[Fire Emblem 8] The Summer of Her Beauty
Jun. 30th, 2009 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreThe Summer of Her Beauty
By: Amber Michelle
Theme: 4 - I want to be where your bare foot walks
Characters: Carlyle, Ismaire
Words: 1433
Warnings: n/a
Notes: for this challenge with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
measuringlife.
..........................................................
For once the summer dawned cool over Jehanna Hall and coaxed the olive trees to open their fragrant blossoms and litter Carlyle's path with round white petals. A bird of prey keened, its shape a black shadow against the morning blue; water flooded the stone channels irrigating the garden, sliding like silk behind the hibiscus and gurgling as streams did in books, a momentary glitter between the bushes that persisted in catching his eye until he reached the courtyard in which his queen was seated on a curved stone bench. Her back was turned to his approach, her red hair a smooth, straight fall over her slim shoulders, her back, to sway at the ends a hands-breadth from the dusty sandstone floor. Her chamberlain, tall, dark-skinned, round about the edges beneath his green robes, stood at her side and spoke quietly, eyes flicking upward to meet Carlyle's gaze for a moment.
He stopped, waited at the archway into the covered patio. The queen did not turn to greet him. Her hands curled into fists on her knees, and Carlyle turned his attention to the sound of the water and a breeze rustling through the branches of pomegranate climbing the arbor and scenting the air with large, trumpet-shaped blossoms a crimson red like her hair.
It must be that business about the clans; though he didn't hear what she said, the undertone to her voice and the pace of her words made his shoulders tense. When she waved the chamberlain away and called Carlyle to her side, the motion of her hand was sharp and quick.
"My queen." He bent knee, eyes on her hands. They folded in her lap, calmer, but her fingers curled and the bones stood out on the back. "The uprising to the north has been taken care of. I have a report."
"Not right now, if you don't mind." Her face was turned away when he dared to look up, her profile lit from behind by the sun emerging from behind the branches. The chamberlain had taken that path out; she frowned. "He's full of opinions regarding their motivations. Instability, he says - a woman on the throne, and no heir."
Carlyle listened to her sharp sigh and saw her fingers crease the dark silk of her dress, curling into fists again, and kept his hands still - one on his knee, one braced on the ground. Half a cubit stretched between them, an insurmountable gulf. "Even when your husband was alive--" No, that was not the best tack to take, and yet he'd already begun. "My lady, the clans agreed to follow his lead, but they couldn't have anticipated his decision to leave you in his place. Once we've proven the power rests firmly in your hands--"
"They've had five years," Ismaire said, and the line of her lips deepened into a frown, her brows drawing together. "I can only conclude they do not intend to bend their necks. If Joshua were here--"
A line of quails picked their way beneath the tangle of pomegranate near the ground, around the patio stones. A breeze flicked the leaves, shifted the dappled shadows painting the queen's silks and shimmering on her hair, and it was warmer than before, the sun rising above the garden wall, the olive trees and junipers, to glitter from her earrings and paint the cream of her exposed shoulder white. An artist couldn't have painted a more inviting curve.
If Joshua were there, she would not be required to rule. She would not be trapped on his throne, a gazelle tethered in the sights of a pack of lions - though such a description was generous when applied to the men at court, when they could barely lift their swords. Ismaire was stronger; beneath her silks was a figure toned by hours of practice with the sword, shapely, muscular. Her hands were callused. She smiled when they crossed blades, laughed in the face of defeat. Her face hardened to stone when she sat on the throne, her eyes only jewels - still beautiful, but dull.
"They want me to declare my son dead and produce another child."
Carlyle's head snapped up and he said no before he realized he'd spoken, and knew his mistake when she turned her face forward and tilted her head. "You must not consider it." He lowered his head again, took a deep breath. His heart beat like a deep-boled drum, slamming against his ribs, his pulse pounding in his throat. "They want to use you to place someone else in power. It will mean war."
"I thought as much." The wind brought voices from the other side of the garden and drowned Ismaire's sigh. If only he could take her hands. She splayed them over her knees, stretched her fingers. "He would not have wanted that."
His eyes burned, dry with the effort of remaining downcast. "No."
She leaned forward, her slender hands on his shoulders. "Stand up, Carlyle. This is ridiculous."
His queen remained seated, and he wished she would stand, steer him toward the garden walk, so he would have a reason to take her hand and place it on his arm. She was not young, not anymore, but when she clasped her hands and looked up at him, eyes blue and gleaming in the uneven sunlight, he remembered the afternoon they first met, when she sat beneath this very arbor, shaded by a parasol carried by her handmaid because it was newly built and not yet overgrown. Every comparison Carlyle's mind conjured that day - her hands softer than silk when he knelt to kiss her fingers, eyes like sapphires or the evening sky, skin like cream - they were all true. The scent of roses lingered when she moved, her robes perfumed, her hair.
He couldn't remember a time in which he had not wanted to run his fingers through her hair. Life before Ismaire was a faded watercolor image - a myth. Carlyle had not existed before the moment she congratulated him on achieving knighthood so many years before.
"Look again. Send your best agents." Ismaire did not wear lip rouge, and her mouth was still soft, delicate - there were no lines to crease her skin when she spoke. Not young, perhaps, but not aged. In the summer of her beauty, he had once heard said of a woman - an apt phrase, for his queen was in full bloom. "A boy of his talent will never remain in obscurity - I'm sure he would choose to use his skill. He is no fool, no matter what he said."
Carlyle watched the play of light on her wide sleeves and breathed out slowly so it would not become a sigh. A man of Joshua's talent would not remain unknown, perhaps, but he might die in obscurity, a knife between his shoulder blades or across his throat. "I will see to it personally."
"No." Ismaire reached for him again, seemed to think better of it, and instead rested her hand to her breast. "No, I will need your strength, Carlyle. Send someone else."
He opened his mouth to argue - and stopped. Her protest wasn't what it sounded like, though Carlyle's heartbeat was so loud, for a moment, he could hear nothing else. He managed a murmured as you wish and a shallow bow, and she thanked him before ending their meeting with a request that she be left alone. Her smile was pale, not what it once was. He couldn't bring himself to warn her.
They might find Joshua - or what was left of him. Perhaps only a trace, a story. The prince would become another storybook painting yellowing on dusty parchment in a book nobody read. Perhaps it would be better that way. No son of his, Carlyle found himself thinking as he strolled beneath the olive branches, would abandon Ismaire in such a fashion. Sometimes he wished he were as shameless as the men pressing her to remarry and offering themselves for the candidacy, though she wouldn't trust him as she did if he shed his morals and abased himself.
War was inevitable, but he would not let it end with the passing of his queen to another. Her scented hand and pale smiles were his alone.
.
By: Amber Michelle
Theme: 4 - I want to be where your bare foot walks
Characters: Carlyle, Ismaire
Words: 1433
Warnings: n/a
Notes: for this challenge with
measuringlife...........................................................
For once the summer dawned cool over Jehanna Hall and coaxed the olive trees to open their fragrant blossoms and litter Carlyle's path with round white petals. A bird of prey keened, its shape a black shadow against the morning blue; water flooded the stone channels irrigating the garden, sliding like silk behind the hibiscus and gurgling as streams did in books, a momentary glitter between the bushes that persisted in catching his eye until he reached the courtyard in which his queen was seated on a curved stone bench. Her back was turned to his approach, her red hair a smooth, straight fall over her slim shoulders, her back, to sway at the ends a hands-breadth from the dusty sandstone floor. Her chamberlain, tall, dark-skinned, round about the edges beneath his green robes, stood at her side and spoke quietly, eyes flicking upward to meet Carlyle's gaze for a moment.
He stopped, waited at the archway into the covered patio. The queen did not turn to greet him. Her hands curled into fists on her knees, and Carlyle turned his attention to the sound of the water and a breeze rustling through the branches of pomegranate climbing the arbor and scenting the air with large, trumpet-shaped blossoms a crimson red like her hair.
It must be that business about the clans; though he didn't hear what she said, the undertone to her voice and the pace of her words made his shoulders tense. When she waved the chamberlain away and called Carlyle to her side, the motion of her hand was sharp and quick.
"My queen." He bent knee, eyes on her hands. They folded in her lap, calmer, but her fingers curled and the bones stood out on the back. "The uprising to the north has been taken care of. I have a report."
"Not right now, if you don't mind." Her face was turned away when he dared to look up, her profile lit from behind by the sun emerging from behind the branches. The chamberlain had taken that path out; she frowned. "He's full of opinions regarding their motivations. Instability, he says - a woman on the throne, and no heir."
Carlyle listened to her sharp sigh and saw her fingers crease the dark silk of her dress, curling into fists again, and kept his hands still - one on his knee, one braced on the ground. Half a cubit stretched between them, an insurmountable gulf. "Even when your husband was alive--" No, that was not the best tack to take, and yet he'd already begun. "My lady, the clans agreed to follow his lead, but they couldn't have anticipated his decision to leave you in his place. Once we've proven the power rests firmly in your hands--"
"They've had five years," Ismaire said, and the line of her lips deepened into a frown, her brows drawing together. "I can only conclude they do not intend to bend their necks. If Joshua were here--"
A line of quails picked their way beneath the tangle of pomegranate near the ground, around the patio stones. A breeze flicked the leaves, shifted the dappled shadows painting the queen's silks and shimmering on her hair, and it was warmer than before, the sun rising above the garden wall, the olive trees and junipers, to glitter from her earrings and paint the cream of her exposed shoulder white. An artist couldn't have painted a more inviting curve.
If Joshua were there, she would not be required to rule. She would not be trapped on his throne, a gazelle tethered in the sights of a pack of lions - though such a description was generous when applied to the men at court, when they could barely lift their swords. Ismaire was stronger; beneath her silks was a figure toned by hours of practice with the sword, shapely, muscular. Her hands were callused. She smiled when they crossed blades, laughed in the face of defeat. Her face hardened to stone when she sat on the throne, her eyes only jewels - still beautiful, but dull.
"They want me to declare my son dead and produce another child."
Carlyle's head snapped up and he said no before he realized he'd spoken, and knew his mistake when she turned her face forward and tilted her head. "You must not consider it." He lowered his head again, took a deep breath. His heart beat like a deep-boled drum, slamming against his ribs, his pulse pounding in his throat. "They want to use you to place someone else in power. It will mean war."
"I thought as much." The wind brought voices from the other side of the garden and drowned Ismaire's sigh. If only he could take her hands. She splayed them over her knees, stretched her fingers. "He would not have wanted that."
His eyes burned, dry with the effort of remaining downcast. "No."
She leaned forward, her slender hands on his shoulders. "Stand up, Carlyle. This is ridiculous."
His queen remained seated, and he wished she would stand, steer him toward the garden walk, so he would have a reason to take her hand and place it on his arm. She was not young, not anymore, but when she clasped her hands and looked up at him, eyes blue and gleaming in the uneven sunlight, he remembered the afternoon they first met, when she sat beneath this very arbor, shaded by a parasol carried by her handmaid because it was newly built and not yet overgrown. Every comparison Carlyle's mind conjured that day - her hands softer than silk when he knelt to kiss her fingers, eyes like sapphires or the evening sky, skin like cream - they were all true. The scent of roses lingered when she moved, her robes perfumed, her hair.
He couldn't remember a time in which he had not wanted to run his fingers through her hair. Life before Ismaire was a faded watercolor image - a myth. Carlyle had not existed before the moment she congratulated him on achieving knighthood so many years before.
"Look again. Send your best agents." Ismaire did not wear lip rouge, and her mouth was still soft, delicate - there were no lines to crease her skin when she spoke. Not young, perhaps, but not aged. In the summer of her beauty, he had once heard said of a woman - an apt phrase, for his queen was in full bloom. "A boy of his talent will never remain in obscurity - I'm sure he would choose to use his skill. He is no fool, no matter what he said."
Carlyle watched the play of light on her wide sleeves and breathed out slowly so it would not become a sigh. A man of Joshua's talent would not remain unknown, perhaps, but he might die in obscurity, a knife between his shoulder blades or across his throat. "I will see to it personally."
"No." Ismaire reached for him again, seemed to think better of it, and instead rested her hand to her breast. "No, I will need your strength, Carlyle. Send someone else."
He opened his mouth to argue - and stopped. Her protest wasn't what it sounded like, though Carlyle's heartbeat was so loud, for a moment, he could hear nothing else. He managed a murmured as you wish and a shallow bow, and she thanked him before ending their meeting with a request that she be left alone. Her smile was pale, not what it once was. He couldn't bring himself to warn her.
They might find Joshua - or what was left of him. Perhaps only a trace, a story. The prince would become another storybook painting yellowing on dusty parchment in a book nobody read. Perhaps it would be better that way. No son of his, Carlyle found himself thinking as he strolled beneath the olive branches, would abandon Ismaire in such a fashion. Sometimes he wished he were as shameless as the men pressing her to remarry and offering themselves for the candidacy, though she wouldn't trust him as she did if he shed his morals and abased himself.
War was inevitable, but he would not let it end with the passing of his queen to another. Her scented hand and pale smiles were his alone.
.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-07-06 10:26 pm (UTC)Anyways. I missed this earlier and only caught it with the monthly round up. This is really beautiful prosaically and I love the hints of Carlyle's dark obsession which eventually does them both in. It really is a fascinating pair, there should be more work for them...first meeting fics and such. All sorts of things.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-06 10:57 pm (UTC)I kind of want to write an affair, but that would feel... weird. :D
Thank you! And LJ had better have a horrible stomach ache after that.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-20 04:22 am (UTC)I say your FE ideas rule (yes, I like the ideas the most, though it doesn't mean I'm not totally nerd about this pairing too. FE backgrounds and details are vibrant and clever under your pen. Between this and Every wasted moment, you added flavor into my day!
All fangirlism let aside, ... neh I can't let fangirlism aside, YAY! (Bah, I'll just give a decent critic latter! For I'll... read it now!)
no subject
Date: 2009-07-20 07:36 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed the stories so much today! Thank you for letting me know. <3
I'd like to write more of this - maybe a sequel or a set of fics connected to this one - because the Carlyle/Ismaire relationship would be really interesting to illustrate. Motivation is a problem, though, so the writing will be slow.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 12:56 am (UTC)I would appreciate if you could give me a bit of information if you played it in english or japanese
c
no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 08:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 03:43 pm (UTC)chelle
I bought a copy but i am still not sure if it is in ENglish hope it is