Post by Deleted on Mar 30, 2011 8:04:48 GMT 10
Title: A View From the Window
Rating: PG
Word Count: 361
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: How do you say everything that can't be said out loud?
It's an absolutely disgusting hour to be awake, but Sandry has been sleepless since before midnight devotions. Sweat rolls mercilessly along her temples, down her neck and back, clinging to her legs; she gives up and rolls out of bed.
She paces to the window and peers out, wishing Tris hadn't gone, wishing Briar and Rosethorn weren't about to leave... and nearly takes a step back in surprise. There, right outside, stand Rosethorn and Crane, silver light making their different colored robes appear the same deep gray. Their feet fade into the darkness, but she can see their faces so clearly.
They're not speaking. They're not even looking at each other. Sandry still knows, somehow, that meanings lie thickly in the still air. This is a private moment, but curiosity has always been her weakness, so she watches as they run hands down the stems of plants, pluck leaves here and there, and do not say a thing.
What Sandry finds strangest is that, otherwise, they give every indication of being caught in a conversation: heads turning this way or that, an arch of an eyebrow rising beneath the silver moon, lips curving into crescent smiles...
It's what the children of Discipline do every day.
Finally, Crane's long fingers unwrap, gently, from around the stem of one of Rosethorn's tomato plants. "To think I never knew..."
"Now you'll have no excuse for being a ninny if another epidemic strikes," Rosethorn says, still touching her bean plants' stalks. "You'll be able to reach me through the plants."
Crane shakes his head. "This is ridiculous. I should be glad I no longer need to argue with you." The soft quality in his voice says otherwise.
They stand on opposite sides of Rosethorn's garden, but when Crane runs a hand across her blooming vines, tracing their silvery stems, Rosethorn shivers, as though he'd touched her. Her hands cup the bean leaves, and he is still, very still, eyes closed, breathing heavy.
Sandry finally turns away, not disappointed that her window into their conversation has vanished. She is, instead, strangely glad that all they could bear to say aloud was spoken somewhere beyond her hearing.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 361
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: How do you say everything that can't be said out loud?
It's an absolutely disgusting hour to be awake, but Sandry has been sleepless since before midnight devotions. Sweat rolls mercilessly along her temples, down her neck and back, clinging to her legs; she gives up and rolls out of bed.
She paces to the window and peers out, wishing Tris hadn't gone, wishing Briar and Rosethorn weren't about to leave... and nearly takes a step back in surprise. There, right outside, stand Rosethorn and Crane, silver light making their different colored robes appear the same deep gray. Their feet fade into the darkness, but she can see their faces so clearly.
They're not speaking. They're not even looking at each other. Sandry still knows, somehow, that meanings lie thickly in the still air. This is a private moment, but curiosity has always been her weakness, so she watches as they run hands down the stems of plants, pluck leaves here and there, and do not say a thing.
What Sandry finds strangest is that, otherwise, they give every indication of being caught in a conversation: heads turning this way or that, an arch of an eyebrow rising beneath the silver moon, lips curving into crescent smiles...
It's what the children of Discipline do every day.
Finally, Crane's long fingers unwrap, gently, from around the stem of one of Rosethorn's tomato plants. "To think I never knew..."
"Now you'll have no excuse for being a ninny if another epidemic strikes," Rosethorn says, still touching her bean plants' stalks. "You'll be able to reach me through the plants."
Crane shakes his head. "This is ridiculous. I should be glad I no longer need to argue with you." The soft quality in his voice says otherwise.
They stand on opposite sides of Rosethorn's garden, but when Crane runs a hand across her blooming vines, tracing their silvery stems, Rosethorn shivers, as though he'd touched her. Her hands cup the bean leaves, and he is still, very still, eyes closed, breathing heavy.
Sandry finally turns away, not disappointed that her window into their conversation has vanished. She is, instead, strangely glad that all they could bear to say aloud was spoken somewhere beyond her hearing.