Ilthit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2024-01-03 01:38 pm
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2024-01-03 01:38 pm
Newsprint #12, Iridium #10: No Rest for the Wicked (Holly and Hawthorn)
Name: No Rest for the Wicked
Story: Holly and Hawthorn
Colors: Newsprint #12 (You are a victim of the rules you live by.), Iridium #10 (you're only young once)
Supplies and Styles: calendar page (Festival of Sleep Day), charcoal, colour of the day ("avatar"); photography
Word Count: 352
Rating: teen
Warnings: Mention of blood rituals off-screen, allusion to sleeping sickness.
Summary: Dickory Kingfisher does not like early mornings.
Dickory Kingfisher had woken up before noon, and therefore in a foul mood, for three days in a row. It was the unfortunate necessity of a noon ritual to celebrate the Feast of the Blood Sun, one of the many festivals of the Golden that the Lilitu observed, and therefore expected their representatives on Earth to honour as well.
Dickory Kingfisher was young, and young men needed their sleep. The fact that he had been young for a century and a half was surely beside the point.
On the third and final day, Dickory washed his hands in the sink of his thoroughly modern bathroom, watching soapy bubbles turn pink as the blood came off, while Philip brushed and put away his ceremonial robes. There would be exciting new music playing at the night-clubs tonight, and a fresh scandal to spread around about an influential New York matron, but even though the flush of fresh power from the ritual warmed his belly, he felt too spiteful over all those bright-and-earlies to even look forward to the night's rest and recreation.
Dickory sighed, straightened up, and turned that spike of discontent into a ray of ethereal arrows, and sent them out into the world.
In Astor Library, a student fresh off the Shanghai boat, eagerly turning the pages of a law book, felt his vision blur and his thoughts turn sideway at the description of the third city by-law, and his chin sank into his chest, and then his head into his arms.
In a little room off the side of Central Park, a couple fell asleep, curled up together after their love-making, despite knowing their shift at the typist pool a few streets away would begin in less than half an hour.
In Mulberry Bend Park, a hungry teenager hiding in the bushes from batons, yawned and leaned his back against the trunk of a tree, closing his eyes, the golden light of the day flickering through the leaves and his eyelids, lulling him to rest.
In his set of rooms on Charles Street, Kingfisher dried his hands, already feeling much better.
Story: Holly and Hawthorn
Colors: Newsprint #12 (You are a victim of the rules you live by.), Iridium #10 (you're only young once)
Supplies and Styles: calendar page (Festival of Sleep Day), charcoal, colour of the day ("avatar"); photography
Word Count: 352
Rating: teen
Warnings: Mention of blood rituals off-screen, allusion to sleeping sickness.
Summary: Dickory Kingfisher does not like early mornings.
Dickory Kingfisher had woken up before noon, and therefore in a foul mood, for three days in a row. It was the unfortunate necessity of a noon ritual to celebrate the Feast of the Blood Sun, one of the many festivals of the Golden that the Lilitu observed, and therefore expected their representatives on Earth to honour as well.
Dickory Kingfisher was young, and young men needed their sleep. The fact that he had been young for a century and a half was surely beside the point.
On the third and final day, Dickory washed his hands in the sink of his thoroughly modern bathroom, watching soapy bubbles turn pink as the blood came off, while Philip brushed and put away his ceremonial robes. There would be exciting new music playing at the night-clubs tonight, and a fresh scandal to spread around about an influential New York matron, but even though the flush of fresh power from the ritual warmed his belly, he felt too spiteful over all those bright-and-earlies to even look forward to the night's rest and recreation.
Dickory sighed, straightened up, and turned that spike of discontent into a ray of ethereal arrows, and sent them out into the world.
In Astor Library, a student fresh off the Shanghai boat, eagerly turning the pages of a law book, felt his vision blur and his thoughts turn sideway at the description of the third city by-law, and his chin sank into his chest, and then his head into his arms.
In a little room off the side of Central Park, a couple fell asleep, curled up together after their love-making, despite knowing their shift at the typist pool a few streets away would begin in less than half an hour.
In Mulberry Bend Park, a hungry teenager hiding in the bushes from batons, yawned and leaned his back against the trunk of a tree, closing his eyes, the golden light of the day flickering through the leaves and his eyelids, lulling him to rest.
In his set of rooms on Charles Street, Kingfisher dried his hands, already feeling much better.
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Thank you.
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(Sorry for the late comment; I'm trying this year to keep up better with RF.)