Post by Kit on Apr 24, 2011 0:45:17 GMT 10
Title: Bells and spires [2]
Rating: PG
Word count: 254
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 2/B
Warning: possibly a little PTSD triggery.
Summary: Other people''s trauma. Lark is unsure if she wants to get inside or escape Rosethorn's head.
Paraskeve had been no stranger to the Air Temple, though Lark, wandering through it now, finds herself at least half way to lost. She fills its quiet with the yearning sounds, the waiting sounds on the edge of hearing, that seem to sneak up in such places—those moments so many Air Dedicates strive towards, forgetting their bodies and even the loudest parts of their minds in spiritsearch. Air is a questing place, and Lark resonates with it now, remembering a younger self who feared that Earth might be too deep, too intimate, for an acrobat cut away from her audience.
When Crane finds her at the foot of the stairs of the Temple bell-tower, his tentative touch on her shoulder is a shout. She feels sandstone and grit, the pulse of the bells through her spine in a pulse that never matches hers, sticking itself between her heartbeats so they shy and drag. He touches her, draws her up so he does not half to kneel even in sacred dirt.
“My dear?”
“It’s the bells,” she says, soft and drawn. “I’m not the one who should be upset, but now every time I hear them I worry she’ll—” The words gag her. She coughs. “The things they did.” She shakes her head slowly, not looking at him. “And every time I hear these bells I’m frightened of what she might feel, in case it’s something I can’t help. Don’t say anything. Please.”
Crane does not. But he shifts enough to hold her.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: PG
Word count: 254
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 2/B
Warning: possibly a little PTSD triggery.
Summary: Other people''s trauma. Lark is unsure if she wants to get inside or escape Rosethorn's head.
Paraskeve had been no stranger to the Air Temple, though Lark, wandering through it now, finds herself at least half way to lost. She fills its quiet with the yearning sounds, the waiting sounds on the edge of hearing, that seem to sneak up in such places—those moments so many Air Dedicates strive towards, forgetting their bodies and even the loudest parts of their minds in spiritsearch. Air is a questing place, and Lark resonates with it now, remembering a younger self who feared that Earth might be too deep, too intimate, for an acrobat cut away from her audience.
When Crane finds her at the foot of the stairs of the Temple bell-tower, his tentative touch on her shoulder is a shout. She feels sandstone and grit, the pulse of the bells through her spine in a pulse that never matches hers, sticking itself between her heartbeats so they shy and drag. He touches her, draws her up so he does not half to kneel even in sacred dirt.
“My dear?”
“It’s the bells,” she says, soft and drawn. “I’m not the one who should be upset, but now every time I hear them I worry she’ll—” The words gag her. She coughs. “The things they did.” She shakes her head slowly, not looking at him. “And every time I hear these bells I’m frightened of what she might feel, in case it’s something I can’t help. Don’t say anything. Please.”
Crane does not. But he shifts enough to hold her.
QC: by Cassandra