Post by wordy on Apr 16, 2013 10:01:19 GMT 10
Title: Today
Rating: PG
Word Count: 289
Pairing: Crane/Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1B
Summary: Set at the end of The Healing in the Vine, during Rosethorn’s recovery.
Warnings: Mild PTSD/depression undertones.
The small pot sits on the table next to her bed. Sometimes she leans across to it and rubs a leaf between her fingers, then brings them to her nose and inhales the smell of fresh mint, sharp and lingering, a contradiction. But only when no one can see her do it.
The two of them look at each other and Lark sits on the edge of the bed, her hip pressing warmly against Rosethorn’s leg through the sheet.
Rosethorn wishes that Lark would argue, like they used to.
The sun shines warmly through her bedroom window, but it is outside and can do little but look in; she is inside, curled up beneath the sheets, inside herself, a garden waiting for her to close her eyes. She cups her hands to her face and breathes, and prays for an early spring.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 289
Pairing: Crane/Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1B
Summary: Set at the end of The Healing in the Vine, during Rosethorn’s recovery.
Warnings: Mild PTSD/depression undertones.
The small pot sits on the table next to her bed. Sometimes she leans across to it and rubs a leaf between her fingers, then brings them to her nose and inhales the smell of fresh mint, sharp and lingering, a contradiction. But only when no one can see her do it.
One afternoon Lark bends to kiss her and pauses. So does Rosethorn, realising too late that Lark must have caught the scent from the still-shaky hand pressed to her cheek.
The two of them look at each other and Lark sits on the edge of the bed, her hip pressing warmly against Rosethorn’s leg through the sheet.
“He feels guilty,” she says, gently.
“Crane is a fool.”
Lark holds her tongue, and leaves soon after. The bedroom feels much bigger and emptier without her.
Rosethorn wishes that Lark would argue, like they used to.
She’s sensible enough to know that every winter has a purpose, that things need time to heal and grow, but being coddled is only enjoyable when it’s not a necessity. Crane wouldn’t coddle her. He’d make her bite her tongue or snap at him, and even that would be preferable to this. To his guilt.
This cotton wool existence makes her feel weak. She wants hard-pressed earth and pelting rain, the tough skin of new seeds, tangled roots. She wants people to look at her as though she’s whole again.
The sun shines warmly through her bedroom window, but it is outside and can do little but look in; she is inside, curled up beneath the sheets, inside herself, a garden waiting for her to close her eyes. She cups her hands to her face and breathes, and prays for an early spring.