Post by wordy on May 25, 2013 19:47:51 GMT 10
Title: Outlander
Rating: PG
Word Count: 659
Pairing: Buri/Raoul
Round/Fight: 2B
Summary: Adjustments of a different sort.
A/N: Part of my Adjustments series, in which Raoul is a late-bloomer and comes into his Gift later in life than most.
Buri heaves a sigh as the door to her office swings open, an excuse already on her tongue; when Raoul’s head pokes inside, she saves her breath, putting her pen back in its stand.
“Larse told me you were holed up in here,” he says, closing the door behind him and making himself comfortable on the edge of her desk. The only chair in the room is hers; she had learned early on as commander of the Riders that intimidation is as useful a tool as any, a truth that her trainees have all taken to heart. The absence of a chair tends to also be a good reminder that her office is for work.
But the urge to busy herself with reports and evaluations fades quickly with Raoul in the room, picking things up and putting them down again like an eager hound searching for a scent.
She leans back in her chair, interlocking her fingers behind her head. “I hope you informed Evin that he should keep his mouth shut in future, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Raouls chuckles. “I didn’t want to spoil his evening. He looked to be having a good time—he was using a goblet of cider to demonstrate his sleight of hand skills when I left.” Setting down the paperweight he had been turning over in his hand, Raoul fixes her with a speculative look. “I’d expected you to at least make an appearance at the party tonight. Or is paperwork overwhelming you?”
“Something like that,” she says, her expression daring him to pry further at risk. Thankfully, he only shrugs and swings his leg, kicking his heel against the solid wood of the desk. Buri feels the muscles in her jaw relax again and she takes her hands from behind her head, then takes up her pen.
Midwinter always leaves her with a feeling of unease, comparable to mounting a horse from the wrong side. The palace and its grounds—even the barracks—are decorated with evergreen boughs and holly, and people exchange gifts with an ease that escapes her.
She isn’t hiding. She had thought that time alone—time away from those traditions that still feel strange to her—would remove the discomfort. But with only the company of her own thoughts and memories, the distance between where she had come from and where she is now seems even greater.
The report she had been working on is spotted with ink, she realises; returning the pen to its stand once more, she crumples the paper with a hand and tosses it aside, as Raoul says, “I wanted to show you something.”
“It probably won’t work,” he adds, holding out his hand, palm-up, “but I’m getting better. Or Jon says so, at least.”
Buri twitches as a navy-coloured flame sparks into life upon his hand, glowing, flickering. It’s unexpected: sometimes she forgets that he has the Gift, though that’s mostly because he hardly uses it in front of anyone. The flame falters for only a second. His bottom lip is curled in, as if he’s biting it in concentration.
A picture begins to form, less like a painting and more like an engraving, depth pressing itself into the moving licks of flame, rolling hills studded with rocks. Buri’s breath gets caught in her throat: “Is that—”
“Sarain,” answers Raoul, not looking away from the landscape on his palm. “I looked in some books, found a few—damn it.” The Gift-flame shudders and the picture of her homeland vanishes. Frowning, Raoul rubs his palm against the top of his thigh.
“You—that was,” Buri swallows, not quite sure what to say, except: “Thank you.”
Raoul looks up from examining his hand and grins. “Well, it’s Midwinter, after all. And I might as well learn how to do something useful with it.”
Buri wonders how useful making pictures of a country you’ve hardly seen really is, but doesn’t question it.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 659
Pairing: Buri/Raoul
Round/Fight: 2B
Summary: Adjustments of a different sort.
A/N: Part of my Adjustments series, in which Raoul is a late-bloomer and comes into his Gift later in life than most.
Buri heaves a sigh as the door to her office swings open, an excuse already on her tongue; when Raoul’s head pokes inside, she saves her breath, putting her pen back in its stand.
“Larse told me you were holed up in here,” he says, closing the door behind him and making himself comfortable on the edge of her desk. The only chair in the room is hers; she had learned early on as commander of the Riders that intimidation is as useful a tool as any, a truth that her trainees have all taken to heart. The absence of a chair tends to also be a good reminder that her office is for work.
But the urge to busy herself with reports and evaluations fades quickly with Raoul in the room, picking things up and putting them down again like an eager hound searching for a scent.
She leans back in her chair, interlocking her fingers behind her head. “I hope you informed Evin that he should keep his mouth shut in future, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Raouls chuckles. “I didn’t want to spoil his evening. He looked to be having a good time—he was using a goblet of cider to demonstrate his sleight of hand skills when I left.” Setting down the paperweight he had been turning over in his hand, Raoul fixes her with a speculative look. “I’d expected you to at least make an appearance at the party tonight. Or is paperwork overwhelming you?”
“Something like that,” she says, her expression daring him to pry further at risk. Thankfully, he only shrugs and swings his leg, kicking his heel against the solid wood of the desk. Buri feels the muscles in her jaw relax again and she takes her hands from behind her head, then takes up her pen.
Midwinter always leaves her with a feeling of unease, comparable to mounting a horse from the wrong side. The palace and its grounds—even the barracks—are decorated with evergreen boughs and holly, and people exchange gifts with an ease that escapes her.
She isn’t hiding. She had thought that time alone—time away from those traditions that still feel strange to her—would remove the discomfort. But with only the company of her own thoughts and memories, the distance between where she had come from and where she is now seems even greater.
The report she had been working on is spotted with ink, she realises; returning the pen to its stand once more, she crumples the paper with a hand and tosses it aside, as Raoul says, “I wanted to show you something.”
“It probably won’t work,” he adds, holding out his hand, palm-up, “but I’m getting better. Or Jon says so, at least.”
Buri twitches as a navy-coloured flame sparks into life upon his hand, glowing, flickering. It’s unexpected: sometimes she forgets that he has the Gift, though that’s mostly because he hardly uses it in front of anyone. The flame falters for only a second. His bottom lip is curled in, as if he’s biting it in concentration.
A picture begins to form, less like a painting and more like an engraving, depth pressing itself into the moving licks of flame, rolling hills studded with rocks. Buri’s breath gets caught in her throat: “Is that—”
“Sarain,” answers Raoul, not looking away from the landscape on his palm. “I looked in some books, found a few—damn it.” The Gift-flame shudders and the picture of her homeland vanishes. Frowning, Raoul rubs his palm against the top of his thigh.
“You—that was,” Buri swallows, not quite sure what to say, except: “Thank you.”
Raoul looks up from examining his hand and grins. “Well, it’s Midwinter, after all. And I might as well learn how to do something useful with it.”
Buri wonders how useful making pictures of a country you’ve hardly seen really is, but doesn’t question it.