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rainbowfic2014-08-03 12:46 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2014-08-03 12:46 pm
Alien Green #17, Crane White #19
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Myrrosta
Colors: Alien Green #17 (You know, just because it's positive and good, doesn't mean it's silly or trite), Crane White #19 (the infernal rattling of the rain still remains)
Styles/Supplies: Photography, Graffiti (Skindiving)
Word Count: 366
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply
Summary: Atro is two different people.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
At night he dreamed of his city burning, of the flames licking up the sides of everyone he had ever known, their flesh melting away, dull white bone glinting among the ashes: the noblemen and their families, the merchants who he had befriended during long hot days in the dregs of summer, the serving girls he had befriended in other ways. The advisors, all but Lindjer. Never Lindjer, who held the torch and only laughed.
He would wake up with vengeance clinching painfully at his heart.
But during the day the air would call to him, the towering pine trees and the distant mountains. The clear streams sang sweet songs to him even as he drank, and in the evening the sky would purple in the east, shadows spreading across like a warm blanket as the sun (he didn’t even think of it as Swyn Matkej anymore; the salkiys did not worship the sun and in the daylight he was a salkiy) blinked out beyond the foothills.
At night, though, he was human, a human who’d had his city ripped from him, and beneath the light of Nur Patkej and his son the Farrou he dreamed of a thousand, a million ways to kill Lindjer. As soon as he made it back.
But then he would feel the sun, and hear the thwack of Elligia out in the yard, practicing with her arrows, and smell whatever Darmon had cooked up for breakfast that morning. And he would look over to see Merrus sprawled on his back on his own sleeping pallet, maybe with his mouth open slightly like a yawn frozen halfway through, and think that he had never once, not even in his carefree childhood when he had never noticed stress in other people, seen the salkiy look so relaxed.
It was a good place for them, he would think then. A place where they could be happy, where all they had to worry about was fetching water and fixing the roof and helping Darmon tend his herbs.
At night he ran his sword through Lindjer’s laughing mouth. During the day, Atro thought maybe getting his city back wasn’t so important after all.
kay_brookeStory: The Myrrosta
Colors: Alien Green #17 (You know, just because it's positive and good, doesn't mean it's silly or trite), Crane White #19 (the infernal rattling of the rain still remains)
Styles/Supplies: Photography, Graffiti (Skindiving)
Word Count: 366
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply
Summary: Atro is two different people.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
At night he dreamed of his city burning, of the flames licking up the sides of everyone he had ever known, their flesh melting away, dull white bone glinting among the ashes: the noblemen and their families, the merchants who he had befriended during long hot days in the dregs of summer, the serving girls he had befriended in other ways. The advisors, all but Lindjer. Never Lindjer, who held the torch and only laughed.
He would wake up with vengeance clinching painfully at his heart.
But during the day the air would call to him, the towering pine trees and the distant mountains. The clear streams sang sweet songs to him even as he drank, and in the evening the sky would purple in the east, shadows spreading across like a warm blanket as the sun (he didn’t even think of it as Swyn Matkej anymore; the salkiys did not worship the sun and in the daylight he was a salkiy) blinked out beyond the foothills.
At night, though, he was human, a human who’d had his city ripped from him, and beneath the light of Nur Patkej and his son the Farrou he dreamed of a thousand, a million ways to kill Lindjer. As soon as he made it back.
But then he would feel the sun, and hear the thwack of Elligia out in the yard, practicing with her arrows, and smell whatever Darmon had cooked up for breakfast that morning. And he would look over to see Merrus sprawled on his back on his own sleeping pallet, maybe with his mouth open slightly like a yawn frozen halfway through, and think that he had never once, not even in his carefree childhood when he had never noticed stress in other people, seen the salkiy look so relaxed.
It was a good place for them, he would think then. A place where they could be happy, where all they had to worry about was fetching water and fixing the roof and helping Darmon tend his herbs.
At night he ran his sword through Lindjer’s laughing mouth. During the day, Atro thought maybe getting his city back wasn’t so important after all.
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