Post by Kit on Mar 9, 2011 23:44:40 GMT 10
Title: Readiness, rightness
Rating: PG
Word Count: 247
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: Rosethorn sometimes forgets which way is up
“Well?”
“Yes, Rosie?”
The name still felt strange in another’s mouth. It was odd in her own, though Novice Niva, Rosethorn felt, had left much of herself elsewhere, leaving plenty of room for the rest of her life. Niva was tangled in hedgerows in Anderran; trapped between pages in Lightsbridge and sweated out in the sickrooms of Karang. Rosethorn felt right to her—and Rosie?
Well, when this woman said it. Even when she was infuriating. “If I’m not ready—”
“—which you’re not—”
“—then talk to me.”
“About old lovers?” Paraskeve—still Paraskeve, and reticent about any future name—looked up from her hemming, green fabric heavy beneath her dark hands and white lap. “That would hardly be fair.”
Rosethorn scowled. “You know about Crane.” It burst out of her, furious and hardly any use at all, as the taller woman shook her head. Only her voice smiled.
“That’s not exactly old,” she murmured, and Rosethorn scowled all the more for feeling herself blush.
Paras set down her work, and the new Dedicate felt herself caught by each motion, every slight rasp of her breath. They were in her workroom, Paras craving company and a break from the cold of her own near-finished quarters, and green shadows made patterns across her face. Rosethorn watched the lacework fern made out of Paras’s skin, and felt a small, urgent noise in her throat. Tasted it. Swallowed it down and shivered with it, while the weaver met her eyes, and grinned.
“If you need a catalogue of lovers before you feel you can be mine,” she said, low and amused. “Then no, you’re not ready. Not quite yet.”
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG
Word Count: 247
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: Rosethorn sometimes forgets which way is up
“Well?”
“Yes, Rosie?”
The name still felt strange in another’s mouth. It was odd in her own, though Novice Niva, Rosethorn felt, had left much of herself elsewhere, leaving plenty of room for the rest of her life. Niva was tangled in hedgerows in Anderran; trapped between pages in Lightsbridge and sweated out in the sickrooms of Karang. Rosethorn felt right to her—and Rosie?
Well, when this woman said it. Even when she was infuriating. “If I’m not ready—”
“—which you’re not—”
“—then talk to me.”
“About old lovers?” Paraskeve—still Paraskeve, and reticent about any future name—looked up from her hemming, green fabric heavy beneath her dark hands and white lap. “That would hardly be fair.”
Rosethorn scowled. “You know about Crane.” It burst out of her, furious and hardly any use at all, as the taller woman shook her head. Only her voice smiled.
“That’s not exactly old,” she murmured, and Rosethorn scowled all the more for feeling herself blush.
Paras set down her work, and the new Dedicate felt herself caught by each motion, every slight rasp of her breath. They were in her workroom, Paras craving company and a break from the cold of her own near-finished quarters, and green shadows made patterns across her face. Rosethorn watched the lacework fern made out of Paras’s skin, and felt a small, urgent noise in her throat. Tasted it. Swallowed it down and shivered with it, while the weaver met her eyes, and grinned.
“If you need a catalogue of lovers before you feel you can be mine,” she said, low and amused. “Then no, you’re not ready. Not quite yet.”
QC by: journeycat