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rainbowfic2013-08-06 06:15 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-06 06:15 pm
Stars and Stripes 16: Fellowship
Author: Kat
Title: Fellowship
Story: In the Heart - Urban Fantasy AU
Colors: Stars and stripes 16 (“I don't trust children. They're here to replace us.”)
Supplies and Materials: Eraser (Urban Fantasy), graffiti (Midsummer Night's Dream prompt), frame, seed beads (I guess Gina and Ivy are around somewhere), oils (harvest festivals), glitter (pride), pastels (a stranger), novelty beads (a little kid by himself).
Word Count: 680
Rating: PG for one cussword.
Summary: Ash gets bothered by a child.
Warnings: none.
Notes: So Leah's empathetic. Didn't know that.
Given the choice, Ash doesn't pay much attention to foals of any species. They're annoying, and painfully young, and he has seen far too much in a very long life to want to deal with wide-eyed idealism and naïveté on anything like a regular basis. They don't look where they're going, they get under his hooves and fall down and cry and hurt his ears. Besides, parents often spoil their children, and Ash has no interest whatsoever in spoiled brats.
He's not yet sure what this little one is, but he's leaning towards spoiled.
"Go away," he says, and flips his book back up in front of his face.
He knows it does nothing of the sort.
The foal is extremely small to his eyes, though human, of course, and he hasn't much of a frame of reference for them. He thinks it might be a girl. Red hair crowned with copper leaves, a red-brown dress—the parents know what they're about, at least, and have dressed their child properly. He's exceedingly tired of people coming to harvest festivals in bright greens or pale pinks.
The foal is carrying a small stuffed horse and holding a flower almost as tall as it is. It continues to stare.
Finally, Ash drops the book and glares. The foal hasn't moved, and doesn't flinch. "What do you want?"
"You feel angry," the foal says. "Why are you angry?"
"Perhaps," he says, "because you are bothering me."
"Oh," it says. "I'm sorry." But it doesn't move, only tips its head to one side.
Ash does not roll his eyes. "I'd like to be left in peace with my book, please," he says, words dripping with sarcasm.
The little one frowns, though not angrily—it looks more confused. "I don't think..." it says, then stops, frowns deeper. "You feel lonely. Why are you lonely?"
"I'm not—" Ash begins, then stops.
Feel, it said.
"Are you empathic?"
That gets him a look of pure confusion, and he shakes his head. "Do you feel what others feel?"
The foal shrugs one shoulder. "Sometimes? Mostly Andy. And Mom and Mama. I felt you though so I came over."
He has no idea who any of those people are, and does not care. "You're terrible at shielding," he tells it.
"I know," the foal says. "I'm trying. Why are you lonely?"
Why, indeed. Perhaps because he is over two hundred years old, and has long since lost his family to the corners of the earth. Perhaps because he is prickly by nature, and most do not enjoy such a companion. Perhaps because the laughing and dancing at this harvest festival is the closest he's come to fellowship, and even here he feels excluded.
"It doesn't matter," he says, because the foal is quite small and would probably understand none of that.
"Oh," the foal says. It thinks, frown lines forming. "Would you like a friend?"
Oh, lord. "Would you be my friend?" Ash asks, sarcasm dripping from the words.
To his surprise the foal takes him seriously. "If you wanted," it says, doubtfully, "but I don't think you'd like me. I thought maybe my mama. Everybody likes Mama. Or Auntie Summer."
Ash frowns at the foal. "No," he says. "Thank you."
"Oh," the foal says again, quietly.
Then it sits down beside him and puts the flower by his feet.
He looks down at it, over the rims of his glasses. "What are you doing?"
"I thought," the foal says, "maybe you would like... I'm tired and I don't want to dance anymore. I thought I would sit down."
Ash stares at it, then gives a little mental shrug. Why not? "So long as you are quiet," he says.
"I'll be quiet," the foal says, and keeps its promise—it is so quiet that he forgets it's there. At some point it leaves, also quietly. He sees only a flicker of a red-brown skirt as it rejoins the dancing, flower held aloft, and feels obscurely disappointed.
Then he looks down, and realizes that it left the horse behind.
Title: Fellowship
Story: In the Heart - Urban Fantasy AU
Colors: Stars and stripes 16 (“I don't trust children. They're here to replace us.”)
Supplies and Materials: Eraser (Urban Fantasy), graffiti (Midsummer Night's Dream prompt), frame, seed beads (I guess Gina and Ivy are around somewhere), oils (harvest festivals), glitter (pride), pastels (a stranger), novelty beads (a little kid by himself).
Word Count: 680
Rating: PG for one cussword.
Summary: Ash gets bothered by a child.
Warnings: none.
Notes: So Leah's empathetic. Didn't know that.
Given the choice, Ash doesn't pay much attention to foals of any species. They're annoying, and painfully young, and he has seen far too much in a very long life to want to deal with wide-eyed idealism and naïveté on anything like a regular basis. They don't look where they're going, they get under his hooves and fall down and cry and hurt his ears. Besides, parents often spoil their children, and Ash has no interest whatsoever in spoiled brats.
He's not yet sure what this little one is, but he's leaning towards spoiled.
"Go away," he says, and flips his book back up in front of his face.
He knows it does nothing of the sort.
The foal is extremely small to his eyes, though human, of course, and he hasn't much of a frame of reference for them. He thinks it might be a girl. Red hair crowned with copper leaves, a red-brown dress—the parents know what they're about, at least, and have dressed their child properly. He's exceedingly tired of people coming to harvest festivals in bright greens or pale pinks.
The foal is carrying a small stuffed horse and holding a flower almost as tall as it is. It continues to stare.
Finally, Ash drops the book and glares. The foal hasn't moved, and doesn't flinch. "What do you want?"
"You feel angry," the foal says. "Why are you angry?"
"Perhaps," he says, "because you are bothering me."
"Oh," it says. "I'm sorry." But it doesn't move, only tips its head to one side.
Ash does not roll his eyes. "I'd like to be left in peace with my book, please," he says, words dripping with sarcasm.
The little one frowns, though not angrily—it looks more confused. "I don't think..." it says, then stops, frowns deeper. "You feel lonely. Why are you lonely?"
"I'm not—" Ash begins, then stops.
Feel, it said.
"Are you empathic?"
That gets him a look of pure confusion, and he shakes his head. "Do you feel what others feel?"
The foal shrugs one shoulder. "Sometimes? Mostly Andy. And Mom and Mama. I felt you though so I came over."
He has no idea who any of those people are, and does not care. "You're terrible at shielding," he tells it.
"I know," the foal says. "I'm trying. Why are you lonely?"
Why, indeed. Perhaps because he is over two hundred years old, and has long since lost his family to the corners of the earth. Perhaps because he is prickly by nature, and most do not enjoy such a companion. Perhaps because the laughing and dancing at this harvest festival is the closest he's come to fellowship, and even here he feels excluded.
"It doesn't matter," he says, because the foal is quite small and would probably understand none of that.
"Oh," the foal says. It thinks, frown lines forming. "Would you like a friend?"
Oh, lord. "Would you be my friend?" Ash asks, sarcasm dripping from the words.
To his surprise the foal takes him seriously. "If you wanted," it says, doubtfully, "but I don't think you'd like me. I thought maybe my mama. Everybody likes Mama. Or Auntie Summer."
Ash frowns at the foal. "No," he says. "Thank you."
"Oh," the foal says again, quietly.
Then it sits down beside him and puts the flower by his feet.
He looks down at it, over the rims of his glasses. "What are you doing?"
"I thought," the foal says, "maybe you would like... I'm tired and I don't want to dance anymore. I thought I would sit down."
Ash stares at it, then gives a little mental shrug. Why not? "So long as you are quiet," he says.
"I'll be quiet," the foal says, and keeps its promise—it is so quiet that he forgets it's there. At some point it leaves, also quietly. He sees only a flicker of a red-brown skirt as it rejoins the dancing, flower held aloft, and feels obscurely disappointed.
Then he looks down, and realizes that it left the horse behind.
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Thank you.
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