Post by EymberFyire on Dec 31, 2013 17:35:22 GMT 10
Title: The Weight We Carry
Rating: PG
For: Ankhiale
Prompt: 4. Lark fic!
Summary: There is a certain exhaustion that comes of raising children - especially four mage children that come to you all at once.
Notes and Warnings: None.
“Mila bless it!” and the swear wasn’t quite so angry as it just was exhausted.
Lark smiled tiredly up at Rosethorn from where she was sitting at the loom. “Something wrong, dearest?”
“Wrong? What could possibly be wrong? Other than, of course, a constantly empty ice box, fights with other temple children, knives hidden under his mattress” and the tirade was cut short as she slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor, sighing.
Lark watched her for a moment, hiding a smile, then stood to crack her back. “If I didn’t know better,” and she ignored the rude “You don’t”, “I’d say that boy had worn you out.”
“Worn me out?” and if it was a tired scoff, it was a scoff none-the-less. “As if some grubby sapling straight out of the docks could” and she was cut off by a crash. She winced.
“Sorry!” The voice was one of the girls, from some distant room within the cottage.
Rosethorn sighed. “That sounded costly.”
Lark gestured off into the house, towards the sounds of cleaning and arguing. “It’s not just the one sapling.”
“No.” Rosethorn groaned in reply, apparently looking to whatever gods would listen. “What’s one new ambient mage when the First Dedicates can give you four?”
Lark sat and began to weave again, her hands focused on her work.
“They needed us.” Lark murmured, the patterns shifting and changing in front of her.
“Oh, I know.” and Rosethorn sighed. “And I suppose in some ways...”
Lark didn’t respond, or push - just continued that slow, steady progress. Rosethorn, who was currently scowling out the window, would complete that thought in her own time.
Finally she did.
“Just because my father…” and she paused. Stopped. Tried to start again, then shrugged. “I’m not him. I know I’m not. I never could be.
“I know that, love.” Lark’s voice was quiet, but firm.
Silence had never frightened them. They sat in it comfortably now for a bit, reveling in the chance to just sit and think. She finally rose when she felt something… strange.
“A shakkaan?” she muttered, then “Crane?!” and she was out the door without so much as a goodbye, off towards her fool student and whatever mischief he’d gotten himself into.
Lark reloaded the shuttle and whispered to the now empty room, “I always knew you weren’t him. You just needed to realize that for yourself.”
Rating: PG
For: Ankhiale
Prompt: 4. Lark fic!
Summary: There is a certain exhaustion that comes of raising children - especially four mage children that come to you all at once.
Notes and Warnings: None.
“Mila bless it!” and the swear wasn’t quite so angry as it just was exhausted.
Lark smiled tiredly up at Rosethorn from where she was sitting at the loom. “Something wrong, dearest?”
“Wrong? What could possibly be wrong? Other than, of course, a constantly empty ice box, fights with other temple children, knives hidden under his mattress” and the tirade was cut short as she slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor, sighing.
Lark watched her for a moment, hiding a smile, then stood to crack her back. “If I didn’t know better,” and she ignored the rude “You don’t”, “I’d say that boy had worn you out.”
“Worn me out?” and if it was a tired scoff, it was a scoff none-the-less. “As if some grubby sapling straight out of the docks could” and she was cut off by a crash. She winced.
“Sorry!” The voice was one of the girls, from some distant room within the cottage.
Rosethorn sighed. “That sounded costly.”
Lark gestured off into the house, towards the sounds of cleaning and arguing. “It’s not just the one sapling.”
“No.” Rosethorn groaned in reply, apparently looking to whatever gods would listen. “What’s one new ambient mage when the First Dedicates can give you four?”
Lark sat and began to weave again, her hands focused on her work.
“They needed us.” Lark murmured, the patterns shifting and changing in front of her.
“Oh, I know.” and Rosethorn sighed. “And I suppose in some ways...”
Lark didn’t respond, or push - just continued that slow, steady progress. Rosethorn, who was currently scowling out the window, would complete that thought in her own time.
Finally she did.
“Just because my father…” and she paused. Stopped. Tried to start again, then shrugged. “I’m not him. I know I’m not. I never could be.
“I know that, love.” Lark’s voice was quiet, but firm.
Silence had never frightened them. They sat in it comfortably now for a bit, reveling in the chance to just sit and think. She finally rose when she felt something… strange.
“A shakkaan?” she muttered, then “Crane?!” and she was out the door without so much as a goodbye, off towards her fool student and whatever mischief he’d gotten himself into.
Lark reloaded the shuttle and whispered to the now empty room, “I always knew you weren’t him. You just needed to realize that for yourself.”
Thank you!
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!