Post by Deleted on May 1, 2011 9:00:05 GMT 10
Title: Slide (13)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 592
Pairing: Circlecest
Round/Fight: 2/C
Summary: And every time they do this, they slide further into despair. Last in the series. Briar/Sandry, rated for sex, mentioned character death. Dark-ish.
It's her second time at Earth temple rites; she's not any readier to see her other foster-mother buried beneath layers upon layers of dirt. Never mind that Lark's been dead for years; never mind that Niko preceded her in death, and Frostpine followed, incinerated in a flame originating from Winding Circle's Heartfire, his body the source of a morbidly beautiful cloud of sparks. Never mind they'd had weeks of foreknowledge of Rosethorn's end; Briar is losing his primary teacher.
She takes one step toward Briar, who stands as close as he can get to the edge of the herb garden; and another, though the air seems to weigh her down. One more, and it's a slow process of moving to stand next to him. She's right there before she sees a long-wilted rose clenched into his fist. Curiosity makes her lift his hand up to stare at it; she's never had a problem with bodily contact with HIM. Briar, despite exuding the clear desire not to be touched, doesn't react.
He was brooding on the roof, Sandry realized. She exchanged a wry grin with Tris -- it looked odd on the more impassive, more collected mage-student's face -- and, together, they approached Briar. He looked up with a scowl. "What d'you want?"
"We're sitting on the roof, Thief-Boy," Tris said coolly. "Just like you are."
Sandry reached over, poking at the hand that held bits and pieces of the thatched roof he'd been absentmindedly pulling out. "Except we're not as rude."
When the burial is over, Briar pays his own respects by setting the rose by Rosethorn's Garden, as it will be known. Before her eyes, that wilted flower regains deep, impossibly red petals and luster; vines sprout and climb a circle of disused bean-runner poles, decorating it in dark green and blood red. For years to come, Sandry knows, every passerby will be reminded of the roses Rosethorn grew for Lark, out of sharp but genuine love, from which this rose was plucked.
She thinks about her foster-mothers on the way home, and can't help but recall chasing Briar around Discipline's gardens when she caught him filching her needles to tattoo his arms. He was too fast -- she'd been forced to resort to tackling him, and then holding him down by his clothes. She recalls that happiness; she doesn't feel it. Everything's just gray: not depressing, but numb.
Somehow, she's not surprised that Briar pauses at the landing after their foster-siblings have forced themselves to bed (separate beds, Sandry can sense). She shouldn't be doing this; she can feel that he knows he shouldn't be doing this. It doesn't stop the desire to drag his head down until it's level with hers, and let him make her forget about funerals, make her remember riding back from Narmon, flushed with victory.
In the moment, in the now, it doesn't stop her from spinning him around to look at her, and leaning on her toes to kiss him.
In the moment, in the now, it doesn't stop his arms from immediately wrapping around her waist, to tug her closer.
It occurs to Sandry that it's never been just them, before she makes herself forget. She still clings. He still spins her around to lean her against the door, his breath wet and heavy by her throat.
And though Sandry knows, and is aware that Briar also knows, that every time they do this they slide further into despair, they spend a sleepless night in Briar's bed and pretend tomorrow will never come.
Excluded for having no direct mention of Daja. Circlecest fic can focus on two of the four, so long as the other two are at least mentioned.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 592
Pairing: Circlecest
Round/Fight: 2/C
Summary: And every time they do this, they slide further into despair. Last in the series. Briar/Sandry, rated for sex, mentioned character death. Dark-ish.
It's her second time at Earth temple rites; she's not any readier to see her other foster-mother buried beneath layers upon layers of dirt. Never mind that Lark's been dead for years; never mind that Niko preceded her in death, and Frostpine followed, incinerated in a flame originating from Winding Circle's Heartfire, his body the source of a morbidly beautiful cloud of sparks. Never mind they'd had weeks of foreknowledge of Rosethorn's end; Briar is losing his primary teacher.
She takes one step toward Briar, who stands as close as he can get to the edge of the herb garden; and another, though the air seems to weigh her down. One more, and it's a slow process of moving to stand next to him. She's right there before she sees a long-wilted rose clenched into his fist. Curiosity makes her lift his hand up to stare at it; she's never had a problem with bodily contact with HIM. Briar, despite exuding the clear desire not to be touched, doesn't react.
He was brooding on the roof, Sandry realized. She exchanged a wry grin with Tris -- it looked odd on the more impassive, more collected mage-student's face -- and, together, they approached Briar. He looked up with a scowl. "What d'you want?"
"We're sitting on the roof, Thief-Boy," Tris said coolly. "Just like you are."
Sandry reached over, poking at the hand that held bits and pieces of the thatched roof he'd been absentmindedly pulling out. "Except we're not as rude."
When the burial is over, Briar pays his own respects by setting the rose by Rosethorn's Garden, as it will be known. Before her eyes, that wilted flower regains deep, impossibly red petals and luster; vines sprout and climb a circle of disused bean-runner poles, decorating it in dark green and blood red. For years to come, Sandry knows, every passerby will be reminded of the roses Rosethorn grew for Lark, out of sharp but genuine love, from which this rose was plucked.
She thinks about her foster-mothers on the way home, and can't help but recall chasing Briar around Discipline's gardens when she caught him filching her needles to tattoo his arms. He was too fast -- she'd been forced to resort to tackling him, and then holding him down by his clothes. She recalls that happiness; she doesn't feel it. Everything's just gray: not depressing, but numb.
Somehow, she's not surprised that Briar pauses at the landing after their foster-siblings have forced themselves to bed (separate beds, Sandry can sense). She shouldn't be doing this; she can feel that he knows he shouldn't be doing this. It doesn't stop the desire to drag his head down until it's level with hers, and let him make her forget about funerals, make her remember riding back from Narmon, flushed with victory.
In the moment, in the now, it doesn't stop her from spinning him around to look at her, and leaning on her toes to kiss him.
In the moment, in the now, it doesn't stop his arms from immediately wrapping around her waist, to tug her closer.
It occurs to Sandry that it's never been just them, before she makes herself forget. She still clings. He still spins her around to lean her against the door, his breath wet and heavy by her throat.
And though Sandry knows, and is aware that Briar also knows, that every time they do this they slide further into despair, they spend a sleepless night in Briar's bed and pretend tomorrow will never come.
Excluded for having no direct mention of Daja. Circlecest fic can focus on two of the four, so long as the other two are at least mentioned.