Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2011 18:08:40 GMT 10
Title: Futile Hope
Rating: PG
Word Count: 258
Card: Winter
Bingo: Cold + Ice + Winter + Reflections + Hot Drink
Summary: Briar. Sitting still. Self-reflection. One of these things is not like the others.
During his journey east, he had traveled alongside a trio of identical triplets. Brief acquaintance led to the glimmers of friendship, and when Briar sat opposite them during a conversation, keeping an eye on the traveling caravan leader that had tried to grossly overcharge their fare, he'd noticed the familiar signs, among the triplets, of words exchanged without speaking. The triplets were fifteen years his senior; they'd given him hope.
A futile hope, as it turned out.
Their previous dinner, for instance, among the glitter of Berenene's court. A winter snowstorm spun and shrieked outside, throwing hail against brick walls and a scattering of chips of shattered ice against the magic-reinforced glass windows. Twenty minutes in, a messenger had dashed, half-frozen, into the hall, interrupting festivities. Observing Berenene's face, Briar was almost tempted to say to his siblings, 'I'm surprised Berenene's glare doesn't melt the ice, steam it up, and make him burn.' Then he'd remembered when he was, and hadn't bothered making them laugh.
Now it was much later, and Briar's steaming drink had gone cold - and he hadn't grown into enough of a Bag to call for the servants, in this hour of the frigid night, to warm it for him. He left it by his bed, reminding himself that he didn't actually want to listen to the girls again. Too much could hurt them; too much about them would annoy him, the way they nattered on.
He would tell that part to Sandry, too, he decided, if she pushed again for their previous closeness.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 258
Card: Winter
Bingo: Cold + Ice + Winter + Reflections + Hot Drink
Summary: Briar. Sitting still. Self-reflection. One of these things is not like the others.
During his journey east, he had traveled alongside a trio of identical triplets. Brief acquaintance led to the glimmers of friendship, and when Briar sat opposite them during a conversation, keeping an eye on the traveling caravan leader that had tried to grossly overcharge their fare, he'd noticed the familiar signs, among the triplets, of words exchanged without speaking. The triplets were fifteen years his senior; they'd given him hope.
A futile hope, as it turned out.
Their previous dinner, for instance, among the glitter of Berenene's court. A winter snowstorm spun and shrieked outside, throwing hail against brick walls and a scattering of chips of shattered ice against the magic-reinforced glass windows. Twenty minutes in, a messenger had dashed, half-frozen, into the hall, interrupting festivities. Observing Berenene's face, Briar was almost tempted to say to his siblings, 'I'm surprised Berenene's glare doesn't melt the ice, steam it up, and make him burn.' Then he'd remembered when he was, and hadn't bothered making them laugh.
Now it was much later, and Briar's steaming drink had gone cold - and he hadn't grown into enough of a Bag to call for the servants, in this hour of the frigid night, to warm it for him. He left it by his bed, reminding himself that he didn't actually want to listen to the girls again. Too much could hurt them; too much about them would annoy him, the way they nattered on.
He would tell that part to Sandry, too, he decided, if she pushed again for their previous closeness.