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rainbowfic2013-07-05 11:04 am
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2013-07-05 11:04 am
Peacock #11, Transparent #12, Yellow Submarine #14
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Peacock #11 (preen), Transparent #12 (father sky), Yellow Submarine #14 (she’s well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand like a lizard on a window pane)
Styles/Supplies: n/a
Word Count: 1,272
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Grefflen's secret.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
“My brother and my father will be here before the morning is out.”
“And how do you know that?” Grefflen asked, careful to keep his words light, his gaze unworried, and for the spirits’ sakes, his hands firmly behind his back. “Did they send a message ahead?” He knew they had not, because he had been camped beside the manor house’s front gate all morning, working up the courage to approach the woman who had taken up residence in his sister’s former rooms.
Caris nidh Cadwel. His betrothed. His assumed beloved. A vain, stupid woman who came with trunks of gold and jewels, all the better to prop up the flagging fortunes of House Ellar. So said his mother, who reminded him that it was his duty to bring money into the household, especially after the exorbitant amount they had paid for his sister’s wedding. So said his father, who had long ago given up his son for a scoundrel and a layabout, so the least he could do was marry well and not completely shame the family name. And so said his grandfather, more sympathetic to Grefflen than either of his parents combined, but just as practical.
People in our position, sometimes we don’t get to make our own choices. Marry the girl; you could do far worse.
Grefflen wasn’t sure how.
Caris turned back to the mirror and examined her hair, patting the dark auburn curls on one side into place. Kohl already outlined her sea-green eyes, her lips shone deep red with paint. The gown she wore was blue brocade trimmed in gold, modest in the front, completely opposite in the back, where it dipped daringly low, showing off her delicate shoulder blades and gold-cream skin.
By any account, she was beautiful. It meant nothing to Grefflen. He had other ideas of beauty: dark, masculine, secret meetings at night in the less reputable parts of Untoreld. His parents would die if they knew. With his sister choosing to marry into another Household--which he would never quite forgive her for--he was the only one left to carry on his family name.
His fingers twitched behind his back. And what of my betrothed? he thought, because she might be contemptible, but she could still be his ruin in a way that had nothing to do with his preferred choice of lover. He had taken to wearing gloves--though he didn’t think that helped--but how long could he hide it? Control was the worst; he could appear normal for days, and then something would go disastrously wrong. It was only luck that had kept any incidents from happening in public, luck and being one of a dwindling family in a very large house. But with a wife, who knew? Caris was not the type to be understanding; she would probably go to the Light Guard herself.
“I feel it in the air.” Caris closed her eyes and Grefflen realized she was answering his earlier question. “The spirits tell me.” Her lips curved upward in a contented smile as she twirled a cosmetics brush, dusted with a light pink that flaked off with every movement, in one hand.
“Your spirits.” Grefflen sighed. Vain, stupid, and not in her right mind. Though he supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. House Cadwel, though disgustingly rich, had something of an overly religious reputation. Nothing scandalous--more pity that, as then he wouldn’t even be in the present situation--but their ways were from an older, more rural time: spirits that lived in the air all around them, speaking directly to worshippers. A harmless belief.
Grefflen would say fantasy. But he bowed his head when Caris turned to him, her eyes narrowed. “And the spirits know all things, of course.”
Mollified, she turned back to the mirror and surveyed herself critically. “What do you think? Shall I wear the gold or the silver necklace?”
“Whichever you think best suits.”
“No, I want your opinion.” She picked up the necklaces in question and held them out.
“The silver.” He thought the answer would please her; he thought he remembered her saying once that silver was a far better complement to her skin tone or some such.
She made a face. “No, it will clash with the trim.” She indicated her gown. “Men! Never ask for fashion advice from them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Grefflen dryly, but Caris had already all but forgotten him, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. There were servants about the house who could have done it for her, but Caris had not been pleased with any of them. She insisted on doing it herself until her own servants were dispatched to the house after the wedding. They, in her words, knew how to properly treat her face.
Grefflen turned to go, satisfied that he had fulfilled his mother’s requirement to see to his bride-to-be, but then:
“Oh, come clasp this for me. I’m finding it quite impossible.”
Her hands were on the back of her neck, holding the gold necklace in place while she fumbled with the clasp. When Grefflen said nothing, she turned toward him, her perfectly plucked eyebrows rising in expectation. “Well?”
Grefflen clenched his hands behind his back. He felt a fine sweat break out on his forehead. There had been no incidents for days, which might mean he was safe. Or it might mean there was one just waiting to happen. He wanted to run, but he stood rooted to the spot, his feet refusing to answer the panicked pleas of his mind. Finally, he choked out, “I cannot.”
“Of course you can. Quickly now.” She turned and presented the back of her neck to him.
Frantically casting around for an excuse, he said, “It would be improper. Such an intimate gesture before we’re married--”
In the mirror he saw her roll her eyes. “So proper and rigid, to the point of incredulity. My betrothed doesn’t dare touch me at all, not even a kiss on the hand. A lady might feel slighted. What do you suppose?”
“Um,” said Grefflen, but her eyes were looking vaguely upward. Oh. The spirits. But it was a problem, if even Caris had noticed. “I’ll find a maid for you. With your brother and father coming soon, I want no questions of impropriety.”
Caris sighed heavily. “If you must.”
Grefflen turned and fled the room, stopping only briefly to relay Caris’s need to a passing maid. He didn’t stop running until he reached the seldom-used west wing of the house, plopping down into an ancient chair in a large, forgotten dining room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Not from exertion.
He waited a few moments to make sure he was truly alone, and then he slowly pulled off his gloves, one after the other. His bare hands were displayed before him, pale and slightly clammy, his nails healthier than they ever had been now that the gloves prevented him from his favorite nervous habit of chewing them. Perfectly, deceptively normal-looking.
But he had only to wave a finger, and a dusty pitcher in the corner of the room rocked forward, then back, in time with the digit.
Grefflen grimaced and pulled the gloves back on. They did nothing to stop his unnatural ability, but there was a part of him convinced that others would know, if they could see his bare hands. Perhaps this was better: using it a little bit where absolutely no one would think to look for him. Then maybe he could keep himself from losing control.
It meant everything. It meant his life.
No one must ever know.
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Peacock #11 (preen), Transparent #12 (father sky), Yellow Submarine #14 (she’s well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand like a lizard on a window pane)
Styles/Supplies: n/a
Word Count: 1,272
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Grefflen's secret.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
“My brother and my father will be here before the morning is out.”
“And how do you know that?” Grefflen asked, careful to keep his words light, his gaze unworried, and for the spirits’ sakes, his hands firmly behind his back. “Did they send a message ahead?” He knew they had not, because he had been camped beside the manor house’s front gate all morning, working up the courage to approach the woman who had taken up residence in his sister’s former rooms.
Caris nidh Cadwel. His betrothed. His assumed beloved. A vain, stupid woman who came with trunks of gold and jewels, all the better to prop up the flagging fortunes of House Ellar. So said his mother, who reminded him that it was his duty to bring money into the household, especially after the exorbitant amount they had paid for his sister’s wedding. So said his father, who had long ago given up his son for a scoundrel and a layabout, so the least he could do was marry well and not completely shame the family name. And so said his grandfather, more sympathetic to Grefflen than either of his parents combined, but just as practical.
People in our position, sometimes we don’t get to make our own choices. Marry the girl; you could do far worse.
Grefflen wasn’t sure how.
Caris turned back to the mirror and examined her hair, patting the dark auburn curls on one side into place. Kohl already outlined her sea-green eyes, her lips shone deep red with paint. The gown she wore was blue brocade trimmed in gold, modest in the front, completely opposite in the back, where it dipped daringly low, showing off her delicate shoulder blades and gold-cream skin.
By any account, she was beautiful. It meant nothing to Grefflen. He had other ideas of beauty: dark, masculine, secret meetings at night in the less reputable parts of Untoreld. His parents would die if they knew. With his sister choosing to marry into another Household--which he would never quite forgive her for--he was the only one left to carry on his family name.
His fingers twitched behind his back. And what of my betrothed? he thought, because she might be contemptible, but she could still be his ruin in a way that had nothing to do with his preferred choice of lover. He had taken to wearing gloves--though he didn’t think that helped--but how long could he hide it? Control was the worst; he could appear normal for days, and then something would go disastrously wrong. It was only luck that had kept any incidents from happening in public, luck and being one of a dwindling family in a very large house. But with a wife, who knew? Caris was not the type to be understanding; she would probably go to the Light Guard herself.
“I feel it in the air.” Caris closed her eyes and Grefflen realized she was answering his earlier question. “The spirits tell me.” Her lips curved upward in a contented smile as she twirled a cosmetics brush, dusted with a light pink that flaked off with every movement, in one hand.
“Your spirits.” Grefflen sighed. Vain, stupid, and not in her right mind. Though he supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. House Cadwel, though disgustingly rich, had something of an overly religious reputation. Nothing scandalous--more pity that, as then he wouldn’t even be in the present situation--but their ways were from an older, more rural time: spirits that lived in the air all around them, speaking directly to worshippers. A harmless belief.
Grefflen would say fantasy. But he bowed his head when Caris turned to him, her eyes narrowed. “And the spirits know all things, of course.”
Mollified, she turned back to the mirror and surveyed herself critically. “What do you think? Shall I wear the gold or the silver necklace?”
“Whichever you think best suits.”
“No, I want your opinion.” She picked up the necklaces in question and held them out.
“The silver.” He thought the answer would please her; he thought he remembered her saying once that silver was a far better complement to her skin tone or some such.
She made a face. “No, it will clash with the trim.” She indicated her gown. “Men! Never ask for fashion advice from them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Grefflen dryly, but Caris had already all but forgotten him, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. There were servants about the house who could have done it for her, but Caris had not been pleased with any of them. She insisted on doing it herself until her own servants were dispatched to the house after the wedding. They, in her words, knew how to properly treat her face.
Grefflen turned to go, satisfied that he had fulfilled his mother’s requirement to see to his bride-to-be, but then:
“Oh, come clasp this for me. I’m finding it quite impossible.”
Her hands were on the back of her neck, holding the gold necklace in place while she fumbled with the clasp. When Grefflen said nothing, she turned toward him, her perfectly plucked eyebrows rising in expectation. “Well?”
Grefflen clenched his hands behind his back. He felt a fine sweat break out on his forehead. There had been no incidents for days, which might mean he was safe. Or it might mean there was one just waiting to happen. He wanted to run, but he stood rooted to the spot, his feet refusing to answer the panicked pleas of his mind. Finally, he choked out, “I cannot.”
“Of course you can. Quickly now.” She turned and presented the back of her neck to him.
Frantically casting around for an excuse, he said, “It would be improper. Such an intimate gesture before we’re married--”
In the mirror he saw her roll her eyes. “So proper and rigid, to the point of incredulity. My betrothed doesn’t dare touch me at all, not even a kiss on the hand. A lady might feel slighted. What do you suppose?”
“Um,” said Grefflen, but her eyes were looking vaguely upward. Oh. The spirits. But it was a problem, if even Caris had noticed. “I’ll find a maid for you. With your brother and father coming soon, I want no questions of impropriety.”
Caris sighed heavily. “If you must.”
Grefflen turned and fled the room, stopping only briefly to relay Caris’s need to a passing maid. He didn’t stop running until he reached the seldom-used west wing of the house, plopping down into an ancient chair in a large, forgotten dining room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Not from exertion.
He waited a few moments to make sure he was truly alone, and then he slowly pulled off his gloves, one after the other. His bare hands were displayed before him, pale and slightly clammy, his nails healthier than they ever had been now that the gloves prevented him from his favorite nervous habit of chewing them. Perfectly, deceptively normal-looking.
But he had only to wave a finger, and a dusty pitcher in the corner of the room rocked forward, then back, in time with the digit.
Grefflen grimaced and pulled the gloves back on. They did nothing to stop his unnatural ability, but there was a part of him convinced that others would know, if they could see his bare hands. Perhaps this was better: using it a little bit where absolutely no one would think to look for him. Then maybe he could keep himself from losing control.
It meant everything. It meant his life.
No one must ever know.
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This was fantastic -- this world seems so huge and wide-sprawling, I'm just very curious as to how all of the story-bits interconnect (or perhaps also when!)
Caris is also fantastic in her own right. I'm very curious to see where she winds up. The set-up for this begs for the worst to happen!
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Caris was invented just for this piece, but she did turn out surprisingly interesting. I might not be done with her yet.
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Thanks for reading!
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Thanks for reading!
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Thanks for reading!