Post by Kit on Dec 2, 2011 20:31:15 GMT 10
For: Kit
Dark!Circle fic has been teasing at my brain for a while now. Thing is, what with ficmas, I've also had a great, sprawling AU where Sandry was educated in Namorn after her parents died. This causes a great many repercussions, and this ficlet (one of a few, I think) is the result. Hope you enjoy!
From: Kit
Title: Stitch witch (Cat's cradle AU)
Rating: PG-13. Little bit triggery if you have teacher-parent abuse issues.
Word Count: 354
Wishlist Item: #1 Dark!Circle
Summary: Sandry completes a working.
Dancruan, Namorn; 1036 HE
Sandrilene fa Toren settled into the rhythm of her stitchwork; she revelled in minute movements of hand and shoulder and wrist, her thumb a steady grip and the needle slick and warm within it, sparkling slightly before her half closed eyes. She felt her magic—her magic; it was strange to call it that, to think that way, even after months of lessons and the familiar buzz of the protective circle against her skin—seemed to fly just above her stitching. Locks. She had been told to think of locks. Trying them and tangling them and making sure no one could ever open them again, stitching them shut with her magic as a picture formed under her hands from the guiding thread.
She heard a click. She paused. Looked up. The lock that had been set before her—a dull, lumpen thing, open and useless—was now closed, threads from the carpet tangled all in its workings. Sandry smiled.
“Look. I did it. I really think I—”
A foot broke the dried sage and willow that made the circle. A hand knocked her embroidery away, sharp and hard and slapping her skin. Sandry gasped.
“I said you did not need your toys any longer.” Her teacher’s voice was dry and precise; Ishabal Laddyhammer’s eyes were as hard as her name. “They are not necessary to you. A crutch, only.”
“I—“
“—am tired of being interrupted by silly girls.” Isha shook her head. “Sandry. Her Imperial Majesty does not need a stitch witch.”
Sniffing, the older woman tossed the embroidery scrap aside, nudging the lock with her bare foot. “She needs someone who can do this,” she nodded. “With magic alone.”
“I understand, Viymese.”
“And yet, you persist.” Isha’s hand fell to Sandry’s still half-bowed head, fingers biting under her hair at the back of her neck. She shook slightly, and the child winced, teeth caught in her lip. And still, Sandry felt words trickle out of her mouth.
“Mages,” said the mage, “Do not mumble.”
“I like sewing.”
Isha’s hand bit harder, and Sandrilene fa Toren went white.
Dark!Circle fic has been teasing at my brain for a while now. Thing is, what with ficmas, I've also had a great, sprawling AU where Sandry was educated in Namorn after her parents died. This causes a great many repercussions, and this ficlet (one of a few, I think) is the result. Hope you enjoy!
From: Kit
Title: Stitch witch (Cat's cradle AU)
Rating: PG-13. Little bit triggery if you have teacher-parent abuse issues.
Word Count: 354
Wishlist Item: #1 Dark!Circle
Summary: Sandry completes a working.
Dancruan, Namorn; 1036 HE
Sandrilene fa Toren settled into the rhythm of her stitchwork; she revelled in minute movements of hand and shoulder and wrist, her thumb a steady grip and the needle slick and warm within it, sparkling slightly before her half closed eyes. She felt her magic—her magic; it was strange to call it that, to think that way, even after months of lessons and the familiar buzz of the protective circle against her skin—seemed to fly just above her stitching. Locks. She had been told to think of locks. Trying them and tangling them and making sure no one could ever open them again, stitching them shut with her magic as a picture formed under her hands from the guiding thread.
She heard a click. She paused. Looked up. The lock that had been set before her—a dull, lumpen thing, open and useless—was now closed, threads from the carpet tangled all in its workings. Sandry smiled.
“Look. I did it. I really think I—”
A foot broke the dried sage and willow that made the circle. A hand knocked her embroidery away, sharp and hard and slapping her skin. Sandry gasped.
“I said you did not need your toys any longer.” Her teacher’s voice was dry and precise; Ishabal Laddyhammer’s eyes were as hard as her name. “They are not necessary to you. A crutch, only.”
“I—“
“—am tired of being interrupted by silly girls.” Isha shook her head. “Sandry. Her Imperial Majesty does not need a stitch witch.”
Sniffing, the older woman tossed the embroidery scrap aside, nudging the lock with her bare foot. “She needs someone who can do this,” she nodded. “With magic alone.”
“I understand, Viymese.”
“And yet, you persist.” Isha’s hand fell to Sandry’s still half-bowed head, fingers biting under her hair at the back of her neck. She shook slightly, and the child winced, teeth caught in her lip. And still, Sandry felt words trickle out of her mouth.
“Mages,” said the mage, “Do not mumble.”
“I like sewing.”
Isha’s hand bit harder, and Sandrilene fa Toren went white.