[January 2] [Fire Emblem] Negative Space
Jan. 3rd, 2009 12:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreNegative Space
Author: Amber Michelle
Day/Theme: January 2 - la vie en rose (LATE WHAT)
Series: Fire Emblem
Character/Pairing: Micaiah, Pelleas
Rating: K
Words: 1193
Notes: I still have moments of Micaiah hate. It's weird. And I can't write Sothe for some reason, so he's not here. He's, uh, doing something. Somewhere.
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measuringlife, this is... also for you? FEEL BETTER. ;_;
.............................................
Micaiah pulled her legs to her chest beneath a fur-lined cloak. Her back hurt from wearing it up the stairs to the top of the keep; it was heavy and too long for her height, and smelled like wet wool. The stone battlements were warm from a day in the sun, but the wind coming down from the mountains was cold and the sun was setting into the plains, gilding the mountains and the river far to the west. The king was already there when she arrived, seated on the steps down to the ledge with a tome open on his lap, and she huddled on the step below, the sound of dry pages at her ear. She liked the sound of it, of the paper folding and settling. Sometimes the edges crumbled or cracked, and Pelleas muttered about the librarian wanting to kill him for mistreating her books.
It surprised her the first time he opened a volume of collected plays, one of the really old ones, when he handled each page so carefully as he turned them. She never saw them stacked on his dining table or by the fireplace. They were always marked, never dog-eared. No one handled books with as much reverence as Pelleas - not that Micaiah knew. For a long time, he said, they were his only company. To mistreat a book would mean a ban from the library.
"Did they teach you to read at your orphanage?" Micaiah asked. The sun was a sliver on the horizon. She heard him close the book. "It's unusual you're so fluent in the old tongue."
"An old priestess taught me to read," he said. "Before she died." Then he gave a strange sort of laugh, like a sigh. "But you probably guessed that."
"Do you remember her?" She turned, scooting onto one leg and folding the other, pulling the cloak closed over her knees.
He looked down at her. His fingers worked the edge of the black cover. "Better than my parents."
Micaiah watched the pads of his fingers flatten the nap of the fabric cover. It was shiny on the edge, worn. There were dozens of tomes on dark magic in the library - maybe even a hundred of them, maybe more. They were the oldest books in the keep, and the covers were worn like that, shiny on the edges from rubbing against shelves, walls, or from the impatient fingers of generations of readers.
Sometimes she imagined there were only two kinds of people who used books like that; those who wanted power, who were foolish enough to trade their souls away for it, and those like Pelleas: introverted, weak, lonely. She reached up, took his hand, and watched the muscles in his arm work. Should he pull away, let her hold on? Micaiah felt the spike in adrenaline when they touched, an echo, like the brush of air on the back of her neck when he laughed. The cold swept in through the part in her cloak.
His hands were warm, like a fever. She curled her fingers under his thumb, pressed into his palm. It was sweaty. Was his face crimson to match? "I don't remember mine at all." Goosebumps prickled all over her arms and legs. The wind tossed her hair over her shoulder, and Micaiah tensed so she wouldn't shiver. "I thought-- Lady Almedha might have taught you the old language, before you disappeared. Maybe she didn't have you long enough."
Pelleas finally moved, pulled his hand free to reach for her cloak and pull it closed. His knees cracked down on the step. The book slid from his thighs, thumped onto the stone. "You're crazy to be up here right now, Micaiah. Go inside."
"I don't think I'm from Daein," she said.
His eyebrows drew together. "You said you weren't--"
"But I thought I was." Micaiah pulled the edges of her cloak together from the inside, working her fingers into the fur, and he snatched his hands back. She watched a blush stain his cheeks and looked away. "Now that I think about it..."
The keep faced south. She looked at the plains and the villages dotted over the brown, the smudge of darkness beyond them that was a forest, and the rise of hills. The place in her memory was sunny and warm. It might be the season, but the trees were different from the ones she knew in Daein - the leaves were lighter, the branches not as heavily laden, and there were palms. Long palm fronds, like feathers, and wide ovals of stiff green fiber. When Rafiel told her stories about Hatari Micaiah entertained the idea she was from there, because he described the same kinds of trees.
There was one person she remembered - a tall figure, slim, a sweeping white skirt. She remembered the hair, silver like hers, but long like a river. The mark, spreading its wings across a long-fingered hand with a gold ring.
Was it real, or was it a fantasy she created to fill the blank spaces in her memory? Perhaps as a child she imagined herself in the role, an older and prettier Micaiah with soft hands that smelled like apple blossoms. She still liked apple blossoms. They made her feel warm.
You're freezing, Pelleas said, biting the inside of his cheek, and Micaiah laughed. "That's why I decided I can't be from Daein. Nolan calls this a spell of good weather, and I feel like I'm wading in ice water." She gathered the cloak, pulled it from beneath her legs, and stood up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be cryptic. Families have been on my mind with so many orphans in the keep."
The king settled on his heels, looked up at her. He only jolted to his feet when she said get up Pelleas, you're not supposed to be kneeling to me, and he stumbled back a step. Then he bent to retrieve his book. "They don't-- they don't have to stay here, it's just a matter of finding--"
"No, no." Micaiah hugged the fur around her arms. "You're doing a wonderful thing by housing them here and finding teachers for them." She tried to catch his gaze, but his eyes remained downcast. "Don't stop."
Pelleas nodded, the sharp motion shaking hair into his eyes. He pushed it away with his hand. "Come on." His eyes flicked to her, then away. "Inside. I'll have tea brought to warm you."
She stepped back quickly to make room for him on the steps when he hopped down, hurried past. Micaiah looked at the southern plains again, and the wisps of silver hair blown over her shoulder by the wind.
Home. Was it in that direction? Was it west?
She'd never know.
Author: Amber Michelle
Day/Theme: January 2 - la vie en rose (LATE WHAT)
Series: Fire Emblem
Character/Pairing: Micaiah, Pelleas
Rating: K
Words: 1193
Notes: I still have moments of Micaiah hate. It's weird. And I can't write Sothe for some reason, so he's not here. He's, uh, doing something. Somewhere.
measuringlife, this is... also for you? FEEL BETTER. ;_;.............................................
Micaiah pulled her legs to her chest beneath a fur-lined cloak. Her back hurt from wearing it up the stairs to the top of the keep; it was heavy and too long for her height, and smelled like wet wool. The stone battlements were warm from a day in the sun, but the wind coming down from the mountains was cold and the sun was setting into the plains, gilding the mountains and the river far to the west. The king was already there when she arrived, seated on the steps down to the ledge with a tome open on his lap, and she huddled on the step below, the sound of dry pages at her ear. She liked the sound of it, of the paper folding and settling. Sometimes the edges crumbled or cracked, and Pelleas muttered about the librarian wanting to kill him for mistreating her books.
It surprised her the first time he opened a volume of collected plays, one of the really old ones, when he handled each page so carefully as he turned them. She never saw them stacked on his dining table or by the fireplace. They were always marked, never dog-eared. No one handled books with as much reverence as Pelleas - not that Micaiah knew. For a long time, he said, they were his only company. To mistreat a book would mean a ban from the library.
"Did they teach you to read at your orphanage?" Micaiah asked. The sun was a sliver on the horizon. She heard him close the book. "It's unusual you're so fluent in the old tongue."
"An old priestess taught me to read," he said. "Before she died." Then he gave a strange sort of laugh, like a sigh. "But you probably guessed that."
"Do you remember her?" She turned, scooting onto one leg and folding the other, pulling the cloak closed over her knees.
He looked down at her. His fingers worked the edge of the black cover. "Better than my parents."
Micaiah watched the pads of his fingers flatten the nap of the fabric cover. It was shiny on the edge, worn. There were dozens of tomes on dark magic in the library - maybe even a hundred of them, maybe more. They were the oldest books in the keep, and the covers were worn like that, shiny on the edges from rubbing against shelves, walls, or from the impatient fingers of generations of readers.
Sometimes she imagined there were only two kinds of people who used books like that; those who wanted power, who were foolish enough to trade their souls away for it, and those like Pelleas: introverted, weak, lonely. She reached up, took his hand, and watched the muscles in his arm work. Should he pull away, let her hold on? Micaiah felt the spike in adrenaline when they touched, an echo, like the brush of air on the back of her neck when he laughed. The cold swept in through the part in her cloak.
His hands were warm, like a fever. She curled her fingers under his thumb, pressed into his palm. It was sweaty. Was his face crimson to match? "I don't remember mine at all." Goosebumps prickled all over her arms and legs. The wind tossed her hair over her shoulder, and Micaiah tensed so she wouldn't shiver. "I thought-- Lady Almedha might have taught you the old language, before you disappeared. Maybe she didn't have you long enough."
Pelleas finally moved, pulled his hand free to reach for her cloak and pull it closed. His knees cracked down on the step. The book slid from his thighs, thumped onto the stone. "You're crazy to be up here right now, Micaiah. Go inside."
"I don't think I'm from Daein," she said.
His eyebrows drew together. "You said you weren't--"
"But I thought I was." Micaiah pulled the edges of her cloak together from the inside, working her fingers into the fur, and he snatched his hands back. She watched a blush stain his cheeks and looked away. "Now that I think about it..."
The keep faced south. She looked at the plains and the villages dotted over the brown, the smudge of darkness beyond them that was a forest, and the rise of hills. The place in her memory was sunny and warm. It might be the season, but the trees were different from the ones she knew in Daein - the leaves were lighter, the branches not as heavily laden, and there were palms. Long palm fronds, like feathers, and wide ovals of stiff green fiber. When Rafiel told her stories about Hatari Micaiah entertained the idea she was from there, because he described the same kinds of trees.
There was one person she remembered - a tall figure, slim, a sweeping white skirt. She remembered the hair, silver like hers, but long like a river. The mark, spreading its wings across a long-fingered hand with a gold ring.
Was it real, or was it a fantasy she created to fill the blank spaces in her memory? Perhaps as a child she imagined herself in the role, an older and prettier Micaiah with soft hands that smelled like apple blossoms. She still liked apple blossoms. They made her feel warm.
You're freezing, Pelleas said, biting the inside of his cheek, and Micaiah laughed. "That's why I decided I can't be from Daein. Nolan calls this a spell of good weather, and I feel like I'm wading in ice water." She gathered the cloak, pulled it from beneath her legs, and stood up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be cryptic. Families have been on my mind with so many orphans in the keep."
The king settled on his heels, looked up at her. He only jolted to his feet when she said get up Pelleas, you're not supposed to be kneeling to me, and he stumbled back a step. Then he bent to retrieve his book. "They don't-- they don't have to stay here, it's just a matter of finding--"
"No, no." Micaiah hugged the fur around her arms. "You're doing a wonderful thing by housing them here and finding teachers for them." She tried to catch his gaze, but his eyes remained downcast. "Don't stop."
Pelleas nodded, the sharp motion shaking hair into his eyes. He pushed it away with his hand. "Come on." His eyes flicked to her, then away. "Inside. I'll have tea brought to warm you."
She stepped back quickly to make room for him on the steps when he hopped down, hurried past. Micaiah looked at the southern plains again, and the wisps of silver hair blown over her shoulder by the wind.
Home. Was it in that direction? Was it west?
She'd never know.
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-03 08:30 pm (UTC)Awww, cute piece! I love the little details and almost-there nature of their friendship. Also the cute Pelleas points (like her having to remind him of his station. Again!) And thank you! I've been mostly better as the cold seems to be turning back
no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 12:25 pm (UTC)I feel like this one is less awkward than the last one (even though Pelleas = awkward incarnate), so I'm glad you like it. And I'm glad you're getting better. <3