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31_days2005-08-04 09:13 pm
lasakura.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-04 09:13 pm
[original] [She left her life on Monday] [august 4th]
Title: Packing is Harder Than It Looks
Day/Theme: August 4: She left her life on Monday
Series: Original
Character: Sedaiyu, Asaren, the duke.
Rating: G
--
Packing is Harder Than It Looks
She left her life on a Monday and there are no words to explain what she thinks as she straddles the horse awkwardly: this mad, mad quest for a witch with a wart on her nose (there must be thousands) and a cure for a man who keeps alive through everyone else’s deaths.
Asaren doesn’t care, but then again he never has; she can see him riding ahead of her now, dark hair shining in the sun and the familiar, arrogant tilt to his head that could be mistaken for beauty. He has left nothing, has lost nothing, and she feels as though she has reached out for the world to have it spin out of her hands.
Her father would have approved of this as her mother did not (her mother, shouting and raging behind the careful dulcet screen of a lady’s voice, supreme ruler of Madhare now that her father lies in a coffin of glass and her sister – First Heir – has gone questing). But her father is not here and the world seems to lie vacant, an old coat discarded that is waiting to be worn again.
---
“You’ve never been out of the castle before, have you?”
Stung, she swiped at her cheek, and a tiny black insect flew out of the way before swarming over her head again like a halo. “Of course I have.” She said. “Note that I have a tan. You don’t get tans indoors unless you don’t have a roof, in which case you’d be like to die of pneumonia. Also note my lack of coughing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Defensive, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. I only wish you’d shut up. The flies are driving me mad.”
“Father said once,” her sister said placidly, slowing the pace of her mare with a careless nudge, “that flies are attracted only to the unhealthiest people.”
Both Asaren and Kyana, unruffled and noticeably insect-free, turned to look at a red-faced, sweating Sedaiyu, whose lone insect follower had been joined by two companions, buzzing carelessly over her head.
She snarled at them both. “No wonder they aren’t attacking you; do either of you have any blood to suck out?” Irritably, she caught at her cheek again, feeling a slick wetness that was not blood or sweat follow the curve of her nose, dripping salt into her mouth.
As if on a subtle signal that she had not caught, they turned away simultaneously, the smooth motions of their limbs in perfect harmony as they spurred their mounts onward, leaving Relant – the cursed hero for whom they quested – to pick up the rear and ensure that she kept up with them.
---
The moon has blossomed out into a soft circle, white as bones. Huddled in the dark beneath the tents they set up in the evening, she pokes her head out of the tent to stare up at it.
Moons, Sedaiyu. He tapped her head, raising his brows in the old sardonic gesture that made her half-laugh, half-wince at its reproach. His sunbrowned hands ran in a smooth, caressing gesture over the windowpane’s polished glass before leaping upward in a sudden movement to direct her attention to the night-blown sky.
Watch them and take advantage of their sights while you can; nothing in life is free, and the things that are, are temporary. Full moons don’t last forever.
Nothing does.
Making a harsh, exasperated sound, she turned over in the tent (again), and fell asleep this time, dreaming of sinewy, tanned arms throwing her up in the air and catching her to hold her in an embrace that she had thought would die only after she did.
---
He found her the next morning despite all efforts to the contrary. His expression reminded her of the lake where they had once gone boating; they had paddled it out to the middle and she had leaned over to see a glint of something that had turned out to be sunlight. (She had fallen in, nearly drowned, and had never gone back again.)
“You’re sulking.” He said, neither gracious nor gentle.
“Mourning.” She corrected him, briskly packing the things that they had set out for camp yesterday. (“I don’t think you want to put that in your trunk, Sedaiyu; it looks like dried droppings to me.”) “For my dead father. Whom you promised you wouldn’t kill.”
“He sent assassins after me. Should I have let them do their duty?”
“He wouldn’t have—“ but she would not dispute this here. There were times for everything and she recognized them even if he did not.
“Oh, he would have.” Asaren said comfortably, leaning against a conveniently situated tree. “He thought that I was a danger to his dukedom; to you. He was doing what he thought was right. In a way, it’s a great pity that he died.”
She stopped, her fingers in the midst of depositing what would later turn out to be a dried squirrel skin into her luggage. “Are you even sorry,” she said in evident astonishment, “that you killed my father?”
He considered this.
“No. I don’t think I am.” He smiled a brilliantly real smile that twisted at her stomach. She pushed her tongue against the barrier of her teeth, feeling the gritty difficulty of swallowing as if it were a dream. “It was necessary and I don’t apologize for it.”
“I didn’t expect you to.” She said forcefully. His smile gentled.
“Then why did you ask?” he inquired, and walked away before she could answer. And she stared at her trunks in despair before deciding to leave another trunk here, where one of the sentinels would find it and bring it back to the castle.
[end]
Day/Theme: August 4: She left her life on Monday
Series: Original
Character: Sedaiyu, Asaren, the duke.
Rating: G
--
She left her life on a Monday and there are no words to explain what she thinks as she straddles the horse awkwardly: this mad, mad quest for a witch with a wart on her nose (there must be thousands) and a cure for a man who keeps alive through everyone else’s deaths.
Asaren doesn’t care, but then again he never has; she can see him riding ahead of her now, dark hair shining in the sun and the familiar, arrogant tilt to his head that could be mistaken for beauty. He has left nothing, has lost nothing, and she feels as though she has reached out for the world to have it spin out of her hands.
Her father would have approved of this as her mother did not (her mother, shouting and raging behind the careful dulcet screen of a lady’s voice, supreme ruler of Madhare now that her father lies in a coffin of glass and her sister – First Heir – has gone questing). But her father is not here and the world seems to lie vacant, an old coat discarded that is waiting to be worn again.
“You’ve never been out of the castle before, have you?”
Stung, she swiped at her cheek, and a tiny black insect flew out of the way before swarming over her head again like a halo. “Of course I have.” She said. “Note that I have a tan. You don’t get tans indoors unless you don’t have a roof, in which case you’d be like to die of pneumonia. Also note my lack of coughing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Defensive, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. I only wish you’d shut up. The flies are driving me mad.”
“Father said once,” her sister said placidly, slowing the pace of her mare with a careless nudge, “that flies are attracted only to the unhealthiest people.”
Both Asaren and Kyana, unruffled and noticeably insect-free, turned to look at a red-faced, sweating Sedaiyu, whose lone insect follower had been joined by two companions, buzzing carelessly over her head.
She snarled at them both. “No wonder they aren’t attacking you; do either of you have any blood to suck out?” Irritably, she caught at her cheek again, feeling a slick wetness that was not blood or sweat follow the curve of her nose, dripping salt into her mouth.
As if on a subtle signal that she had not caught, they turned away simultaneously, the smooth motions of their limbs in perfect harmony as they spurred their mounts onward, leaving Relant – the cursed hero for whom they quested – to pick up the rear and ensure that she kept up with them.
The moon has blossomed out into a soft circle, white as bones. Huddled in the dark beneath the tents they set up in the evening, she pokes her head out of the tent to stare up at it.
Moons, Sedaiyu. He tapped her head, raising his brows in the old sardonic gesture that made her half-laugh, half-wince at its reproach. His sunbrowned hands ran in a smooth, caressing gesture over the windowpane’s polished glass before leaping upward in a sudden movement to direct her attention to the night-blown sky.
Watch them and take advantage of their sights while you can; nothing in life is free, and the things that are, are temporary. Full moons don’t last forever.
Nothing does.
Making a harsh, exasperated sound, she turned over in the tent (again), and fell asleep this time, dreaming of sinewy, tanned arms throwing her up in the air and catching her to hold her in an embrace that she had thought would die only after she did.
He found her the next morning despite all efforts to the contrary. His expression reminded her of the lake where they had once gone boating; they had paddled it out to the middle and she had leaned over to see a glint of something that had turned out to be sunlight. (She had fallen in, nearly drowned, and had never gone back again.)
“You’re sulking.” He said, neither gracious nor gentle.
“Mourning.” She corrected him, briskly packing the things that they had set out for camp yesterday. (“I don’t think you want to put that in your trunk, Sedaiyu; it looks like dried droppings to me.”) “For my dead father. Whom you promised you wouldn’t kill.”
“He sent assassins after me. Should I have let them do their duty?”
“He wouldn’t have—“ but she would not dispute this here. There were times for everything and she recognized them even if he did not.
“Oh, he would have.” Asaren said comfortably, leaning against a conveniently situated tree. “He thought that I was a danger to his dukedom; to you. He was doing what he thought was right. In a way, it’s a great pity that he died.”
She stopped, her fingers in the midst of depositing what would later turn out to be a dried squirrel skin into her luggage. “Are you even sorry,” she said in evident astonishment, “that you killed my father?”
He considered this.
“No. I don’t think I am.” He smiled a brilliantly real smile that twisted at her stomach. She pushed her tongue against the barrier of her teeth, feeling the gritty difficulty of swallowing as if it were a dream. “It was necessary and I don’t apologize for it.”
“I didn’t expect you to.” She said forcefully. His smile gentled.
“Then why did you ask?” he inquired, and walked away before she could answer. And she stared at her trunks in despair before deciding to leave another trunk here, where one of the sentinels would find it and bring it back to the castle.
[end]