Post by quirkily on Jul 7, 2009 4:08:57 GMT 10
Title: Variations on a Familiar Theme
Rating: PG (Warning: Implications of slash, polyamorous relationships.)
Genre: Romance
Series: Post-Circle Reforged
Summary: Briar is confused, and no one is particularly helpful.
Author's Notes: This was originally inspired by Prompt #6, but outgrew drabble size. Thanks to opalgirl for betaing.
He'd asked Sandy about it once.
It helped that the soothing turn of the spindle and Gorse's almond pastries had sent him to a world of soft corners and lidded eyes; however, he still tripped over the words that rasped like nettles, trying to spit them out before they stung him.
She had glanced up, blue eyes sparkling in amusement and young hands staying steady as they casually stretched wool into yarn.
"I think," she said, pausing to examine the thread wound onto the shaft of the spindle so he couldn't see her grin, "that's something we find out when we're older."
And if there was anything that Briar Moss was nowadays, it was older.
*
He could never--never--ask. That was asking for death by the evilest of evil eyes and possibly thorns, thread, and yellow-robed squawking Bags besides.
He could, however, watch. Briar had always liked puzzles, in the people sense.
(It was a welcome relief from the thought of walls that hemmed him in on every side. Evvy and her new generation of cats helped, but staying in Winding Circle for more than a couple of hours took dedication and distraction as he carefully pushed memories of Gyongxe further and further away.)
He saw Rosethorn's hands clench as she passed Crane on a walkway, but he'd seen that before; now he was tall enough to see the blush on her cheeks, and wise enough to notice that both chose paths that would cross again further on.
He noticed Lark beaming happily in the kitchen as she floated around in green robes much too short for her, bending his head to smirk at his olive-studded rolls when Rosethorn stumbled on fabric and cursed.
He'd even stared the door of what was supposedly a "private" bathing room before he came to the abrupt realization that there was a fine, fine line between observation and voyeurism. Venturing to the kitchens proved to be a much more profitable enterprise, and though he was still blushing when he entered the doors, he could blame the heat of the stoves.
He studied them with a diligence he hadn't possessed since his first days at Winding Circle, humbled into learning the uses of fennel and willowbark, but the ways of certain dedicates proved to be much more mysterious than those of the plants they tended.
So, persistence being his downfall in some instances, he'd asked Sandry again the next time he visited her in Summersea. There was the familiarity of the green spindle and the lithe fingers absently turning it, but everything was now framed by expensive-looking embroidered sleeves and even a delicate ring, which made him raise his eyebrows when she was looking away.
He didn't even get past "addlepated mages and their addlepated relationships" before she blushed bright red, sat the spindle down, and pressed that ringed hand to her dress pocket, from which emitted the crinkle of doubtlessly well-worn paper.
Sandry had never been subtle.
He'd mumbled excuses and fled to the refuge of his shakkaan, where he could listen to the comforting hum of 154-year-old magic and think about the many benefits of asexual reproduction.
*
It was a puzzle, all right, but he can't even find the pieces.
He suspects it's because she has all of them already, solved and cupped in the palm of one perfect hand.
Rating: PG (Warning: Implications of slash, polyamorous relationships.)
Genre: Romance
Series: Post-Circle Reforged
Summary: Briar is confused, and no one is particularly helpful.
Author's Notes: This was originally inspired by Prompt #6, but outgrew drabble size. Thanks to opalgirl for betaing.
He'd asked Sandy about it once.
It helped that the soothing turn of the spindle and Gorse's almond pastries had sent him to a world of soft corners and lidded eyes; however, he still tripped over the words that rasped like nettles, trying to spit them out before they stung him.
She had glanced up, blue eyes sparkling in amusement and young hands staying steady as they casually stretched wool into yarn.
"I think," she said, pausing to examine the thread wound onto the shaft of the spindle so he couldn't see her grin, "that's something we find out when we're older."
And if there was anything that Briar Moss was nowadays, it was older.
*
He could never--never--ask. That was asking for death by the evilest of evil eyes and possibly thorns, thread, and yellow-robed squawking Bags besides.
He could, however, watch. Briar had always liked puzzles, in the people sense.
(It was a welcome relief from the thought of walls that hemmed him in on every side. Evvy and her new generation of cats helped, but staying in Winding Circle for more than a couple of hours took dedication and distraction as he carefully pushed memories of Gyongxe further and further away.)
He saw Rosethorn's hands clench as she passed Crane on a walkway, but he'd seen that before; now he was tall enough to see the blush on her cheeks, and wise enough to notice that both chose paths that would cross again further on.
He noticed Lark beaming happily in the kitchen as she floated around in green robes much too short for her, bending his head to smirk at his olive-studded rolls when Rosethorn stumbled on fabric and cursed.
He'd even stared the door of what was supposedly a "private" bathing room before he came to the abrupt realization that there was a fine, fine line between observation and voyeurism. Venturing to the kitchens proved to be a much more profitable enterprise, and though he was still blushing when he entered the doors, he could blame the heat of the stoves.
He studied them with a diligence he hadn't possessed since his first days at Winding Circle, humbled into learning the uses of fennel and willowbark, but the ways of certain dedicates proved to be much more mysterious than those of the plants they tended.
So, persistence being his downfall in some instances, he'd asked Sandry again the next time he visited her in Summersea. There was the familiarity of the green spindle and the lithe fingers absently turning it, but everything was now framed by expensive-looking embroidered sleeves and even a delicate ring, which made him raise his eyebrows when she was looking away.
He didn't even get past "addlepated mages and their addlepated relationships" before she blushed bright red, sat the spindle down, and pressed that ringed hand to her dress pocket, from which emitted the crinkle of doubtlessly well-worn paper.
Sandry had never been subtle.
He'd mumbled excuses and fled to the refuge of his shakkaan, where he could listen to the comforting hum of 154-year-old magic and think about the many benefits of asexual reproduction.
*
It was a puzzle, all right, but he can't even find the pieces.
He suspects it's because she has all of them already, solved and cupped in the palm of one perfect hand.