Post by max on Sept 2, 2013 13:58:59 GMT 10
Title: The foam of the coast
Rating: PG
MPP: #82 (Ostara)
Summary: Pasco comes to a turning point. Part one of In a Temperate Climate.
Notes: Wrote this for MPPC but didn’t finish the series but am now sitting on the stories I did actually complete. The bit at the end is Carl Sandburg. The title is from a Neruda poem.
The only thing he had ever remembered about Equinox was the dances.
The only reason he remembered that he only ever remembered the dances was because this had been what had come to his mind, not when Sandry told him he had magic, but when he had finally believed her.
(So that’s why, he remembers thinking, and laughing out loud at the fact of it.)
The year she goes to Namorn he dances The Measures for the first time – the Measures; universally acknowledged as the most strenuous of all the holy dances and many others besides, with its demand for equilibrium in every whirling movement – in doing so, seals his reputation as the greatest working premier in all the Pebbled Sea.
This isn’t what he remembers of it, though.
Sometimes – especially through the long, aching summer that follows – he even resents that it all falls to a blur inside of him (all that he has left: a leap off cold stone, an impression of crystals lit and glittering between living boughs of flowers. His breathing, so loud in his body it had drowned out the applause).
She’d rushed over afterwards and hugged him so tightly it had felt as though his heart had been beating in her body.
(And her green silk gown had made her eyes look more turquoise than blue.)
Because he had been properly taller than her from the age of fourteen, she had needed to lean up on tiptoe to say, ‘I’m so proud of you!’
(And her breath had felt cold as the wind off the sea when it brushed his throat.)
And he had adored her since she found him on the docks one dawn morning that has, in his memory, become stained in the gold and pink of awakening, and this had not been the reason he had clutched her more tightly to him when she had spoken to him with the sea in her. Locked up the sensation of holding her (rendered painful, with the afterburning of his muscles) to revisit in the quiet, lonely hours after he meditates and before the summer sun has properly arisen. The day of the balance, had come to a threshold quite apart from the confirmation of summer’s heralded resplendence and it had been irrevocable.
Unable now to dissociate the scent of jasmine from the secret rush of knowledge that, in holding her, he had never wanted to let go.
*
He was the same man in the same world as before. Only there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly over the world he looked on.
Rating: PG
MPP: #82 (Ostara)
Summary: Pasco comes to a turning point. Part one of In a Temperate Climate.
Notes: Wrote this for MPPC but didn’t finish the series but am now sitting on the stories I did actually complete. The bit at the end is Carl Sandburg. The title is from a Neruda poem.
The only thing he had ever remembered about Equinox was the dances.
The only reason he remembered that he only ever remembered the dances was because this had been what had come to his mind, not when Sandry told him he had magic, but when he had finally believed her.
(So that’s why, he remembers thinking, and laughing out loud at the fact of it.)
The year she goes to Namorn he dances The Measures for the first time – the Measures; universally acknowledged as the most strenuous of all the holy dances and many others besides, with its demand for equilibrium in every whirling movement – in doing so, seals his reputation as the greatest working premier in all the Pebbled Sea.
This isn’t what he remembers of it, though.
Sometimes – especially through the long, aching summer that follows – he even resents that it all falls to a blur inside of him (all that he has left: a leap off cold stone, an impression of crystals lit and glittering between living boughs of flowers. His breathing, so loud in his body it had drowned out the applause).
She’d rushed over afterwards and hugged him so tightly it had felt as though his heart had been beating in her body.
(And her green silk gown had made her eyes look more turquoise than blue.)
Because he had been properly taller than her from the age of fourteen, she had needed to lean up on tiptoe to say, ‘I’m so proud of you!’
(And her breath had felt cold as the wind off the sea when it brushed his throat.)
And he had adored her since she found him on the docks one dawn morning that has, in his memory, become stained in the gold and pink of awakening, and this had not been the reason he had clutched her more tightly to him when she had spoken to him with the sea in her. Locked up the sensation of holding her (rendered painful, with the afterburning of his muscles) to revisit in the quiet, lonely hours after he meditates and before the summer sun has properly arisen. The day of the balance, had come to a threshold quite apart from the confirmation of summer’s heralded resplendence and it had been irrevocable.
Unable now to dissociate the scent of jasmine from the secret rush of knowledge that, in holding her, he had never wanted to let go.
*
He was the same man in the same world as before. Only there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly over the world he looked on.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!