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runicloreFit Company for a Queen
Author: Amber Michelle
Day/Theme: November 3 - lately you make me...
Series: Fire Emblem 9/10
Character/Pairing: Micaiah, Almedha
Rating: K
Words: 1134
Notes: written for my Nano word count, which means fast, because MIDTERMS. Look, I already have an entry for Amnesty Day.
.............................................
Micaiah gulped her tea down once the drawing room door closed behind Pelleas. The day was rainy, the sky already dark outside, and the room was lit with lamps and mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling to give the illusion of openness. The room was quite small, but the fireplace kept it warm, and the king's presence had made it stifling.
She was no judge, but his manners seemed fine; he was well-trained in the real, necessary things to produce the image of royalty, either by Izuka or his mother, it didn't matter which. He faded into the background when those two were in the room. Izuka would demand Micaiah do something, and she always felt compelled to make her own demands in return - my king, is this your will? His face would pale, his lips would tremble, and she'd regret speaking to him.
That hollow place between her ribs, behind her stomach, where she felt a jolt whenever someone panicked or felt happy, made her sick when Izuka tried to take command. The plans weren't always bad - though usually they were - but there was always some profit in the situation for him, even when she couldn't see it. Surely, one would think, he stood to gain nothing by abandoning prisoners to Begnion, and in fact his king's cause might suffer for that decision. Yet, that was his advice.
So Micaiah spoke to Pelleas every day, alone. No mumbling adviser, no queen mother to smother his will. Simply a general and her king. He would stare at her while they talked - there was a difference between casual eye contact and Pelleas's steady regard that made her fidget and leave her cup on its saucer, for fear her hands would shake - and she knew he wanted something from her. Not her charisma, not her fame. He wasn't interested in taking her as a lover, because he didn't have enough confidence in himself to approach her. She looked at him and saw--
She almost dropped her teacup and spilled the rest on her glove, the chamomile scent sickly with too much honey, like grass. Warm grass, warm plains -- she had fond memories of being a simple girl wandering from city to city trying to avoid notice, not playing general, or mother, or saint. They already seemed far away.
Micaiah got up and prepared to leave. The glove would have to wait; she couldn't take it off while she walked the palace halls. She grabbed her cloak, pulled the door open, and found the queen mother standing in shadow outside, an ivory hand raised to knock.
The veil was swept down over her face, glittering in the golden lamp light. It was a fine-woven mesh sewn with bits of obsidian glass and tiny green crystals cut like fine gems, the workmanship such that a family could sell it and live on the profit for a month, maybe two. She knew Sothe's hands itched to make it happen every time he passed the queen mother in the corridor.
Almedha's hand lowered to her side. "Vice-general." She did not nod. She was very careful with her nods and smiles when her son wasn't present.
"My lady." Micaiah bowed, though she should have curtsied. It wouldn't look right without a skirt. "Is there something I can do for you?"
A frown. That was not the right way to phrase it, apparently. The queen mother folded her arms. "You can."
Micaiah bit the inside of her lip. She wasn't a courtier - nor was she a general, or a priestess, or fit company for a queen, even a queen gone somewhat mad. What was she supposed to say, to do? She stepped back, holding the door open, and invited her guest - technically her superior - to enter. Almedha swept in, her chiffon skirt brushing Micaiah's leg, and her perfume leaving behind a breath of lily. The door swung closed of its own accord. All the servants thought the place haunted, but it was just a matter of which windows were open, and where.
"Pelleas just left," Micaiah said, clasping her hands behind her back. The queen mother paused by the window, parting the lace curtains, and didn't answer. "Would you like me to call--"
"It makes me uneasy to see him pander to your favor." Almedha led the curtain fall. Her head turned slightly. "Whatever you've done to help him, it isn't good enough. Don't let his behavior give you ideas."
Micaiah rocked back on her heels, fingers clenching together. She couldn't tell what this woman wanted, she never could; sometimes, she wondered if Almedha knew of her brand and the ability to see the images people carried, and the thoughts plaguing them. Her mind was always closed and dark, a whisper when her nerves and paranoia should have made it a shout or a scream - a long, keening scream that pierced the night and woke the keep from deep and dreamless sleep.
Micaiah knew who - that is, what - she was facing. She could imagine Almedha powerful and majestic. But that was not her reality anymore. "All I want is to rebuild Daein." He wanted it too - more than anything. That was the purest, hottest, most intense flare of emotion she'd never seen in him, and Micaiah would follow him forever to keep that flame alive in his heart. "Our goal is the same. I'm happy to serve him. That's all."
Almedha twisted to capture her gaze. The veil cast a shadow over her face, but her eyes glittered like the crystals adoring the lace. She was tall, regal, elegant, everything Micaiah was not. She was short and child-like beside the queen mother.
That must be what he saw in her - the child, the orphan, so much like himself. Pelleas was so young. He would grow and learn, and someday he would forget about her and find someone more suited to his needs. Micaiah could love him, but she couldn't be the equal he imagined her. He was human, she was Branded. He was just a child, and she was old enough to be his mother.
He already had one of those, and she was getting tired of the woman's stare. "If you'll excuse me," Micaiah said, backing toward the door, "I should inspect the supply train for tomorrow's march."
She left, pressed out the door by the queen mother's silence. She didn't run, but she wanted to.
Author: Amber Michelle
Day/Theme: November 3 - lately you make me...
Series: Fire Emblem 9/10
Character/Pairing: Micaiah, Almedha
Rating: K
Words: 1134
Notes: written for my Nano word count, which means fast, because MIDTERMS. Look, I already have an entry for Amnesty Day.
.............................................
Micaiah gulped her tea down once the drawing room door closed behind Pelleas. The day was rainy, the sky already dark outside, and the room was lit with lamps and mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling to give the illusion of openness. The room was quite small, but the fireplace kept it warm, and the king's presence had made it stifling.
She was no judge, but his manners seemed fine; he was well-trained in the real, necessary things to produce the image of royalty, either by Izuka or his mother, it didn't matter which. He faded into the background when those two were in the room. Izuka would demand Micaiah do something, and she always felt compelled to make her own demands in return - my king, is this your will? His face would pale, his lips would tremble, and she'd regret speaking to him.
That hollow place between her ribs, behind her stomach, where she felt a jolt whenever someone panicked or felt happy, made her sick when Izuka tried to take command. The plans weren't always bad - though usually they were - but there was always some profit in the situation for him, even when she couldn't see it. Surely, one would think, he stood to gain nothing by abandoning prisoners to Begnion, and in fact his king's cause might suffer for that decision. Yet, that was his advice.
So Micaiah spoke to Pelleas every day, alone. No mumbling adviser, no queen mother to smother his will. Simply a general and her king. He would stare at her while they talked - there was a difference between casual eye contact and Pelleas's steady regard that made her fidget and leave her cup on its saucer, for fear her hands would shake - and she knew he wanted something from her. Not her charisma, not her fame. He wasn't interested in taking her as a lover, because he didn't have enough confidence in himself to approach her. She looked at him and saw--
She almost dropped her teacup and spilled the rest on her glove, the chamomile scent sickly with too much honey, like grass. Warm grass, warm plains -- she had fond memories of being a simple girl wandering from city to city trying to avoid notice, not playing general, or mother, or saint. They already seemed far away.
Micaiah got up and prepared to leave. The glove would have to wait; she couldn't take it off while she walked the palace halls. She grabbed her cloak, pulled the door open, and found the queen mother standing in shadow outside, an ivory hand raised to knock.
The veil was swept down over her face, glittering in the golden lamp light. It was a fine-woven mesh sewn with bits of obsidian glass and tiny green crystals cut like fine gems, the workmanship such that a family could sell it and live on the profit for a month, maybe two. She knew Sothe's hands itched to make it happen every time he passed the queen mother in the corridor.
Almedha's hand lowered to her side. "Vice-general." She did not nod. She was very careful with her nods and smiles when her son wasn't present.
"My lady." Micaiah bowed, though she should have curtsied. It wouldn't look right without a skirt. "Is there something I can do for you?"
A frown. That was not the right way to phrase it, apparently. The queen mother folded her arms. "You can."
Micaiah bit the inside of her lip. She wasn't a courtier - nor was she a general, or a priestess, or fit company for a queen, even a queen gone somewhat mad. What was she supposed to say, to do? She stepped back, holding the door open, and invited her guest - technically her superior - to enter. Almedha swept in, her chiffon skirt brushing Micaiah's leg, and her perfume leaving behind a breath of lily. The door swung closed of its own accord. All the servants thought the place haunted, but it was just a matter of which windows were open, and where.
"Pelleas just left," Micaiah said, clasping her hands behind her back. The queen mother paused by the window, parting the lace curtains, and didn't answer. "Would you like me to call--"
"It makes me uneasy to see him pander to your favor." Almedha led the curtain fall. Her head turned slightly. "Whatever you've done to help him, it isn't good enough. Don't let his behavior give you ideas."
Micaiah rocked back on her heels, fingers clenching together. She couldn't tell what this woman wanted, she never could; sometimes, she wondered if Almedha knew of her brand and the ability to see the images people carried, and the thoughts plaguing them. Her mind was always closed and dark, a whisper when her nerves and paranoia should have made it a shout or a scream - a long, keening scream that pierced the night and woke the keep from deep and dreamless sleep.
Micaiah knew who - that is, what - she was facing. She could imagine Almedha powerful and majestic. But that was not her reality anymore. "All I want is to rebuild Daein." He wanted it too - more than anything. That was the purest, hottest, most intense flare of emotion she'd never seen in him, and Micaiah would follow him forever to keep that flame alive in his heart. "Our goal is the same. I'm happy to serve him. That's all."
Almedha twisted to capture her gaze. The veil cast a shadow over her face, but her eyes glittered like the crystals adoring the lace. She was tall, regal, elegant, everything Micaiah was not. She was short and child-like beside the queen mother.
That must be what he saw in her - the child, the orphan, so much like himself. Pelleas was so young. He would grow and learn, and someday he would forget about her and find someone more suited to his needs. Micaiah could love him, but she couldn't be the equal he imagined her. He was human, she was Branded. He was just a child, and she was old enough to be his mother.
He already had one of those, and she was getting tired of the woman's stare. "If you'll excuse me," Micaiah said, backing toward the door, "I should inspect the supply train for tomorrow's march."
She left, pressed out the door by the queen mother's silence. She didn't run, but she wanted to.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-04 06:48 pm (UTC)"She could imagine Almedha powerful and majestic. But that was not her reality anymore."
That line really got to me, weirdly enough. Do want more Almedhafic.