step forward, and his hands are empty: Kyrion tenses, waiting for the right moment, as the air crackles with tension and electricity.
“Or will you always simply be content to lose, rather than give up?”
“Why don’t I show you?” Kyrion says, and calls down the lightning.
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