Post by Kit on Aug 4, 2010 15:45:44 GMT 10
Title: Rootstock
Rating: G
Prompt: Over the world and under the world
Summary: Niva has hopes.
Note: 'Paraskeve' is the name I give pre-Dedicate Lark in Speculation, and it's rather stuck. This is not in my AU.
Paraskeve did not know what held her in the threshold of the cranky novice’s workshop. But she was caught, and watched, as the auburn haired girl talked to her plants.
“One day,” Niva whispered, fingers not quite caressing the dark, rich earth in this latest window box—the eighth, perhaps, that Paraskeve had seen this Moon alone—“You shall be magnificent.”
The small woman sighed, then, pulling back from her work and running a pale hand through her hair. “It’s not as daft as it sounds, you know,” she said, not quite snapping as she turned and caught the new novice’s eyes with a steady glare. “Right now, these ‘silly flowers’ have a root system more complicated than any writing system we’ve managed to produce. And when they’re grown, they’ll be a riot." Her smile was satisfied. "Above the earth, below it.”
“Why would I call them silly flowers?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Others have. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Not being judgemental.”
Niva stiffened. “Was that a joke?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you are strange. And you should stop watching me and have some honey and calendula. You’re rasping. Easy to tell when you’re here.”
“I think,” Paras said, turning away as the bells began to ring for lessons, “That they shall be magnificent. And,” she muttered, the dim coolness of the workspace pooling away from her back, “So shall you.”
Rating: G
Prompt: Over the world and under the world
Summary: Niva has hopes.
Note: 'Paraskeve' is the name I give pre-Dedicate Lark in Speculation, and it's rather stuck. This is not in my AU.
Paraskeve did not know what held her in the threshold of the cranky novice’s workshop. But she was caught, and watched, as the auburn haired girl talked to her plants.
“One day,” Niva whispered, fingers not quite caressing the dark, rich earth in this latest window box—the eighth, perhaps, that Paraskeve had seen this Moon alone—“You shall be magnificent.”
The small woman sighed, then, pulling back from her work and running a pale hand through her hair. “It’s not as daft as it sounds, you know,” she said, not quite snapping as she turned and caught the new novice’s eyes with a steady glare. “Right now, these ‘silly flowers’ have a root system more complicated than any writing system we’ve managed to produce. And when they’re grown, they’ll be a riot." Her smile was satisfied. "Above the earth, below it.”
“Why would I call them silly flowers?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Others have. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Not being judgemental.”
Niva stiffened. “Was that a joke?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you are strange. And you should stop watching me and have some honey and calendula. You’re rasping. Easy to tell when you’re here.”
“I think,” Paras said, turning away as the bells began to ring for lessons, “That they shall be magnificent. And,” she muttered, the dim coolness of the workspace pooling away from her back, “So shall you.”