Splatterdrops

To Bell the Cat

2009-05-14T18:20:03Z

Fandom: Original: airship pirates
Genre: Fiction//Fantasy/Comedy/Romance
Notes: This is old. Like, a year and a half at least old. Like, written for jan_the_verse's birthday two years ago old. Like, written and never given to her because I was going to revise it except that I haven't yet old. And as it's still not getting revised, I promised I'd put it up for her when she completed her exams for the semester and post the edited version whenever the hell it gets edited. So here it is.
*Note: the edited version will have additional scenes. (yay!)
**Double note: see the icon? That is Lexis.
To Bell the Cat

They took him on board in Taurin, not long after he’d sweet-talked the reigning family out of their entire treasury and just before the watchmen caught up with him for it.

Ivaldi personally didn’t have any real reason for joining them, other than his curiosity and insatiable restlessness and the fact that Captain Narrick was a very good sell. It might have been the coat, really—Ivaldi had to believe anybody with a coat like that knew what he was talking about. It looked like he’d stolen it off an Arigauldian military commander from the previous century. It was bright blue and had fringed gold epaulets.

It perhaps might also have been the alternate prospective of jail that spurred him to join, but Ivaldi preferred to figure that as inconsequential.

Captain’s ridiculous coat aside, Narrick was a fine specimen of airship pirate. A bit young for the role, perhaps, but from Ivaldi’s observations he had a sharp mind and a quick tongue and an eye for creative trouble that Ivaldi quite frankly couldn’t fault, since that was what had gotten him noticed in the first place. So he accepted the proposition and entered Narrick’s crew with the pleasant impression that he had at last entered into the company of people like himself who appreciated the notion that his abundant intellect and expensive education be put to use for fun and profit (as opposed to, say, the betterment of society).

The first thing Narrick did, once they were completely clear of Taurian airspace, was introduce Ivaldi to the crew. As it turned out, there wasn’t much of it.

Leah was First Mate, and also apparently cook, strategian, former navigator, disciplinarian, resident mother figure and voice of reason. She accepted him with a neutrality that said both that she looked forward to welcoming him into the family and that he’d earn his place in it or wouldn’t stay at all. He offered his best gentleman’s smile and kissed her hand, and her nod told him he was off to a pretty good start.

The mechanic was named Scrimshaw, and Scrimshaw was a scrawny, grimy, large-mouthed pre-pubescent boy. He glared up at Ivaldi with all the indignance of a man whose property is being trespassed upon. Ivaldi met his gaze, raised an eyebrow; grinned. Scrimshaw grinned back in spite of himself, and then looked somewhat annoyed that he’d betrayed his intent so soon. He brought back the glare with an extra dose of fire, but Ivaldi knew the boy had already been won.

“Don’t let this kid fool you,” said Narrick, ruffling Scrimshaw’s hair and ignoring the disgusted expression and the eye-roll that it earned him. “He single-handedly keeps the whole ship afloat with his mechanical genius, but he still has to wash the floors.”

The deck was admittedly a lot cleaner than Scrimshaw himself.

The Captain turned to the third and final member of his crew, and gestured as though he were introducing a show. “And this,” he said with the air of one who is certain of a reward, “is Lexis.”

Lexis was a tiny blonde creature, made even smaller by her slightly hunched, predatory posture, low to the ground like a cat about to strike. She was even filthier than Scrimshaw, and she was equipped with more weapons than Ivaldi had ever seen a single person carry in his life. Her blue eyes—the only part of her not covered in muck—seemed to glow in contrast to all the dirt, but it was just as easy to attribute that to something feral in their depths. Lexis looked at Ivaldi as though it were the last thing she was inclined to do, gave him a critical once-over, then bared her teeth at him and hissed.

Ivaldi burst out laughing.

The punch to his jaw was powerful enough and unexpected enough to actually knock him to the ground. He was amazed she could even reach that high. Narrick and Scrimshaw were doubled over laughing at him a few feet away, but Ivaldi wasn’t inclined to blame them. When he pushed himself onto his elbows to watch Lexis storm away, he was staring after her with a grin of unabashed admiration.

Narrick was showing him around the airship a few hours later when she accosted them in the brig. “Captain,” she spat at Narrick, and Ivaldi got the impression that this title was not being used for its respectful connotations, “Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?”

The Captain gave her a rather significant look. “Quite possibly,” he drawled, “But that would have been some time ago.”

Lexis snarled. “You’re not seriously letting some lying, cheating, two-faced stuck-up aristocrat Arigauldian scum on this ship.” This was not a question, and she pointedly ignored the fact that said scum was standing right next to her. “Y’can’t trust him just ‘cause he’s literate! ‘Fact, y’can’t trust him ‘cause he’s literate!”

“This is true; your illiteracy is much more worthy of my faith,” Narrick conceded.

If Lexis’ expression could have gotten any darker, Ivaldi thought her complexion might have rivaled his own. “See if yer still laughing when he crosses you,” she hissed, “‘cause I will be.” She vanished into the bowels of the ship as quickly as she’d appeared.

“Fascinating creature,” remarked Ivaldi. “Where did you find that one?”

“Actually, she found us. It was more a matter of not letting her abscond with our nicer pieces of weaponry.”

“And she sticks around for…?”

Narrick shrugged. “The free food and the chance to kill things, I expect.”

Ivaldi nodded. “Noble reasons, those.”

He didn’t see her again for several days—where she kept to on a ship that wasn’t honestly that big, he couldn’t begin to fathom. His third day on board, she suddenly appeared for dinner, and attacked the dishes that Leah had made as though she’d only just remembered she was hungry. She flipped off the Captain when he made a snide remark about her table manners, listened to Scrim babble excitedly about flywheels and then mocked him mercilessly, and abandoned all her dirty dishes on the table when she vanished again, leaving Ivaldi to contemplate whether this was standard Lexis behavior or if she’d be catching it from the Captain later. Or the First Mate, perhaps—Narrick looked pretty amused.

Either way, Ivaldi saw no reason not to make it his business to find out. They were all residents of this craft, after all, and it was important to know the social customs of one’s locale.

He discovered the first such custom when he stepped off the main deck into one of the side halls and a knife pressed into his neck. “You been following me,” Lexis hissed. She was upside-down from a ceiling beam, so that her voice was right in his ear. A few strands of blonde fell across his shoulder, looking golden in the dark.

“Yes,” said Ivaldi, because he was.

“You’re some kinda spy, ain’tcha? You’re a no-good lousy piece of aristocrat shit tryin’ to get us in trouble with one gover-mint or another. You’re taking advantage of Narrick’s goodwill and general lack a’ sense most likely just ‘cause you think it’d be fun. Gimme one good reason not to slit your throat right now.”

“Are you from Gelph?” Ivaldi asked conversationally.

The dagger pressed harder and she growled, “I will cut you—”

“Because your accent seems to be vaguely from that region, but I can’t place it exactly. It’s most curious. Then again, it might be your horrible mutilation of the Common language that’s throwing me off.”

The angry hiss reached an inhuman pitch; Ivaldi was again reminded of large feral cats. There was a definite trickle of blood running down his neck at this point, which he thought added a nice touch of color to his otherwise boring shirt, although the effect would be ruined if she didn’t ease up with the knife soon.

Leah stepped into the hallway with an armload of dirty dishes. “Lexis,” she said mildly as she passed them, “Are you threatening the new navigator?”

Lexis growled in his ear and the pressure at his neck disappeared, vanishing with her somewhere into the rafters.

At least now he knew why she was so difficult to find.

She had Scrimshaw overboard, tied by an ankle from the deck railing. The weather was clear and pleasant, the wind practically non-existent; so the mechanic had braced his free leg against the side of the ship and settled there, apparently resigned – if not comfortable – with his fate.

Ivaldi took this all in when he came out on deck to charter their altitude and distance from land. He looked from Scrim, to Lexis, to Scrim, up to the sky, and back to Lexis again. “Lexis! What a pleasant surprise!”

They stared at him like he’d grown a second head. For Scrim, this involved craning his neck upwards from the side of the ship, but he managed it.

“Beautiful day, is it not?” Ivaldi continued, as though there were genuinely nothing wrong with having used the words ‘Lexis’ and ‘pleasant’ in conjunction with one another. He gestured at the strung-up boy. “This a hobby of yours?”

The grin was more a display of teeth than anything. “He was invadin’ my space.”

Ivaldi chuckled. “Bit young yet, aren’t you?” he called to Scrimshaw, who was ignoring him so pointedly that it was obvious he was listening, “You don’t want this one, anyway. Hold out for some real ladies.”

Somehow the lady in question didn’t seem any more insulted by this than she was by his presence—which was still met by the warning exhibit of canines. He suspected it would probably be worse to suggest that she was one worth pursuing.

He nodded at the rope again. “Just a guess, but that’s probably not good for him.”

“Oh, he won’t die for ‘nother twenty minutes, at least.”

“Mm.” Ivaldi looked down at the boy blandly, considering something. “We do have an auxiliary mechanic, I presume?”

The look Lexis gave him was far from blank, but still managed to convey that she had no idea what he’d just said.

“A backup mechanic?”

She snorted at this, a noise distantly echoed by Scrim himself. “Do it look like we does?”

“Mm,” Ivaldi said again, and tutted mildly.

His indifference seemed to irk her, for she snapped, “And I suppose you’re just the master of all things mechanic with that wondrous education.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, smiling broadly, “I readily admit to being completely shown up by a thirteen-year-old. No idea what I’m doing. Indeed, watching Scrim has proved highly educational.”

Lexis eyed him suspiciously. “Better be careful you don’t learn somethin’ stupid.”

Ivaldi’s grin grew even wider. “Indeed,” he said again, “Which is why, in fact, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

From over the side, Scrimshaw started to laugh.

Ivaldi ignored him. “You see, I have this knife that I was given by my grandfather; a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, apparently with quite a history. However, my education was really so limited in such practical matters that I have very little idea how to use it, so I thought perchance–”

“The blade goes here,” she said, punching him in the gut, and left him doubled over on the deck as she walked away.

When he finally pulled himself back up enough to lean on the railing, Scrimshaw was looking up at him with an expression that was one part sympathy and two parts amused I-told-you-so. Ivaldi favored him with a grin that was only slightly less enthused than his previous ones. “Actually,” he wheezed, “I was going to ask if she wanted it.”

The next time he encountered Lexis, he didn’t bother beating around the bush since clearly she wouldn’t allow him to finish. Perhaps the straightforward approach would be more effective.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?”

The punch was still fast, but at least this time Ivaldi wasn’t entirely unsuspecting. Contrary to what he’d said before, his education had actually covered quite a bit of combat. He managed to block the blow with his forearm, and then again the kick aimed at his kneecap. “Probably not more than once, I take it.”

There’d been a brief pause where she’d almost appeared to be waiting for him to strike back, but when he merely stood there and made quips with that smirk on his face, any of her rage that hadn’t been apparent before became obvious now. “Fuck you,” she snarled, and kneed him in the groin, not even looking satisfied as he went down. Then she planted a boot on his chest and kicked him over.

“Aristocrats,” she hissed, standing with one foot on his stomach and placing more weight on it than was strictly necessary. She crouched down to give him the full force of her sneer. “Think you can have anything you want. Too lazy to wipe your own ass, and then you still think you’re gonna get rewarded at the end of the day. You’re all just a bunch a pansies—you can’t even fight a girl.” She got right in his face, and even the sneer couldn’t contain her disgust as she growled, “I’d cut your fuckin’ throat right now if it di’n’t mean the Captain’d throw me off the ship.”

Ivaldi had never really had any use for social boundaries other than to gain boundless joy in violating them—nor, it should be noted, had he ever heeded what little intuitive sense of self-preservation he might possess. Consequently, it is hardly surprising that at this point, without doubting in the slightest the validity of her threat—or indeed, perhaps inspired by it—it is at this point that he leaned up and kissed her.

His nose made an interesting crunch when she broke it, and Ivaldi thought Scrim was inordinately mad about the amount of blood that got all over the deck.

He caught her on the deck a week later and asked her to spar.

“You wanna get your nose broken in two places?” she sneered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not afraid I’m going to beat you?”

She launched herself on him in a snarling twister of legs and teeth, but Ivaldi could fight dirty, too. He dodged left and dropped down, ducking the fist that was heading for his jaw, and as her momentum carried her forward he heaved up, catching her in the stomach with his shoulder. He lifted her clear off the ground and threw her—she skidded several feet on her back across the hardwood floor, and Ivaldi might have winced if not for her leather corset. He couldn’t attest to the experience, but he suspected splinters in the back were not fun.

When she bowed her back and launched to her feet using only her legs, the snarling anger was gone, replaced with a wild and toothy grin.

Lexis struck low this time, feinting to the right and then going left, under the arm, and jabbing her elbow into his armpit as she went. He grabbed at her arm and twisted, but she had tangled her other hand in his hair—foolishly left loose—and clawed at it like she was going to take it out in clumps. Ivaldi twisted her arm harder and wondered if she’d let go before he dislocated her shoulder; she kicked him viciously in the back of the knee instead, and his leg buckled.

And then she had a knife on him, a white line pressing into the back of his neck. She jabbed until he let go of her arm, and then once more for good measure, and she gave his back a shove with her boot as she stood. Ivaldi didn’t get up; just sat there and watched as she curled a lip at him and turned to clomp away.

Lexis was at the door when a blade thunked into the doorframe right next to her head. She whirled around, glaring, but for once the expression seemed forced, as though to belie her actual thoughts. “You lost, fucker,” she hissed at him, teeth bared like an angry cat.

He merely grinned at her. “That’s all a matter of perspective.”

The next time he asked her to spar, she only made a passing insult about his mother before attacking.

The third time, she actually grinned.

The fourth time, when he found her out on the main deck railing, she almost appeared to have been waiting for him, but when he mentioned it she hissed and drop-kicked him in the stomach.

The eighth time, she jumped him in the hallway on the way to dinner, and they both arrived half an hour late so bloodied and sweaty that Leah kicked them out of the room and said they could go hunt for their food if they were so inclined to behave like animals. Lexis had a split lip and a gash in her forehead that was bleeding all down her cheek, and Ivaldi had been hit with a blow to his left side that bloomed purple-yellow and hurt like a bitch for the next week, and neither was entirely sure who had won.

She was extremely annoyed about being deprived of dinner, and kicked him in the kneecap with a steel-toed boot for it. Then she said something extremely rude about his parentage involving a goat and various disreputable members of the Arigauldian theology, and Ivaldi knew he was in love.

A month into their sparring matches, having proved that he was not, in fact, adverse to fighting a woman two-thirds his size, he gave her the knife he’d mentioned so many weeks ago. It really was a beautiful piece, crafted with care and skill, and notably old. The blade had gold-tinted etchings down both sides, and there was a gem the size and density of her fist in the pommel.

She barely spared it a glance. “If you think you’re gonna get into my pants by giving me toys, you might as well go find yourself a whore right now ‘cause next I’ll be takin’ your balls with this knife.”

He grinned and pointed at the dagger. “This is the blade that killed the crown prince of Rinnay and started the entire Southern Peninsula civil war.”

Her whole face lit up as she turned the weapon over reverently, and Ivaldi thought it was like watching the sun rise.

She was watching him translate a Dalnan list of merchant ship runs into Common, an intense audience of one from on top of the bookcase. She’d come in because stupid aristocrats couldn’t be trusted to work without a dagger to the neck every second, she said, but hadn’t really done anything since.

“Teach me to read,” she said suddenly.

Ivaldi looked up, genuinely surprised for the first time since she’d slugged him on the day they met. “Read?”

She scowled at him, the effect somewhat lost in the fact that it was one of her more common expressions. “Reading’s too good for me, that it? You gotta be of class to read. Bastard.” She slid off the bookcase and stomped over to the desk, planting her dirty hands all over his work. He looked at the grit under her fingernails; wondered if any of it was his blood. “Teach me the letters. How d’you write my name?”

He turned over a scrapped piece of paper and penned ‘Lexis’ on it in large font, so she could see the individual letters.

Lexis curled a lip. “It’s loopy,” she said with distaste. “Why’s it loopy?”

He smiled at this, but kept it to himself. “That’s my handwriting; here–” He dipped his pen again and this time wrote ‘L E X I S’ in a bold scrawl, all lines and angles. He handed her the page. “That’s your name,” he said.

She examined it appraisingly. “I like it,” she said.

She was in his room when he got back from breakfast the next morning, sitting in his chair with her boots up on the desk and trying to balance a dagger on her nose.

“Tilt your head back more; your neck should be the center of balance,” he suggested.

She flipped him the finger and tipped the whole chair back on two legs. “You’re teaching me t’be literate, ‘member?” The jaw movement dislodged the knife; she caught it as it fell and planted it blade-first in the surface of Ivaldi’s desk.

“Of course. What do you want to learn first?”

“Well,” she said, “I really like that cross symbol in the middle of my name, like they put over the doors of houses when somebody’s died. What’s that one called?”

Then one morning, after two weeks of lessons, she failed to show. He sat around pretending to work for twenty minutes before he realized he’d been stood up.

He found her lurking in the foredeck hallway, outside the Captain’s chambers. “I thought you wanted to learn to read,” he said, feeling strangely injured. The question didn’t come out sounding as amused as he’d intended.

She flashed him her most ferocious grin, the one that always made his heart turn over. “I learned,” she said. Then she was stalking away, steel-toed boots clomping on the floorboards the way they always did on the rare occasion that she chose to use the floor. Ivaldi watched her go, curious and bemused, then turned to the Captain’s quarters with the intent of asking if Narrick knew what she was up to.

There was an inscription painted in a nearly illegible scrawl all across the cherrywood paneling of Narrick’s door. ‘Captin wil trayd Ship for sekshual favers,’ it read.

Ivaldi laughed all the way back to his quarters and was grinning for the rest of the day.

She never expressed any further interest in literacy, although poorly-spelled insults and choice vocabulary did appear in a variety of places about the ship for several weeks thereafter. Once they docked at Theswood to discover that ‘IMPERIAL LOVESHIP’ had been crudely painted on the side of the hull using eight whole jars of Ivaldi’s writing ink. Ivaldi didn’t think that particular contribution was hers, but suspected she’d probably had a hand in it somewhere along the line.

Two months after teaching Lexis to read; four months after giving her the knife; five months since they began to spar and nearly seven months since he first joined the crew, Ivaldi returned to his quarters to find a dead pigeon on his pillow. It was arranged carefully, one broken wing spread out like a fan while the other was folded in, and its neck was twisted. The slight spattering of blood and the halo of downy feathers that surrounded it led him to think that perhaps the neck had been an afterthought to prevent it from falling off the bed in a panicked frenzy as it bled to death. There was only a semicircle of red puncture wounds in the breast, and they didn’t look deep enough for a quick kill.

It was the best gift he’d ever received.

ETA: Now with Bonus ~~Porn~~ Ficlet!

Their first time, to the casual observer, is no different from their many fights. They are both disheveled and sweaty, but this is only to be expected. The visible bite marks are not any more note-worthy than those they usually gain from a match (Lexis fights dirty, and Ivaldi long ago decided to just follow her lead). There are bruises and cuts and blood; all in all, it looks like they had a thoroughly vicious go at each other. But Lexis’ vambraces are missing and her corset is loose, and Ivaldi forgot to lace his trousers up properly. Narrick's back is to them when they come in and Scrim is just oblivious, but Leah simply says nothing and ladles the food onto their plates.

Gratia Actualis

2008-12-06T18:08:26Z

Fandom: Original: quayverse
Genre: Fiction//Fantasy/Drama
Notes: More Niam and his Issues. Features Kelsey as an absent character, oh boy! Takes place some time after Life and Death Lessons. Written and revised for Creative Writing last April. Let me know if this viewing formal is all right for you guys or not--it's literally a cut-and-paste of a double-spaced Word document, and I can't tell if it's horrible on the eyes or just different. I'll be happy to change it if necessary.

Gratia Actualis

Niam is a murderer—this is his profession. He has no last name. If anyone knew of him, they would say he is a terrible and disgusting man, a symbol of the city’s filth. Instead, nobody says much of anything about him, except for Kelsey Marcilei, who prefers to talk more about himself. Legally, Niam does not exist, and great pains have been taken on all sides to keep it this way.

Niam is a government employee, and occasionally he wonders whether he is being paid with his victims’ tax money. He considers that in most cases they weren’t paying their taxes anyway. He doubts he’s eligible for a pension. Quay, being the corrupt city that it is, doesn’t really do pensions anyway, since anybody eligible for one has more than enough money already.

More than enough, certainly, to keep him living comfortably though only veritably employed about one night out of every ten. Which works quite well for Niam, as he has plenty enough to do on his own time—namely, tracking down the people on the List, which is a sight more difficult than one might expect in a city of only eighty thousand people. He’s only found eight of the people on the list; five of them, he’d been ordered to kill. There are at least twenty others, but their existence eludes him, and he fears that the Parliament may have gotten to them first. For all he knows, the same list may have been sitting in Mr. Orius’ study when it was raided that night. He doesn’t even know for certain what the list is for: he’d found it tucked into the back cover of one of the books Mr. Orius had gifted to him, that he’d smuggled up to his room in the Net several weeks before the ordeal. The list is now the only aid he has to go by. He has memorized and burned it.

Tonight the man he has been told to kill lives on Mid-level, and he is not on the list. Very few of those he’s told to kill are not on the list, and it makes him nervous; he is not sure what to expect. He takes a service elevator behind the Marcilei Opera House, used normally for transfer of props and scenery from the workshops on Mid-level. Kelsey brought him here to see a show once, and it was the most uncomfortable night of his life. From the box seat he could see the excessive stage-makeup nearly melting off the actors under the lighting, and he thought he might be sick at all the opulence.

At Mid-level, things are less ridiculously showy. The artisans and merchants live here, and though they live much better than those in the Net, they don’t have the same kind of money to burn as those on the Floor. The man Niam has been sent to kill is probably an artisan, or the son of an artisan who was perhaps less attentive to his child’s upbringing than he ought to have been. Most of the targets he’s given are from the Net—even there not safe from the Parliament’s watch—but he has been surprised at the number of times he’s been sent Mid-level, and even to the Floor. He feels a small sense of victory every time he is sent to the houses of his employers’ contemporaries.

There is no sense of victory this time. Up until now, the Parliament had wanted quiet disappearances. They didn’t need the public to know that the dissenters were being picked off. “There are no murders in Quay,” Kelsey had told him the day he was hired, and he was required to uphold this façade. But they want to make an example out of this one. This middle-class rebel, he’s been too vocal, too active, too good at what he does. His support base is still small; he’s been rallying them but he hasn’t become their leader quite yet. This one must be taken care of now, before he becomes a martyr instead of a warning—it wouldn’t do to let that happen again. Parliament said it has to be clear that it’s murder. Niam is just grateful that they didn’t tell him there has to be blood.

He has not been trained in breaking and entering, nor indeed in stealth or many of the other talents that his job description would seem to imply he possesses. He’s spent the past few months making it up as he goes along, and it’s really only luck and the fact that the government has employed him for this that he hasn’t been caught and killed yet. Not that the government would vouch for him if he did screw up, but he’s been given skeleton keys and access to government elevators and through-ways, and from time to time Kelsey arranges for certain areas to be conveniently void of guards and citizens alike. Niam doesn’t know why Kelsey helps him like this, and he doesn’t ask.

One thing that Niam is not granted is floorplans, and so although he has no trouble locating the house, finding a way inside is another matter. The windows are all firmly latched and bolted—as windows in Quay always are—and Mid-level houses mean scaling walls are absolutely out of the question. But he finds a back-alley bridge between this house and another at two floors up, and from there he can break the lock on the back door and get in through the pantry. He’s quiet, but it’s still luck that no one is around when he sneaks in, and he has to hunt a bit to find the study.

It’s a smallish room, with a side table by the door and a desk under the window, and most of the rest of it filled with bookcases except for a small locked cedar chest in the corner. There are reams of paper all over the desk; one of Mr. Orius’ speeches is on top. Niam smiles when he picks it up, and settles down cross-legged on the cedar chest to read it. He remembers this one: one of the best, though there were about eight different versions before Mr. Orius was satisfied with it. Kelsey uses it for tinder, and Niam has to force himself not to say anything. It’s a powerful piece; he’s still perched like this, reading, when Deniel Felsynth walks in.

Deniel Felsynth is painfully young—maybe only a few years older than Niam himself. Niam’s heart sinks when he sees this, sees the papers under Deniel’s arm and knows this has to be the one he was sent for, not some son or nephew or witless apprentice whom Niam could allow to leave unharmed. He’s never been sent after one this young, and he wonders how he could be such a threat.

Deniel freezes in the doorway, and for a minute is clearly assessing the situation. Then he smiles thinly at Niam and sets his books on the side table. “Isn’t this a little unorthodox?”

Niam shrugs. They always get suspicious when he tries to talk to them, as though they’d prefer it if he’d just stab them in their sleep and have done with it. He’s getting used to being detested on sight.

“You are Deniel Felsynth?” he asks. It never hurts to make sure.

Deniel’s shoulders are very tense beneath his green waistcoat. “I am. Do you always greet people before you kill them, or did they send a complete greenhorn to do the job?”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

“You are sick.” Deniel’s sneer is perhaps not as brave as he would have liked.

Niam doesn’t flinch, but Deniel is testier than he’s used to. Then again, this time is different—perhaps Deniel senses his own tension. “I’m not as sick as you might think.”

“I’m sure Ella Friberg disagreed when you killed her.”

“I didn’t—”

“Then Claude Harrison or Garrik Noyl or whichever of them that you killed, not that it makes a difference.”

“But I haven’t actually killed anyone yet.”

“You are a greenhorn,” Deniel says incredulously.

“No, none of them are dead. I’m a mole.” Niam pulls a letter out the breastpocket of his coat and holds it out to Deniel. “Ella Friberg isn’t dead. I got her on a ship to Arigauld. Here, she wrote this before she left.”

Deniel doesn’t move, and finally Niam lowers his arm and sets the paper next to him on the cedar chest.

“Why aren’t you on Mr. Orius’ list?” Niam asks him.

“List? What list?”

“His list of revolutionaries and sympathizers. Allies.”

Deniel glares. “Mr. Orius would never have kept a list like that. Putting everyone in danger if the Parliament got hold of it—he’d never have been so careless.”

“Careless like you leaving his speeches all over your desk? It’s like you want them to have a reason to get you!”

“And you’re saying that he left this list lying around and that’s how Parliament’s been picking us off,” intones Deniel dryly.

“That is not how Parliament’s been finding you. He gave the list to me; and like I said, you’re not even on it. They’ve been finding you because you’re all too bloody loud.”

“Somebody has to be.”

Niam bites his lip and looks away. He sees now why Parliament finds this man so dangerous. Deniel Felsynth is outspoken, as outspoken as Mr. Orius ever was, and he’s not surprised they chose to make an example out of this one. He’s young and vivacious; he could be an even worse threat that Mr. Orius if given another couple of years.

“Mr. Orius didn’t know about you,” Niam muses, almost to himself.

Deniel looks slightly taken aback. “No,” he says, “I never met him, but I was inspired by his work, and by his courage. I endeavored to take up his mantle after his passing.”

Niam looks at him. “Even though you know what happened to him?”

“That was you?”

“No,” says Niam, “That was all him.”

Deniel’s expression suddenly contorts with rage. “How dare you,” he says, “How dare you suggest—”

“Have you not seen how the people rallied after his death? How many dissenters have now spoken in his name? You yourself have taken up his cause. Do you think he did not know the extent of his own influence?”

Deniel regards him coldly. “You practiced that, didn’t you.”

“Um. I have to explain this a lot.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Really,” Niam says, “Think about it. Mr. Orius’ death incited the biggest uprising Quay’s ever seen. He knew that would happen.”

“They hanged a man for it.”

“Of course they did; they had to save face! But do you really believe the Parliament would have hanged someone that useful to them?”

“Someone who would take out their opponents, you mean?”

Niam doesn’t nod; he only looks at him pointedly.

“Oh, for—!” Deniel makes an exasperated noise and strides to his desk, sweeping the mess of papers up reshuffling them again and again as though they will somehow arrange themselves. “You suggest that Mr. Orius killed himself to further his cause? Killed himself and framed an ally for it to get him into the Parliament?”

Well, when put that way…. Niam nods.

Deniel groans and drops his head in his hands. “He always was brilliantly crazy,” he mumbles. To Niam he says, “Why don’t you just take out the Parliament members yourself, if you’re so deep on the inside.”

“I could never get to them all. They’ve all got their Guard, and most of them still don’t trust me.” Niam tries to imagine killing Kelsey. It is harder than he would have expected.

Deniel is silent. “And where would you have me hide?” he says at last. “I’m not leaving Quay. I have work to do here.”

Niam does not respond, but Deniel can read it in his face.

In a moment he’s pulled open the desk drawer and has a pistol trained on Niam’s face. “I could kill you first,” he says.

“Please don’t,” is all Niam says, and he means it exactly like that. Too much has been sacrificed to get him here, and Mr. Orius’ death would mean nothing if Niam were to fail now.

Deniel stares down the pistol at him for a long time. At last he lowers it, slowly, and places it on the desk. There is another long moment, and suddenly he sits heavily in the chair, as though gravity has only just asserted itself. He looks at the pistol, and then at Niam, waiting.

“I don’t have a choice,” Niam says, and hates himself.

“No one’s going to rally for my death. I don’t have the name recognition yet. I’m not Mr. Orius yet.”

“That’s why it has to be now.”

Deniel looks at the pistol again, almost wistfully. “How are you—?”

Niam cuts him off so he does not have to say it. “I have some poison,” he says, then adds hurriedly, “If you want. It’s quick, and as painless as anything.”

Deniel nods. There is a decanter of dark red liquid on the sideboard, and Niam rises to pour a glass.

“Wait,” Deniel says, and points to the cabinet beneath it. “There’s a Taurinian brandy in there that I’ve been saving. Use that.”

Niam complies, then sets the glass on the desk in front of Deniel and removes a small pouch from his pocket. He upends it in the glass, and the white powder falls like snow in the liquid, swirls, and dissolves.

“This is what Mr. Orius used. He said it was called Kingsbane.”

Deniel picks up the glass and holds it in front of his face. The poison is no longer visible, but he seems to see it anyway. “Kingsbane,” he repeats distantly. “Then I suppose… I am honored to follow, as always, in his path.”

“He would have loved to meet you,” is all Niam can say.

He’s been sitting on the cedar chest staring at Deniel in the chair for a half hour before he remembers it was supposed to be an obvious murder. He has to cut the body, but he’s waited too long and the heart has stopped, so there isn’t as much blood as there should be. They’ll be able to tell that—Kelsey, for one, is disturbingly meticulous this way—so he slumps the body over the desk and delivers a heavy blow to the back of the head with a third edition Imperial Dictionary. He’s not sure it will be obvious, but he hears an unpleasant ‘crack’ and decides that will have to be good enough. It’s only then that he notices he’s gotten blood all over Mr. Orius’ speeches.

He takes Deniel’s pistol when he goes. It turns out it wasn’t even loaded.

Niam is a murderer. This is his profession, but it is not who he is. He’s watched someone die once before, and he finds now that it doesn’t get any easier.

</div>

This Is How The World Ends

2008-04-18T19:33:54Z

Fandom: Original: airship pirates
Genre: Fiction//Fantasy/Drama
Notes: LEXIS DIES OF MALARIA LOL. I don't remember when I wrote this.

This Is How The World Ends

She went with the passing of spring, gone in five days. They hadn’t the medicine to deal with it; Ivaldi, for all his education, knew little of disease. He spent the third day, when it became clear that the violent shaking was not going to desist, tearing apart his library in a rage, throwing books in a whirlwind of torn parchments in a futile search for something medical. They were already bound for port, the nearest location available, but it was too far, too late, and they’d argued about where to go, who had a price on their heads and which city actually had facilities that could help.

On the fourth day he wished he hadn’t done that. He looked at her and she was worse and he hadn’t been there—he yelled at her, stood by the bedside and yelled at her for twenty minutes until he’d made himself hoarse, and then when he was rasping she opened her eyes for the first time in hours, maybe days, and offered him an approximation of her grin. It was so weak that it almost came out as a smile—the closest thing to a smile he’d ever seen on her face. It looked wrong.

“Fuck you,” she rasped. There was barely any breath behind it, barely a noise at all, but it was clear.

She closed her eyes and did not open them again.

Ivaldi spent the next fourteen hours waiting for a miracle. She would overcome it. They would arrive at port and get professional help. There was never cause to worry in the first place. It just wasn’t right, Lexis would never die this way, she was going to go out with six swords in her chest, surrounded by a field of corpses and laughing all the way. They were going to go down together, against overwhelming odds, that final battle that was always going to catch up to them in the end, because you can only win for so long. Logic dictated that this is how it would go, and Ivaldi lived by logic. Logic was truth. It would be so.

Somewhere in dawn of the fifth day, he took her hand without realizing it. Somewhere in the next two hours, without thinking it, he knew.

Four hours later she was gone. He couldn’t even say exactly when.

This is how the world ends: not with a bang, but a whimper.

Four People Who Had Gwen Cooper (And One Who Didn't)

2008-04-14T23:55:26Z

Fandom: Torchwood
Summary: I think it's all in the title.
Notes: A brief background with this one: after being forced to sit through that ridiculous montage to "Gorecki" at the end of "They Keep Killing Suzie," I nearly died with laughter to see that, according to the trailer, the very next episode was going to feature, what, some random dude we've never even seen before mooning over Gwen? And thus I dubbed its air date (December 10) Everybody Loves Gwen Cooper Day, and determined to compose this fanfic in celebration.

A year and a half later, of course, I finally finished.

Four People Who Had Gwen Cooper and One Who Didn't

Owen picks her up from the bus stop. She's there under the pretense of taking the bus to work like she always does, and he picks her up, like he always does. And, like always, they don't go straight to work, but pull into a vacant parking lot between a derelict warehouse and a rather sad-looking spot of woods. Owen doesn't bother to cut the engine, just climbs over the seats and Gwen follows, and they do it like they always do in the back seat of a van with blacked-out windows at seven-thirty in the morning.

And then, without a word of discussion, he drops her off two blocks from the Plass, and she walks the rest of the way and goes in the front entrance while Owen drives round to the garage. They do this every day, as though it somehow matters when everyone they work with already knows about them anyway. It seems to be more the principle of the thing.

-----

She and Toshiko go out for lunch.

"Look," Gwen says, after the forcibly pleasant conversation dies into awkward silence for the fifth time, "I'm sorry about..." She's forgotten the name.

"Mary," Tosh supplies, pushing a pea around with her fork.

"Right, Mary. Um, d'you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," says Tosh curtly, "I've never been lucky in love."

Gwen thinks there is a barb here meant for her, though she's not quite sure why. "Sorry," she says anyway. Tosh's eyes flick to her and Gwen sees regret in them, but nothing more. She hesitates before asking gently, "Was it special?"

"It wasn't real," says Tosh, "It never is." And then her face crumbles.

Gwen takes her to the ladies' room to get cleaned up.

"I'm sorry," Tosh says between hiccups while Gwen dabs at her eyeliner with a wet paper towel.

"Shh, it's alright. It helps to talk about these things."

Tosh chokes on a sob and a laugh at the same time. "God. All that, and you know where I feel most betrayed? I feel betrayed that that was the best damn sex in my life!"

Gwen stops with the towel halfway to Tosh's face, but Tosh isn't paying attention. She's laughing wryly, like it hurts. "You've got no idea, Gwen."

Gwen's mind flashes back to that first day on the job, being in the cell with Carys and ripping her shirt open.

"Oh," she says.

She decides it's a maneuver that maybe merits a second try, and this time the results are much more satisfactory.

-----

"Ianto," she says, catching a breather on the balcony when he brings her some coffee, "D'you ever... feel like it's just more than we should be able to handle? All that we go through, not telling anyone?"

He looks at her as though she's just asked him if he could take the coffee back and get her some of that instant stuff that comes in a packet. "That's why it's better not to have any ties, any relationships."

"But don't you wish that you could just tell someone?"

He shrugs, says nothing.

"I see us," Gwen says, "I see us... breaking down, like this, not able to confide in anyone but each other. We're just five people, Ianto. That's not enough of a world for anyone. Your whole life can't be five people."

"What we have will just have to be enough."

"It shouldn't have to be. There're six billion people on this planet, and we're not giving them enough credit if we think that not one of them can handle it."

"Lisa would have said that, once," he says, face carefully blank, more carefully than usual; so carefully blank that Gwen realizes the grief is still strong inside him, though he's never shown it since that day. It's still strong, strong enough that maybe it's eating him from the inside out because he's too afraid to show it.

"You remind me of her. You're strong, and you're smart, and you never give up if you think you can save someone, no matter the cost to yourself, no matter what Jack or anyone else says." There's a slight crease in his brow, and his voice wavers just a little.

She kisses him gently, hands holding his head like he's the most fragile thing in the world, and he lets her, desperate but holding back. She pulls away and gives him a small smile.

"Is this what Jack does?" she whispers, so softly that it almost hasn't been spoken, it's almost just her mouth forming the shapes. Ianto's nod is just as quiet, the incline of his head barely noticeable. It's little more than the muscles tensing beneath her hands.

"Does it help?" she asks, and when he nods again they find one of the unused storage rooms and things proceed from there.

They leave the lights on, because the dark doesn't feel as safe as it used to.

-----

He's watching her with that smile of his when she enters his office.

"You been enjoying yourself, Gwen Cooper?" he asks, and she understands instantly that he knows exactly what's been going on. She wonders if there are even more security cameras he's got set up than she was aware of, or if he just knows. She's not sure which possibility is more unsettling.

"Not jealous, are you, Captain?" she responds, and she's only half teasing.

He grins that rare grin, the one that looks somehow like it belongs a lifetime ago, before Something Happened, and makes her wish she could have known him then. He might have been a different person then, before he learned to kill people and think so little of it. "I don't believe in jealousy. Sharing is caring!" The smile is a little more serious when he says, "Besides, it looks like you're giving people something they need."

She takes a step closer, looks at him carefully. "What do you need, Jack?"

The grin fades as looks at her; the shoulders go back, he sits up straighter, he looks at his desk. "I need to finish this paperwork," he says, and raises his pen.

"Jack," she says firmly, "What do you need?"

He puts the pen down; sighs. "I need a Doctor," he says, not to her. She can hear the specificity in the word though she knows not what it means.

There's a long silence, and then she says it. "Will a beat cop do?"

He doesn't even bother to look surprised. He gets up from the desk and walks around toward her; cups her face with one hand.

She's surprised by how gentle he is, and how it seems to be for his own sake rather than for her.

----

Rhys is already in bed by the time she gets home. He hasn't called her cell phone asking why she's so late. He hasn't bothered in weeks. He's pretending to be asleep, but he gives up when she climbs under the covers and drops him a peck on the cheek. "Hullo," he says, rolling over and smiling. "How was work?"

Gwen opens her mouth to tell him, to tell him how dangerous it is, how scary, how thrilling, how fascinating, how important it is to know that they're protecting people, how humbling it is to see how weak and stupid our planet really is. But she can't, and even if she did he wouldn't understand at all.

"It was fine," she says, and then she pulls the blanket up over her ears and stares at the darkness for a long time.

Character Sketches

2007-11-20T18:48:38Z

All three of these were written for Creative Writing class this semester. The first two are both airship-pirate world and have actual plot-contextual relevance to two complete short stories that I will be posting sometime in the next month or so (WILL BE LOCKED; friend if you wish to read) - consider them a prologue and a deleted scene respectively, if you will. The third has no connection to anything whatsoever, just a sketch of one of my lesser-used but still much-loved characters. ~~God, it's so true--I have it bad for the stupid ones.~~
Comments and crit much loved!

1.

The knife was concealed in the waistband of his pants. It rested against his left thigh, the blade scraping his skin as he walked, and every few steps he put a hand to it to make sure that its form was still hidden by the folds of his coat. It was early yet, the streetlamps still in the process of being doused by the watchmen, and he stuck to the streets that they hadn’t yet gotten to. From behind Killstone Peak, the sun cast an orange haze over the upper reaches of Quay, blinding reflections off the snow even as the shadows remained long and deep, and the lower levels of the city still slept. But in Windscream, the northwestern-most district of the Empyrean, people lived with the sun: they were the first souls up in the morning, and the last to retire every night. Some claimed it was because they had better things to do with their lives than sleep the day away like those useless aristocrats downside, but the simple truth of it was that if you weren’t up and moving about, the elements were liable to decide that you didn’t really need that heartbeat anyhow.

Korlan stopped at the corner before the Mainfare highbridge to check and adjust the dagger one last time. He tightened the knot of the scarf at his throat and tugged his coattails over his hips, wishing it weren’t summer and therefore not cold enough to justify wearing a cloak. The sunlight blinded him as he entered the street; he shaded his eyes with a hand and navigated the Mainfare while looking only at his feet. There wasn’t anything exciting to see anyway – the stalls were only just getting set up for the day, and beyond that there was nothing but the black iron spikes that line the bridge walls marring the city skyline. He didn’t have any concept of a view without those bars.

The Maiden’s Tear was open by the time he arrived; its patriots, like him, having gotten up with the dawn. There was a fire just getting started in the hearth – this alone making it worth the trip. When you lived up this high, you had to have a permit for a fireplace, and that was something Korlan definitely couldn’t afford.

Maiden’s Tear was not the closest tavern to where he lived, but it was the closest one that he trusted enough to enter. Despite the somewhat suspicious name, Maiden’s proprietor was a genial, unpresumptuous man, and over the years had developed into one of the closest things that Korlan had to a friend. On occasion he even let him have breakfast for free.

“Korlan!” chimed the girl cleaning glasses with a dishrag behind the counter, “You’re early today.”

Korlan shot her a half-hearted smile and migrated immediately to the fire, where he stood warming his hands until the motion absently regressed into wringing them. He remained this way, staring at the flames, and the girl behind the counter frowned.

“You all right?” she asked him.

He barely managed not to jump and shoved his traitorous hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he answered, “Just cold.” This much was true; his coat was not the warmest, and his room was absolutely freezing at night, even in summer. The stones would bake and the room would become stifling under the sun, but they never retained that heat once it dropped behind the mountains. Korlan, like his neighbors, lined every window, every crack, every inch of the floor and entry to the cold with as many wools and pelts as he could afford, and still slept every night in all of his clothes. The Maiden’s Tear was where he came to get the blood flowing every morning, with a half-hour of thawing by the fire – and, if Janin was feeling particularly generous, a shot of kailin.

Korlan moved to sit down in the chair closest to the hearth; the knife jabbed his leg and he aborted the motion, biting back a yelp. He glanced at the barkeep, but she’d disappeared into the kitchen, probably to let Janin know he was here. He tried again, sliding into the seat while holding the blade away from his leg. The coat didn’t hide the hilt so well now that he was sitting, so he covered it by sticking a hand back in his coat pocket and holding it through the lining. After a few moments of indecision about where to put his other hand – his knee? the table? – he stuffed that back in a pocket as well. He wondered if Janin would throw him out if he realized he had a knife. Or, worse, asked him what it was for. He slouched lower in the chair and told himself that Janin would never know. Janin trusted him. He wouldn’t make trouble for Janin.

“What,” said Janin, looming over him like a mountain, “d’y’think you’re doing?”

2.

She had Scrimshaw overboard, tied by an ankle from the deck railing. The weather was clear and pleasant, the wind practically non-existent; so the mechanic had braced his free leg against the side of the ship and settled there, apparently resigned - if not comfortable - with his fate.

Ivaldi took this all in when he came out on deck to charter their distance from land. He looked from Scrim, to Lexis, to Scrim, up to the sky, and back to Lexis again. “Lexis! What a pleasant surprise!”

They stared at him like he'd grown a second head. For Scrim, this involved craning his neck upwards from the side of the ship, but he managed it.

“Beautiful day, is it not?” Ivaldi continued, as though there were genuinely nothing wrong with having used the words ‘Lexis’ and ‘pleasant’ in conjunction with one another. He gestured at the strung-up boy. “This a hobby of yours?”

The grin was more a display of teeth than anything. “He was invadin’ my space.”

Ivaldi chuckled. “Bit young yet, aren't you?” he called to Scrimshaw, who was ignoring him so pointedly that it was obvious he was listening, “You don't want this one, anyway. Hold out for some real ladies.”

Somehow the lady in question didn’t seem any more insulted by this than she was by his presence—which was still met by the warning exhibit of canines. He suspected it would probably be worse to suggest that she was one worth pursuing.

He nodded at the rope again. “Just a guess, but that's probably not good for him.”

“Oh, he won't die for ‘nother twenty minutes, at least.”

“Mm.” Ivaldi looked down at the boy blandly, considering something. “We do have an auxiliary mechanic, I presume?”

The look Lexis gave him was far from blank, but still managed to convey that she had no idea what he'd just said.

“A backup mechanic?”

She snorted at this, a noise distantly echoed by Scrim himself. “Do it look like we does?”

“Mm,” Ivaldi said again, and tutted mildly.

His indifference seemed to irk her, for she snapped, “And I suppose you’re just the master of all things mechanic with that wondrous education.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, smiling broadly, “I readily admit to being completely shown up by a thirteen-year-old. No idea what I’m doing. Indeed, watching Scrim has proved highly educational.”

“His experiences are hardly interesting,” Lexis said slowly, “Better be careful what you judge from them.”

Ivaldi’s grin grew even wider. “Indeed,” he said again, “Which is why, in fact, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

From over the side, Scrimshaw started to laugh.

Ivaldi ignored him. “You see, I have this knife that I was given by my grandfather; a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, apparently with quite a history. However, my education was really so very limited in such practical matters that I have very little idea how to use it, so I thought perchance– ”

“The blade goes here,” she said, punching him in the gut, and left him doubled over on the deck as she walked away.

When he finally pulled himself back up enough to lean on the railing, Scrimshaw was looking up at him with an expression that was one part sympathy and two parts amused I-told-you-so. Ivaldi favored him with a grin that was only slightly less enthused than his previous ones.

“Actually,” he wheezed, “I was going to ask if she wanted it.”

3.

Quentin Burns is picking his toes.

Quentin Burns (that’s Quinn to you) is picking his toes at the breakfast table, but only because his mother is not here to tell him not to. One foot is up on the chair with him, knee curled up to his three o’clock shadow, and he absently chips away at the baby toenail as he stares avidly at the newspaper over his plate of fried eggs and ketchup. The page he is reading is the Sunday comics. It’s Thursday, but they’ve been sitting untouched on the counter all week. Quinn shovels food into his mouth like a bulldozer but chews slowly, and adds more ketchup to his plate without even looking. His entire attention is devoted to the colored pages; he snickers at Zits and Boondocks, and puzzles for a minute over Non Sequitur. He doesn’t even look at Doonesbury.

Artemis isn’t talking to him because he forgot to feed her again last night. He got back from a three-am game of laser tag, spent five minutes trying to find his keys until he discovered them in the back pocket of the jeans in his bag, and collapsed promptly on the couch without even taking off his boots. Only Quinn, his friends all say, can sleep in full battle regalia. Missy doesn’t care how he sleeps, but she cares that she’s been neglected (Quinn always thinks this is ironic, for a cat). He can hear her stalking back and forth across the dryer just outside his field of view.

Quinn is capable of ignoring his cat just as blatantly as his cat is ignoring him, and does so when he finishes the comics and gets up to drop his dirty dishes in the sink alongside all his other dirty dishes since Saturday. Quinn has been known to buy new dishes just to avoid washing the dirty ones for another day, and consequently he has a lot of dishes. Artemis straightens her back and stalks a little more purposefully as he passes the laundry room door; Quinn just as purposefully yawns. He fed her when he woke up this morning – well, afternoon, really, and once she, you know, got off his face – and he figures she’ll get over it by dinnertime. Cats are nothing if not practical. In the meantime, it’s a Thursday afternoon; Quinn is young and the day is younger, and both of them lack purpose, which is just the way Quinn likes it. He thinks he may have left a game of Counterstrike on the computer last night.

An hour later, when Artemis trips over the power cord and settles in front of him with a very self-satisfied expression, Quinn has a lot of trouble believing it was an accident.

Note: YES, Koni, I stole the Artemis-Missy nickname from you and Kit, sorry! D= Artemis is named such in reference to the fact that Quinn is/was Artemis reincarnated (the goddess, not the cat). Hence the paintball fetish. And no, he's not aware that he's supposed to have boobs. XD

The Drawbacks Of The Indirect Approach

2007-05-28T00:11:10Z

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Fiction//Romance/Humor
Rating: G/PG
Summary: Sokka really sort of sucks at this whole communication thing. Toph/Sokka.
Notes: Why, look, I can write het! =D I love this couple to bits. Expect to see more of them. And it only took me, oh, a year to finish this one. That's... actually pretty fast for me. D=

The Drawbacks Of The Indirect Approach

“You got yourself stuck again,” said Toph when she arrived.

Sokka wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement. Perhaps it was neither.

“This is the third time I’ve had to dig your ass out of a crevasse today,” she continued, pulling him out of the rock without ever touching him. “I know you’re an idiot, but I didn’t think you were that incompetent.”

“Um,” said Sokka.

Toph, obviously, didn’t know much about Looks, with that capital L, but Sokka thought she had “Disdainful” pretty much mastered.

“I guess the heat’s getting to your head or something,” she said after a moment, and turned back to camp. “Pansy water tribe types.”

“Heh,” said Sokka.

She was already gone, but she wouldn’t have been able to see the expression on his face anyway.

---------

“Sokka’s stuck again,” said Zuko.

Toph kept peeling her apple. “Aang can get him.”

“The Avatar is too busy making eyes at Katara.”

“I can’t say the phrase ‘making eyes’ means anything to me, but I get your point.” She sliced a wedge from the fruit and popped it in her mouth. “Though I am surprised to be hearing it from you, of all people.”

Zuko shrugged - she could feel his weight shift with his shoulders. “Hard to ignore these things when you’re surrounded by pining lovebirds.”

“There’s only two of them. What am I, chopped liver?”

Zuko said nothing, but Toph got the feeling it was supposed to be a poignant silence.

“If you’re trying to convey something through your expression, as I am told you types are apt to do, you might want to rethink your method a little.”

“You’re awfully observant for someone who can’t see.” He didn’t even have the good grace to sound sheepish, but then again, he was Zuko. Before she could make a snide reply about people who were obsessively ambitious and still accomplishing the square root of bug all, he added, “But you don’t catch everything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she scowled. She hated vague comments like that. It usually meant people were trying to get their point across in a manner she couldn’t see. It also meant their point was probably incredibly stupid. “Of course I don’t catch everything. Is there something specific I’ve been missing that you’d like to let me in on?”

“For the sake of my own dwindling sanity: no, not really.”

“Mind buggering off, then?”

“Not at all.” As he walked away, he added without turning: “Sokka’s still stuck, by the way.”

She may or may not have cursed.

---------

The first time Sokka got stuck was an accident.

The second time Sokka got stuck was also an accident. Really.

The third time Sokka got stuck may or may not have been an accident.

The fourth time Sokka got stuck, he was wedged between distinctly avoidable boulders in the middle of an otherwise open stretch of ground.

“Now, did you fall into this one, or was there simply no other way around?”

“They snuck up on me, actually.”

“I’m not even going to ask how.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“I shouldn’t ask why, either, should I?”

“Tried and true method,” Sokka answered cheerfully. “Why deviate from what works?”

“Because it’s getting a little obvious, even for you.”

“It is?” He sounded hopeful.

“Yes, it’s obvious that you’re an idiot. Whatever you’re up to, there’s got to be a better way of doing it.”

“Probably, but this one is less likely to get me beaten up.”

“You’re such a wimp.”

There was a pause as they regarded each other, even though technically only one of them could see. Sokka shifted slightly. “You’re not going to get me out, are you.”

“I was thinking of letting you roast there, actually. Then maybe you won’t be so quick to go get yourself stuck again.”

“What if I begged and groveled a bit?”

Toph leaned back against one of the boulders in a position that said she wasn’t inclined to move a whole lot sooner than the rock itself was. “Couldn’t hurt to try.”

“Please, O Divine Mistress of the Earth–”

Toph kicked off from the rock. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Sokka looked injured. “But I didn’t even get to the good part yet.”

“You’re trying to sway me by melting my brain out my ears, and I rather value my brain where it is, thanks.”

“And what is wrong, might I ask, with one’s brains leaking out one’s ears?” he asked haughtily.

“It’d probably make me look like you, for one thing.”

“If only you were so lucky.”

“All right, that’s it.” She started to walk away.

“Hey, wait, Toph, come back! Where’re you going? Lemme out, what’d I do? Toph, c’mon!” He continued to voice futile protests for her entire retreat, struggling with the boulders and cursing himself for being genuinely stuck.

When she had just about left the plateau, she stomped her foot and Sokka was forcibly ejected from his prison between the boulders and deposited rather painfully on the ground. By the time he’d groaningly picked himself up and accounted for his bruises, she was already gone.

---------

“Sokka’s looking for you,” Zuko said in monotone as he wandered by.

“What, does he want to inform me ahead of time that he’s going to get stuck again? You can tell him I’m not going to get him out of this one.”

Zuko turned and glared at her. “I am not playing matchmaker for you two,” he said in a tone that suggested he would much rather concede victory to his sister and be her humble servant for the rest of his days.

“What?” screeched Toph, and anyone else would have known this voice meant trouble. But only anyone else would have cared.

“You lovebirds sort it out for yourselves, and try to keep it private. I don’t want to know.” He started to walk away, muttering something about being surrounded by stupid teenage hormones and nobody having a sense of duty anymore.

He only got about four steps before the ground jerked out from under him and he landed on his back. An instant later he had rolled back to his feet and was crouched in a fighting stance, his best glare wasted on a girl who could neither see his expression nor gave a damn whether she’d damaged his pride. She stood at the ready, feet slightly splayed, fists balled at her sides. They faced off for several seconds, silently daring each other to try it.

Toph twisted her heel in the dirt, and Zuko dodged the eruption of ground where he’d stood and simultaneously shot a fireball at her in return. A wall of rock blocked it and disintegrated, and Zuko had to backflip to evade two more pillars that came bursting up to pin him.

“Hey!” yelled an angry voice, and Sokka came bursting from the trees, waving his boomerang threateningly at Zuko. “Don’t you touch her!”

Both parties turned to glare at him as he jogged up, but he took no notice. “What do you think you’re doing? I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you! You’re–”

The ground buckled beneath his feet and he landed in a heap for the second time that day, his tirade derailing into a protesting yelp.

Toph marched over to where Sokka was sprawled in an undignified mess on his back and planted one foot firmly on his chest. “What the hell, Snoozles?” she snapped, glaring down at him with eyes that burned anger every bit as fiercely for all that they couldn’t see. “Who gave you permission to just butt in on somebody else’s fight, huh?”

“Toph, I wasn’t–” he tried, but she wasn’t allowing him any defense.

Zuko rolled his eyes and took this as an opportunity to beat a hasty – but dignified – retreat. Toph graciously chose to ignore his escape in favor of yelling at the rather cowed young man she had pinned to the ground.

“What, do you think you’re my protector or something? Do you think I can’t take care of myself? Is that what you think?”

“I was just trying to–”

“To what? To save me? The guy who gets wedged between boulders and needs saving himself every three hours? That’s pretty rich!”

Sokka kept quiet at that one.

“If I feel like having a bit of a brawl, then that’s what I’m gonna do, so just stay out of my business, Sokka!”

“But I like being a part of your business,” Sokka said in a dejected sort of tone, and if Toph had been able to see, at that moment she would have been subjected to a polar-bear-puppy look that was all the more powerful on account of being utterly sincere.

There was a pause. Toph’s foot didn’t budge from Sokka’s chest.

“You really sort of suck at this communication thing,” she said finally.

Sokka would have shrugged if his shoulders hadn’t been pinned to the ground. “Saying the right thing at the right time has never really been my style.”

“‘Smooth’ just isn’t in your vocabulary,” Toph agreed. She removed her foot and stepped back. “All right, Snoozles, get up and tell me what this is about.”

He clambered to his feet and dusted himself off, feeling guiltily grateful that she couldn’t see so that she wouldn’t know how red his face was. “I, uh, well, you see…” he began eloquently.

She tapped her foot ominously.

Sokka smacked a palm to his face. “Geez, why was it so much easier with Yue and Suki?”

The foot stopped tapping as Toph froze. “This is a what now?” she demanded.

“Ah, I’m not sure that there’s a good word for it–”

“A proposition?”

“Oh, yeah. That.”

“After that track record, you’re propositioning me?”

Sokka’s expression morphed into one of indignance. “Hey! I didn’t mean to upset you, but that’s no reason to–”

“’Cause if you’re gonna decide later that you’re cursed and all the girls you kiss are subjected to some horrible fate and you don’t wanna put me through that, then you might as well get it over with and kiss me now so I can kick fate’s ass and we can move on to the good stuff.”

“I… wait, what?”

“You owe me. If you weren’t so damn hopeless at dropping hints, we coulda gotten this cleared up a lot sooner.”

Sokka stared.

Toph glared at him. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts already.”

“You’re not going to brain me with a rock?” he said hopefully, as though he were just now realizing such an outcome was possible.

“I will if you don’t hurry up and kiss me already.”

His face broke out in a grin, then was interrupted as his features twisted into a thoughtful expression. It looked painful. “…What was that about me being cursed?”

Toph poignantly stepped on his foot.

He took the hint.

Blind Man in the Crow’s Nest

2007-05-07T19:03:59Z

Fandom: Original
Genre: Fiction//Drama
Notes: Short story messing around with my airship pirates (although the "airship" aspect of it sort of isn't mentioned, uh, at all). I swear, the best way to develop characters isn't to do character sheets or something but just to throw them in a story and see what they do. You learn all sorts of crazy things that way. ~~Including that Vale and Narrick ain't gonna be getting it on as soon as I'd originally thought, apparently. XP~~ The final scene in particular should be longer, but I sort of ran out of time. :(
Written for Creative Writing class 04/13/07, revised 05/07/07.

Blind Man in the Crow’s Nest

“I told the Captain that kid was bad news.”

Ivaldi arched an eyebrow at her. “No, you didn’t.”

Blue eyes turned around to scowl at him before resuming their watch. “I did so, ’fore we even took him on board.”

“Lexis, you said he was a weakling and probably a two-faced spy and we should eat him. Considering you’ve said that about everyone who’s ever joined the crew, including me, I can see why the Captain wouldn’t exactly be inclined to listen.”

“So you’re saying my opinion is worthless just ‘cause I’m consistent? I had every right to say that about you when you joined. You hit on me.”

“And look where it got me.” He stretched his lanky brown limbs and made to lean back before remembering that they were perched in the rafters and it was a fairly long fall behind him. Trust the government to have overly dramatic entrance halls even in their non-public facilities, he thought, but he had to admit that the rafters were the perfect place for an ambush.

“It got you a damn good ass-kicking, if I recall.” Lexis’s eyes were fixed on the main door at the other end of the hall, but she might as well have been smirking at him.

He grinned, shrugged, knowing she’d be aware of the gestures even though she wasn’t looking. “Was worth it,” he said.

“You damn well better think so,” she agreed.

“I wouldn’t give it up for the world.”

“Good, ‘cause I’d have to kick your ass again.” She bounced on the steel toes of her boots and twisted the chain she was holding around her wrist in agitation. “And I could really do with kicking some ass right about now. Specifically, Vale’s.”

Ivaldi shifted his rifle to his right hand and twined his left in a lock of her hair comfortingly. “You know it’s not Vale’s fault that this whole thing blew up in our faces.”

“No, it’s Narrick’s fault for listening to him. We don't even know what this thing we're after is.”

“Vale said it was a set of old scrolls or something. Probably laws, or maybe treaties – having the original document is pretty important, and you know how tentative everything is Arigauld and Theswood with these days. Alliance is hanging by a thread.”

“Vale said. It could be worth less than my mother.”

Ivaldi winced. “Lex, if the government's keeping it, you know it's pretty valuable.”

“Valuable for what? Once we’ve got it, what do we do with it? Sell it back to ‘em?”

“Not back to them. To Kartak.”

Lexis really turned around this time, pivoting precariously on the rafters. Her blonde hair nearly snagged on Ivaldi’s fingers as he tried to disentangle them for the sudden movement. The shocked stare she gave him almost looked comical on her normally self-assured face. “That’s not the Captain’s style.”

Ivaldi shrugged, dark braids rolling off his shoulder. “It’d be lucrative.”

“It’s bullshit, that’s what it is! I ain’t helping those Kartaki sons-of-bitches, and who the fuck is Vale to–”

“Hey, hey, I’m just speculating. I might be completely off the mark,” he promised, reaching for her shoulder. “Besides, it’s the Captain’s decision to make.”

“The Captain’s got no sense of judgment beyond what his eyes tell him.”

Ivaldi knew how to read what she was saying. With Lexis, there were insults and there were criticisms, and the difference was whether or not they were covering up a real concern. “The Captain wouldn’t have taken him on if he wasn’t sure we could trust him.”

“Do you trust him?” she asked, fixing him with that piercing gaze. If anyone in the world could figure out how to make looks that kill, it would be Lexis.

“Vale? Yes.”

Lexis studied him a minute, uncharacteristically silent. “But you don’t like him, do you,” she said.

He met her eyes as he answered, “No.”

There was a pause. The door at the far end of the hall slammed open and a wave of security soldiers poured in, sticking to rigid formation like their lives depended on it.

“Are you sure we can’t beat him up?” Lexis asked. She crouched on the edge of a beam, chain lax between her hands and her face already curling into a predatory grin as they watched the soldiers approach.

Ivaldi righted himself and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “Maybe just a little,” he said as he took aim.

She blew him a kiss and jumped.

* * *

“At first I thought it’d be great to have someone my age on the ship–” the boy ranted, ripping cords out of the box in his lap with a vengeance. His bangs flopped into his eyes and he angrily pushed them back, leaving twin stripes of grease across his forehead.

The ship’s first mate showed no sign that her nerves were frayed and her patience wearing thin. “Vale’s five years older than you, Scrim,” she interjected smoothly, surveying the room’s entrances for the umpteenth time. The Captain and Vale were supposed to be drawing the soldiers off, but in her book you could never be too careful – especially not since the original plan had already gone to pieces.

“– but he don’t even try to be nice! He just barges in like he owns the place, he takes up all the Captain’s time, he treats the Captain like an equal–”

“Because the Captain treats us like equals,” Leah reminded him, tone placating rather than patronizing.

“Yes, but, but it’s like he thinks he gets to be part a’the family! He just got here! We might not e’en keep him!” He pulled a vial out of his pocket too roughly and nearly dropped it. “Even Sulfur don’t like him.”

“Scrim, you know Sulfur doesn’t like anyone but the Captain.”

“He likes me.”

“He likes that you feed him,” corrected Leah.

“He’s breakin’ up the family!” Scrim blurted abruptly.

“Scrimmy–”

He finished pouring the vial’s contents into the box and hurled the empty glass across the room, where it smashed against a cabinet.

“Scrimshaw!” Leah snapped, “If you got a problem with the way the ship’s being run, you take it up with the Captain, and you do it after we get ourselves outta this mess. Keep your mind on the job!”

The boy dropped his eyes back to the box he was fiddling with. “Yes ma’am.”

The silence dragged on for several minutes. Leah took apart and reloaded her revolver six times without looking at it before she caught herself and forced it back into the holster. Finally she shifted her weight and blew a stray bang of dark hair out of her face. “I know what you mean about the family,” she said. “There’s inviting someone to be part of it, and then there’s them breezing in like they got a right to it.”

Scrimshaw stared at the ground for a minute, not entirely sure he was still allowed to speak. “I jus’… I don’t see why he’s gotta listen to Vale more’n us,” he said miserably, “We been with him the longest outta anybody.”

“He’s Narrick. He’d listen to a politician if it had a pretty face. Thankfully, none of ‘em do.” She gave a long-suffering sigh, then looked at Scrimshaw sharply. “We never had this discussion.”

He shot her a lopsided grin, full of teeth still a bit too big for his adolescent jaw. “I know, I know. You never dissed no politician.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by one of the doors being unnecessarily kicked open by a heavily-buckled boot. Scrimshaw started at the noise and Leah’s posture straightened expectantly.

“Everything all right in here?” Narrick asked brightly, sauntering into the room as though he wasn’t being pursued by well-armed government employees. The golden-furred ferret perched on his shoulder eyed them with disdain and looked thoroughly bored by the whole ordeal.

“Captain?” Scrimshaw scrambled awkwardly to his feet and looked around. “Where’s Vale?”

“Diversionary tactic,” said Narrick, jerking a thumb back the way he’d come. “He’ll meet us in Gelph.” He pointed at the box Scrimshaw had been working on. “That ready?”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“How long we got?”

“’Bout twenty minutes ‘till the casing melts.”

“Perfect. C’mon, let’s split, this place is already dead.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his ridiculous blue military coat and whistled a tune as he headed towards the exit, Sulfur clinging to the gold shoulder braids.

“Sir? Do you… do you have what we came for?”

“Vale does, not to worry,” Narrick replied cheerfully, not even looking back.

Leah and Scrim exchanged glances. After a lifetime in the business, you were supposed to know better. The odds of them ever seeing Vale again had just significantly decreased.

“And I put my best work into that heist,” Scrimshaw hissed at Leah as they followed the Captain out. She nodded sympathetically and patted him on the head.

* * *

“We’d better’a gotten a damn good haul outta that,” Lexis snarled as soon as they were all back on the ship, huddled around the table in the main cabin. There was a gash in her eyebrow that was bleeding all down her face and she was holding her left arm somewhat oddly, but she didn’t seem to care. As a matter of fact, she appeared to be struggling to not break into a grin of self-satisfied elation. “The two of us just took on a fuckin’ platoon. We’d better get some compensation.”

Ivaldi snorted. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, Lex. That was the best fight we’ve had in weeks. Even if the Captain pulled peanuts, you’d be happy.” Given his own exuberant grin, he probably wasn’t too monetarily-inclined himself.

“Well, good, ‘cause that’s what we got,” Leah replied, not nearly in such a good mood.

Scrimshaw was scowling in that righteously pissed-off manner that only thirteen-year-olds can truly achieve. “Captain let Vale take the loot and run. Thinks we’re meeting him at Gelph.”

“He what?” Ivaldi demanded.

“Dibs on hunting down Vale, ripping him limb from limb and feeding him the pieces,” said Lexis immediately.

“Aw, damnit,” Scrimshaw muttered.

When Leah spoke, it was in her command voice that brooked no arguments. “Nobody breathes a word of this to the Captain. If he takes it hard, he takes it hard. If not, so much the better. There will be no offers of vengeance, and no ‘I-told-you-so’s. Clear?”

Lexis rolled her eyes, but Ivaldi nodded for the both of them. Scrimshaw glared, and for a moment Leah thought he was going to rebel, but at last he ground out “Fine,” and turned to storm away.

“Hey, kiddies, look what I found!” The ever-enthusiastic voice of their Captain reached them just before he walked in himself, followed by a blond-haired young man who looked far more entertained by life than anyone had a right to be.

They all stared at him.

“I lost the tail and doubled back, caught the ship just before you left,” Vale explained with his usual wild grin. “So, yanno, we can screw Gelph and head straight to Corralaide since that’s where all the parties are. Oh, hey, Scrimmy, I got you something,” he added, throwing him a pocketwatch as he spoke. Scrimshaw caught it reflexively and gaped at it.

“Thought you’d like that,” said Vale.

Scrimshaw just barely managed to stop himself from saying thank you.

* * *

“I’ve got something of yours.” Narrick said to Vale when the rest of the crew had gone. He pulled a faded leather scroll case from one of the many pockets of his coat and tossed it to Vale, who caught it deftly and laughed.

“Pretty good lift you made back there. I didn’t even notice it was gone.”

Narrick shrugged. “I was curious.”

Vale’s expression said quite clearly that he wasn’t fooled in the slightest. “For the record, I wouldn’ta ditched anyway.” He looked at the case again with its intricate embossing, turned it over a few times, and tossed it back to Narrick. “You should keep it. It was your crew that went to the trouble.”

“It was you that wanted it.”

Vale grinned. “I was curious,” he echoed.

Sulfur climbed down from Narrick’s shoulder and crossed the floor to rub against Vale’s boots like a cat.

“Speaking of curious,” Vale went on, “I gotta ask: now won’t you always wonder whether I still woulda come back on my own, if I’d had the scrolls? I can swear all I want that I woulda, and you can believe me or not, but you’ll never know.”

“What makes you think I care?”

Vale raised an eyebrow that said he didn’t care but he’d thought Narrick would. “Don’t you need to know you can trust me?”

Narrick smirked and nodded at his ferret, who was exploring Vale’s pockets. “I trust Sulfur’s judgment. He doesn’t like just anyone. Besides,” he held up the scroll case for Vale to see again, then palmed it into his sleeve. “My crew thinks you had it the entire time.”

Both of Vale’s eyebrows rose this time, but he didn’t look particularly surprised. “You know you screwed your reputation by telling them that?”

“Your coming back salvaged it.”

“Yeah, but you knew I had to, so isn’t that kinda cheating your crew?”

“I don’t know, I prefer to call it ‘making amends.’ It was just a little something to get the family back together again,” Narrick said, seeming genuinely unconcerned. “Speaking of which, it’s grub time, so you might wanna get down there while there’s still anything left. I’ve got some paperwork to do. C’mon, Sulfur.” He waved a hand at Vale and walked away, Sulfur scampering after him and climbing up the hem of his coat.

Vale watched him go, then turned and headed towards his own cabin. “Right,” he said to himself, pulling a few sheets of ancient parchment out of his sleeve. “What’s a little white lie between family?”

Minding the Gap

2007-05-07T18:45:37Z

Fandom: Fire Emblem AU, technically
Genre: Drama
Notes: FE fans can consider this a preview of the AU they probably know I've been working on; two of the names were changed when I transferred it to script form, but they're easy to figure out. For everyone else, this can just be a stand-alone drama piece. Er, really. I think. ...Damn, I hate writing scripts. Written for Creative Writing class 03/26/07, revised 05/06/07.

Minding the Gap

The setting is an extremely trendy restaurant with a lakeside view. At a corner table for two, a woman in her mid-twenties, ALEXIS, sits casually in a slinky black dress, a clutch purse on the table beside her. MATTHEW, a man in about his early twenties and an unfitted suit, has just arrived and been directed to the table by the maitre’d. The two have never met before, only spoken briefly on the phone; they are here for business.

Alexis: (as he approaches the table and sits down) Hello, Matthew.

Matthew: (pleasantly) I don’t remember telling you my first or last name.

Alexis: You didn’t. But we’ll forget that minor discourtesy as an oversight, since I didn’t give you my name, either. I’m Alexis. (offers handshake)

Matthew: (accepting) You seem to know mine already.

Alexis: I wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us a bottle of wine; I hope you don’t mind.

Matthew: No, not at all. (turns the bottle to check the label and raises both eyebrows)

Alexis: Problem?

Matthew: (turns the label towards her) Argiano?

Alexis: (with a self-satisfied smile) Only the best, Mr. Owens.

Matthew: Ah. Of course.

Alexis: (leans forward and props her chin in her hand, fingers tapping in a calculated rhythm) Well now, suppose you tell me what it is I can help you with?

Matthew: (without hesitation) What can you tell me about the Black Fang?

Alexis: The Black Fang? Oh dear, you really know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?

Matthew: (gives an overly dismissive shrug) I just take the jobs that pay well.

Alexis: (raises an eyebrow) Mercenary, are you? Riiiiight… I heard that you were looking for someone.

Matthew: (tenses almost imperceptibly) Did you really? I’m sorry, you must have been misinformed. (smirks) You might want to recheck your sources.

Alexis: (unapologetically) Oh, I’m sorry.

Matthew: So what can you tell me?

Alexis: Well, the Black Fang… that’s going to be tricky. They’re very secretive; don’t take information leaks well…

Matthew: How much?

Alexis: Ten K.

Matthew: Ten thousand?! (realizes people are looking at him; lowers voice and hisses) Are you out of your fucking mind?

Alexis: (shrugs, leans back in her seat confidently) It’s very confidential information. I’m reeeeeally not supposed to tell anyone.

Matthew: (glaring) Five thousand.

Alexis: (laughs) Oh, you think you’re going to barter me down, do you? Eight thousand, and that’s final.

Matthew: We’re talking American dollars here, right?

Alexis: Euros.

Matthew: This had better be damn good information.

Alexis: All my information’s good, honey.

Matthew looks skeptical, but Alexis merely smiles. After a moment, he sighs in defeat and starts pulling out his wallet.

Matthew: Do you take checks?

Alexis: (smugly) Absolutely.

She watches as he writes out a check and hands it to her. She accepts it with both hands and examines it carefully in the light for several moments, then, satisfied, folds it in half and tucks it into her purse. Matthew waits expectantly. She grins.

Alexis: You want a man named ‘the Hurricane.’ He should be in Venice. If not… (she leans back again and shrugs) Good luck. If you wait around long enough, he might come back.

Matthew waits for her to continue. She doesn’t.

Matthew: That’s it?

She pretends to think for a moment, then nods brightly.

Matthew: (incredulously) I just paid you eight thousand euros for a name?

Alexis: And a location. That’s very important; it was thirty-five percent of the price.

Matthew: It’s not even a real name I can look up in a phone book.

Alexis: Technically, I’m not authorized to give you that no matter how much you paid me. (smiles winningly) But I’m always willing to strike a bargain with a customer in need.

Matthew: (dryly) I’m sure.

Alexis: Sorry, that’s how I work. I make a point of knowing all the right people without knowing the dangerous information itself. Then I just direct customers to where they need to go!

Matthew: If it turns out you know more than you’ve told me…

Alexis: If I knew more than I’ve told you, I’d be long gone by the time you finally found out – which you wouldn’t. And I’d still have your money.

Matthew: (smiles) That’s true. But I think your sister would have a few words to say about it.

Alexis: (freezes for a moment) I– You don’t– (gives up and tries to laugh it off) What gave it away?

Matthew: I’m not blind. There’s a certain family resemblance, although admittedly not

in the attitude. Besides: Francesca had a contact? Come on.

Alexis: She doesn’t seem much the type for this business, does she? I must admit, it’s the first time she’s ever referred anyone to me. It’s probably one of the few times she’s ever admitted to my existence. (sips her wine and looks a little disgruntled) I’ll have to tell her not to do it again.

Matthew: (a little snidely) Your secret’s safe with me.

Alexis: Oh, I know, I’m not worried. (confidently, but with the slightest undercurrent of warning) You wouldn’t hurt her. Mercenary, wasn’t it? (smirks) Look, you want a friendly word of advice?

Matthew: (glares) What’ll it cost me?

Alexis: (actually contemplates this for a moment, then waves a hand dismissively) Nothing. Consider it a charity. And maybe you could put in a good word for me with my sister, yeah? (appears genuinely hopeful about this, but when Matthew doesn’t respond, she simply continues) Listen, when you find the Hurricane, don’t play these games with him. If you don’t give him straight answers, he’ll feel he’s got no reason to give you any.

Matthew: Doesn’t like word games, huh?

Alexis: Oh, he loves them. That’s why you don’t stand a chance. (grins) I’m just going to use the little girl’s room, okay? (stands and exits)

There is a long minute or so as Matthew waits, toying with his silverware. Gradually he realizes that she has taken her purse and is not coming back – and that she’s left him with the bill.

Matthew: Oh, for-- ! (almost admiringly) That little bitch.

He sits back for a minute and runs a hand through his hair as though exhausted, then digs a cell phone out of a pocket and hits a number on speed-dial. It is answered almost immediately, the voice on the other end anxious and distant, but audible.

Voice: Any luck?

Matthew: Well, I just met with Francesca’s sister.

Voice: (pause; then, incredulously) Francesca has a sister?

Matthew: Yeah, but apparently she doesn’t give discounts for family friends. (signals to a waiter for the check)

Voice: (even more incredulous) Her sister was the contact? …Well, I suppose that explains how Francesca even had a contact. Wow, they must not be very much alike.

Matthew: Not unless Francesca is secretly a conniving money-grabbing fiend.

Voice: (snorts derisively) No wonder Francesca never mentions her. (suddenly serious again) Was she able to help?

Matthew: (releases a tense sigh that sounds as though it has been building for the entire scene) Vaguely. For a price. Apparently I’m looking for a man under a pseudonym who may or may not be in Venice.

Voice: And if he’s not?

Matthew: (a long pause; then, quietly) I don’t know.

Voice: Matthew, we’ll find her. Whatever it takes. She’s going to be okay.

Matthew: (straightens) I know, I know! I’m not giving up. I just… wish it wasn’t taking so long.

Voice: I wish I could be there to help.

Matthew: (with almost renewed confidence and surety) It’s fine, I’ve got it. I’ll find her. Talk to you later.

He snaps the phone shut and stands abruptly, leaving cash and the check on the table. He straightens his jacket; then, walking with a brisk air of determination, he exits in the same direction as Alexis.

(scene end)

splatterdrops @ 2007-05-07T14:13:00

2007-05-07T18:17:19Z

Title: Annual Hike Up Rattlesnake Cliff
Fandom: Original
Genre: Prose Poem/Drabble
Notes: Written for Creative Writing class 02/15/07, revised 05/06/07.

We have hiked all day. It is hot, and we glisten with sweat and bug repellant. The trail is long and steep; when the path splits, we choose to scale the cliffs. It is more dangerous – there are cautionary signs at the junction, and we know someone who nearly lost their dog here. It is more dangerous, and therefore, we think, it must be more fun. My brother and I have hiked this mountain for fifteen years; we have never taken the other path. Now we are at the top. From between musky pines, the world emerges suddenly, like a door being flung open. We step out, into it, and squint when the sun greets us. We are no longer standing on the dirt path, but on the cliff, the summit, the reward for our endeavors. The rock face slopes downward, as an amphitheatre seating ring, before dropping away entirely beneath our feet. We can look down and see the rounded daggers of treetops below us. But we do not look down – we are looking out. The view is breathtaking; it commands our utmost attention. The lake shines and the sky glows and the mountains rise up like green pyramids to frame them. My brother points out our dock, even though we both know exactly where it is. We watch a jet skier tumble, and laugh. I can see the island where the eagles live, and I want to know if their nest is visible from here. My brother hands me the binoculars, and I step a little closer to the edge. It is a dizzying drop, but I am not afraid. I am not even looking. I have been here before. I cannot see the eagles yet, but I think maybe my angle is bad. I move a little to the left. I hear my brother say “Be careful” at the same time that my foot slips.

splatterdrops @ 2007-05-07T14:07:00

2007-05-07T18:12:50Z

Title: Introvert At Age Seven
Fandom: Original
Genre: Prose Poem/Drabble
Notes: Written for Creative Writing class 02/18/07, revised 05/06/07.

I stake out my territory, first, last, brutally and wholly. I stake it with no borders, for I claim it all, and some besides. I rule the world. I own the land and the sky, the river and the pasture, the lambs and the rabbits, the dirt and the nettles. Day in, day out, I patrol my domain, and it stretches for as far as I can see. I bike to the old mansion, where sometimes grown-ups play bagpipes on the lawn. But whenever I am there, my will prevails, and it is empty. I tour the rusty playground, up the hill past the brown and barren field; I am king of the slide, I rule the roundabout, I have first pick of the swings, all in silence. I monitor the rope swing behind the pasture. The horse greets me with a whiffle, but the horse is authorized and no one else dares intrude.

I stand in the middle of the woods on a dirt path, watching the dirty river bubble and flow beneath me, and there is not a soul anywhere else in the world. The path stretches on, and on, and on, and I am alone in the woods. I am not lost, but everything is so very far away. I know that somewhere, somewhere down the path, there is a restaurant, because I have been there with my parents. But my parents are not here now, and so there is no restaurant there, only the path and the woods and the river stretching forever on and on and on.

I am seven years old, and I am the only person in the world.

splatterdrops @ 2007-05-07T13:58:00

2007-05-07T18:04:30Z

Title: Mirror, Mirror: An Independent Fairytale
Fandom: Original
Genre: Poetry
Notes: Written for Creative Writing class 02/04/07, revised 05/05/07.

Once I loved a girl who was not mine but
Yours, and yours, and yours; yet, I thought, unloved.
To the window I climbed – the door was shut;
I clung to the trellis with her above
And whispered promise of beauty and fame;
Though I knew it would never be allowed,
I wished the world to remember her name.
So we met in shadows, our heads both bowed.
Once I loved this same girl and she was mine,
All mine, not yours, or yours, or yours. This girl,
The center of my world and hers; in time,
All her splendor and pride at last unfurled.
And that’s when all the world turned out to see
The truth that I was her, and she was me.

splatterdrops @ 2007-02-18T20:45:00

2007-02-19T01:55:55Z

Title: Provincial
Fandom: Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Fiction//Romance
Rating: G/PG
Summary: City folk think Link is such a clueless country boy. Maybe they're right, but maybe that's not such a bad thing, either. Shad POV.
Notes: Little something I started over winter break just for kicks. Very open to constructive crit/beta on this one since I don't feel it's been revised as much as it could be (due to the weekly deadline). Also I also just realized that this is the first time I've written a fic in first-person in a long, long time.

The Hero of Time, when all's said and done, is really nothing more than a country boy. Oh, sure, thanks to his travels, he's very worldly in all manner of ways, but he's laughably provincial in others. Social etiquette, for example, he knows nothing of, and it would not even occur to him to ask. He'll just dash in, friendly grin and muddy boots on the carpet, and assume everyone's going to be okay with that.

I guess that's why he seemed to have no inhibitions with doing such a thing, and in public no less. Admittedly, it wasn't completely out in the open, but it was still nonetheless a wholly reckless move. We were sitting in a corner of Telma's bar, out of the way but not entirely out of sight, and I was showing him some old maps from the reign of Queen Zelda the Wise. He was standing next to my chair looking on as I talked, and all of a sudden he just leaned in and kissed me. It was all over so fast I almost wasn't sure it had happened, and then he was just smiling and beckoning me to continue with the maps, and so then I started wondering if maybe I really had imagined it. But I knew I hadn't.

Telma saw it. Telma sees everything that goes on in her bar, but I don't think anyone else did. She offered me one of those terrifyingly all-knowing grins as I left later that evening, and I'm sure the color of my cheeks belied any denial I might have been able to dredge up. At the time it didn't even occur to me to try.

He didn't show up again for a week - the talk was that he was off on some mission in the mountains, although the talk rarely gets even half of it right when it comes to our taciturn Hero. For me it was business as usual, and I'd all but forgotten the incident when he abruptly appeared on my doorstep at late one night. He was smiling when I opened the door, but for once he looked a little sheepish, like he actually realized his actions in this instance were perhaps slightly inappropriate.

"I wouldn't have bothered you," he began by way of apology, "but your light was on, so I didn't think I'd be waking you."

I blinked at him, having rather expected to see anyone else but him when I answered the door. "It's all right, I was just reading." I blinked again. "Er, how did you know where I live?"

"I asked around," he said, as though this was a perfectly normal way of learning someone's address. I wondered how long he'd been asking - I didn't think that many people knew where I lived.

"Oh," I replied. "I, uh, do you want to come in?"

He smiled like he had right after he'd kissed me, and I stepped sideways into the shadows as I let him in so that he couldn't see my face flush with the memory.

"I got you something while I was up north," he said as I shut the door and tried to find a chair for him that wasn't lost under a pile of books. He reached into his bag and pulled out a leather-bound tome that had clearly seen better days. "I knew you were having trouble with your research on the Gerudo, so I thought this might help. It's from the same era."

"It's what?" I managed not to yelp. I took the proffered book and gingerly thumbed through it. "By the Spirits... Where- are you sure it's all right for me to have this?" I asked, looking back up at him.

He merely gave me that damning smile again in answer, and after a moment I fumbled up a pathetic thank-you and a half-smile of my own without blushing too badly.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to me to stretch far too long. "Would you like anything?" I blurted. I had been going to suggest tea, but somehow the sentence petered out before it was begun, and the question was left ambiguously open.

He didn't break eye-contact for an instant, and his open smile took on only the slightest hint of self-consciousness. "Well," he said, "I was sort of hoping that you might let me kiss you again."

That was about the point that I decided there were some things I definitely liked about Link being provincial.

splatterdrops @ 2007-02-17T14:00:00

2007-02-17T19:07:33Z

Title: Shadows Only Tell Secrets When The Light Is On
Fandom: Original
Genre: Poetry
Notes: Written for Creative Writing class. 02/04/07.

The house is cold and dark and empty in the silence of the night;
The peace and quiet solitude that you prefer to keep.
There is nothing in the shadows, so you don’t turn on the light.

The witching hour’s past and the moon has reached its height;
Across its pale face, the gray clouds of winter creep.
The house is cold and dark and empty in the silence of the night.

The fire’s banked, your book is done, and everything seems right;
The weariness that’s now crept into your bones is deep.
There is nothing in the shadows, so you don’t turn on the light.

Your body claims it’s time for bed, and you don’t put up a fight.
But for your footsteps on the stair, winding and steep,
The house is cold and dark and empty in the silence of the night.

There’s a secret in the darkness, but it still escapes your sight:
That soon into the floorboards is where your blood will seep.
Yet there is nothing in the shadows, so you don’t turn on the light.

You are blinded by false comforts; the darkness is too bright–
You sacrifice your last defense as you go to sleep.
The house seems cold and dark and empty in the silence of the night,
But there is nothing in the shadows if you don’t turn on the light.

Another of the belated meme drabbles.

2007-02-11T18:30:12Z

Again, many apologies for this being so horrendously late. I hope the fic quality makes up for it, but I'm not quite sure it does. D=

For: aphelion_orion
Meme: link
Fandom: Star Ocean III: Till The End Of Time
Warning: Possible spoilers.

They'd taken to world hopping, because it seemed neither of them could stay out of trouble long enough for it to be worth sticking around anywhere (he could have said "Albel couldn't stay out of trouble," but Fayt admitted that on at least a few occasions it had been his own fault they'd been kicked off-world, though he couldn't always say exactly why). This week's planet was still technically "under-developed" and had only just been admitted into the Federation. This meant that though their industry was currently advancing by leaps and bounds thanks to the Federation's economic aid, most people were still using in their daily lives technology that on Earth would only be found in a museum.

And Fayt, much to his delight, had found an arcade. A real, old-fashioned arcade where the controls are buttons and the games are on a screen instead of a virtual-reality world. Games where things bleeped and chirped and the music was dorky and the avatars were only 64-bit. It was probably outdated even by this world's standards, but Fayt thought it was fantastic.

Albel, needless to say, was somewhat less enthralled. After ten minutes of boredom, he materialized behind Fayt - who was engrossed in a particularly ancient and cheesy game - and avoided looking at the screen as though doing so would give someone grounds to accuse him of actually playing, and enjoying it to boot. "What are you doing, maggot?"

Fayt moved his character to the next platform and dodged an errant fireball. "It's a video game."

The swordsman made a condescending sort of noise with his tongue. "Video games are stupid."

"Technically," said Fayt mildly, pressing buttons without pause, "we're a video game."

"I rest my case."

Fayt finished the level and stepped back from the console, gesturing to it with one hand. "Come on, just try it. It's got lots of fighting."

"Pah. Why would you want to do something on a computer screen that you can do in real life?"

"Well, the point is usually that you can do things in a video game that you can't do in real life."

"Everything I want to do I can do in real life."

Fayt thought about that for a minute. "There's nothing you wish you could have but don't?"

"What do you mean, worm?" Albel growled.

A slow, uncomfortably cunning smile spread across the younger's lips. "You don't find there's something missing from your life?" he asked innocently, "Perhaps something like this?" And with that, he grabbed the chain on the band around Albel's neck, yanked him forward and kissed him hard.

Anyone else might have been decapitated within seconds. There were only two things that prevented Fayt from meeting this end: 1) he was Fayt; and 2) security hadn't allowed Albel to bring his sword into the complex. As it was, Fayt Leingod suddenly found himself on the business end of a rather intimidating claw.

"What are you doing, worm?!"

And Fayt, instead of looking at all concerned for his physical well-being, regarded Albel with what looked suspiciously like a smirk. "Not missing anything like that, Albel?"

Albel regarded him carefully, claw gripping him around the neck just tight enough to be a warning but without doing any actual damage. Fayt stared unflinchingly back up at him as Albel searched his face for meaning.

"Don't presume to know me."

"I don't. That's half the fun."

Albel couldn't tell if he was lying or not. He suddenly realized that he didn't really know Fayt either, not at all. And that, he decided as he pushed Fayt up against the outdated arcade console and kissed him even more deeply than before, was probably half the fun as well.

Extremely belated meme drabbles.

2007-02-05T01:29:09Z

I'd wanted to post all the drabbles for this meme together, but I really needed something quick and easy to finish for this week and Ammy's was almost done. Koni's was finished ages ago, so that gets to be posted, too. ^^; I'll try to get the other two done soon... considering that the meme is from May, this is really sort of pathetic.
Also, I just noticed that the meme says "~100 words." XD

For: ladyofshallnot
Meme: link
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII

"Attention, SeeDs! Listen well!" A sinister voice crackled in over the radio at Balamb Garden headquarters, "I have stolen the Ragnarok and kidnapped your precious Commander!"

"No!" shrieked Selphie, "You bastard!"

The voice cackled. It was a decidedly evil cackle.

"That's nice, Zell," said Quistis to the radio, "Just be sure you have the Ragnarok back here in forty-eight hours; it's on reserve for a mission."

"Aw, come on, guys." The pout on his face was clear even through the voice-only transmission. "It's no fun if you don't give chase!"

"How could you do this without letting me in on it?!" fumed Selphie, "I'm not saving you any hotdogs!"

"Awww."

"Please also remind Squall that he has a meeting with a representative from Deling tomorrow afternoon, so it might be a good idea to extricate himself from the situation before then, if he hasn't done so already."

"Your Commander," said Zell, with a valiant effort at a sneer, "isn't going anywhere! I've kidnapped him, and there's nothing you can do about it!" He cackled wildly again.

"Okay. Have fun."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Selphie trilled.

"And that would be...?"

Quistis cut the connection.

---

Zell sighed and turned to face his captive, who was looking unconcerned to the point of boredom with the fact that his wrists were handcuffed to the arms of his chair.

"They're not sending anyone after us."

"No, they're not."

"But there's supposed to be a great chase with a fleet of minions and fancy airship maneuvers, and I outwit them all with my great genius and escape to my secret lair where I can have my way with the beautiful princess I've captured!"

"Zell, you do realize you didn't have to go to such extremes just to get us some alone time? Also, call me a princess again and I'll be forced to kick your ass."

Zell gave a spectacular pout. "But it's more fun this way! Besides, there's always time constraints and meetings and stuffy old officials interrupting us. Now we've got all the time in the world!"

"Actually, I have to be back at Garden by tomorrow noon."

"Pft, what are they gonna do?"

"Externally override the Ragnarok autopilot and bring it back to Garden, then put a restraining order on you. Or ban you from hotdogs for a month if they're in a particularly disciplinarian mood."

Zell winced. "Okay, okay, I get it. Life is seriously unfair for us evil overlords."

"Sure." The eye-roll was more implied than actually executed. "Now could you take these handcuffs off me? I don't much like being confined to a chair."

Zell grinned wickedly. "Not yet, maybe. But you will."

"I see. And this couldn't have been moved to one of the bedrooms?"

"Nope."

"Quistis will kill you if we make a mess on the bridge," said Squall, but he didn't sound so bored anymore.

Zell actually smirked. "I like to live dangerously... Princess."

For: traincat
Meme: link
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken (7)

Heath was standing in the doorway when Legault got back, hands on his hips and one eyebrow cocked in an expression that clearly stated he had already decided not to believe a single word that came out of the man's mouth. He nodded at the object Legault held cupped in his hand, hidden in folds of cotton.

"You bought that, didn't you?"

"Absolutely not!" Legault exclaimed, appearing scandalized, "This trinket was legitimately stolen, thank you very much. From a child, no less, because I'm a heartless bastard that way."

"Liar. Not only did you buy that from a vendor in the market, but you let the lady keep the change. AND you gave a street urchin one of our apples." Heath was practically smirking - Legault was just a little bit disconcerted by the expression. "Legault," Heath said, and had the audacity to sound amused, "You're a big pansy."

Legault opened his mouth to protest, but Heath wasn't finished yet. "Shut up," he said, and kissed him.

To say that Legault was surprised would have been an understatement, but if nothing else Legault was trained adapt to surprises, and this was one he was more than willing to adapt to.

A few minutes, when they pulled apart (and after Heath had pulled them backwards into the room and Legault had kicked the door shut behind them and may or may not have been sneaking one hand down the back of Heath's pants), Legault leant his forehead against Heath's and gave a feral grin. "Will I get this kind of treatment more often if I'm a big pansy?"

There was no mistaking it: that was a smirk on the knight's face. "Maybe." And he was teasing. This had to be a sign of the apocalypse.

"You make a habit of sexually accosting us big pansies, don't you?"

Heath glared at him, though it lacked sincerity, and Legault snickered. "I may as well tell you now: I have no intention of being bottom," he continued.

The wyvern rider gave him a horrified look. "Legault!" he protested.

Legault snickered. "You were tailing me, weren't you?"

Heath's eyes narrowed just a bit. "Maybe."

"I'm a horrible influence on you," the thief grinned.

"Also true."

"Mm, but I like it. And it's payback for your influence on me. It's not fair that you've got me wrapped around your little finger."

"I don't-" Heath began.

"Shut up," Legault said, and kissed him.

It was only much later that Heath thought to ask what it was that he had bought. Legault merely grinned and said it didn't matter anymore, but the next morning Heath found a cloak broach inset with a wyvern stone under his pillow. Neither mentioned it, but Heath kissed him at breakfast and for once Legault wasn't smirking at him. He was smiling.

splatterdrops @ 2006-08-06T00:10:00

2006-08-06T04:34:06Z

Title: Closing the Circle
Fandom: Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind
Genre: Fiction//Satire
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Grenouille left a rather distinctive mark on everyone who deigned to take him under their upturned wing, and Antoine Richis was not the sort of man to be excluded.
Notes: IB World Lit: only class I've ever taken where I was told to write fanfiction. XD And for a spectacular book, too. What I have here is a 790 word additional scene, intended to match the tone and style of the original author and complete something the novel left somewhat unfinished - this purpose is explained further in the Statement of Intent (ie: essay, which is really only about 500 words), which you don't need to read but might make things a lot clearer if you do. The Appendix is just passages pulled from the book to support my statement of intent, and they're really quite amusing. Written 09/28/05 (apparently).

Statement of Intent

Patrick Süskind’s novel, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (Perfume), follows the life of the misanthropic Grenouille as he both uses and is used simultaneously by the other characters he meets. Following Grenouille’s contact with them, these characters all die ironic deaths except for Antoine Richis, whose fate remains mysterious. Richis, under the influence of Grenouille’s perfume, brings him home to adopt him, but Grenouille sneaks away after dark and that is the last Süskind writes of Richis. Nothing is revealed of what happens to him upon discovering Grenouille’s disappearance or thereafter.

I propose an additional scene depicting the ultimate fate of Antoine Richis, completing the pattern of Grenouille’s negative effect on the people he meets. Of the six other characters subjected to Grenouille’s influence, five suffer harsh and ironic deaths; his mother, for example, is executed for abandoning her children – she would not have been convicted had the infant Grenouille not started to squall and thus been found. The sixth character, Madame Gaillard, suffers the absence of death, the harshest affliction possible for her. Grenouille, who then was long gone, cannot be held directly responsible for Madame’s fate; yet there is no reason for Süskind to depict her end – nor the ends of the others Grenouille encounters – other than to present the strange coincidence that this should happen wherever Grenouille goes, making the reader question whether he is really innocent regarding these tragedies after all. It is odd that Richis, having the most interesting relationship with Grenouille, should not fall victim to this deadly irony as well. My aim is to devise a scenario for Richis’ death that will match the others’ in situational irony and bleakness.

The deaths of Grenouille’s “victims” are generally catalyzed in part through their own actions of greed or ambition. Sometimes the result is immediate, as with the Marquis de la Taillade-Espinasse, who decides to promote his scientific theory by remaining three weeks in a blizzard and emerging as a younger man. For others, it is a prolonged effect. In Baldini’s case, it could be argued that it is his failure to thank God for Grenouille – the savior of his business – as he keeps intending that results in the destruction of his home, for the bridge collapses “with no apparent reason” and “fortunately” only Baldini and his wife are killed. (Süskind 116) Richis’ primary goal is to “found a dynasty and put his own posterity on a track leading directly to the highest social and political influence” (Süskind 207), and thus it would be fitting to Süskind’s theme if his attempts to attain this goal are what ultimately cause his death. Richis is bourgeoisie, thus considered below nobility despite being wealthier than many nobles. He uses his money to bribe financially-strained nobles to consider marrying his daughter Laure, thus promoting his own social status. Should anything happen to Laure and the promise of money vanish, these nobles might be significantly aggravated.

Perfume is a satire on various types and mindsets of people living in the eighteenth century, and so Süskind’s tone is darkly humorous. Deaths are described in an condescending, almost callous manner that prevents the readers from taking them seriously; the collapse of the bridge that ends Baldini’s life is described as a “minor catastrophe…which, with appropriate delays, resulted in a royal decree requiring that little by little all the buildings on the bridges of Paris be torn down” (Süskind 116). Süskind establishes that Baldini’s death is “minor” and distracts the reader with the insinuation that the government is less than efficient. Süskind also uses long, drawn-out sentences and an apathetic tone to describe shocking events. Key actions are worked nonchalantly into longer phrases so that the reader is caught completely unprepared. Seemingly superfluous details, such as the list of people attending, are included in a scene to detract from the importance of the focal execution. My scene will emulate Süskind’s apathetic and dryly humorous tone, emphasizing the irony of Richis’ death through abruptness and casual description.

The deaths of those Grenouille meets serve as a recurring focus for the novel. In a way, these characters are representatives of his personality, so perhaps the irony of their fate is foreshadowing of the ironic manner in which Grenouille commits suicide at the novel’s conclusion: by using so much of his intoxicating perfume that the vagabonds around him tear him apart in their effort to get closer. My additional scene will give me the opportunity to experiment with the manner in which situational irony is expressed, and complete the cycle of Grenouille’s ostensible influence in others’ fates.

Additional Scene, or "Closing the Circle"

About the time that Grenouille was making his way through the remnants of the night’s excitement, Antoine Richis had just awoken and was stalking about the house, happily giving orders for tailors to be summoned, horses groomed, pastries made, all for the pleasure of his new son, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille. Out of the direct influence of Grenouille’s infatuating essence of Laure, his mind still imbued with but no longer clouded by love, Richis was better able to think and immediately began planning for the exceptional futures of himself and his son. He recognized that Grenouille was not young; or, at least, he was of an age to be married and even, with a bit of instruction, take over the estate; but though he had not the youth of body, he retained the innocence of mind, which Richis dearly felt. Loath though he was to part with his beloved son – just as he had with Laure – Richis nevertheless began writing immediately, reestablishing acquaintances with noblemen whose daughters were of marriageable age and who had debts beyond any hope of repayment. Richis could establish a line here in Grasse and, given Grenouille’s acquiescent nature, raise the grandchildren to his own satisfaction. Or, with Grenouille managing the business, he could pursue his previous goal of seeking a wife in court and siring a line there. Either way, he decided, the prospects were pleasing.

At seven he rose and went to wake his son. When he reached the bedroom door he knew, without even opening it, that Grenouille was gone, for the last traces of the perfume had vanished. A cold chill settled over his heart, and he flung open the door and confirmed his fears, feeling as though he had lost Laure a second time. Foul play was involved, surely! Grenouille had been kidnapped, abducted, to be held for ransom, nay, murdered, to befall the same fate as his sister! Richis flew from the room, summoning servants, footmen, butlers left and right, sending out search parties to Grenoble, to Cabris, to as far out as La Napoule, as though some cruel irony would lead him to lose both daughter and son in the same town. The police were alerted, but the account they were given was of a man who could never be recognized, for it consisted of ‘beautiful’ and ‘affectionate’ but contained no concrete description at all. When by noon the search parties had turned up no results, Richis resolved to track Grenouille and his captors down himself, for his mind held no doubt that Grenouille had been forced to depart against his will.

He departed from Grasse with only two attendants, choosing speed over comfort. They reached the crossroads near Saint-Vallier, and Richis, assured of the cruel mind of his enemy, turned towards La Napoule. Traveling the direct road, they reached the town in a matter of hours, and Richis proceeded directly to the inn. Grenouille was not there, nor was anyone who might be concealing his whereabouts; there hadn’t been anyone like that for several weeks, said the innkeeper. Flustered, Richis exited and began the return to Grasse, feeling less confident by the hour.

Halfway along the road he was met by a messenger, who claimed to have come on behalf of Baron de Bouyon – whose son Laure was to have married – and had been directed along this route after checking at the mansion in Grasse. His message: the Baron sent his regards, but was most displeased at Richis’ carelessness in dealing with the recent events that subsequently lost him his daughter; for the result was that his son was now condemned for such a disastrous engagement and the Baron ostracized for his bad judgment in fraternizing with bourgeoisie. Richis, enraged at such a pompous display at a time when it was most ill-appreciated, demanded whether the Baron knew that it was far from an unfortunate situation, for he had regained Laure in his new son Grenouille; whereupon the messenger replied yes, produced a pistol, and shot Richis three times, each with very bad aim and the final shot rupturing his lung only by luck. Richis, for his part, was so surprised that he managed to survive for several hours afterwards, simply on the strength of denial alone. The messenger promptly fled, leaving Richis in the care of his attendants, who, after a heated debate about how to deal with the situation, tied Richis onto his horse and returned him to Grasse, where he died before they even got him into the house. As he had no surviving relations, the estate and holdings were divided amongst his primary staff, with generous amalgamations by the government. Within a few years, the name Richis was all but entirely forgotten.

Works Cited

Süskind, Patrick. Perfume. Trans. John E. Woods. London: Penguin Books, 1987.

Appendix

“And then, unexpectedly, the infant under the gutting table begins to squall. They have a look, and beneath a swarm of flies and amid the offal and fish heads they discover a newborn child. They pull it out. As prescribed by law, they give it to a wet nurse and arrest the mother. And since she confesses, openly admitting that she would definitely have let the thing perish, just as she had with those other four by the way, she is tried, found guilty of multiple infanticide, and a few weeks later decapitated at the place de Greve.” (6)

“And only then – ten, twenty years too late – did death arrive, in the form of a protracted bout of cancer that grabbed Madame by the throat, robbing her first of an appetite and then of her voice, so that she could raise not one word of protest as they carted her off to the Hotel-Dieu. There they put her in a ward populated with hundreds of the mortally ill, the same ward in which her husband had died, laid her in a bed shared with total strangers, pressing body upon body with five other women, and for three long weeks let her die in public view. She was then sewn into a sack, tossed on to a tumbrel at four in the morning with fifty other corpses, to the faint tinkle of a bell driven to the newly founded cemetery of Clamart, a mile beyond the city gates, and there laid in her final resting place, a mass grave beneath a thick layer of quicklime.” (31-32)

“Grimal…got so rip-roaring drunk that when he decided to go back to the Tour d’Argent late that night, he got the rue Geoffroi L’Anier confused with the rue des Nonaindieres, and instead of coming out directly on to the Pont-Marie as he had intended, he was brought by ill fortune to the Quai des Ormes, where he splashed lengthwise and face-first into the water like a soft mattress. He was dead in an instant.” (91)

“For that night a minor catastrophe occurred, which, with appropriate delays, resulted in a royal decree requiring that little by little all the buildings on all the bridges of Paris be torn down. For with no apparent reason, the west side of the Pont au Change, between the third and fourth piers, collapsed. Two buildings were hurled into the river, so completely and suddenly that none of their occupants could be rescued. Fortunately, it was a matter of only two persons, to wit: Guiseppe Baldini and his wife, Teresa.” (116)

“Though on the threshold of senescence, [the Marquis de la Taillade-Espinasse] wanted to be borne to the summit at nine thousand feet and left there in the sheerest, finest vital air for three whole weeks, whereupon, he announced, he would descend from the mountain precisely on Christmas Eve as a strapping lad of twenty. … His followers waited in vain that Christmas Eve for the return of the Marquis de la Taillade-Espinasse. He returned neither as an old man nor a young one. Nor when early summer came the next year and the most audacious of them went in search of him, scaling the still snowbound summit of the Pic du Canigou, did they find any trace of him: no clothes, no body parts, no bones.” (167-8)

“On the basis of incontrovertible evidence, [the police lieutenant] arrested Dominique Druot, maitre parfumeur in the rue de la Louve, since, after all, it was in his cabin that the clothes and hair of all the victims had been found. The judges were not deceived by the lies he told at first. After fourteen hours of torture, he confessed everything and even begged to be executed as soon as possible – which wish was granted and the execution set for the following day. They strung him up by the grey light of dawn, without any fuss, without scaffold or grandstand, with only the hangman, a magistrate of the court, a doctor and a priest in attendance. Once death had occurred, had been verified and duly recorded, the body was promptly buried.” (256)

splatterdrops @ 2006-05-18T08:34:00

2006-05-18T08:45:49Z

Title: Lead Me Not Into Temptation
Part: Three : Falling In
Fandom: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Fiction//Romance
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: He called it the Age of Hope. Yet now that he knows what he wants, it seems like he'll never be able to get it. But who knows? Maybe a little army reunion will bring a few things into the open. After all, Ewan has to tell him sometime.
Previous: Part One, Part Two

( Fanfiction.Net ) or

Lead Me Not Into Temptation

Part Three : Falling In

---------

Saleh was gone when Ewan awoke the next morning. He sat up blearily and squinted at the sunlight beaming down on him through the window - he must have been more exhausted than he thought to have slept so late. Ewan rubbed an eye halfheartedly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wondering why he was feeling so unusually gloomy. With his chipper personality, he was what others irritably called a ‘morning person,’ up with the sun and ready to greet the day with a smile. Back in the army, this talent was generally rewarded with slurred and groggy insults and threats to pelt him with fruit from everyone but L’Arachel. L’Arachel received full-blown rants and actually was pelted with fruit – not that anyone ever landed a hit or made any impression on her morning habits whatsoever.

Ewan stretched and groaned when he heard a joint pop. “Age twenty-three and I’m already getting old,” he muttered to himself. He rummaged in a drawer for a pair of clean pants.

Judging from the sun, it was only a few hours until noon - four at most; he’d probably already missed breakfast. Saleh had probably been up for hours; certainly his half of the bed was already cold when Ewan woke up. Ewan told himself he didn’t care that Saleh hadn’t woken him – Saleh was being generous and letting him sleep in, something he wasn’t normally allowed to do (not that he usually had much interest in it anyway) – but somehow that didn’t help his mood any. He glared at the offending sun and left the room, intent on finding his own entertainment for the day. ‘The palace is yours,’ Eirika had said, and he damn well intended to use it.

He knew he should probably greet everyone else, and he did, in the back of his mind, want to, but he was in one of those rare and inexplicably bitter moods and knew better than to impose it on anyone if he could help it. A couple hours exploring the palace and its grounds and he would be himself again. He could better torment people when he was of a cheery disposition.

Fortunately for Ewan, the palace was big enough for several dozen people to get lost in and still never cross paths, and Ewan himself had absolutely no qualms with getting lost. In an hour or so of wandering, he found a music room, several courtyards, a rather cozy parlor, a gallery, and the library – or perhaps a library, given the size of the palace – and though he was sorely tempted to lose himself in some books right then and there, he knew he’d never pull himself out again if he did. Perhaps he should bring Saleh down here later; his teacher would appreciate the wealth of information even more than he did himself.

Reluctantly dragging himself from the library, Ewan instead headed in the general direction where he assumed the gardens were located. After a bit of backtracking and several detours, mostly to locate a window from which he could attempt to trace a route down to his destination, he finally emerged in a sunlit yard flanked by two wings of the palace. The immediate vicinity was rigorously maintained: hedges and flowers seemed to have been given no leeway but were trimmed into an impeccable formation. Everything was low and trees seemed sparse; Ewan was a little uncomfortable with the rigidness of it all, and breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed a distinctly more natural garden some ways down the yard.

He struck off down one of the cobblestone paths towards it and was thrilled to find it even more beautiful up close than it had been from a distance. Vine-covered trellises covered some walkways, others were hemmed in by large rhododendron bushes, yet more lined with a thick cluster of evergreen or beech trees, and every turn was met with a different sort of ambiance, be it brightly colored flowers or exotic dark ferns or blossoming cherry trees. “It’s like a maze,” murmured Ewan as he walked.

He’d taken several more turns and met a dead end before he realized that it was a maze, and with a grin set about getting himself as lost as possible in it to make finding his way out that much more exciting. At one point he stumbled across a pond that wound its way in curls across a clearing. Big white water lilies sat on even bigger green lily pads, one of which was currently hosting the largest bullfrog Ewan had ever seen. There were reeds and flowers and even a willow tree along the water’s edge, and a small wooden bridge over the narrowest part of the pond with a matching loveseat in the sun overlooking the pond some distance away. Ewan collapsed onto it and stared about himself in awe. “I must bring Saleh here,” he said reverently, then chuckled, “If I can ever find it again.”

“You’re talking to yourself.”

Ewan jumped and spun around. The small girl who had been playing with Eirika when they’d arrived last night was watching him with large eyes and a patronizing expression. “You’re going to get caught,” she said.

Ewan blinked. “What?”

“They’ll find you if you sit out there in the open. They’ll definitely find you if you keep talking to yourself.”

“Who?”

She gave him a pitying look. “The Seekers.”

“…The who?”

The girl – Celeste, he recalled – gave an elaborate sigh and rolled her eyes, then glared at him and said, “Shhhhh!” very loudly. She followed this up by marching over, grabbing his wrist, and dragging him under the hanging branches of the willow tree with surprising force. “We’re hiding,” she told him, then assumed a post right at the edge of the overhanging branches and watched the entrance to the clearing with military vigor. Ewan realized that she thought she was hidden by the wispy twigs.

“No, wait,” he whispered. He took her hand and led her behind the willow’s trunk. “This is a better hiding place. See, we can still see the path, but anyone on it can’t see us.”

Celeste smiled up at him. “You’re Ewan.”

He blinked. “Er, yes.”

“Amelia told me about you,” she continued, before he could ask how she knew that. She put extra emphasis on the middle syllable of Amelia’s name, as though the word were a little strange to her. “You have funny hair.”

He put his hand self-consciously to the back of his head but his hair felt no different from usual. “How is it–”

“Shhhhh!”

Ewan looked up at the path where Celeste’s eyes were riveted and saw Amelia enter the clearing and look around. “Seeker,” Celeste whispered.

Amelia seemed generally impressed with the pond, but Ewan could tell she’d seen it before as she wandered down the walkway, staring intently at the cattails and shrubbery. Ewan and Celeste moved around the tree trunk as she passed the willow, keeping it between themselves and her line of sight. Suddenly, as Amelia passed on the part of the path closest to their hiding spot, Celeste broke away and charged at her, launching herself through the branches with a yell.

“Oof!” Amelia laughed and staggered more than was necessary as Celeste tackled her. “There you are!”

“I caught you! Piggy-back ride, Amelia, please?”

“I don’t know, you’re getting awfully big for those…” the older girl teased.

“Please?”

“Oh, all right,” she laughed, and got down on her knees so Celeste could climb onto her back. Getting up again, she turned around and almost dropped Celeste. “E-Ewan!”

“Hello again,” he grinned.

“Ewan helped me find a good hiding place,” Celeste said seriously.

Amelia beamed at him. “Of course he did, he knows all kinds of neat tricks like that.”

Ewan nodded. “I learned it in my days as a rebel outlaw,” he told Celeste, whose eyes grew wide over Amelia’s shoulder.

“Were you really a rebel outlaw?”

He gave her a grave nod. “The most wanted in the land. I would appreciate it if you not mention this to your parents, though,” he added with a wink.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You weren’t a rebel outlaw, were you?” she said accusingly. “You’re making it up.”

“She’s got you figured, Ewan,” giggled Amelia.

“Alas, my days have never seen anything so exciting as those of a rebel outlaw,” he sighed.

“Oh, and the War of the Stones was what, pray?”

“A mere tea party in comparison to the life of the lawless, my dear.”

Amelia flushed and smiled up at him. “You’ve gotten more dramatic, but in terms of being a joker you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Well, I like to think I’ve gotten a bit taller, too…”

Ewan’s joking put Amelia more at ease, and she smirked at him in response. “It’s certainly true that you’re not shorter than me anymore.”

“Touché.”

“Amelia,” a young voice interjected, “Piggy-back.”

“Where to?”

The small hand pointed at the other exit from the clearing.

“Your wish is my command, Princess,” she said with a fake bow, tipping Celeste forward in the process and causing the child to giggle. Hoisting her back up again, Amelia turned to Ewan and nodded at the path. “Shall we?”

“After you,” he smiled, waving her ahead. He didn’t notice her slight blush as he followed her down the path and back into the maze.

Their third turn into the maze, Ewan was brought up short when Amelia apparently collided with someone coming around the corner. There was a brief scuffle as the person steadied Amelia, who had lost her balance due to the extra weight of the princess on her back, and then Ewan got a good idea of who was around the corner from the hearty baritone chuckle that accompanied him. “Damn, you found her first again!”

“No swearing in front of Celeste, please,” chided Amelia.

“I didn’t hear anything,” the girl assured them, though she quite clearly had. Ewan could practically see her little mind filing the word away for later use.

“Besides,” Amelia continued, “it was Ewan who found her first this time.”

“Ewan?”

Amelia moved aside to let Ewan pass, and he suddenly found himself engulfed in an enthusiastic bear hug. “Bro!” cried Ross, pounding him on the back. Ewan laughed and responded in kind, though not with nearly as much force; Ross was still half a head taller than him and seemed twice as strong.

Ross finally stepped back and regarded him with a huge grin. “How’ve you been, Bro? By the Light, it’s been forever! Look at you, you’re all grown up!”

“You make it sound as though you haven’t grown up yourself,” returned Ewan with a matching expression.

“Pah, I was already grown up back then; barely changed.”

“Oh, sure,” Ewan smirked as Amelia snickered behind him, “And what’s this, huh?” He reached around and tugged on the tail of bound hair that fell halfway down Ross’s back.

“Hey!” Ross removed his ponytail from Ewan’s grip and pushed it back over his shoulder. “I’ll have you know the ladies love it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep!”

“Hm, I don’t know. What do you think, Amelia?” Ross froze as Ewan turned and presented him to Amelia. “Does it make him look absolutely dashing?”

She flushed red, eyes darting between the two of them uncertainly.

“Er,” said Ross.

“I, uh,” said Amelia.

Ewan blinked. “Either your dazzling good looks have rendered her speechless, or she’s struggling for words sufficiently diplomatic as to not scar your ego too badly.” He grinned at Ross, “My money’s on the latter.”

Ross mock-scowled and socked him in the shoulder as Amelia flushed even darker.

“I like Mister Ross’s hair,” declared a voice over Amelia’s shoulder.

Ross grinned and bowed. “Y’see? The little Princess has taste. She knows a man when she sees one.”

“It’s like a girl’s hair,” Celeste continued, “So Mister Ross is like a girl with muscles.”

Ewan doubled over laughing at his friend’s horrified expression. Celeste glared at him. “He does have muscles!” she insisted, misinterpreting Ewan’s amusement, “Amelia said it’s because he fights with axes. I’m going to learn to fight with axes and have muscles like that one day!”

It took all of Ewan’s self-discipline to not laugh even harder at this statement. Glancing at his friends, he saw that Amelia seemed torn between being embarrassed and bursting out laughing herself. Ross looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“I’m sure,” said Ewan as he got himself under control, “that Ross would be more than happy to teach you while he’s here.”

This time Ross really did glare at him and Amelia broke out in giggles.

---------

By one o’clock – after a morning of catering to the whims of a young princess and catching up with his two friends – Ewan had been bodily hauled off to dinner, a spectacularly informal meal where everyone was far more interested in the conversation than the food. Tana was there in an instant when the four of them entered the hall, hugging all of them, pinching Ewan’s cheeks, and finally whisking Celeste away with the mission of hunting down and abusing her father.

Scanning the room for Saleh, Ewan spotted him at the empty end of a table, deep in conversation with Eirika. He felt something akin to unjustified jealousy rising in him, but didn’t have time to dwell on it as Ross insisted on dragging both he and Amelia over to talk to his father, who was laughing over something with Dozla when they arrived. Ewan received hearty thumps on the back from both men, a cup of wine thrust into his hand, and was essentially propelled into a chair next to Dozla as Garcia had already begun talking was sounded suspiciously like battle strategies with Amelia. Whatever the topic, she seemed more enthusiastic and at ease than she had all day, and Ross, though apparently unable to get a word in edgewise, looked thrilled.

“Ewan!” boomed Dozla, clapping the back of his chair and nearly making Ewan spill his drink, “How have you been, my lad? Tell me about your adventures!”

“I’m sure yours have been far more exciting than mine, Uncle Dozla,” Ewan grinned, “A day with Princess L’Arachel is never a dull one!”

Dozla guffawed at this. “That’s for sure, laddie. But don’t try to tell me you’ve done nothing interesting. Come on, what have you been up to?”

“Well… do you remember how I told you about my idea of creating something that would let people talk to each other from miles and miles away?”

“Of course! A fantastic idea if I ever heard one, though I still can’t get my head around it.”

“I’ve been working on making such a device.”

“You never! Does it work?”

Ewan nodded. “I think so. In fact…” he put his cup down and dug about in one of his pockets before producing two identical hand mirrors and offering one to Dozla. “You could do me a great favor by helping me test it out.”

“Absolutely!” he laughed, taking the mirror, “But you sure I’m the right man for the job?”

“I need someone who doesn’t do magic to make sure it can be activated by anyone. And no one’s ever listened to my ideas better than you, Uncle Dozla!”

The man chuckled again. “Ah, surely Master Saleh does, and understands them, too!”

Ewan’s smile faded and he glanced at his teacher again. “Sometimes I wonder,” he murmured.

There was a moment’s pause. “So, laddie,” said Dozla, tapping the mirror, “Tell me how this thing works, eh?”

Ewan’s head snapped back around, grin back in place. “Well, I’ve got one and you’ve got one, and they’re magically linked to one another. Theoretically, when one of us says the activation word, our mirror will connect to the other one and we’ll be able to see each other in the mirror instead of our own reflections. We should be able to hear each other, too, though that might need a bit of fine-tuning.”

“Incredible!”

“I hope so, anyway,” laughed Ewan, “What I don’t know is how well the link holds up over distance. I’ve only been able to try with relatively short distances so far. It’d be really great to see if it still works after the reunion, when we’ve gone home. If people can still be connected over that much space…”

“Even as it is, it’s very impressive, lad. I always knew you would go far with that imagination of yours.”

“Aw, thanks, Uncle. But don’t praise me yet; we’ve still got to make sure that the activation word will work even if someone with no magic says it. And even if the whole thing works, I don’t know how useful it will be. How are you supposed to know when someone’s contacting you if you’re not actually looking at the mirror at that moment?” He paused to consider that. “Of course, if you hear a voice shouting at you from your pocket, that might be a clue.”

Dozla laughed and ruffled Ewan’s hair. “You’ll figure it out, my boy. You’ve got wit and talent, but most importantly, you’ve got dedication. You’ll achieve anything you try for so long as you hang onto that and don’t give up.”

Ewan gave him a contemplative look. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” Dozla stood and gave him another clap on the back. “My Lady summons me now, but come see me at any time, lad! You’re always great fun to talk to!”

Ewan raised his cup to him with a grin and took a sip as his honorary uncle departed. In good spirits, he gazed around the room and noted with amusement where Amelia was now trying to talk to Artur and looked very uncomfortable under the disapproving gaze of the nearby Cormag. Another glance in Saleh’s direction revealed the sage now sitting by himself, sipping his wine and surveying the room with his usual quiet but thorough observation. Ewan caught his eyes and they shared a small smile.

A moment later, however, Ewan spotted Renais’ young princess making a beeline for his teacher. He bit back a smirk as Saleh followed his gaze and paled, suddenly finding himself verbally accosted by an adamant Celeste. Ewan snickered as he watched the girl talk at his teacher, who appeared more uncomfortable by the minute and who finally resorted to sending Ewan a pleading look that he didn’t have the heart to say no to.

He knocked back the last of his wine and sauntered over Saleh’s end of the table with an amused grin on his face. “What’re you telling Master Saleh about, Princess?” he asked, “Or is it a big secret that you can only share with him?”

She turned and eyed him warily for a moment. “It’s a secret,” she said finally, which Ewan took to mean that she didn’t feel like explaining it again and had probably forgotten what she’d initially been talking about anyway.

“Well, you picked the right person to confide in,” he told her confidentially, “Master Saleh is good at keeping secrets.” He glanced at his teacher, but Saleh only looked mildly confused. He looked back at Celeste. “How would you like a shoulder ride?” he asked.

“Yes, up!” she cried, jumping up and down. He laughed and lifted her onto his shoulders, slightly surprised at how heavy she was. “By the Light, I think Amelia wasn’t kidding when she said you were getting big for this kind of thing!”

Saleh gave a light chuckle. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re good with children,” he said.

“He’s wonderful with children,” Amelia corrected, coming up behind him with Ross trailing in her wake. “He spent all morning playing with Celeste, you should have seen him.”

“I was there, too,” Ewan swore he heard Ross mutter, but when he looked over Ross gave no indication that he’d said anything. Frowning slightly, Ewan turned back to Saleh and protested, “One would think that you’re pretty good with children yourself. After all, you put up with me for how many year s?”

Saleh shook his head. “Being a teacher is different,” he said, “I don’t know how to simply… entertain.”

“Not even a bit of magic?” his student persisted teasingly.

The sage looked a little startled, then smiled. “That I can do.”

splatterdrops @ 2006-03-27T18:03:00

2006-03-27T18:27:25Z

Title: Inconsistent
Fandom: Vampire Game
Genre: Fiction//Romance
Rating: G/PG
Summary: Conversations don't have to make sense, but it does help to know what your companion is making a decision on. Krai/Jill.
Notes: Drabble prize for gargantsurprise for winning the music contest on my LJ. It was supposed to be 100 words, but, well, I suck. ^^ So it's 329 words. 03/26/06.

Krai never entered Jill's room; he barged in like a tornado, bringing in his wake an accident waiting to happen (that, more often than not, did).

Jill never paid Krai's entrances any mind; he continued diligently with his paperwork, nodding his head from time to time at Krai's inane rambling, and occasionally, after a particularly bad rant, concluded with an invitation down to the pub where they both got piss drunk and Jill could stop pretending and cover it all up with the convenient excuse of alcohol.

Today Krai barged in with enough ferocity for the makings of a particularly bad rant, and Jill patted his purse absently to ensure that he did in fact have enough gold to get well and truly smashed. He didn't.

Krai paced several laps around the carpet like a caged animal. Jill sighed, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and started another page.

“Jill,” Krai said, “You like men, right?”

“Yes,” he replied, adding an scrawl to the paper and deciding that he was going to get smashed whether he had the money or not. Krai paced another lap around the carpet.

“Jill,” Krai said, “What do you think of Darres and Yujinn?”

“Isn't that,” asked Jill, “a bit of a non-sequitor?”

Jill knew Krai was frowning at the back of his head when he didn't get a reply.

“This is awfully unlike you,” he said, turning around in his chair. “What's tonight's topic, or haven't we decided yet?”

“Tonight's topic is that we haven't decided yet.”

Jill blinked. “Do you need help making a decision?”

“Yes,” said Krai, strode two steps forward, and kissed him.

“Isn't that,” gasped Jill when he pulled away, futilely kicking his brain back into functional mode, “a bit of a non-sequitor as well?”

“No,” Krai growled, “I've made my decision,” and kissed him again.

Jill decided he would probably have a lot more fun that night if he didn't get smashed. His purse would appreciate it, too.

* * *

Note: “Jill,” Krai said, “You like men, right?” - At one point in one of the early volumes, Jill is seen muttering, "This is why I don't date princes: too much drama." Though I know ~~now~~ Jill is not canonically gay, I (for some unknown reason) thought it might be interesting to take this line not only as an indication of his sexuality, but also that others - Krai, at the very least - know about it. ...This point didn't really follow through in the drabble very well. e_e

splatterdrops @ 2006-01-01T12:33:00

2006-01-01T13:00:15Z

Title: Lead Me Not Into Temptation
Part: Two : Hey Pretty
Fandom: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Fiction//Romance
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: He called it the Age of Hope. Yet now that he knows what he wants, it seems like he'll never be able to get it. But who knows? Maybe a little army reunion will bring a few things into the open. After all, Ewan has to tell him sometime.
Previous: Part One

( Fanfiction.Net ) or

Lead Me Not Into Temptation

Part Two : Hey Pretty

---------

All three of them woke long before dawn – Ewan first, then Tethys and finally Saleh, the anticipation making them bright-eyed and cheerful where at least two would not normally have been. Having prepared for travel the night before, it was a simple matter of dressing and feeding themselves before starting off. Ewan and Tethys chatted amiably over breakfast, with an occasional comment from Saleh, and it wasn’t long before they were both standing outside the cabin hugging each other goodbye. Saleh was occupied with closing the house up for a month, checking both the physical and magical securities he had placed on it against robbers, weather, and anything else that might happen to come along.

“Will you be all right traveling alone, Tethys?” Ewan asked, eyebrows knit in concern.

“Of course I will. Honestly, brother, you worry too much. I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” he admitted. “Still, I’d be more comfortable knowing you had someone to watch your back. You can never be too careful.”

“Your concern is touching, brother, but unnecessary. There is little danger in these hills anymore. You, of all people, know that.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she swiftly cut him off. “But,” she said, “if it makes you feel any better, I promise to be extra cautious until I reach Jehanna.”

Ewan relaxed visibly and smiled. “Thank you. I know I must seem like a worrywart–”

“Yes,” Tethys replied gaily, “But I know: better safe than sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You be careful, too, Ewan.” She hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder at Saleh, who had finished his chore and stood patiently off to one side. She met Ewan’s eyes. “Don’t give up on him,” she whispered. “He’ll come around. Ten years you’ve lived with him and he hasn’t run off with anyone yet! That’s got to count for something!” And she grinned at him in a manner that would have been infuriating had he not known her to be sincere.

She hugged him again before he had a chance to respond, then darted over to Saleh and did the same. “I’ll see you both in a few days, then,” she said, pecked Saleh on the cheek, and set off up the hill at a brisk pace.

“So long, loves!” she called back to them, fluttering a hand as she did so. “Be good, now, and don’t get into too much trouble without me! I’d be so dreadfully disappointed to miss it.” And with that she disappeared into the woods, intending to cut across and back onto the path leading up to the village of Caer Pelyn. From there it was just a simple matter of going over the mountain pass and south through Hamill Canyon to reach Jehanna, a journey which shouldn’t take much more than two days of easy travel.

Ewan shook his head as they turned away from the spot where Tethys had vanished. “Always with the dramatics,” he said, but his tone was fond.

Saleh smiled at him and shouldered his pack a little more securely. “Well,” he said, “Shall we go?”

“Just waiting for you,” grinned Ewan, and together they set off on the path that led down the mountain, their high spirits leaving plenty of room for conversation, especially on Ewan’s part. A few hours before noon, they diverged from the main road and took a less-traveled path that led south-west over the mountains to Renais. It was more difficult going than what Tethys was journeying on, but if they kept a steady, solid pace it would get them to Renais at about the same time that she reached the White Dunes. Additionally, the scenery was infinitely superior.

Saleh judged that they had made very good time when they finally stopped and set up camp for the night. If they set the same pace tomorrow, they could reach Renais by evening. Ewan excitedly recounted stories of their time in Eirika’s army and pondered the prospect of seeing their friends again as he built the fire, Saleh listening with an amused smile on his face. He might be twenty-three now, but Ewan’s enthusiasm for life hadn’t waned at all over the years.

Halfway through supper, when talk had died down in favor of eating and the night was quite but for the crackle of the fire, Ewan chanced to look up at the cliff beneath which they were camped and nearly dropped his bowl in surprise. “Saleh,” he hissed, and pointed above them, “Look!”

Perched atop the cliff was the biggest wolf Ewan had ever seen. Its gray coat looked almost silver against the dark backdrop of the sky, though it would have been nearly invisible were it not for the moon providing illumination and adding a bright sheen to the fur. Ewan wondered briefly why the creature was not bothered by their campfire, but the thought was quickly driven from his mind with awe as wolf threw its head back and howled. The sound was both exhilarating and heart-wrenching at the same time, and Ewan found himself unable to look away. From somewhere beside him, he heard Saleh’s soft voice. “He’s lost his mate.”

The sound ended on a plaintive note, and then the wolf turned its head downwards and looked at them, expression neutral but for the grief in its eyes. Ewan felt something warm slide down his cheek as he stared into those golden eyes. The wolf could not cry, so he was crying for it.

After a few moments, the beast turned and melted into the darkness, leaving Ewan with that sinking feeling that marks the end of something inexplicably significant. He brushed a sleeve over his cheek and looked at Saleh, not entirely certain what he was expecting, but his teacher had returned to his meal and didn’t say anything at all.

-----

“Gracious! That’s not little Ewan all grown up, is it?”

Ewan barely had time to blink before he was accosted by a blur of green and white, and he suddenly found himself kissing Princess L’Arachel’s hand without any memory of ever bowing to begin with. She rather had that effect on people, he remembered with amusement. “What a handsome man you’ve turned out to be!” she cried delightedly, “And Saleh’s here, too! Oh, this is wonderful! I’ve been greeting guests all evening; everyone seems to be arriving on the same day! I was here first, of course; Dozla and I arrived a week ago. Dozla, look, it’s Ewan and Saleh!” She abruptly turned and directed this last part at her companion, who had finally arrived after following her down the hall at a more leisurely pace, chuckling loudly.

“Ewan, my lad!” the Princess’ long-term bodyguard clapped him soundly on the back by way of greeting, and Ewan nearly doubled over from the force of it. “Hey, Uncle Dozla,” he managed to gasp, grinning. Saleh eyed Dozla warily lest he should receive the same welcome, but he was merely offered a more refined, if extremely enthusiastic, handshake.

“Come on in, both of you,” L’Arachel urged – entirely unnecessarily, as Dozla was already leading them both bodily down the hall as his mistress strode commandingly in front of them. “Eirika will be delighted to see you, and Ephraim, too – we’ll go see them immediately. Oh, and wait until you meet little Celeste, she is just a doll, and so very sure of herself. She gets such confidence from her Aunt L’Arachel, of course. But you’ll be wanting to catch up with everyone. Let’s see… Cormag and Artur arrived yesterday, and Lute has been here several days already, although I admit I haven’t spoke to her much. I just do not get that girl at all. Colm and Neimi arrived a few hours before you did, and – oh! Ewan, Amelia’s been looking for you since she arrived, so do be sure to go say hello to her.”

L’Arachel was, mercifully, interrupted by their arrival at the large double doors that marked the entrance to the palace’s primary parlor. She didn’t even pause to knock, but merely flung the doors open and swept into the room as though she were queen rather than Eirika. She wouldn’t be L’Arachel if she did anything otherwise, and so nobody took much offense from her airs.

Eirika was seated on the floor playing chess with a child that bore her striking aqua-colored hair, but she rose immediately and came to greet them when they entered the room. “Saleh! Ewan!” she exclaimed, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. “It’s been far too long. When did you arrive?”

“Just now,” L’Arachel put in before either of them could open their mouths, “Dozla and I were there to greet them, and we brought them straight to you.”

“You must be exhausted!” Eirika said, smiling at them both. “Shall I show you to your rooms, or would you like to reacquaint yourselves with everyone first? I think most of them are still up at this hour, although I can’t necessarily vouch for their sobriety.” She smirked in a rather un-queen-like manner, and Ewan couldn’t help but grin right back.

Saleh, too, sounded amused, but declined the invitation. “I think rest would be most appreciated at the moment,” he replied. “We can meet the others in the morning.”

“If they’re not too hung-over!” Ewan chimed in.

Eirika laughed and turned to L’Arachel. “Could you watch Celeste for me until I get back? It won’t take very long.”

“My pleasure,” replied the Princess with a slightly feral grin.

---

“I hope you don’t mind sharing a room,” the Queen of Renais told them as she led them through the guest wing of the palace. “With so many people coming, we’ve been having to double up some of the rooms, but if it’s a problem I’m sure we can find some others who are willing to share.”

“No, no, it’s not a problem,” Ewan said quickly. He glanced at Saleh for confirmation, but his teacher made no indication of preference one way or another.

“Oh, good, thank you.” She stopped before one of the rooms and opened the door dramatically, ushering them in in front of her. Ewan could only gape at the magnificence of it all. A massive four-poster bed, enameled dresser, spacious fireplace flanked by several plush armchairs and a loveseat, floor-to-ceiling windows with majestic crimson drapery opening out onto a marble balcony, and below that was the entire city of Renais spread out at his feet. “Wow…” he whispered, going up to the window and pressing his nose against the glass. He turned back to Eirika. “Are you sure-”

“Yes, I’m sure this is the right room,” she cut him off with a laugh. “You’re not the first one to ask me that.”

“Wow,” he said again, and stared back out the window at the multitude of lights dotting the darkened city like stars.

Eirika turned her attention to Saleh, who was examining the mantelpiece with interest. “This pull here,” she said, indicating a gold brocade rope hanging by the bedside, “will summon a servant. Please don’t hesitate if you need anything; I’ve told the staff to bar no expense for our guests this month. And don’t hesitate to explore if you’d like. The palace is yours for your enjoyment.”

Saleh bowed. “Thank you, milady.”

She frowned slightly. “Saleh, please – it’s just Eirika.”

The sage straightened and smiled at her. “Understood.”

“Thank you, Eirika,” Ewan cut in, returning from the window to stand next to his teacher. “It’s wonderful to be here.” He smiled gratefully, and for a moment she was struck by his maturity. It was to be expected, she realized; after all, he wasn’t thirteen anymore. He was still the same Ewan, but it was ridiculous to think he hadn’t grown.

Saleh, she reflected, hadn’t changed much at all.

“It’s wonderful to see you again,” she said affectionately, and after a moment’s hesitation, she pulled them both into a brief hug. “I’m so happy we can have everyone together again for a reunion,” she told them as she drew away. “I’ll let you two get some rest now. Sleep well,” she said by way of parting, and then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Ewan and Saleh looked at each other for a moment, then by unspoken agreement began unpacking and settling in for what would be a several-week stay. Ewan made a point of summoning up a maid and requesting a bath, which was promptly prepared for him in the bath room down the hall. By the time he returned to their room, thoroughly cleansed and very satisfied, Saleh was settled in an armchair, immersed in one of the books he’d found on the bookcase. Ewan paused to watch him, noting the familiar slight knit of his eyebrows in concentration, the distracted way he tucked the unruly hair behind his ear, only to have it fall back in his face again.

There was a knock on the door. Saleh glanced up and suddenly found his gaze locked with his pupil’s, who was standing between him and the door. Ewan realized belatedly that he’d been staring, and a slight flush crept into his cheeks as they stared at each other, both looking like deer caught in a lamplight.

The knock sounded again, and Ewan tore his gaze away to go answer the door. He was greeted by the sight of a young woman in the typical short-skirted outfit favored by female foot soldiers. Her blonde hair was swept up out of her face in a loose knot, and she peered up at Ewan with anxious brown eyes as though not entirely sure she had any right to be speaking to him.

“Amelia!” he exclaimed, and grabbed her into a hug that made her squeak in surprise.

“E-Ewan!” she stuttered as he released her, “I-I’m sorry to bother you, I know it’s late, but I just heard you’d arrived and I-I really wanted to see you again. I just… thought I’d just come and say hello to you and, and Master Saleh.” She leaned around Ewan and waved timidly at Saleh, who was watching from his chair. He gave her a reassuring smile, and she relaxed visibly.

“It’s not a bother; it’s wonderful to see you again!” Ewan assured her as she looked up at him again uncertainly. “How have you been? Are you still living in Grado? Come in, sit down and we can talk.”

“Um, no, I really shouldn’t, um, impose. I just… wanted to say hello and, and let you know I was here. Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well!” She bowed briefly to Saleh, threw Ewan a hesitant smile, and fled.

The red-head stared at the empty hallway for a moment, then closed the door and turned to his teacher. “Well, uh… that was interesting,” he offered, though he wasn’t entirely sure which incident he was referring to as ‘interesting’.

“Hm,” said Saleh.

In an effort to fill the silence, he continued, “Well, it was nice of her to stop by. I wonder if Ross is here yet? We have so much catching up to do!”

Saleh smiled but said nothing, simply closing his book and rising leisurely from his seat.

“Hey, Saleh?”

“Yes?”

“Who do you want to see?”

The man blinked in surprise and stopped to consider the question. “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing Gerik and his group again, although it hasn’t been so long since we saw them last. I’d be interested to talk to Knoll, and find out how he’s getting along in his studies and with the rebuilding of Grado. And I suppose I must say I’m very pleased to see Lady Eirika again. I look forward to catching up with her while we’re here.” He gave his student another one of his half-smiles and went to put the book away.

Ewan climbed into bed telling himself that there was absolutely no reason he should feel betrayed.

Comments and critiques welcome.

backlogging

2005-10-23T17:10:32Z

Backlogging old stories here. Some of them are absolute crap, others are not. Those that were good enough to have seen the light of FF.net are not listed here.

Title: Light
Type/Fandom: Original
Date: 10/23/04 (exactly a year ago. creepy.)
Warnings: craptastic
Link: here

Title: Frustration
Type/Fandom: Orginal (based off roleplay)
Date: 10/24/04
Warnings: shounen-ai, crappy
Link: here

Title: Oblivious
Type/Fandom: Fire Emblem
Date: 10/24/04
Warnings: shounen-ai, Serra (she merits a warning)
Link: here

Title: Deserted
Type/Fandom: Fire Emblem
Date: 10/29/04
Warnings: shounen-ai, crap
Link: here

Title: Consumed
Type/Fandom: Golden Sun
Date: 11/26/04
Warnings: not so crappy! but angsty
Link: here

Title: Elegy
Type/Fandom: Legend of Zelda
Date: 12/12/04
Warnings: really really bad angsty poetry
Link: here

Title: Painful
Type/Fandom: Original
Date: 12/16/04
Warnings: really bad, deathfic
Link: here

Title: Discombobulated
Type/Fandom: Original
Date: 02/24/05
Warnings: random
Link: here

Title: The Ethics of Cloning
Type/Fandom: Nonfiction/Rant
Date: 03/04/05
Warnings: See Eva. See Eva rant. See Eva rant coherently and present valid arguments that will leave you on your ass. For once.
Link: here

Title: Translation
Type/Fandom: Golden Sun-ish/Original
Date: 03/16/05
Warnings: death/angst/the usual
Link: here

Title: The Sometimes Tree
Type/Fandom: Original
Date: 04/09/05
Warnings: CRAPTASTIC ANGSTY WHINING
Link: here

Title: Lost
Type/Fandom: Original
Date: 05/04/05
Warnings: random humorous dialogue
Link: here

Title: Untitled
Type/Fandom: Star Ocean 3
Date: 06/14/05
Warnings: weirdness
Link: here

splatterdrops @ 2005-09-01T23:17:00

2005-09-01T23:26:08Z

Title: Lead Me Not Into Temptation
Part: One : Monochrome
Fandom: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Fiction//Romance
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: He called it the Age of Hope. Yet now that he knows what he wants, it seems like he'll never be able to get it. But who knows? Maybe a little army reunion will bring a few things into the open. After all, Ewan has to tell him sometime.
Notes: Multichaptered slash fanfiction, w00t! Muchos gracias to traincat for agreeing to beta for me. 09/01/05.

( Fanfiction.Net ) or

Lead Me Not Into Temptation

Part One : Monochrome

---------

It was the stuff of legends. The War of the Stones, as it came to be known, when the heirs to four of Magvel’s royal families united and, with the help of their colorful army of friends, came up against the fifth. Together, they overcame him and destroyed of the cause of his corruption, the Demon King of old. Under the command of the royal twins of Renais, the continent was freed from the drawing darkness and, with their hard work and patronage, spurred forward into a new Age. It was not long before the people had christened it the Age of Glory.

But there was a young mage, who had been among the party that saved the world from its fate, who had his own name for it. He called it the Age of Hope.

--- Ten Years Later ---

“Ewan? Did you hang out the rosemary I brought in to dry?”

Ewan grinned to himself as his mentor’s voice floated in from the other room. “Yes, Teacher,” he called back, without looking up from his task, “And the vervain.” He paused and counted to three, opening his mouth to continue just when he knew the next question was coming. “And I collected the melted candle wax. And I brought in the washing. And I practiced Valega.”

His last statement was met by Saleh’s appearance in the doorway. The man paused as he realized that Ewan was chopping vegetables at the table and shook his head, slate-colored ponytail waving gently. “And you’ve started supper. I really don’t give you enough credit, do I?”

Ewan smiled at him and shrugged amiably. “Can’t say I blame you, with all you’ve put up with to get me this far.”

“You have always deserved more credit than I have given you, Ewan. I couldn’t ask for a more dedicated, talented student.”

“That’s not what you used to say about that Lute girl,” the red-head teased, wagging his knife at his teacher.

“While Miss Lute was exceptionally talented, she lacked a certain… propriety that her personality couldn’t do without,” Saleh replied, collecting the plates from the cupboard. “Besides, I don’t think she would have wanted a teacher nor appreciated the insinuation that she needed one.”

“‘Maturity comes with age,’” recited Ewan, “You taught me that, Saleh.”

“I repeated it to myself as a mantra when you were being particularly excitable, is more like,” the sage grumbled, but he returned his smile nonetheless.

“Still, I’m sure Lute is a lovely young lady by now, with an equally lovely disposition. Who knows, she may even be married!” He slid the vegetable slices onto skewers, along with some meat he had diced earlier, and placed them on the grate positioned over the fire for just that purpose.

Saleh made a noncommittal noise as he watched from his place at the table. A thoughtful silence reigned as the skewers sizzled away merrily, and after a few minutes Ewan removed them and divided them between their two plates.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” mused Ewan as they ate. “I wonder what all of them are doing now, don’t you?”

“Occasionally.”

Years of being in Saleh’s company had taught Ewan not to take his brusqueness to heart. The sage had been raised rather remotely from other people, and he was not adept at light conversation or at bringing himself to voice his feelings on matters. He was a spectacular teacher, a thoughtful listener, and, Ewan had come to find, he was the most interesting person to talk to when in the mood to do so. Even when he wasn’t, Ewan enjoyed simply being in his company, and had learned to speak for the both of them – something he had seemed apt to do from the start.

Ewan was washing the dishes in a bucket of heated water and Saleh was standing by the window watching the light fade when the silence was finally broken again.

“Do you miss them, Saleh?” Ewan asked quietly.

For a long moment the sage did not reply.

“Saleh?”

“…Yes. I miss them.”

Ewan stopped scrubbing and looked up at his friend and teacher with a searching gaze. There was a pause.

“But, you know,” Ewan ventured, “I can’t think of any other way I would rather live. Here, I mean. With you.”

Their eyes locked for a minute, and there was a different energy there than what they usually shared, one that seemed to carry a meaning that got lost in the distance between them. Saleh looked away first, returning to his silent vigil of the dusk, and the red-head repressed a sigh as he resumed his chore.

“We have a visitor,” said Saleh suddenly, indicating the window. A moment later Ewan caught the lilting strains of a voice lifted in song.

“Afternoon is hazy, river flowing, all around the sounds moving closer to them…”º

“Tethys!” he shouted, leaping to his feet and knocking over the bucket of dishes and dirty water. “Oh, for crying out loud!” He set the bucket upright and muttered a spell under his breath, waving a hand over the spilled puddle. It vanished instantly, and he raced out the door, vaguely registering Saleh chuckling from the window.

“…dreams they never knew–”

“Tethys!”

“Brother!”

Upon reaching her, he grabbed her by the waist and swung her around, laughing heartily. “Ewan!” she cried when he set her down, “I swear you get taller every time I see you! Aren’t you done growing yet?”

“I’ve been done for years, sister-mine,” he grinned, “you’re just getting shorter.”

She smacked his shoulder and grinned right back. “Come on, invite me in, you lout. I’ve been traveling all day. Offer a lady some food, won’t you?”

“Of course. If you see one, let me know.”

“I swear, I don’t know how Saleh’s put up with you for so long.”

“He’s not related to me.”

“Ah yes, that was it.” She regarded him with a raised eyebrow, tapping her foot.

“All right, all right,” he grinned, ushering her towards the house. “I’ll fix something up for you. Gods, but it’s good to see you again.” He turned and hugged her abruptly. “It’s been nearly six months since your last visit. I never know where you are; always off on missions with Gerik and the crew. I worry about you, you know.”

“Oh, don’t fret so much. I can take care of myself, you know that, and I’m in good hands with the Guild. Besides, Marisa’s been teaching me to hold my own in a fight, should it come to that. Dancing isn’t the only thing I’m good for.”

“Marisa’s been teaching you?” gaped Ewan.

“Her social skills have gotten much better over the past few years,” Tethys replied, “though she’s still not much for casual conversation. But she’s a sweetheart, even if it isn’t always obvious.”

“But what about, you know…?”

“I wouldn’t hold that against her. I’m over it, anyway,” she said simply. Ewan wasn’t convinced, but he wisely held his tongue.

Saleh met them at the front door and greeted Tethys cordially, giving her a quick embrace, while Ewan moved inside and set about preparing a repeat of their supper for her. Tethys and Saleh followed him in, his sister settling herself gracefully at the table while his teacher claimed the cushioned armchair by the fire, which was arguably the most comfortable furnishing in their modest house.

“How long will you be staying with us this time, Tethys?” Saleh asked.

“Just tonight, I’m afraid,” she began, but was cut off by her brother’s dismayed shout of “What? Why?”

“Hear me out, Ewan,” she chided, “I’m here with an invitation.” She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat dramatically. “On behalf of His Majesty King Ephraim of Renais, you are cordially invited to his palace for a festival in honor of the 10th Anniversary of the victory at Darkling Woods and the end of the War of the Stones, and for a, ehm,” she raised her eyebrows meaningfully at them, “Reunion of Friends.”

“A reunion?” breathed Ewan. “That’s wonderful! The anniversary, that’s next month, isn’t it?”

“The festival begins in two weeks, but Ephraim said to tell you he would be delighted to see you yesterday if that were possible.”

Ewan nearly bounced with excitement and came precariously close to losing Tethys’ supper to the fire. “Saleh, let’s leave tomorrow!”

Tethys laughed. “I knew you’d say that. I am sure,” she added, winking at her brother, “that there will be all manner of young ladies eager to meet the heroes of the War. Not to mention I hear that Amelia friend of yours has grown into quite the woman.”

“Tethys!”

The dancer laughed at her brother’s red face and accepted the plate of food he handed to her.

“You’re coming with us, aren’t you, Teth?” he asked.

“Thank you. No, actually. I’m traveling to Jehanna to inform Joshua and the others, although I’m sure Josh has already received a formal invitation from a runner. I’ll be traveling back with them, so I’ll be a few days behind you.”

“Aw…” Ewan’s disappointment was quickly overcome. “Still, this will be fantastic. I can’t wait to see everyone again! Are we leaving tomorrow, Saleh?”

The siblings watched him expectantly as he turned and fixed his pupil with a carefully neutral gaze. “Myrrh can’t leave,” he said quietly, and Ewan’s eyes widened in realization.

“Oh,” he said dejectedly.

“You can still go,” Saleh told him, “But I feel I should stay with Myrrh. She will be disheartened that she can’t be there, and I ought to provide her with company.”

“No,” the young man shook his head and looked at his sister apologetically. “I’ll stay, too. It’s not fair that I should get to go when Saleh and Myrrh cannot.”

“Oh, Ewan…” Tethys sighed, fiddling with one of her bracelets. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but didn’t.

All of a sudden, Saleh rose from his chair and nodded stiffly at them. “Excuse me,” he said, and marched out the door. Ewan watched him go with a pained expression.

“Ewan…” Tethys repeated. She stood and led him to the chair Saleh had just vacated, settling herself into it and sitting Ewan on the floor in front of her, his back leaning against the chair. She began to stroke his hair gently, a maternal gesture she had adopted when they were children.

“I take it you’ve had no luck, have you?” she asked after a moment.

He sighed heavily, spine slumped against her calves. “None. I’m beginning to think it’s a lost cause. He just doesn’t want to see it.”

“Are you sure he isn’t simply missing it because he’s not looking for it?”

“Saleh is the most perceptive, observant, and thoughtful person I know. He couldn’t miss this unless he were trying.” Ewan twisted his head around and glared at his sister. “And your little comment back there didn’t help matters any!”

“I was just trying to inspire a little jealousy on his part!” she retorted, her voice more teasing than defensive. When he didn’t reply, she sighed and wrapped her arms around his chest, giving him a little hug. “Oh, Ewan…” she said again, hurting for his sake. “I know exactly how you feel.”

He nodded mutely, because she did know, and he knew in his heart that she was worse off than he. He felt guilty for making her suffer with him, but she had always insisted on being the stronger of the two, on being there even when he didn’t need her. In the ten years since the War, he had only comforted her once. They both preferred not to talk about that day.

The candles had burned another half-notch down by the time Saleh returned. Tethys and Ewan hadn’t moved or spoken in that time, although now Ewan disentangled himself from his sister and began organizing a bed for her in the common room. The only other rooms the house contained were the bedroom, with two quilted pallets for Saleh and himself, and Saleh’s workroom, which was strictly off-limits to guests. Ewan had been several years into his training before Saleh had allowed even him into his workroom.

Saleh watched him work for several minutes before he spoke. “Don’t forget to pack anything you might need before you go to bed. We leave first thing in the morning.”

Ewan’s head shot up and he stared at his teacher, daring to hope. “You’re coming?”

“There’s no point in my staying,” Saleh replied, running a hand through his hair – a motion Ewan recognized as his rare gesture of defeat. “Myrrh absolutely refuses to talk to me if I do. She wants to know how everyone’s doing, too, you know. We’ve been charged with bringing back stories for her.”

Ewan exchanged glances with Tethys, who ventured what was on both their minds. “Are you sorry, Saleh?”

The gray eyes met hers for a minute, then locked with Ewan’s. There was a pause, and then a soft smile spread across his face. “No,” he said, “No. I feel guilty for saying it, but I must admit that I’m rather relieved.”

Ewan grinned hugely at this statement and Tethys began to laugh. “Saleh,” she said, shaking her head, “You’re far too nice. When will you ever do anything for yourself?”

“Duty comes before personal pleasure,” Saleh said serenely.

“But duty doesn’t always call,” Tethys reminded him. “The world won’t come to an end if you enjoy yourself now and again.”

“Hn,” said Saleh, but he was smiling.

----------------------------------

ºEnya’s “Flora’s Secret,” because I’m too lame to write my own lyrics.

Comments and critiques welcome.

splatterdrops @ 2005-07-27T21:45:00

2005-07-28T01:55:06Z

Title: Tomorrow
Fandom: Original
Genre: Poetry
Rating: G
Summary: I will rise to a day choked in black.
Notes: Written for Columbia Creative Writing class, both the original and then the revised version after the class had critiqued it. I'd be interested to know what you think of the changes, although they're not terribly extreme. 07/06/05.

Tomorrow
Version One

I will rise to a day choked in black,
wait for the gold, and
resign to the blue.
My life will percolate into a
jar before me, to be
doctored as I see fit
until such time as the life
can be imbued in me.
The cat will grin.
You will utter my dream, but
too late, too late,
for the beginning will have ended
and the ending have begun.
The crumpled parchment, dyed
deep red, will flake, petal
by petal
to the floor.
There will be a torrential downpour,
and all the people
will be as
ants on the streets, scurrying
double-time to get out of
the blood.
I will walk in empty shadows
and live.

Tomorrow
Version Two

I will rise to a day choked in black,
wait for the gold, and
resign to the blue.
My life will percolate into a
jar before me, to be
doctored as I see fit.
The cat will grin.
The one I love
will utter my dream, but
too late,
too late,
for the beginning will have ended
and the ending will have begun.
The crumpled parchment, saturated
with crimson, will flake, petal
by petal
to the floor.
There will be a torrential cloudburst,
and all the people
will be as
ants on the streets, scurrying
helter-skelter to escape from
the blood.
I will walk in empty shadows
and live.

Comments and critiques welcome.

splatterdrops @ 2005-07-19T20:48:00

2005-07-20T00:52:35Z

Title: Elsewheres
Fandom: Original
Genre: Poetry
Rating: G
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to share things you love with people who just don't understand.
Notes: Written for Columbia Creative Writing class. 07/05/05.

To describe someplace
that you know like the back of your hand
(which has blue veins creating an H just
beneath your knuckles)
to someone who has never seen it before
is like trying to teach a dead dog
new tricks.
You say “like” a lot, and wave your hands about
until you levitate, especially
when you’ve blanked on a word.
You scramble for sinewy adjectives,
for a goldmine the someone can comprehend;
pictures in language.
Yet all the while, you are an energetic force,
persistent in your story.
And the someone will smile and nod,
but you can glimpse it in their glazed and waxen eyes:
they don’t really understand.
They don’t really see your something, see your
blue and golden spire; to them,
it is just another elsewhere.

Comments and critiques welcome.

splatterdrops @ 2005-07-15T00:23:00

2005-07-15T04:38:55Z

Title: On Not Giving Up
Fandom: Original
Genre: Drama (play/scene)
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: Leon's made it clear that he's not interested in Rina, but she won't take no for an answer. But if he won't talk to her, what can she do to prove it to him? Corner him where he can't escape, that's what.
Notes: Written for Columbia Creative Writing class. Original idea was as part of a fanfic, so much of the dialogue will probably show up later in said fanfic in prose format. This scene is probably from the middle or near the end of a play which has not been and likely never will be completely written. It is a stand-alone scene; backstory is given at the beginning of the piece. Much love to the real Rina for not having a problem with me stealing her awesome name.

On Not Giving Up

Act --, Scene –-

Backstory: Leon, a young psychiatrist, and Rina, a rambunctious young woman, have had several run-ins before. Rina has made no secret of the fact that she is romantically interested in Leon, but Leon has made it very clear that this feeling is not mutual. Leon is, in fact, interested in someone else, but this woman is happily engaged and Leon doesn’t stand a chance with her. Leon does not know that Rina knows all of this; he is, however, aware of the hopelessness of his infatuation, but he chooses to ignore this detail.

A psychiatrist’s office. It is neat and orderly, with full bookshelves, and a desk on which there is a lamp and a great deal of papers arranged in organized stacks. A young man, LEON, well dressed and serious, sits behind the desk and the chair opposite him is empty; he appears to be waiting for his next patient.

The door opens and a young woman, RINA, walks in as if she owns the place, completely confident in her right to be there. She is dressed in relatively bright clothing, with an air of determination about her. LEON tenses when she enters, looking increasingly irritated.

LEON: (curtly) What do you want?

RINA: (grinning) Doctor, I’m hurt! I’ve got an appointment; I’m here to get help.

LEON: Like hell you are. Get out.

RINA: I paid good money to be here.

LEON: I’ll get you a refund. (shuffles papers, pretending to be busy)

RINA: No. (sits on the desk)

LEON: (offended) Excuse me. Get off the desk.

(RINA settles herself into the chair)

LEON: I told you to get out. I’ll get you your money back if you leave now.

RINA: I don’t want my money back.

LEON: Then I won’t bother, but get the fuck out of my office!

RINA: Hey, I’m just here for a session, like anybody else.

LEON: Oh yeah, sure. Do you realize how desperate this looks? Spending money on a therapy session just for the chance to talk to me?

RINA: Isn’t that the point of a therapy session? To talk to a psychologist?

LEON: (realizing that he can’t get out of this) Fine. (leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers together and glaring at her with barely contained anger) What’s your problem?

RINA: (innocently) Well, there’s this guy I’m interested in, but he just keeps pushing me away.

LEON: I see. Has it occurred to you that maybe this ‘guy’ isn’t interested in you?

RINA: But that’s just it. How can he know he isn’t interested when he hasn’t even given me a chance?

LEON: Maybe he doesn’t need to give you a chance. Maybe he already knows that he’s not interested.

RINA: Oh, but he is. I know he’s interested, he just refuses to admit it to himself.

LEON: That’s awful presumptuous of you.

RINA: (smugly) Not when it’s true.

LEON: Perhaps part of the problem here is your obvious arrogance in the face of the situation. Maybe he’s put off by the fact that your ego is the size of a landfill and half as attractive. Maybe you’re simply deluding yourself. Maybe he even has someone else that he’s interested in! (breaks off abruptly, realizing what he’s said)

RINA: (softly) Maybe he ought to realize when he’s chasing after a lost cause.

LEON: (angry again) And maybe you ought to speak for yourself.

RINA: But see, I’m not on a wild goose chase. I actually stand a chance.

LEON: What the hell makes you think that?

RINA: The fact that I want a chance.

LEON

: You don’t always get everything you want, Rina. Sometimes you just have to give up and move on with your life.

RINA: But if the heart gave up, then wouldn’t the body stop living? (stands) Which means this really comes down to a battle of wills. And just for the record: I always win.

RINA gives him a smile that is both flirtatious and bitter with pain, then leans across the desk, grabs him by the collar, and pulls him towards her for a brief kiss. After a moment she releases him, then turns and stalks from the room without another word.

Comments and critiques welcome.