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)
rainbowfic2013-02-17 01:19 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2013-02-17 01:19 am
portrait of a living ghost
Name: Mischa
Story: fragments of stars falling
Colors: atomic tangerine, "with a whimper", dove gray, " Shall we mourn here deedless forever a shadow-folk mist-haunting dropping vain tears in the thankless sea. ."
Supplies and Styles: none.
Word Count: 592
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: child/teenage soldiers, mentioned death of one, ableism. Zorya's swearing.
Summary: Stefan is almost nothing like his sister, for all the haunting familiarity of feature.
Stefan is almost nothing like his sister, for all the haunting familiarity of feature: Zorya can almost see shadows of Lilia in the delicate curve of cheekbone, the ghost of her smile, and the memory of hesitant echo of a whisper I have a brother...we used to be identical twins..., and fuck, the girl’s already haunting her, she doesn't really need a double-fucking-dose of it. At least every time he opens his mouth, it shatters any resemblance finer than glass beneath her boot, empty and hollowed out, more a doll than a person.
He is going to be a major fucking thorn in her side, Zorya is already convinced, not the least of which that he shares his sister’s obsessive need to get his ass kicked by her on a daily basis. And isn’t half so entertaining to have screaming matches with. And really, the real problem, besides the fact that he isn’t his goddamn sister and never would be, no matter how much he looks like her, is that someone thought it was funny to give massive amounts of magical power to an absolute fucking nutter. Pot calling kettle black here, especially since she was the one who had to work every moment of her life to not listen to the urges to finish burning what was left of the world down, but Stefan is an absolute piece of work. Crawled inside his sister’s coffin to steal her magical godslaying sword that some moron, probably the same one who had made her into the messiah, had decided to bury her with. Only bit of spirit he’s shown so far, and it’s not like Zorya’s got room to talk, she stole back her own sword off dead men on a battlefield, but seriously?
The difference between him and his sister is easy, in the end: Lilia had been born into this shattered world, knowing nothing but war but still somehow able to dream of ending it, to dream of more than that: Stefan couldn’t dream of anything more, would be content to spend the rest of his days fighting, just so long as there were nightmares made flesh for him to kill. Ilyas couldn’t save this boy, any more then he could have saved his daughters, but at least Lilia had been able to accept the love offered to her. Zorya should probably feel at least a little bad that he’s so fucked up, but hell with it.
“Boy,” she looks down at him, even slouching, and throws her cloak back to reveal the sword on her back. “Know what this is?”
It’s the first time he’s seen the First Seal: she hasn’t bothered to use a blade when she’s fought him before, hasn’t felt like putting forth the effort. Empty eyes widen for a moment, but no more emotion flickers across his face as he raises the white, slender blade of the Seventh Seal. From here, she can sense his incomplete attunement: Lilia had been so well suited to the sword, that she had mastered it so completely that no one else could master it after her death.
Well fucking then. Zorya draws her sword one-handed, and just smirks at him. Stupid, stupid boy. But she has frustration to get out, too, and maybe she’d teach him how stupid it was to challenge her. Or maybe that he should find something else other than fighting to make him feel alive or at least find something to fight other than her.
“Bad choice, boy. Let’s rock.”
Story: fragments of stars falling
Colors: atomic tangerine, "with a whimper", dove gray, " Shall we mourn here deedless forever a shadow-folk mist-haunting dropping vain tears in the thankless sea. ."
Supplies and Styles: none.
Word Count: 592
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: child/teenage soldiers, mentioned death of one, ableism. Zorya's swearing.
Summary: Stefan is almost nothing like his sister, for all the haunting familiarity of feature.
Stefan is almost nothing like his sister, for all the haunting familiarity of feature: Zorya can almost see shadows of Lilia in the delicate curve of cheekbone, the ghost of her smile, and the memory of hesitant echo of a whisper I have a brother...we used to be identical twins..., and fuck, the girl’s already haunting her, she doesn't really need a double-fucking-dose of it. At least every time he opens his mouth, it shatters any resemblance finer than glass beneath her boot, empty and hollowed out, more a doll than a person.
He is going to be a major fucking thorn in her side, Zorya is already convinced, not the least of which that he shares his sister’s obsessive need to get his ass kicked by her on a daily basis. And isn’t half so entertaining to have screaming matches with. And really, the real problem, besides the fact that he isn’t his goddamn sister and never would be, no matter how much he looks like her, is that someone thought it was funny to give massive amounts of magical power to an absolute fucking nutter. Pot calling kettle black here, especially since she was the one who had to work every moment of her life to not listen to the urges to finish burning what was left of the world down, but Stefan is an absolute piece of work. Crawled inside his sister’s coffin to steal her magical godslaying sword that some moron, probably the same one who had made her into the messiah, had decided to bury her with. Only bit of spirit he’s shown so far, and it’s not like Zorya’s got room to talk, she stole back her own sword off dead men on a battlefield, but seriously?
The difference between him and his sister is easy, in the end: Lilia had been born into this shattered world, knowing nothing but war but still somehow able to dream of ending it, to dream of more than that: Stefan couldn’t dream of anything more, would be content to spend the rest of his days fighting, just so long as there were nightmares made flesh for him to kill. Ilyas couldn’t save this boy, any more then he could have saved his daughters, but at least Lilia had been able to accept the love offered to her. Zorya should probably feel at least a little bad that he’s so fucked up, but hell with it.
“Boy,” she looks down at him, even slouching, and throws her cloak back to reveal the sword on her back. “Know what this is?”
It’s the first time he’s seen the First Seal: she hasn’t bothered to use a blade when she’s fought him before, hasn’t felt like putting forth the effort. Empty eyes widen for a moment, but no more emotion flickers across his face as he raises the white, slender blade of the Seventh Seal. From here, she can sense his incomplete attunement: Lilia had been so well suited to the sword, that she had mastered it so completely that no one else could master it after her death.
Well fucking then. Zorya draws her sword one-handed, and just smirks at him. Stupid, stupid boy. But she has frustration to get out, too, and maybe she’d teach him how stupid it was to challenge her. Or maybe that he should find something else other than fighting to make him feel alive or at least find something to fight other than her.
“Bad choice, boy. Let’s rock.”
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