Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2013 15:42:46 GMT 10
Title: Things So Nebulous
Rating: PG
Word Count: 582
Pairing: Dedicate Crane/Dedicate Lark/Dedicate Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: Rosethorn has always liked birds.
Ever since she was old enough to know that birds had wings, Rosethorn had known they were pests. They arrived in flocks that made wide shadows across fields of newly sprouted crops, and when Niva woke the next morning, if her father had not been careful, they would find their safeguards torn, and far too many seedlings gone.
Even so, Niva had never quite been able to hate them.
Birds were never malicious. They could be demanding, and irritating, and painful if one's fingers weren't nimble enough to escape sharp beaks -- but self-absorption was so far removed from
(that ugly feeling of a fight where words escaped her lips and couldn't be taken back. The walls seemed to press in around them, too small to contain the wildness of her anger. It was all she could do to breathe, but that had been difficult already these past months trapped within stone walls so old, they were almost painful. And he thrived in the dusty tomes and had status enough to be on top of their idiotic social hierarchy, but seemed to lack the basic human awareness that she did not hunger for the same things. She'd thought their friendship meant something, but she had never judged people as well as she wished. When it came to people..,)
cruelty, they were incomparable.
Humans played games that coiled and twisted simple truths. Thinly veiled insults were child's play, really, and the result was not being left red-faced but free, finally unburdened by the weight of kept secrets, but a self-satisfied smirk on one pair of lips, and the other pressed into a thin line.
Crane might needle her more than patches of briar, but he had never pretended.
Chicks, cupped in her hands and lighter than anything that size ought to be. Tiny claws hooked at her hands, never quite sharp enough to break through skin that dragged at weeds for hours each day, but what she felt was softness. Warmth spreading across her palms, inquisitive eyes -- and Rosethorn never forgot that these birds, however soft, knew their own minds.
(Mildew in the walls, rot in the wood, and her head ached trying to coax them to retreat. It did not bother Niva that their pollen hung suspended in the air, stubbornly resisting even the breezes sweeping through the house -- but the walls shook with coughing from the other inhabitant.
"Enough." Hands settled unexpectedly on her shoulders, her heart racing as the world snapped back into focus.
Niva's head throbbed with even the tiny motion of turning around. Her lips parted, ready to snap an angry retort, but all that came out was, "I can do this," and even to her, it sounded less sharp than wavering.
"Hush," said the former tumbler, her hands gentle on Niva's cheek. Niva closed her eyes, and felt thumbs brush softly across her lowered eyelids. Then the softest press of lips on her forehead, as light as air. "I know you can. We all know you can. Not," she was quick to add, "that you particularly care what others think, I know."
Niva inhaled sharply, and fragrance flooded her senses.
"That's right," Niva murmured, her voice thin and reedy and she hated how that sounded, but maybe it was all right if she was the only one who heard.)
Lark's kindness was warmer than the sun, but she had always known when to push.
Rosethorn had always liked birds.
And they had always loved her.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 582
Pairing: Dedicate Crane/Dedicate Lark/Dedicate Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: Rosethorn has always liked birds.
Ever since she was old enough to know that birds had wings, Rosethorn had known they were pests. They arrived in flocks that made wide shadows across fields of newly sprouted crops, and when Niva woke the next morning, if her father had not been careful, they would find their safeguards torn, and far too many seedlings gone.
Even so, Niva had never quite been able to hate them.
Birds were never malicious. They could be demanding, and irritating, and painful if one's fingers weren't nimble enough to escape sharp beaks -- but self-absorption was so far removed from
(that ugly feeling of a fight where words escaped her lips and couldn't be taken back. The walls seemed to press in around them, too small to contain the wildness of her anger. It was all she could do to breathe, but that had been difficult already these past months trapped within stone walls so old, they were almost painful. And he thrived in the dusty tomes and had status enough to be on top of their idiotic social hierarchy, but seemed to lack the basic human awareness that she did not hunger for the same things. She'd thought their friendship meant something, but she had never judged people as well as she wished. When it came to people..,)
cruelty, they were incomparable.
Humans played games that coiled and twisted simple truths. Thinly veiled insults were child's play, really, and the result was not being left red-faced but free, finally unburdened by the weight of kept secrets, but a self-satisfied smirk on one pair of lips, and the other pressed into a thin line.
Crane might needle her more than patches of briar, but he had never pretended.
Chicks, cupped in her hands and lighter than anything that size ought to be. Tiny claws hooked at her hands, never quite sharp enough to break through skin that dragged at weeds for hours each day, but what she felt was softness. Warmth spreading across her palms, inquisitive eyes -- and Rosethorn never forgot that these birds, however soft, knew their own minds.
(Mildew in the walls, rot in the wood, and her head ached trying to coax them to retreat. It did not bother Niva that their pollen hung suspended in the air, stubbornly resisting even the breezes sweeping through the house -- but the walls shook with coughing from the other inhabitant.
"Enough." Hands settled unexpectedly on her shoulders, her heart racing as the world snapped back into focus.
Niva's head throbbed with even the tiny motion of turning around. Her lips parted, ready to snap an angry retort, but all that came out was, "I can do this," and even to her, it sounded less sharp than wavering.
"Hush," said the former tumbler, her hands gentle on Niva's cheek. Niva closed her eyes, and felt thumbs brush softly across her lowered eyelids. Then the softest press of lips on her forehead, as light as air. "I know you can. We all know you can. Not," she was quick to add, "that you particularly care what others think, I know."
Niva inhaled sharply, and fragrance flooded her senses.
"That's right," Niva murmured, her voice thin and reedy and she hated how that sounded, but maybe it was all right if she was the only one who heard.)
Lark's kindness was warmer than the sun, but she had always known when to push.
Rosethorn had always liked birds.
And they had always loved her.