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rainbowfic2014-01-11 01:40 pm
peaked) wrote in rainbowfic2014-01-11 01:40 pm
Entry tags:
english lavender: poorly imitated after you
may I please have a the tags: author: jade, color: english lavender ?
author: Jade.
story: the witch one.
title: poorly imitated after you.
colors: English Lavender #7: Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit/Is poorly imitated after you; (LIII)
supplies and styles: Photography.
word count: 1067.
rating: PG-13.
warnings: Very minor violence; descriptions of blood.
notes: this is for a story I haven't really figured out; the relationship portrayed in this is meant to be playful without it really being playful. inspired by this + the god of adonis. I've been really lacking in inspiration and motivation these last few days, so this is what I happened to cook up. c: constructive criticism is welcome in any way you prefer!
At first, the mirror cracks. It’s barely noticeable, the size of a hairline, but she sees it without a doubt. When she presses her finger against the smooth glass, she expects to feel the smallest of dents on the surface. Instead, her finger bends back, of its own accord, and a piece of glass, shaped as a spear, threads itself through the skin. It looks like an icicle for only a moment before she sees, very clearly, the clear reflection within the tiny sliver of glass.
Arturia pulls away from the long mirror, taking a large step backward. It’s long enough to propel her to the other side of the room. Flat back against it, her shoulder blades press hard against the plaster; the rough surface feels as though it holds a knife in its own grip. She wraps her smarting finger tightly within the palm of her uninjured hand. She can feel the blood stick to the lifelines of her palm, sticky and cold, as if she were made of ice itself.
She stares at her reflection in the mirror. Even though her back is pressed against the wall as if frightened, her slender figure still possesses an edge that not even he can scare out of her. A tiny bit of the glass is missing, right above her dark eyes, causing the image of her to be an imperfect replica. It’s then that the glass seems to press further into her finger, drawing her gaze away from the image of herself.
When she opens her palm, like a flower blossoming in spring, she sees the glass blade has transformed into the smallest of splinters. Beneath her finger, as she swipes flesh against flesh, the skin of her palm is clean and clear.
Picking the glass out from the flesh of her finger, she holds it up to the bright light above her. It’s small, almost like a diamond, or a grain of sand, yet, she’d seen it in the shape of a tiny blade. Glancing up, reflected back is a small, little blade, as wide as a thin piece of string, yet, the shape in her hand doesn’t fit what she sees. When she looks back down, she’s rolling a mere tiny square of glass between her fingers. Pressing her thumb against the cut of her finger, she finds that only a line of red smears itself against her olive skin.
She knows the sign of a curse when she sees one. Even if it dissipates away, like smoke, it lingers like a bad aftertaste. What she sees reflected in the mirror is merely an illusion; what she holds in her hand is the stark, cold reality. It’s a message she’s gotten loud and clear; he’s gone as far as sacrificing a tiny part of her mirror in order to send it.
She avoids the mirror — any mirror — for the rest of the day. She follows him lazily like a black cat throughout the town, wandering into the holes he graces with his unfortunate presence, all the while smug as he tries to shake her off. He doesn’t lose her until the sky turns light pink and she purposefully takes a left instead of a right.
At night, she tracks him. He leaves footprints, unnoticeable to those around him but clear as if it were white painted on black, as he makes his way from the warm heart of the town to its cold skirts. There’s less people out there, more growth of nature, and she knows that it calls to him, like the siren does to men.
It has never been difficult to track an ass. There’s a farm out west of the city, lingering on the skirts of the border, where she knows there’s plenty. Thick-hided and with even thicker hair, the donkeys are a dark guardian for the tiny little house that’s made of shambles and dust. It’s dead; the garden is a mess of weeds and thin, tangling branches, and the lawn is unkempt. Even the gravel she walks upon is creaking beneath her feet, like the walls and the floorboards and the insides of the little house before her do.
She doesn’t ascend the many steps to the porch. The house sits on stilts, stretching itself away from the land it sits on.
With her crossbow in hand, she maneuvers her way across the grounds as the sun hides itself away behind the mountains of the earth and the moon climbs to the top of the sky. It doesn’t take long for a light to burst and resurrect the dead of the night. She blinks a few times, finds the confident strides that characterise her prowl stumble as she loses, for only a moment, her eyes. The wards around the house work for those who aren’t trained to see them; a house doesn’t sit in the middle of this land, yet, Arturia can see it as clear as she can her own shadow in the daylight. The house hides behind the skirts of the sun but reaches its luminous arms from beneath its legs at night.
It’s as though the house lowers itself on its stilts. She can see into the house, past the thin, loosely knit curtains. Coming to stand at the brightly lit window, she positions her crossbow, lining it up with her eye. The tip of the arrow, from this point, touches against the glass. If she moves it a little to the left, it’ll touch his neck. But she leaves it where it is, to skim across the flesh of his shoulder, and to destroy the image he’s building brick by brick, bone by bone, before him.
Morgan moves, only an inch, pressing a hand beneath that of his dark eye. The shadows beneath there form bags bigger than the ones that hold her belongings. Everything about him hides itself during the stark light of the day, but comes out from its hiding places at night.
She aims the arrow, counts to ten, giving him the time to sense her, which she knows he doesn’t, for his guard is down, as cats have better things to do at night, like linger in the shadows, in bushes, and beneath the warmth of cars, and lets the arrow fly. The mirror shatters and she knows it cuts him deeper than the glass blade that had pierced her.
author: Jade.
story: the witch one.
title: poorly imitated after you.
colors: English Lavender #7: Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit/Is poorly imitated after you; (LIII)
supplies and styles: Photography.
word count: 1067.
rating: PG-13.
warnings: Very minor violence; descriptions of blood.
notes: this is for a story I haven't really figured out; the relationship portrayed in this is meant to be playful without it really being playful. inspired by this + the god of adonis. I've been really lacking in inspiration and motivation these last few days, so this is what I happened to cook up. c: constructive criticism is welcome in any way you prefer!
At first, the mirror cracks. It’s barely noticeable, the size of a hairline, but she sees it without a doubt. When she presses her finger against the smooth glass, she expects to feel the smallest of dents on the surface. Instead, her finger bends back, of its own accord, and a piece of glass, shaped as a spear, threads itself through the skin. It looks like an icicle for only a moment before she sees, very clearly, the clear reflection within the tiny sliver of glass.
Arturia pulls away from the long mirror, taking a large step backward. It’s long enough to propel her to the other side of the room. Flat back against it, her shoulder blades press hard against the plaster; the rough surface feels as though it holds a knife in its own grip. She wraps her smarting finger tightly within the palm of her uninjured hand. She can feel the blood stick to the lifelines of her palm, sticky and cold, as if she were made of ice itself.
She stares at her reflection in the mirror. Even though her back is pressed against the wall as if frightened, her slender figure still possesses an edge that not even he can scare out of her. A tiny bit of the glass is missing, right above her dark eyes, causing the image of her to be an imperfect replica. It’s then that the glass seems to press further into her finger, drawing her gaze away from the image of herself.
When she opens her palm, like a flower blossoming in spring, she sees the glass blade has transformed into the smallest of splinters. Beneath her finger, as she swipes flesh against flesh, the skin of her palm is clean and clear.
Picking the glass out from the flesh of her finger, she holds it up to the bright light above her. It’s small, almost like a diamond, or a grain of sand, yet, she’d seen it in the shape of a tiny blade. Glancing up, reflected back is a small, little blade, as wide as a thin piece of string, yet, the shape in her hand doesn’t fit what she sees. When she looks back down, she’s rolling a mere tiny square of glass between her fingers. Pressing her thumb against the cut of her finger, she finds that only a line of red smears itself against her olive skin.
She knows the sign of a curse when she sees one. Even if it dissipates away, like smoke, it lingers like a bad aftertaste. What she sees reflected in the mirror is merely an illusion; what she holds in her hand is the stark, cold reality. It’s a message she’s gotten loud and clear; he’s gone as far as sacrificing a tiny part of her mirror in order to send it.
She avoids the mirror — any mirror — for the rest of the day. She follows him lazily like a black cat throughout the town, wandering into the holes he graces with his unfortunate presence, all the while smug as he tries to shake her off. He doesn’t lose her until the sky turns light pink and she purposefully takes a left instead of a right.
At night, she tracks him. He leaves footprints, unnoticeable to those around him but clear as if it were white painted on black, as he makes his way from the warm heart of the town to its cold skirts. There’s less people out there, more growth of nature, and she knows that it calls to him, like the siren does to men.
It has never been difficult to track an ass. There’s a farm out west of the city, lingering on the skirts of the border, where she knows there’s plenty. Thick-hided and with even thicker hair, the donkeys are a dark guardian for the tiny little house that’s made of shambles and dust. It’s dead; the garden is a mess of weeds and thin, tangling branches, and the lawn is unkempt. Even the gravel she walks upon is creaking beneath her feet, like the walls and the floorboards and the insides of the little house before her do.
She doesn’t ascend the many steps to the porch. The house sits on stilts, stretching itself away from the land it sits on.
With her crossbow in hand, she maneuvers her way across the grounds as the sun hides itself away behind the mountains of the earth and the moon climbs to the top of the sky. It doesn’t take long for a light to burst and resurrect the dead of the night. She blinks a few times, finds the confident strides that characterise her prowl stumble as she loses, for only a moment, her eyes. The wards around the house work for those who aren’t trained to see them; a house doesn’t sit in the middle of this land, yet, Arturia can see it as clear as she can her own shadow in the daylight. The house hides behind the skirts of the sun but reaches its luminous arms from beneath its legs at night.
It’s as though the house lowers itself on its stilts. She can see into the house, past the thin, loosely knit curtains. Coming to stand at the brightly lit window, she positions her crossbow, lining it up with her eye. The tip of the arrow, from this point, touches against the glass. If she moves it a little to the left, it’ll touch his neck. But she leaves it where it is, to skim across the flesh of his shoulder, and to destroy the image he’s building brick by brick, bone by bone, before him.
Morgan moves, only an inch, pressing a hand beneath that of his dark eye. The shadows beneath there form bags bigger than the ones that hold her belongings. Everything about him hides itself during the stark light of the day, but comes out from its hiding places at night.
She aims the arrow, counts to ten, giving him the time to sense her, which she knows he doesn’t, for his guard is down, as cats have better things to do at night, like linger in the shadows, in bushes, and beneath the warmth of cars, and lets the arrow fly. The mirror shatters and she knows it cuts him deeper than the glass blade that had pierced her.
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I like the language in this. It's lovely and evocative, with a nice flow.
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