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rainbowfic2014-06-05 04:01 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2014-06-05 04:01 pm
Entry tags:
Amaranth #7, Octarine #25
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Amaranth #7 (monument), Octarine #25 (history, contrary to popular theories, is kings and dates and battles)
Styles/Supplies: N/A
Word Count: 590
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Those who leave no mark.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
“They never mention this part.”
“What do you mean?” Eoin leaned back as Lalin pillowed her head against his thigh, automatic as breathing. Her gaze and her thoughts were elsewhere, but all Eoin understood was the flickering of firelight against the smooth curves of her face. Next to them, Ailis and Goronall had become very still. It wasn’t like Lalin to speak up in front of the group. She communicated almost solely through Eoin.
He saw her cheeks redden as she came back to herself and realized she had an audience of more than one. “Never mind,” she murmured, turning her head so that she faced the fire.
“No,” he said. “Tell us what you meant.” He tried to be as gentle as possible, because he knew how shy she was, how uncomfortable she felt, how she believed she was the weak one, a burden on the others and always slowing them down. But despite knowing all that, he still wished that once in a while she would actually talk to someone other than him.
“It was a stray thought,” she protested. “I meant nothing by it.”
“Lalin. Your thoughts are important to us, no matter what you may think.”
She sighed. “I was just thinking of the history lessons I had when I was a child. My tutor--” And then she shut down again, curling in on herself as if she could will her own disappearance. “Sorry. Never mind.”
As rarely as she spoke, it was even rarer that she ever said anything about her privileged past. Whether it was to spare others discomfort or because it held too many bad memories for her, Eoin couldn’t say.
But he was curious. “We all know you were once an alsatmar. To tell of it is not an insult to us.” He nodded encouragingly at Ailis, who blinked, cleared her throat, and agreed. Goronall had already lost interest, fiddling with a twig and idly scratching meaningless patterns in the dirt. “What did your tutor say?”
Lalin shrugged, her shoulder brushing against Eoin’s thigh. “When we had history lessons, he spoke of the specifics of war: who were the leaders, where the battles were fought, this or that side had two thousand cavalry while the other side had only five hundred. But he never mentioned this.” She waved her hand to include their campsite, their fire, their small group. “Everyone in that cavalry was a person who left behind a family. Many never saw them again, nor even the rising of the next sun. They are the ones who journeyed through the muck and slept in crude tents. They are the ones who fought the battle, for good or ill. But the books never mention them.”
Eoin shared a pitying look with Ailis. His Lalin was so sheltered sometimes, like a newborn babe seeing the world with new eyes. “That is the soldier’s lot, I’m afraid,” he said. “There are far too many of them for the books to list, or for the graveyards to honor.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, as if she was frightened. “Will that happen to us? When you go to battle, will you be another forgotten soldier? And I, your wife, just as lost to history? Will that happen?”
“No,” said Eoin, squeezing her hand back. “Whatever comes, history will know my name. I can promise you that.”
“Oh,” said Lalin, and she fell silent.
And it occurred to Eoin that perhaps he hadn't understood what she was saying at all.
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Amaranth #7 (monument), Octarine #25 (history, contrary to popular theories, is kings and dates and battles)
Styles/Supplies: N/A
Word Count: 590
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Those who leave no mark.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
“They never mention this part.”
“What do you mean?” Eoin leaned back as Lalin pillowed her head against his thigh, automatic as breathing. Her gaze and her thoughts were elsewhere, but all Eoin understood was the flickering of firelight against the smooth curves of her face. Next to them, Ailis and Goronall had become very still. It wasn’t like Lalin to speak up in front of the group. She communicated almost solely through Eoin.
He saw her cheeks redden as she came back to herself and realized she had an audience of more than one. “Never mind,” she murmured, turning her head so that she faced the fire.
“No,” he said. “Tell us what you meant.” He tried to be as gentle as possible, because he knew how shy she was, how uncomfortable she felt, how she believed she was the weak one, a burden on the others and always slowing them down. But despite knowing all that, he still wished that once in a while she would actually talk to someone other than him.
“It was a stray thought,” she protested. “I meant nothing by it.”
“Lalin. Your thoughts are important to us, no matter what you may think.”
She sighed. “I was just thinking of the history lessons I had when I was a child. My tutor--” And then she shut down again, curling in on herself as if she could will her own disappearance. “Sorry. Never mind.”
As rarely as she spoke, it was even rarer that she ever said anything about her privileged past. Whether it was to spare others discomfort or because it held too many bad memories for her, Eoin couldn’t say.
But he was curious. “We all know you were once an alsatmar. To tell of it is not an insult to us.” He nodded encouragingly at Ailis, who blinked, cleared her throat, and agreed. Goronall had already lost interest, fiddling with a twig and idly scratching meaningless patterns in the dirt. “What did your tutor say?”
Lalin shrugged, her shoulder brushing against Eoin’s thigh. “When we had history lessons, he spoke of the specifics of war: who were the leaders, where the battles were fought, this or that side had two thousand cavalry while the other side had only five hundred. But he never mentioned this.” She waved her hand to include their campsite, their fire, their small group. “Everyone in that cavalry was a person who left behind a family. Many never saw them again, nor even the rising of the next sun. They are the ones who journeyed through the muck and slept in crude tents. They are the ones who fought the battle, for good or ill. But the books never mention them.”
Eoin shared a pitying look with Ailis. His Lalin was so sheltered sometimes, like a newborn babe seeing the world with new eyes. “That is the soldier’s lot, I’m afraid,” he said. “There are far too many of them for the books to list, or for the graveyards to honor.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, as if she was frightened. “Will that happen to us? When you go to battle, will you be another forgotten soldier? And I, your wife, just as lost to history? Will that happen?”
“No,” said Eoin, squeezing her hand back. “Whatever comes, history will know my name. I can promise you that.”
“Oh,” said Lalin, and she fell silent.
And it occurred to Eoin that perhaps he hadn't understood what she was saying at all.
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