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rainbowfic2017-08-16 09:20 pm
shadowsong26) wrote in rainbowfic2017-08-16 09:20 pm
Kingfisher Blue #5, Provence Lavender #3, Moonlight #1
Name: shadowsong26
Story: Recovery
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Kingfisher Blue #5. 勿以善小而不為, 勿以惡小而為之 (don’t fail to commit an act of kindness because it’s small in scale, don’t commit an act of evil because it’s small in scale), Provence Lavender #3. Dried herbs, Moonlight #1. Liminal
Supplies and Materials: graffiti (Lillith Faire Village Stage), photography, canvas (953 FY), oils, stain
Word Count: 320
Rating: R
Characters: Nida
Warnings: Referenced civil war, referenced murder, aftermath of suicide attempt/botched regicide [i.e., planned to poison the King, changed mind at last minute and switched the glasses]
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always.
Recovering from the poison was absolute hell.
The physical was hard enough--even after the convulsions stopped and the doctors pronounced her out of danger, Nida endured weeks of pain and exhaustion and intermittent fever as her body healed.
And mentally--
There were days when it hit her, like a knife twisting in her gut, exactly what she'd done. Exactly what she'd thrown away, what she'd sacrificed--all for the love of one man.
She hated Sorell, a little bit, on those days. Hated him for making her love him, for being the reason for her current misery, for the probable destruction of her relationship with her family.
To say nothing of the wider world, the Movement, and the cause and politics she still believed in.
If she hadn't loved him, if she hadn't stayed her hand--who knows what future tragedies she might have prevented.
--or caused.
Because the power vacuum that followed his death would probably lead to a brutal civil war, with her poor children caught in the middle. And there was no way of knowing if those horrors would be worse or not, bloodier or not, faster or slower or more or less devastating.
Or maybe that was just a lie she told herself to feel better about what she hadn't done.
And then she felt so guilty for hating him, because she loved him, deeply, despite it all. Because her choices were her own fault, not his. And because he was so kind, so tender, so utterly devoted and horrified that someone had tried to kill him and hurt her instead.
If only he knew.
It would get better, she thought, with time. The guilt and the rage would ease, just as her physical pain would.
Or so she devoutly hoped. Because that seemed so far away, all but impossible to imagine. And right now, in the middle of it, recovery was hell.
Story: Recovery
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Kingfisher Blue #5. 勿以善小而不為, 勿以惡小而為之 (don’t fail to commit an act of kindness because it’s small in scale, don’t commit an act of evil because it’s small in scale), Provence Lavender #3. Dried herbs, Moonlight #1. Liminal
Supplies and Materials: graffiti (Lillith Faire Village Stage), photography, canvas (953 FY), oils, stain
Word Count: 320
Rating: R
Characters: Nida
Warnings: Referenced civil war, referenced murder, aftermath of suicide attempt/botched regicide [i.e., planned to poison the King, changed mind at last minute and switched the glasses]
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always.
Recovering from the poison was absolute hell.
The physical was hard enough--even after the convulsions stopped and the doctors pronounced her out of danger, Nida endured weeks of pain and exhaustion and intermittent fever as her body healed.
And mentally--
There were days when it hit her, like a knife twisting in her gut, exactly what she'd done. Exactly what she'd thrown away, what she'd sacrificed--all for the love of one man.
She hated Sorell, a little bit, on those days. Hated him for making her love him, for being the reason for her current misery, for the probable destruction of her relationship with her family.
To say nothing of the wider world, the Movement, and the cause and politics she still believed in.
If she hadn't loved him, if she hadn't stayed her hand--who knows what future tragedies she might have prevented.
--or caused.
Because the power vacuum that followed his death would probably lead to a brutal civil war, with her poor children caught in the middle. And there was no way of knowing if those horrors would be worse or not, bloodier or not, faster or slower or more or less devastating.
Or maybe that was just a lie she told herself to feel better about what she hadn't done.
And then she felt so guilty for hating him, because she loved him, deeply, despite it all. Because her choices were her own fault, not his. And because he was so kind, so tender, so utterly devoted and horrified that someone had tried to kill him and hurt her instead.
If only he knew.
It would get better, she thought, with time. The guilt and the rage would ease, just as her physical pain would.
Or so she devoutly hoped. Because that seemed so far away, all but impossible to imagine. And right now, in the middle of it, recovery was hell.
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