[VP: Silmeria] A Matter of Time
Nov. 15th, 2009 07:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreA Matter of Time
Author: Amber Michelle
Rating: K
Warnings: n/a
Word Count: 961
Prompt: VP Silmeria: Alicia and Silmeria, fairy tales
................................................................
Warmth greeted Alicia when she opened her eyes to the sunbeams slanting into her bedroom window, bright fingers that lit her mahogany bedposts red and made her ruffled quilt glow white like a ghost - a second sun for her birthday, though she would rather have her mother, even her father, instead. the maid had already laid her clothes out on the bench before her dressing table - a pleated skirt, a white blouse, a new leather vest to wear over it, tooled in gold, and new, tall boots to match. She tried to sneak looks at herself in mirrors and glass lamps all the way downstairs, where a servant presented her with a cup of drinking chocolate wide enough to be a bowl, fresh, sticky honey rolls, and-- a letter. A letter sealed with the only crest she recognized: the royal arms of the palace of Dipan. She snapped it open.
Wait until after you've eaten.
Alicia frowned at her chocolate. A skin was forming on top. It looked shiny. "What does it matter when I read it?"
Do you want to blubber into your chocolate with the maids watching?
Well she was talking to herself while the maids watched - which was worse?
You'll waste a good breakfast, Silmeria said. Alicia could imagine her rolling her eyes and tilting her head to look away, maybe flinging her hair - but she didn't know what the valkyrie looked like, aside from a grudging admission one night that their appearances were similar. You're no good at fighting when you're hungry, Alicia. A warrior always sees to her physical needs when preparing for battle.
Or practice. Alicia's arm still ached because of their new routine, but if she wanted to go home, Silmeria said, then she had better be able to protect herself - from thieves, bandits, her father's soldiers--
Alicia slid the letter beneath her plate and divided a sweet bun to spread butter on the bottom half. You just want to know what it tastes like.
If the valkyrie could snort, she would have. Odin's feasts aren't anything like this. He eats like a man, even if he refuses to acknowledge the similarity. My sisters and I feasted on Idun's apples when we could, but even the most pleasant preparations will grow tiring after a while.
"I thought that was just a story," Alicia said under her breath, forgetting herself, the honeyed top of the bun at her lips. She bit into it, licked the crumbs from her lips. Silmeria rarely talked about the others; she had reams of criticism for Odin, but who cared about him? It was the lesser gods who executed his will - the servants that would be after her, if they were found. Supposedly, it was only a matter of time.
Stories are often built upon a grain of reality. Silmeria's voice sounded distant, as if she'd turned to look at something else. The apples do not maintain our existence, only a certain measure of vitality. Destroying the orchard certainly would be a vicious blow to Asgard.
The apples were gold, the trees ever green; the sun, always shining, would glint from the leaves like gold, every tree in a neat row ten paces from its neighbors. What Alicia saw was different from the stories she'd read, and yet vivid, almost real - she could smell the dry, crumbly darkness of the soil, hear the water splash down the channels between each row and the leaves clipping and rustling together. She smelled the delicate blossoms, reached out with imaginary arms to catch their petals in her hands.
Silmeria saw it too - or perhaps it was Alicia spying on the vision without knowing it. Quietly, in her version of a whisper, Silmeria said, I think she might cry if I did that.
Who-- Idun? Or one of these sisters she spoke of?
The valkyrie didn't answer, and Alicia didn't want to ask. She finished her bun, wiped her fingers on a linen napkin, and started sipping at her chocolate, breaking the skin on its surface with her spoon. It was dark, rich, just barely sweet, and slid down her throat like velvet. The letter, when she unfolded it with one hand, was written in her mother's hand.
She looked away from it and blinked rapidly at the window. The chocolate helped, gave her something to think about while she waited for the light to resolve itself into panes of glass from the blurry spot on her vision it became when she read the first few lines. Dearest Alicia, my lovely child; you are sixteen today. I find myself wondering what you look like now - who you take after more strongly, myself, or your father. Agnes is a wonderful artist, but she cannot capture the softness of your hair or your voice--
There were no portraits of her family in this fortress. Her caretakers could not risk revealing her identity, after all. Alicia tried to remember her mother - what she looked like, what she smelled like, whether she had a pleasant singing voice or a croak like a frog and what the sunlight looked like glinting on her hair. Did gray streak the blonde now? White? Was her face creased with age? The queen of Dipan was like Odin, like Hrist - a story and a stolen image, one Alicia never could quite remember, no matter how long she sat in the dark with her eyes closed.
But that would change. She'd go home soon. It was only a matter of time.
...
Author: Amber Michelle
Rating: K
Warnings: n/a
Word Count: 961
Prompt: VP Silmeria: Alicia and Silmeria, fairy tales
................................................................
Warmth greeted Alicia when she opened her eyes to the sunbeams slanting into her bedroom window, bright fingers that lit her mahogany bedposts red and made her ruffled quilt glow white like a ghost - a second sun for her birthday, though she would rather have her mother, even her father, instead. the maid had already laid her clothes out on the bench before her dressing table - a pleated skirt, a white blouse, a new leather vest to wear over it, tooled in gold, and new, tall boots to match. She tried to sneak looks at herself in mirrors and glass lamps all the way downstairs, where a servant presented her with a cup of drinking chocolate wide enough to be a bowl, fresh, sticky honey rolls, and-- a letter. A letter sealed with the only crest she recognized: the royal arms of the palace of Dipan. She snapped it open.
Wait until after you've eaten.
Alicia frowned at her chocolate. A skin was forming on top. It looked shiny. "What does it matter when I read it?"
Do you want to blubber into your chocolate with the maids watching?
Well she was talking to herself while the maids watched - which was worse?
You'll waste a good breakfast, Silmeria said. Alicia could imagine her rolling her eyes and tilting her head to look away, maybe flinging her hair - but she didn't know what the valkyrie looked like, aside from a grudging admission one night that their appearances were similar. You're no good at fighting when you're hungry, Alicia. A warrior always sees to her physical needs when preparing for battle.
Or practice. Alicia's arm still ached because of their new routine, but if she wanted to go home, Silmeria said, then she had better be able to protect herself - from thieves, bandits, her father's soldiers--
Alicia slid the letter beneath her plate and divided a sweet bun to spread butter on the bottom half. You just want to know what it tastes like.
If the valkyrie could snort, she would have. Odin's feasts aren't anything like this. He eats like a man, even if he refuses to acknowledge the similarity. My sisters and I feasted on Idun's apples when we could, but even the most pleasant preparations will grow tiring after a while.
"I thought that was just a story," Alicia said under her breath, forgetting herself, the honeyed top of the bun at her lips. She bit into it, licked the crumbs from her lips. Silmeria rarely talked about the others; she had reams of criticism for Odin, but who cared about him? It was the lesser gods who executed his will - the servants that would be after her, if they were found. Supposedly, it was only a matter of time.
Stories are often built upon a grain of reality. Silmeria's voice sounded distant, as if she'd turned to look at something else. The apples do not maintain our existence, only a certain measure of vitality. Destroying the orchard certainly would be a vicious blow to Asgard.
The apples were gold, the trees ever green; the sun, always shining, would glint from the leaves like gold, every tree in a neat row ten paces from its neighbors. What Alicia saw was different from the stories she'd read, and yet vivid, almost real - she could smell the dry, crumbly darkness of the soil, hear the water splash down the channels between each row and the leaves clipping and rustling together. She smelled the delicate blossoms, reached out with imaginary arms to catch their petals in her hands.
Silmeria saw it too - or perhaps it was Alicia spying on the vision without knowing it. Quietly, in her version of a whisper, Silmeria said, I think she might cry if I did that.
Who-- Idun? Or one of these sisters she spoke of?
The valkyrie didn't answer, and Alicia didn't want to ask. She finished her bun, wiped her fingers on a linen napkin, and started sipping at her chocolate, breaking the skin on its surface with her spoon. It was dark, rich, just barely sweet, and slid down her throat like velvet. The letter, when she unfolded it with one hand, was written in her mother's hand.
She looked away from it and blinked rapidly at the window. The chocolate helped, gave her something to think about while she waited for the light to resolve itself into panes of glass from the blurry spot on her vision it became when she read the first few lines. Dearest Alicia, my lovely child; you are sixteen today. I find myself wondering what you look like now - who you take after more strongly, myself, or your father. Agnes is a wonderful artist, but she cannot capture the softness of your hair or your voice--
There were no portraits of her family in this fortress. Her caretakers could not risk revealing her identity, after all. Alicia tried to remember her mother - what she looked like, what she smelled like, whether she had a pleasant singing voice or a croak like a frog and what the sunlight looked like glinting on her hair. Did gray streak the blonde now? White? Was her face creased with age? The queen of Dipan was like Odin, like Hrist - a story and a stolen image, one Alicia never could quite remember, no matter how long she sat in the dark with her eyes closed.
But that would change. She'd go home soon. It was only a matter of time.
...