[December 11] Beloved Traitor
Dec. 6th, 2010 02:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreBeloved Traitor
Author: Amber Michelle
Day/Theme: December 11 - What shall I say from a heart that loves you?
Series: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Zelgius, Sephiran
Rating: K
Words: 612
Warnings: none, unless you count the pretentious way I wrote it.
Notes: GEN. :D
....................................................................
The Master sits at his window when you arrive, leaning on the wide stone sill, his chin on the heel of his hand. The arch of the frame encloses his slender shape. Winter makes the white stone vista outside look cold, every building a construct of ice-colored moonlight. The ghost city is split east and west around a thoroughfare stretching north, to the great white gates which are perpetually thrown open now that their guards are turned to stone, and his gaze most likely rests there-- his imagination is no doubt conjuring the red shape of the Empress, and the glittering silver of her Guard. He doesn't say anything, though you know he hears your arrival - his sharp ears can hear everything that echoes up the stairway, from the first floor all the way to the fourth, where he took up residence upon the awakening of the goddess.
He does not care, Master says, for the fate of the traitorous senators down below, or even of the dragon tribe that guards his door. Their crimes are on a long list he can only recite for a few minutes before he gets too angry and clenches his fists, stabs himself with his own nails. The smell of his blood colors those memories. The men under your command are a means to an end, and he says they, too, deserve to die - traitors court death when they turn their blades upon their rightful leaders. They are all traitors. Them, you, himself.
You surmise he no longer cares for your own fate, having accepted it will mean death and moved on. That stings, a little bit - the assumption your doom is assured, that your skill cannot, in fact, prevail. The outcome is not as cut-and-dry as that. Of course, if the goddess is victorious, death is still waiting at the end of the tunnel, followed by eternity as a statue, unless she intends to deny her mistakes and grind all evidence of her sentient children to dust.
She might. Ashera seems the type.
"Do you think," Master says when it seems silence will rule the evening, "do you think she will bring herself to kill me?"
The cold wind plays with his hair, ruffling the ends and making it shimmer in the lavender light of his lamp. Every light here is absurd: purple, blue. There is a shelf in the corner that he calls a bed, and the chair, and the lamp - and blank blue walls. "No. She loves you." And inside, the thought I love you. You do not say it.
"I am a traitor," he says, tone even.
"A beloved traitor."
Master's head tilts, his arm folds against his waist. He might be bowing his head to laugh. "That is the irony, isn't it. My lady will tell me I'm the best of them, when the truth is, I'm the worst. None of those men have sinned as much as I."
You say nothing. It's true.
He turns his back on the window, gathering his long hair with both hands. The chimes on his golden belt jangle. Like the goddess, he is draped in the shades of death, black and blue and dark purple. Like hers, his face is pale, moon-like, cold. His green eyes flick upward. "Do you have something to report?" As if that's the only reason, at this stage, that one might want to see him.
There is nothing - nothing left. And you never thought a winter could be so cold.
...........................................................................................
Lame.
Oh well.
Inspired partly by a recent read-through of Meelu the Bold's "Walk Without Fear," because I wanted to taste the result of a slightly different take on this relationship. Otherwise, eh.
Author: Amber Michelle
Day/Theme: December 11 - What shall I say from a heart that loves you?
Series: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Zelgius, Sephiran
Rating: K
Words: 612
Warnings: none, unless you count the pretentious way I wrote it.
Notes: GEN. :D
....................................................................
The Master sits at his window when you arrive, leaning on the wide stone sill, his chin on the heel of his hand. The arch of the frame encloses his slender shape. Winter makes the white stone vista outside look cold, every building a construct of ice-colored moonlight. The ghost city is split east and west around a thoroughfare stretching north, to the great white gates which are perpetually thrown open now that their guards are turned to stone, and his gaze most likely rests there-- his imagination is no doubt conjuring the red shape of the Empress, and the glittering silver of her Guard. He doesn't say anything, though you know he hears your arrival - his sharp ears can hear everything that echoes up the stairway, from the first floor all the way to the fourth, where he took up residence upon the awakening of the goddess.
He does not care, Master says, for the fate of the traitorous senators down below, or even of the dragon tribe that guards his door. Their crimes are on a long list he can only recite for a few minutes before he gets too angry and clenches his fists, stabs himself with his own nails. The smell of his blood colors those memories. The men under your command are a means to an end, and he says they, too, deserve to die - traitors court death when they turn their blades upon their rightful leaders. They are all traitors. Them, you, himself.
You surmise he no longer cares for your own fate, having accepted it will mean death and moved on. That stings, a little bit - the assumption your doom is assured, that your skill cannot, in fact, prevail. The outcome is not as cut-and-dry as that. Of course, if the goddess is victorious, death is still waiting at the end of the tunnel, followed by eternity as a statue, unless she intends to deny her mistakes and grind all evidence of her sentient children to dust.
She might. Ashera seems the type.
"Do you think," Master says when it seems silence will rule the evening, "do you think she will bring herself to kill me?"
The cold wind plays with his hair, ruffling the ends and making it shimmer in the lavender light of his lamp. Every light here is absurd: purple, blue. There is a shelf in the corner that he calls a bed, and the chair, and the lamp - and blank blue walls. "No. She loves you." And inside, the thought I love you. You do not say it.
"I am a traitor," he says, tone even.
"A beloved traitor."
Master's head tilts, his arm folds against his waist. He might be bowing his head to laugh. "That is the irony, isn't it. My lady will tell me I'm the best of them, when the truth is, I'm the worst. None of those men have sinned as much as I."
You say nothing. It's true.
He turns his back on the window, gathering his long hair with both hands. The chimes on his golden belt jangle. Like the goddess, he is draped in the shades of death, black and blue and dark purple. Like hers, his face is pale, moon-like, cold. His green eyes flick upward. "Do you have something to report?" As if that's the only reason, at this stage, that one might want to see him.
There is nothing - nothing left. And you never thought a winter could be so cold.
...........................................................................................
Lame.
Oh well.
Inspired partly by a recent read-through of Meelu the Bold's "Walk Without Fear," because I wanted to taste the result of a slightly different take on this relationship. Otherwise, eh.