Post by Kit on Mar 8, 2011 19:41:51 GMT 10
Title: New stories
Rating: G
Word Count: 304
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: in 1036, Yazmin Hebet has questions
“You don't find it strange?”
Yazmin smiled as she spoke, and Lark enjoyed the lines of her. The shapes made by back and arm and hand, the blue earthenware pot an easy extension of her body as she poured tea for both of them. The tea matched the curl that spilled, artful and familiar, across her face.
“I am strange, my dear.”
The dancer laughed. “Strange staying so still,” she said. Lark did not remember when her voice had begun to crack in high places. Her own memories smoothed old words. She grinned now, as Yazmin set down the teapot and tried to shape a life with her hands. “You, here, in this house.”
“You don't like the house?”
“I love the house. But you've just told me, my little bird, that you are happy to stay here in a house you made, full of other people's rooms, while your Rosethorn runs off to Chammur, to Yanjing. And you were always so happy in Yanjing.”
Lark took her hands. “You noticed.”
“I'm flighty. Not blind.” Yazmin grinned. Twenty-three years condensed in a flash of not quite perfect teeth. “From what I heard, she's fierce.”
“She has always wanted to travel so far.” Lark smiled. “All the stories I told couldn't help.”
“But you didn't travel with her.” Yazmin could not release her hands, pressing her own thumbs, with their tiny world of musculature, into the backs of them.”
Lark smiled, slowly curling her fingers around Yazmin's small, strong wrists. “I have travelled enough,” she said. “Rosie needs her own stories, and I...” slowly, she shook her head, remembering long roads and dust in her hair, and Yazmin Hebet's unbroken laughter. “I need to keep the home we made.”
QC by: journeycat
Rating: G
Word Count: 304
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: in 1036, Yazmin Hebet has questions
“You don't find it strange?”
Yazmin smiled as she spoke, and Lark enjoyed the lines of her. The shapes made by back and arm and hand, the blue earthenware pot an easy extension of her body as she poured tea for both of them. The tea matched the curl that spilled, artful and familiar, across her face.
“I am strange, my dear.”
The dancer laughed. “Strange staying so still,” she said. Lark did not remember when her voice had begun to crack in high places. Her own memories smoothed old words. She grinned now, as Yazmin set down the teapot and tried to shape a life with her hands. “You, here, in this house.”
“You don't like the house?”
“I love the house. But you've just told me, my little bird, that you are happy to stay here in a house you made, full of other people's rooms, while your Rosethorn runs off to Chammur, to Yanjing. And you were always so happy in Yanjing.”
Lark took her hands. “You noticed.”
“I'm flighty. Not blind.” Yazmin grinned. Twenty-three years condensed in a flash of not quite perfect teeth. “From what I heard, she's fierce.”
“She has always wanted to travel so far.” Lark smiled. “All the stories I told couldn't help.”
“But you didn't travel with her.” Yazmin could not release her hands, pressing her own thumbs, with their tiny world of musculature, into the backs of them.”
Lark smiled, slowly curling her fingers around Yazmin's small, strong wrists. “I have travelled enough,” she said. “Rosie needs her own stories, and I...” slowly, she shook her head, remembering long roads and dust in her hair, and Yazmin Hebet's unbroken laughter. “I need to keep the home we made.”
QC by: journeycat