Post by Kit on Dec 12, 2011 16:53:03 GMT 10
To: Em
Message: HI! HAPPY HOLIDAYS. This is not, alas, the completion of Cat's cradle, but I couldn't write for you and NOT put in some Briar/Crane, since you love it so.
Love, kit
Title: Sanctuary
Rating: PG
Wishlist Item: (2 - Briar/Crane, UST)
Summary: Set after Will of the Empress. Briar turned into a man when Crane wasn't looking.
While Crane attended to Circle business—as he bent over ferns in the greenhouse, as he received letters from far-away Trisana and wrote some few to Rosethorn, as he let his own too-soft baritone join the Circle’s strength, and tried not to be too stiff and strange when Lark cajoled him into sharing meals—the boy had grown into a man.
Crane was the sort on whom adulthood snuck upon and then fled, on whim. He’d felt old at twelve and childish at thirty, feeling his face and body change out-of-time with the rest of him as he moved from his father’s small court to the Temple gardens. In Lightsbridge’s libraries, thoughts flying and days full, he had felt most grown-up indeed—until Niva, as she was, undercut theories and syllogisms with a raised eyebrow and slingshot wit. In those same libraries, feeling Niva whimper, surprised, against his mouth, leaning into hands that felt surer than he had ever hoped, he was adult again.
Watching Rosethorn cough herself to death, even as his cure took pox-marks from her skin; while Briar’s steady thief hands clenched so as not to shake, he was a child, angry and forlorn.
Briar, as he was now, was all sharp angles and bright eyes the colour of the greenhouse glass at midsummer, and as brittle. He smiled too wickedly, his laughter too loud for comfort. He stalked into other’s spaces, charmed and cheered and, even after his return from Namorn, accord with his siblings blessedly restored, the snatches Crane saw of him roiled and wrestled more than they were still.
As a man, Briar did not loiter about the Greenhouse. He not sneak. He simply walked in. One day in fourteen, then three times in seven. He walked in and helped with the new seeds—with the Bihan imports, which needed to coaxed to wakefulness in the foreign air.
(“Tricky little beggars,” Briar had said.
“They are princes amongst perennials,” Crane drawled. “The word you need is haughty, not tricksterish.
“You should have better luck with them, O Lordly One, rather than asking me.” Briar had grinned, all the brighter as Crane spluttered that, of course, Briar had not asked, at all.)
The greenhouse was, he knew, fine. Fine and ever finer, just as he had imagined it when he was Briar’s age, sketching plans in the back of workbooks, or letting his fingers trace its windows and doorways in ordinary earth.
(“Did you ever see the Empress’s?” No need to ask which empress, not when Tris still walked with a limp from Dancruan.
“I never had the pleasure,” Crane admitted. Briar sighed.
“A pleasure it was, at that. But this ain’t too shabby.”
“It is singularly unappealing,” Crane said, “To be so patronising at so young an age. You are vile.
“Keeps me smiling.”
Crane had looked up sharply at that, hearing something bleak and strange in the other man’s voice. Too like Rosethorn, as she spoke to him, haltingly, of the death of a Yanjing mage they had both known well. Briar had simply shrugged.)
When the visits to the greenhouse became as frequent as one day in two, Crane itched to confront him. He could, it seemed, barely blink without seeing Briar at some errand whenever he opened his eyes. Brown, slim hands coiling stems to stakes; his shadow blending with Crane’s as the two of them bent to shift canvas and glass and earth. Rosethorn often jeered from outside the walls, but Briar only laughed, matching for her word for wicked word before Crane even drew breath.
In the heart of the place, Briar snatched other comforts, brewing teas better than Crane remembered, his hands gentle on the blue porcelain cup he had first seen some ten years before. Flower tattoos writhed and stretched, an unsettling combination of snake or cat, in the shape of roses. “I still,” Crane said, “Mean to have you whipped if you steal that.”
“Hanged.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wasn’t it hanged?” Briar smiled, slow. “Hanged or gaoled. Some mix.” He shrugged.
Crane sniffed, trying to hide a smile. “It still stands.”
Briar set the cup down, shoulders creaking as he rolled them. “You know full well I never stole anything from you,” he said. “Save maybe a little of your time, lately.”
“And space.”
Now it was Briar’s turn to look perplexed, eyebrows drawing together. “Excuse me?”
Crane, not expecting the question, swallowed faintly.
“You...encroach,” he said, breath and words quickening as Briar flinched, just enough for one man to notice. “It is not necessarily unwelcome. Not necessarily a bad thing. You have had it even as a child, with your sisters. A presence. It is simply more...evolved in you, as you have grown.” He smiled, a little wistful. “Blame Rosethorn,” he said. “She has always been the same. It is fitting you take after her.”
“Fitting?”
“And disconcerting,” Crane admitted.
“I imagine it would be,” Briar said, very light, so the words might be lost if the listener paid too much attention to his own breathing. “You love her quite a bit.” He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, solid again. “You mind my coming in and stealing all your precious personal space?”
Crane could not hide this smile. “Do you think,” he asked, “I would have endured it if I did?”
Briar picked up the blue cup again, holding it to warm, glass-filtered light. Crane watched as the light seemed to collect there, and his mouth was working without any prompting his brain.”
“You can keep it,” he said.
“What?”
“You cannot steal what is freely given, ingrate-thief.”
Briar looked at the older man, eyes serious and dark: greenhouse-coloured again, but under shadow. He leant forward, letting the cup rest in Crane’s hands, and for one mad second, the Air Dedicate was sure he felt liquid weight to the sunlight.
Message: HI! HAPPY HOLIDAYS. This is not, alas, the completion of Cat's cradle, but I couldn't write for you and NOT put in some Briar/Crane, since you love it so.
Love, kit
Title: Sanctuary
Rating: PG
Wishlist Item: (2 - Briar/Crane, UST)
Summary: Set after Will of the Empress. Briar turned into a man when Crane wasn't looking.
While Crane attended to Circle business—as he bent over ferns in the greenhouse, as he received letters from far-away Trisana and wrote some few to Rosethorn, as he let his own too-soft baritone join the Circle’s strength, and tried not to be too stiff and strange when Lark cajoled him into sharing meals—the boy had grown into a man.
Crane was the sort on whom adulthood snuck upon and then fled, on whim. He’d felt old at twelve and childish at thirty, feeling his face and body change out-of-time with the rest of him as he moved from his father’s small court to the Temple gardens. In Lightsbridge’s libraries, thoughts flying and days full, he had felt most grown-up indeed—until Niva, as she was, undercut theories and syllogisms with a raised eyebrow and slingshot wit. In those same libraries, feeling Niva whimper, surprised, against his mouth, leaning into hands that felt surer than he had ever hoped, he was adult again.
Watching Rosethorn cough herself to death, even as his cure took pox-marks from her skin; while Briar’s steady thief hands clenched so as not to shake, he was a child, angry and forlorn.
Briar, as he was now, was all sharp angles and bright eyes the colour of the greenhouse glass at midsummer, and as brittle. He smiled too wickedly, his laughter too loud for comfort. He stalked into other’s spaces, charmed and cheered and, even after his return from Namorn, accord with his siblings blessedly restored, the snatches Crane saw of him roiled and wrestled more than they were still.
As a man, Briar did not loiter about the Greenhouse. He not sneak. He simply walked in. One day in fourteen, then three times in seven. He walked in and helped with the new seeds—with the Bihan imports, which needed to coaxed to wakefulness in the foreign air.
(“Tricky little beggars,” Briar had said.
“They are princes amongst perennials,” Crane drawled. “The word you need is haughty, not tricksterish.
“You should have better luck with them, O Lordly One, rather than asking me.” Briar had grinned, all the brighter as Crane spluttered that, of course, Briar had not asked, at all.)
The greenhouse was, he knew, fine. Fine and ever finer, just as he had imagined it when he was Briar’s age, sketching plans in the back of workbooks, or letting his fingers trace its windows and doorways in ordinary earth.
(“Did you ever see the Empress’s?” No need to ask which empress, not when Tris still walked with a limp from Dancruan.
“I never had the pleasure,” Crane admitted. Briar sighed.
“A pleasure it was, at that. But this ain’t too shabby.”
“It is singularly unappealing,” Crane said, “To be so patronising at so young an age. You are vile.
“Keeps me smiling.”
Crane had looked up sharply at that, hearing something bleak and strange in the other man’s voice. Too like Rosethorn, as she spoke to him, haltingly, of the death of a Yanjing mage they had both known well. Briar had simply shrugged.)
When the visits to the greenhouse became as frequent as one day in two, Crane itched to confront him. He could, it seemed, barely blink without seeing Briar at some errand whenever he opened his eyes. Brown, slim hands coiling stems to stakes; his shadow blending with Crane’s as the two of them bent to shift canvas and glass and earth. Rosethorn often jeered from outside the walls, but Briar only laughed, matching for her word for wicked word before Crane even drew breath.
In the heart of the place, Briar snatched other comforts, brewing teas better than Crane remembered, his hands gentle on the blue porcelain cup he had first seen some ten years before. Flower tattoos writhed and stretched, an unsettling combination of snake or cat, in the shape of roses. “I still,” Crane said, “Mean to have you whipped if you steal that.”
“Hanged.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wasn’t it hanged?” Briar smiled, slow. “Hanged or gaoled. Some mix.” He shrugged.
Crane sniffed, trying to hide a smile. “It still stands.”
Briar set the cup down, shoulders creaking as he rolled them. “You know full well I never stole anything from you,” he said. “Save maybe a little of your time, lately.”
“And space.”
Now it was Briar’s turn to look perplexed, eyebrows drawing together. “Excuse me?”
Crane, not expecting the question, swallowed faintly.
“You...encroach,” he said, breath and words quickening as Briar flinched, just enough for one man to notice. “It is not necessarily unwelcome. Not necessarily a bad thing. You have had it even as a child, with your sisters. A presence. It is simply more...evolved in you, as you have grown.” He smiled, a little wistful. “Blame Rosethorn,” he said. “She has always been the same. It is fitting you take after her.”
“Fitting?”
“And disconcerting,” Crane admitted.
“I imagine it would be,” Briar said, very light, so the words might be lost if the listener paid too much attention to his own breathing. “You love her quite a bit.” He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, solid again. “You mind my coming in and stealing all your precious personal space?”
Crane could not hide this smile. “Do you think,” he asked, “I would have endured it if I did?”
Briar picked up the blue cup again, holding it to warm, glass-filtered light. Crane watched as the light seemed to collect there, and his mouth was working without any prompting his brain.”
“You can keep it,” he said.
“What?”
“You cannot steal what is freely given, ingrate-thief.”
Briar looked at the older man, eyes serious and dark: greenhouse-coloured again, but under shadow. He leant forward, letting the cup rest in Crane’s hands, and for one mad second, the Air Dedicate was sure he felt liquid weight to the sunlight.