Post by Shhasow on Apr 28, 2013 0:04:51 GMT 10
Title: The Other 7 Deadly Sins (#5)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 516
Pairing: G/R
Round/Fight: 1C
Summary: In the book of Proverbs, there is listed 7 things that are detested by God, not the traditional list that we all know. This is one of them : “A proud look.” Warning for past canon character death.
The passage leading to the dark, dank room were empty. They always were, for few people desired to make the long, lonely trek to such a miserable place. Located in the bowels of the palace, the mausoleum existed for the corpses of the Royal Family. Even traitors were still entombed here. Blood, not intention, made a Royal, at least for nobles.
Yet the normal stream of grievers who normally paid homage to any recently-interred royalty was conspicuously absent.
Except for the lone man who found himself shivering in the cold and shambling on, graceful movements made uncoordinated by sorrow.
He followed the long line of busts placed over stone coffins. They all bore the distinctive Conte nose and strong jaw, and the little gem that nestled in their throats glowed with the color of their Gift. Blue ran strongly down the line, with a smattering of the other colors, but then he stopped in front of one bust that pulsed a strong, insistent orange.
George swallowed heavily as light from his torch flickered over the stone head of his love.
Now, face to face with reality, he could finally admit that, now that Roger of Conte was dead.
And that thought tasted bitter, and it choked him.
The stonecarver must have been Gifted, as the face of the Duke of Conte seemed nearly as alive in cold granite as he ever had in life.
But no, that wasn’t true. Not even the Gift could capture the smirk in his Conte eyes, the way they danced with humor, or how they hardened into diamonds when they looked at Alanna, and softened with some impossible emotion when they saw him-
No, stop it. George tightened his hand around the torch until he could feel the grains in the wood in his numb fingers.
That was another thing that the bust could not portray. Roger’s hands created magic not only from his Gift, but also from his touch. Where his delicate and strong fingers traced, fire followed, and George shivered.
He blamed the cold. It was better than acknowledging the truth, better than letting his mind linger on the past, on the memories of Roger laughing, reaching for him, asleep, hovering over him in bed.
Stop, stop stopstopstop. He flinched away from his thoughts and focused instead on the smooth features of the bust. The stonecarver had carved each individual hair, it seemed, in Roger’s full beard and mustache. His strong chin jutted forward, his brow slightly lowered, all creating the expression of fierce pride that he had so often worn in life.
Yes. Pride. That was it. Suddenly, his path was clear. It always had been clear, wherever Roger was involved. The man had burst into his life and illuminated his path so that there was only one way ever to proceed.
George raised a trembling hand that soothed the stone features. In his mind, the stone was warm and giving. “I will make you proud,” he uttered through numb lips. “Somehow, I will awaken you, if I have to make a deal with the Black God himself.”
Rating: PG
Word Count: 516
Pairing: G/R
Round/Fight: 1C
Summary: In the book of Proverbs, there is listed 7 things that are detested by God, not the traditional list that we all know. This is one of them : “A proud look.” Warning for past canon character death.
The passage leading to the dark, dank room were empty. They always were, for few people desired to make the long, lonely trek to such a miserable place. Located in the bowels of the palace, the mausoleum existed for the corpses of the Royal Family. Even traitors were still entombed here. Blood, not intention, made a Royal, at least for nobles.
Yet the normal stream of grievers who normally paid homage to any recently-interred royalty was conspicuously absent.
Except for the lone man who found himself shivering in the cold and shambling on, graceful movements made uncoordinated by sorrow.
He followed the long line of busts placed over stone coffins. They all bore the distinctive Conte nose and strong jaw, and the little gem that nestled in their throats glowed with the color of their Gift. Blue ran strongly down the line, with a smattering of the other colors, but then he stopped in front of one bust that pulsed a strong, insistent orange.
George swallowed heavily as light from his torch flickered over the stone head of his love.
Now, face to face with reality, he could finally admit that, now that Roger of Conte was dead.
And that thought tasted bitter, and it choked him.
The stonecarver must have been Gifted, as the face of the Duke of Conte seemed nearly as alive in cold granite as he ever had in life.
But no, that wasn’t true. Not even the Gift could capture the smirk in his Conte eyes, the way they danced with humor, or how they hardened into diamonds when they looked at Alanna, and softened with some impossible emotion when they saw him-
No, stop it. George tightened his hand around the torch until he could feel the grains in the wood in his numb fingers.
That was another thing that the bust could not portray. Roger’s hands created magic not only from his Gift, but also from his touch. Where his delicate and strong fingers traced, fire followed, and George shivered.
He blamed the cold. It was better than acknowledging the truth, better than letting his mind linger on the past, on the memories of Roger laughing, reaching for him, asleep, hovering over him in bed.
Stop, stop stopstopstop. He flinched away from his thoughts and focused instead on the smooth features of the bust. The stonecarver had carved each individual hair, it seemed, in Roger’s full beard and mustache. His strong chin jutted forward, his brow slightly lowered, all creating the expression of fierce pride that he had so often worn in life.
Yes. Pride. That was it. Suddenly, his path was clear. It always had been clear, wherever Roger was involved. The man had burst into his life and illuminated his path so that there was only one way ever to proceed.
George raised a trembling hand that soothed the stone features. In his mind, the stone was warm and giving. “I will make you proud,” he uttered through numb lips. “Somehow, I will awaken you, if I have to make a deal with the Black God himself.”