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31_days2005-09-23 05:20 am
mythicbeast.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-23 05:20 am
[September the Twenty-Third] [Original] But Passing Fancy
Title: But Passing Fancy
Day/Theme: September 23: To Aurora, not to hurry
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale, Palomir
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roses and fire and blood that burns, and won't you please let me go?
A/N: This is pure, unadulterated 'BUH?'-fic. It's like those DREAMS you get (yeah you know THOSE DREAMS) that you wake up from going 'WTF'. It was written for the phrasing and nothing more, to prove that something can look wondrously glorious and still not have the slightest damn semblance of a plot.
"You're mine, you know," Gale says, and Palomir wishes she would shut up, because she's bleeding her life out onto the snow and he's never seen anything so red. It's redder than roses and it burns hotter than fire - burns hotter than the tears streaming down his face and the breath gasping out his lungs, sending the air in front of him nearly opaque with vapor.
He wants her to shut up. So he tells her so.
"Shut up."
Gale isn't listening, though, and he's forced to listen as she rambles on, as her blood pools around his fingers and sears them until they feel like they're skinned to the bone, slick and abhorrent and nearly obscene.
And somehow, though they're half-wedged in the gash in her abdomen, trying desperately keeping her alive, this feels terribly, terribly right.
"I have to apologize for that, you know," Gale goes on blithely. "I realize it's quite unfair."
Palomir's lips purse together and he tunes Gale out for a sizable chunk of time, until her next words catch his attention.
"...so I release you from being mine, you know, since it's really immoral to kind of own someone the way I own you, little better than slavery, really."
The elf looks up, perplexed, though his hands remain on her.
"Gale?" he asks wearily. "What are you talking about?"
"About me owning you, silly," Gale sing-songs. "It's really terribly unjust, keeping you against your will, and I'm sorry. So I'm letting you go."
Palomir decides that she's gone completely round the bend from blood loss - or possibly a concussion, as it would just be her style. "Gale," he says, gently, "You've never kept me against my will in your life."
Although he can think of a few occasions where it certainly felt like it.
"Don't speak rubbish," Gale says faintly, and Palomir applies more pressure as her voice goes weak, just to see the sharp color in her face as she winces. "Ah," she pants, doggedly chasing the subject, "Don't try to distract me."
Palomir shakes his head; it's obvious the girl won't let this drop and get the damn rest she needs unless he acquiesces. "Whatever ownership you think you have over me, Gale, I'm free from it. Now stop talking."
"You aren't, yet," Gale says, almost sadly, and with a strength he didn't know she yet had, she gingerly reaches up to rest a hand on his heart. "You're not free here," she croons. "I can see you're still tied to me, you know. I've got sharper eyes than you think."
She watches Palomir quietly, gaze hooded. "Won't you let yourself go, pretty bird?" she asks him dreamily, plaintively.
"You've got the most beautiful eyes."
Palomir doesn't quite know what to say to that. There should be a handbook of things to say to dying madwomen, but whoever is destined to write one hasn't been born yet, and the elf must rely on his own fumbling intuition to come up with a response to satisfy the swooning girl.
"Thank you," he mutters, and then he clears his throat and says, louder, "I own myself."
And that just sounds so silly aloud.
Gale's fingers - claws - grip the cloth of his shirt tightly, and her eyes glint, fever-bright and knowing. "Say it," she urges. "Say it louder."
"Say it so the whole world will know you've never owed me anything."
At that, Palomir pauses, and he looks down at Gale sternly, mouth flattening into a grim line. He struggles with something in his mind for a moment, then finally speaks.
"I can't say that." Quietly.
"It would be a lie." And Mirhalases never lie, you see, for they're seers and they're conjurers and they're bastions of hidden humor but they are nothing if not honest and he knows that Gale knows this.
The hand against his chest flexes weakly, again, and Gale's gaze is impertinent but resigned.
"Ah, well," she sighs, like a lover might mourn for a token spurned or a kiss fondly remembered. "It was worth trying."
"Now get your hands out of my guts, Mirhalas," she grumbles. "And let the monster earn his keep."
Palomir gladly retreats his hand to let the wounds on her stomach painfully, slowly knit together, and he almost smiles, staring up at the bleak winter sky, while Gale's curses over her body's sluggish response to emergency break the chilly air.
It is, all in all, he reflects, a nice day to learn how to fly.
Day/Theme: September 23: To Aurora, not to hurry
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale, Palomir
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roses and fire and blood that burns, and won't you please let me go?
A/N: This is pure, unadulterated 'BUH?'-fic. It's like those DREAMS you get (yeah you know THOSE DREAMS) that you wake up from going 'WTF'. It was written for the phrasing and nothing more, to prove that something can look wondrously glorious and still not have the slightest damn semblance of a plot.
"You're mine, you know," Gale says, and Palomir wishes she would shut up, because she's bleeding her life out onto the snow and he's never seen anything so red. It's redder than roses and it burns hotter than fire - burns hotter than the tears streaming down his face and the breath gasping out his lungs, sending the air in front of him nearly opaque with vapor.
He wants her to shut up. So he tells her so.
"Shut up."
Gale isn't listening, though, and he's forced to listen as she rambles on, as her blood pools around his fingers and sears them until they feel like they're skinned to the bone, slick and abhorrent and nearly obscene.
And somehow, though they're half-wedged in the gash in her abdomen, trying desperately keeping her alive, this feels terribly, terribly right.
"I have to apologize for that, you know," Gale goes on blithely. "I realize it's quite unfair."
Palomir's lips purse together and he tunes Gale out for a sizable chunk of time, until her next words catch his attention.
"...so I release you from being mine, you know, since it's really immoral to kind of own someone the way I own you, little better than slavery, really."
The elf looks up, perplexed, though his hands remain on her.
"Gale?" he asks wearily. "What are you talking about?"
"About me owning you, silly," Gale sing-songs. "It's really terribly unjust, keeping you against your will, and I'm sorry. So I'm letting you go."
Palomir decides that she's gone completely round the bend from blood loss - or possibly a concussion, as it would just be her style. "Gale," he says, gently, "You've never kept me against my will in your life."
Although he can think of a few occasions where it certainly felt like it.
"Don't speak rubbish," Gale says faintly, and Palomir applies more pressure as her voice goes weak, just to see the sharp color in her face as she winces. "Ah," she pants, doggedly chasing the subject, "Don't try to distract me."
Palomir shakes his head; it's obvious the girl won't let this drop and get the damn rest she needs unless he acquiesces. "Whatever ownership you think you have over me, Gale, I'm free from it. Now stop talking."
"You aren't, yet," Gale says, almost sadly, and with a strength he didn't know she yet had, she gingerly reaches up to rest a hand on his heart. "You're not free here," she croons. "I can see you're still tied to me, you know. I've got sharper eyes than you think."
She watches Palomir quietly, gaze hooded. "Won't you let yourself go, pretty bird?" she asks him dreamily, plaintively.
"You've got the most beautiful eyes."
Palomir doesn't quite know what to say to that. There should be a handbook of things to say to dying madwomen, but whoever is destined to write one hasn't been born yet, and the elf must rely on his own fumbling intuition to come up with a response to satisfy the swooning girl.
"Thank you," he mutters, and then he clears his throat and says, louder, "I own myself."
And that just sounds so silly aloud.
Gale's fingers - claws - grip the cloth of his shirt tightly, and her eyes glint, fever-bright and knowing. "Say it," she urges. "Say it louder."
"Say it so the whole world will know you've never owed me anything."
At that, Palomir pauses, and he looks down at Gale sternly, mouth flattening into a grim line. He struggles with something in his mind for a moment, then finally speaks.
"I can't say that." Quietly.
"It would be a lie." And Mirhalases never lie, you see, for they're seers and they're conjurers and they're bastions of hidden humor but they are nothing if not honest and he knows that Gale knows this.
The hand against his chest flexes weakly, again, and Gale's gaze is impertinent but resigned.
"Ah, well," she sighs, like a lover might mourn for a token spurned or a kiss fondly remembered. "It was worth trying."
"Now get your hands out of my guts, Mirhalas," she grumbles. "And let the monster earn his keep."
Palomir gladly retreats his hand to let the wounds on her stomach painfully, slowly knit together, and he almost smiles, staring up at the bleak winter sky, while Gale's curses over her body's sluggish response to emergency break the chilly air.
It is, all in all, he reflects, a nice day to learn how to fly.