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runicloreFragment
Author: Amber Michelle
Fandom: Fire Emblem 9/10
Pairing: Sephiran/Zelgius
30 Breathtakes Theme: 6 - handwriting; letter
Gauntlet Theme: 16 - a faint quiver in the air
Rating: K
Word count: 637
Notes: not the best fic to come out of this challenge.
......................................................................
It was a short, polite letter Zelgius turned over in his hands, unfolded, spread upon the folding table in his tent while the walls flapped and bowed beneath a cold wind with a sound like muffled drums. Do this, do that, aid the Crimean general, secure credit for Begnion as the senate wanted. Only one remark hinted at the attitude behind the slanted loops of the 'i' and 'l's: if their tactician is any good at all you'll be asked to remain behind in Daein; this will cause you some trouble at home, but please, do not argue - and, more irritating, after all, her majesty placed you under Ike's command. Your reputation should not be permanently harmed.
As if it mattered. Begnion was a corpse that did not know it was dead. There were tales about such beings in the northern reaches of Daein, where the people had nothing to do most of the year but sit inside beneath their fur blankets and repeat stories - stumbling skeletons in the reaches north of Marado; faceless, worm-eaten corpses from the mountains to the east, half-frozen, dropping bits of clothing or frostbitten flesh when they attacked mountaineers. Zelgius hadn't met either when he swept those areas many years ago. They were figments of collective imagination, he and his men maintained, inspired by eight months a year of snow and darkness.
Then he met his duke on the slope of the western-most mountain, where Daein mined stone for ink - there, veiled by flurries of snow, Lord Sephiran had appeared, white, grey, blue lips, so slight many mistook him for a ghost.
Zelgius fingered the red seal at the bottom of the letter and the ribbons affixed beneath the wax. The olive branch of Persis made a shallow impression, filled in with watercolor shadows by the flicker of the oil lamp. Another long sigh of wind pressed the tent walls inward and blew dried, broken leaves in beneath the flap to gather at his feet on the burlap floor. The wind smelled just as he remembered it: wet dust, the stink of a particular type of tree that dropped long brown seed pods to crunch beneath his boots. He could taste it on the wind. When the air calmed and the tent flap stilled, he lifted the glass shield held the edge of Sephiran's letter to the flame until it took and watched the parchment curl and blacken.
Everything his master did was lovely - his handwriting was a breath of fresh air, the slender loops and precise curls of his letters reminiscent of flower petals and new spring leaves. Zelgius let it burn and wished he'd waited.
When victory is assured, I will travel to my villa in Melior.
Sephiran had such faith in Gawain's son. What if Ike fell to Ashnard? He was still a child - not even worth fighting, though Zelgius would have no choice but to give him that honor as the Black Knight.
Don't kill him yet--
The paper crumbled between his fingers, the flame snuffed against the pitted finish of his camp table. Only a few marks remained - the beginning of when and a fragment of her majesty. Zelgius got up, grabbed his fur-lined cloak from the foot of his cot, pulled it over his shoulders as he pushed through the flap and out into the evening. Torches were set in a wide circle around his tent, the command tent across the way, and the empty infirmary. The man guarding his tent saluted.
He would be there-- he would meet his master in Melior. And before that, he would defeat Gawain's idiot son.
Let Sephiran find another sacrifice. Anyone but him.
.
Author: Amber Michelle
Fandom: Fire Emblem 9/10
Pairing: Sephiran/Zelgius
30 Breathtakes Theme: 6 - handwriting; letter
Gauntlet Theme: 16 - a faint quiver in the air
Rating: K
Word count: 637
Notes: not the best fic to come out of this challenge.
......................................................................
It was a short, polite letter Zelgius turned over in his hands, unfolded, spread upon the folding table in his tent while the walls flapped and bowed beneath a cold wind with a sound like muffled drums. Do this, do that, aid the Crimean general, secure credit for Begnion as the senate wanted. Only one remark hinted at the attitude behind the slanted loops of the 'i' and 'l's: if their tactician is any good at all you'll be asked to remain behind in Daein; this will cause you some trouble at home, but please, do not argue - and, more irritating, after all, her majesty placed you under Ike's command. Your reputation should not be permanently harmed.
As if it mattered. Begnion was a corpse that did not know it was dead. There were tales about such beings in the northern reaches of Daein, where the people had nothing to do most of the year but sit inside beneath their fur blankets and repeat stories - stumbling skeletons in the reaches north of Marado; faceless, worm-eaten corpses from the mountains to the east, half-frozen, dropping bits of clothing or frostbitten flesh when they attacked mountaineers. Zelgius hadn't met either when he swept those areas many years ago. They were figments of collective imagination, he and his men maintained, inspired by eight months a year of snow and darkness.
Then he met his duke on the slope of the western-most mountain, where Daein mined stone for ink - there, veiled by flurries of snow, Lord Sephiran had appeared, white, grey, blue lips, so slight many mistook him for a ghost.
Zelgius fingered the red seal at the bottom of the letter and the ribbons affixed beneath the wax. The olive branch of Persis made a shallow impression, filled in with watercolor shadows by the flicker of the oil lamp. Another long sigh of wind pressed the tent walls inward and blew dried, broken leaves in beneath the flap to gather at his feet on the burlap floor. The wind smelled just as he remembered it: wet dust, the stink of a particular type of tree that dropped long brown seed pods to crunch beneath his boots. He could taste it on the wind. When the air calmed and the tent flap stilled, he lifted the glass shield held the edge of Sephiran's letter to the flame until it took and watched the parchment curl and blacken.
Everything his master did was lovely - his handwriting was a breath of fresh air, the slender loops and precise curls of his letters reminiscent of flower petals and new spring leaves. Zelgius let it burn and wished he'd waited.
When victory is assured, I will travel to my villa in Melior.
Sephiran had such faith in Gawain's son. What if Ike fell to Ashnard? He was still a child - not even worth fighting, though Zelgius would have no choice but to give him that honor as the Black Knight.
Don't kill him yet--
The paper crumbled between his fingers, the flame snuffed against the pitted finish of his camp table. Only a few marks remained - the beginning of when and a fragment of her majesty. Zelgius got up, grabbed his fur-lined cloak from the foot of his cot, pulled it over his shoulders as he pushed through the flap and out into the evening. Torches were set in a wide circle around his tent, the command tent across the way, and the empty infirmary. The man guarding his tent saluted.
He would be there-- he would meet his master in Melior. And before that, he would defeat Gawain's idiot son.
Let Sephiran find another sacrifice. Anyone but him.
.