Post by Kit on Mar 18, 2010 14:12:24 GMT 10
Title: Squires and Sons: Ordeal
Rating: PG
Length: 420
Round: 3/A
Competitor: Alanna
Summary: Through layers of fear, the Lioness sometimes forgets
They did not sit close, in the Chapel of the Ordeal.
Keladry was close the front, by the other Knight Masters, a long body of stillness in the dim light, her hands clasped.
Not even moving. Alanna remembered Kel’s ordeal. Remembered Raoul, running a constant hand through his hair, even when Buri moved to stop him. She remembered the stifling silence. Her own heart in her mouth, uncomfortable and heavy. The metaphors ate into her skin, thinning it, so veins were easy and blue and vulnerable, her blood too fast, dripping steadily into her mouth. She remembered the Lady Ilane with her head bent , her hand over her eyes, in a break of face that made perfect sense.
She remembered waiting for Neal in the days before, sitting where Kel was now, and waiting for the infuriating, feckless, passionate and beautiful boy that had somehow sidled around into her heart. Her own first Squire, as much as Alan was now Kel’s.
Alan. Her son was Kel’s, and Kel was not moving. Her nails were not bitten down to bloodied ends, her throat did not work; she did not look out at the world as if she did so from a skinless body, her insides on glory display to all.
She did not, to Alanna’s eyes, even give off the small signs of worry that she now knew as well as she usually knew her own breathing. No slow fall of lashes on her cheek. No tightening around the eyes or mouth. She did not even look as if all thoughts, good or ill, had been smoothed from her skin.
Keladry looked calm, and it was not right. No one who had seen dead boys and bruised boys come from that place—no one who had had the metaphors soaked and driven and screamed and silenced into her own body—no one who had been knighted should be calm in the face of that thing.
Not when Alan was inside it.
Beside her, George made a low noise the back of his throat, and she took his hand.
“Only one Knight,” he said. “Never been so glad before.”
No words were fit for the Chapel. Not now. But she pressed her lips to his forehead, tight and flushed, a trickle of sweat curling from one temple. She kissed him, his hand curling in her cropped hair, and she drew from him as she knew, deep inside, he did from her.
Kel did not look away from the chamber door.
They all waited.
Rating: PG
Length: 420
Round: 3/A
Competitor: Alanna
Summary: Through layers of fear, the Lioness sometimes forgets
They did not sit close, in the Chapel of the Ordeal.
Keladry was close the front, by the other Knight Masters, a long body of stillness in the dim light, her hands clasped.
Not even moving. Alanna remembered Kel’s ordeal. Remembered Raoul, running a constant hand through his hair, even when Buri moved to stop him. She remembered the stifling silence. Her own heart in her mouth, uncomfortable and heavy. The metaphors ate into her skin, thinning it, so veins were easy and blue and vulnerable, her blood too fast, dripping steadily into her mouth. She remembered the Lady Ilane with her head bent , her hand over her eyes, in a break of face that made perfect sense.
She remembered waiting for Neal in the days before, sitting where Kel was now, and waiting for the infuriating, feckless, passionate and beautiful boy that had somehow sidled around into her heart. Her own first Squire, as much as Alan was now Kel’s.
Alan. Her son was Kel’s, and Kel was not moving. Her nails were not bitten down to bloodied ends, her throat did not work; she did not look out at the world as if she did so from a skinless body, her insides on glory display to all.
She did not, to Alanna’s eyes, even give off the small signs of worry that she now knew as well as she usually knew her own breathing. No slow fall of lashes on her cheek. No tightening around the eyes or mouth. She did not even look as if all thoughts, good or ill, had been smoothed from her skin.
Keladry looked calm, and it was not right. No one who had seen dead boys and bruised boys come from that place—no one who had had the metaphors soaked and driven and screamed and silenced into her own body—no one who had been knighted should be calm in the face of that thing.
Not when Alan was inside it.
Beside her, George made a low noise the back of his throat, and she took his hand.
“Only one Knight,” he said. “Never been so glad before.”
No words were fit for the Chapel. Not now. But she pressed her lips to his forehead, tight and flushed, a trickle of sweat curling from one temple. She kissed him, his hand curling in her cropped hair, and she drew from him as she knew, deep inside, he did from her.
Kel did not look away from the chamber door.
They all waited.