lololol, it wasn't my meme, but skye's. XD

But I will give you a start on it! Mwuahahahaha!!

Death - Ryuuki

Ryuuki should have learned to fear fire instead of the dark. Flames lit and consumed the pavilion his mother once occupied, though he didn't remember how or why. Fire warped the cherry trees in the little enclosure he lived in after Seien's exile - an attempt to kill him which did not succeed, though his wasn't the only pavilion to burn during the succession war. The third prince died with his mother when their roof collapsed upon them, while the crown prince's soldiers waited outside with arrows nocked, ready to shoot should anyone emerge from a window or passage. Ryuuki saw it happen from the top of the Tower of Immortals.

Their father emerged soon afterward and ordered the execution of his oldest son, the only child aside from Ryuuki to survive. His path to the throne was paved on that day, his brother's blood running in the channels between stones. He forgot their faces, though he could remember their voices through a door, asking what was wrong, why was he crying-- didn't he like the dark?

His father's face was also faded; his voice became a half-remembered baritone that used to fill the throne room on the rare occasions he spoke, following the ringing strike of the gold-tipped scabbard he slammed to the tiles for order. Ryuuki's memory clung to the image - to the blur of purple robes and gold embroidery seen in his peripheral vision while he stood beside the throne to listen and learn, and try to remember the names of the officials lined up behind their tables according to ministry, department, rank. Ou Ki was argumentative, easy to remember. The Ran triplets were mirror images of each other. Kou Reishin glared at them above a wood-slatted fan, a row behind.

When Ryuuki finally ascended the throne, he looked at his officials and tried to remember what he'd heard, what he'd learned. You resemble your father more than one of them said, and he wasn't sure yet if it was an insult or not. Was he a terrifying shadow behind a paper screen? Did his voice drive the court?

He dreamed of the curl of smoke rising from his father's pyre, carried by sparks, gray and purple as it meandered upward to join the low-hanging clouds blanketing the sky. A bell clanged, a recurrent noise piercing his temples and cramping his neck. No kind words, no lilac-scented embrace. Only the smell of death, like the burning of half-decayed mushrooms and old meat, and it was still enough to wake Ryuuki from the depth of sleep to be sick.

Death was his legacy - darkness, burning, and decay. The court crumbled around him like smoldering wood, and he wondered if he would escape the same way: on the pyre, his pale hair curling and turning black, his body rising to the sky to spread ashy wings, a false rebirth before the wind dashed him to pieces.

It was dark, and even his brother couldn't save him this time - nor could Shuurei, though he reached for her hand even when she wasn't there. He tried to remember her arms, her callused hands, her cherry-blossom sleeves. Her ghost stroked his forehead and lulled him to sleep, and her face was there in his dreams, the only one worth remembering.

R for regalia, 12K, your choice of kingdom

and/or

U for underwater, Tierkreis, anything with any Porpos-kin

When Neira first touched the Cerulean Flux she remembered Ninulneda, whose silvery pelt could be seen across a battlefield and gleamed in the light cast by the phantom king at the end of the world. The priestess, green-pelted and tall, knew of no such story. The great Ninulneda, battling a human king? Rubbish. She touched the beads, but only to take them away; there was no green glow, no moment of realization. Then: memorize the next bracelet before nightfall. That should keep you out of mischief.

Neira wanted to throw the coral beads at the priestess when she turned her back, but it was true she took the Cerulean Flux with the intent of hiding them. Who wouldn't? They glittered a pretty blue, like sapphires. The temple would have been in an uproar, and she would have slipped out to see the dancers on main street-- but everything she saw in the blue jewels was more real than reality. The screams still echoed in her ears like a shout in the coastal cave. When she came back to herself at the altar and heard the ringing of her teacher's chain belt and jewelry behind her, it was like emerging from the deep to hear a song which, under the waves, was merely a vibration in the water.

If she were going to lie, it would be spectacular, more than a strange new story nobody believed. The secret to making mischief, after all, was to be reasonable, and they accused her of being the worst troublemaker to enter the temple since Norna, the great sage.

Neira considered the vision a long time - until the older priestess died, and she took her place. The Porpos-kin believed Ninulneda watched over them on sea and land; her predecessor spoke with his voice, or claimed to, before Neira was born. She rubbed the beads one by one and looked into their watery hearts; no green light, no vision.

Was he dead? Were there other memories behind the polished facets of blue? Her people believed him a god, and gods couldn't die. How unhappy would they be if they believed her story?

Maybe she'd make up a little here and there to fill in the gaps. There was no harm in a little dramatic flair.

They were going to hold the ceremony and celebration for her formal ascension in the city square, where she would address her people and call upon Ninulneda's blessing. Neira did not know if he'd ever spoken on an occasion like that, but surely she would have heard of it - from the priestess, or from one of the temple attendants. The entire city would know, and the event would be remembered.

He would speak tonight, Neira decided. She knew his story, she'd heard his voice. Who would know the difference?

Light rain pattered on the leaves outside Shoukei's window and jeweled the hydrangea blossoms until they sparkled like hairpins in the silver light. She'd already dressed and her hair was combed and pinned in a swirled knot, the bottom half flowing free over her back. Three of Youko's hairpins sat in a flat drawer two hand-spans wide, lined with red silk, and she couldn't decide which would best compliment her robes. The gold fork with opal settings? The emerald butterfly and faceted gold dangles?

A long time ago she'd worried about this every day. Was it ten years? No-- less, but so much had happened since her parents were killed it felt like forever. She'd lived an eternity already, without jewels, without fine silks and embroidered slippers, and when she picked up the butterfly pin and slid the tines between two overlapping loops of hair - like the deep blue of the cloud sea during the winter, one maid said, when you look down through the many facets of water and see more water down below, and ice, and snow - it felt heavy and she thought it would slide out. She tried again, worked it behind some scalp hair, and it felt more secure.

The gleam of green in Shoukei's hair reflected the green embroidery of her sleeves. The silk was a warm, burnished red, like sandstone. The Royal Han would appreciate the complimentary nature of the colors, and that was her concern - not the weight of the jewelry, or the airy flutter of the sleeves when she was accustomed to heavier fabric. He would like it. If he told her to change one more time she would-- she'd yank his hair out with his comb. How is he even alive? she'd said the night before, while she re-poured Youko's tea and cleaned up the spill from her last attempt. How is it that Han stays afloat when its king is a capricious, lazy, perfectionist-- and did she have any idea how many clothes he cycled through in a single day?

Yes. Yes, Youko did know, and she laughed.

Nothing was funny anymore. Youko's smiles were strained lately, and Shoukei only laughed to deride someone. Kei was run by idiots, she sometimes said, idiots they just couldn't get rid of yet. Not until they had two full harvests and a few more reliable students taking the exam, and-- she wasn't sure. What had her father done? Should his example be followed at all, even in small parts, considering the result?

Jewels weren't meant for Shoukei - not anymore. They weighed her hair down when she stood up to leave, go meet the servants in the palace given over to the Royal Han, until it pulled at her scalp near the temple. He told her to dress up, that her elegance was wasted in plain robes, that it wasn't the sort of simplicity that would highlight the best in her, but there was something about Youko's blunt honesty that had come to reflect itself in her own appearance. Shoukei's earliest memories were of finery: candied rose petals, gossamer silk scraped so thin it was transparent. Myrrh in the brazier. Glazed walnuts and dragonfruit on a china plate she saw the shadow of her fingers through in good light, and a go board with legs carved into dragons.

She wore a robe and sash from Han on the day of her father's coronation, and for years they were the most beautiful things she owned. She remembered the shade of indigo, and the opalescent glow of pearls, and he remembered too, because he was there - but that princess was dead. The jewel of Hou died with her family.

Really, she was never alive at all.

V: Vicious Reshin

XD I heart your Reshin, BTW.

Lights still blazed in the Civil Administration office two hours past sundown, and Reishin sat back in his chair when the next watch was called, watching his reflection in the window tap the desk with his fan. There was an argument in the far corner, near the door, about whether some document or other merited his attention - it didn't, and they must be new to even consider speaking to him - and Kouyuu muttered at the next desk over, bent almost double over his letter. His inkstone clinked against the sides of its ceramic dish when he pushed it around with the brush. Everyone at court was talking about the emperor's proposal to allow women to take the civil service exam, and the office was flooded with petitions as a result.

All these people knew how to do was whine. He was stuck here well after the evening meal to sign and seal documents while the slugs in his employ took their sweet time writing them up, all because someone else's underlings - Justice and Public Works, though he wouldn't name names - couldn't hold it in until their respective department meetings. They had to leave their posts in protest and make dramatic exits. They had to waste perfectly good paper and ink writing letters to him when they should know Reishin didn't care about anything that concerned them.

Maybe he should fire them, all of them, and give them something important to complain about. If only his authority extended far enough to fire their incompetent emperor, Reishin would be a happier man.

Someone poured tea into a ceramic cup at the corner of his desk, and the sweet, grassy scent overwhelmed the must of paper and ink for a few moments, curling and fading with the steam. He reached for it, sipped, wishing for something calming to color the air - sandalwood incense, or lavender, or slender branches of cherry blossoms freshly-cut and smelling of both perfume and green wood.

Reishin was still sitting with his chair facing the window, tea in one hand, the yellow slats of his fan spread in the other to show their carvings, when a shadow darkened the polished finish of his desk and he looked up to see one of his palace agents. The man bowed, held out a message; the paper was folded six times, the calligraphy in cheap brown ink and perfect enough to be a stamp, rather than hand-written.

Our agents around the imperial villa are in place. When shall we extinguish the lights?

He looked up, past the unadorned green robe worn by his agent, to the stacks of paper on each desk waiting to be read, responded to, and filed. If his underlings continued to work at their current speed--

In two hours, Reishin scrawled at the bottom of the page with a brush offered by his agent. One of Kouyuu's, by the quality of the bristles. Writing implements were one of the few areas his son had a smattering of taste in. "Be sure to report on the results," he said, waving the paper to dry the ink. "Every detail, no matter its importance."

His agent bowed, took the paper, refolded it. Reishin waved him away and spread his fan again, this time to cover his smile. Let the emperor labor in the dark with the rest of them.

He leaned back, reached for his tea, and waited for the panic to set in.

FE8, Tana: F - Flying

and/or

FE9/10, Sanaki: K: KILL IT!

:D:D:D

Sanaki was accustomed to mild winters, the sort involving rainstorms and, if one was lucky, ice crackling on the grass in the early morning. Daein went out of its way to contradict her expectations. The sun set before five o'clock, and the water in her stone washbasin was frozen solid every morning. Ice prickled her toes between the blankets, and she wore three layers of hand-me-down dresses, stockings and gloves, and cloaks, her red mantle of office packed away. The countryside was brown and white, only the mountainous backdrop changing - either rising or falling, and always a gray shadow at the edge of her vision.

Though it was impossible to be alone in a military camp, the ambient noise was dim and beyond their circle of tents; the mercenaries didn't bother her. When Sanaki padded into her tent to sleep after a late meeting, therefore, she did the reasonable thing when she turned her blankets aside and found an intruder: she screamed and leaped back.

A dozen swords flew from their scabbards outside. Sigrun punched the tent flap aside and rushed in, followed by Tanith. Sanaki's heart slammed against her ribcage. Sigrun dashed behind the screen concealing her cot. Tanith stepped in front of her, and she held onto her knight by the belt.

The glint of Sigrun's sword, cast on the tent wall, shifted as the shadow on the screen lowered her weapon. "Your majesty, there's nothing here."

Sanaki hiked her skirts up with one hand, twisted the wool into a big knot, so the hem would hang above the rug. "It's there."

Tanith snorted. "A bug?"

"I am not afraid of bugs, thank you."

"Of course not, your majesty."

Sanaki stamped her foot, yanked the knight's belt until her back went ramrod straight, and dust tickled her nose, tinged with the smell of mold. She tried not to think of what they were breathing. "Sigrun. Under the covers!" There were no chairs in this godforsaken place. "Use your sword."

Sigrun's shadow, cast by her tiny glass oil lamp, shook her head and prodded at the cot with her sword. "Whatever it was is probably gone now, your majesty. Bugs are cowardly creatures for the most part."

Sanaki's skin pricked, like spindled legs were crawling over her arms. "Find it. Kill it."

"What is it we're supposed to--"

"A spider!" Sanaki's teeth clicked shut, and she narrowed her eyes at Tanith, who merely glanced over her shoulder before jerking her face forward again. "Yes, that's right," she said, letting go of her belt and moving around to face her. "You know I hate them, and this thing was--" She spread her hands a dozen centimeters apart.

Tanith sheathed her sword, scratched the side of her cheek. Her buckles glinted, the hilt of her sword gleaming silver and bronze. "We won't run into spiders like that until Grann Desert. Are you sure the light didn't exaggerate its size?"


[--->]

Sanaki took a deep breath. Behind her she heard Sigrun sheath her sword as well, and her leather coat crease as she bent over the cot to pull the sheets loose. "Of course I'm sure." She dropped her skirts, fisted her hands on her hips. Gauging distances and relative size were a necessary part of long-distance spell-casting. She knew how to judge a thing's size by its shadow. Sanaki opened her mouth, eyes narrowing, and breathed another mouthful of dust before she truly heard what her knight said. "Grann Desert?"

"It's where we're headed, correct? The insects are freakishly--"

The bedding snapped against the screen, and Sigrun's voice came: "Tanith."

Tanith's teeth snapped shut. "Ah--"

Sanaki rubbed her arms. "Freakishly-- what, Tanith?"

"Nothing." She adjusted her sword belt for at least ten full seconds. "They're not that bad. Don't worry."

Sigrun came around the screen, her shadow diffusing, and shrugged, spread her hands. Tanith glanced at her, looked immediately away, and cleared her throat. "Well then. I'll be outside if you need me, your majesty."

Sanaki watched her disappear past the tent flap. Cold air wafted in when it dropped. "Sigrun--"

"Tanith let a spider chase her all the way across camp during her training days," Sigrun said, folding her arms. She looked at the flap, perhaps at the sliver of torchlight past it. "But I've never seen another one like it. Don't let her intimidate you."

Sanaki couldn't imagine Tanith running from anything. "Really?"

"Really."

"You didn't find anything?"

"No, your majesty."

Sanaki let the knight leave and glanced at the screen. The light bobbed, brightening, then dimming again. Sleep was going to be impossible. She only hoped the incident had escaped the attention of her neighbors.

*

The story was, of course, all over camp the next morning.



(Okay, we are SO putting a stop to these non-drabble replies now. >_>;;; )

S: snarl + Agrias and Ovelia.

What can I say? I'm on a total FFT kick lately.

Wait, we can request more than one? WELL FINE THEN. XD

E: Exhaustion - Xenogears, Hyuga and Yui.

Icon only relevant because it's the only Shitan icon I can use.

B: Badass - Something Fire Emblem and NOT Sanaki because we all know she's badass already.

(I had something else in mind that would've been too long. You'll get that later. :D)


Mist sits on a stool at a pine wood table scored and rough, marked by Oscar's knives and cleaver, and now by her own set of knives. The middle is stained purple with beet juice. Some of the cuts are darker than others - old blood stains, and not from the meat, because he used a stone slab for that; it was on this table she cut her fingers more than once, where Rolf stabbed himself with a needle while trying to sew a chicken shut-- where Boyd accidentally sliced his fingers while cutting a peach.

He's outside splitting slim pine logs with a hatchet, trying his best to break them perfectly center so they'll fall to either side, and she sees the muscles in his back knot through the open window. Each strike echoes around the yard and into the kitchen, where she's peeling an apple with a dull knife, by feel. She can do it in an unbroken spiral if she pays attention, but apple peelings drop into her lap and gather on her apron, between her legs, and she keeps looking up to watch Boyd.

Rolf is still with them, and Titania, and Gatrie - even Shinon. But ever since Oscar and Ike left and the mercenaries were passed into her nominal control, this kitchen has been empty aside from Titania and the recruits she rounds up to carry food to the mess hall, and Boyd has gone out of his way to be strong, as if putting up a front is his job, not hers. Mist doesn't know how to tell him not to try so hard. She doesn't need someone who can bend steel bars with his teeth.

She finishes peeling the apples, slices them into rings. The strike of the hatchet on wood isn't that different from a sword cutting through leather armor. These sounds were in the background every day when they marched with Crimea and Begnion; Boyd and Ike chopped wood together, hunted, always tried to outdo each other. They sparred, when Soren wasn't there to drag Ike back to the command tent.

You don't need to fill Ike's shoes, she wants to tell him. If I wanted my brother, I would have followed him. Like Soren. Like a puppy, Boyd would say.

He knows, of course; he tries anyway, because he's the type that acts before he thinks, or at least runs his mouth before he can exercise better judgment. They'd had some spectacular fights over this very table on the matter of her cooking, and how many men Mist would take down with one pot of stew. She reminded him of it yesterday over a pot of hot chocolate - made for their anniversary, because her cake turned out badly.

But I like your cooking, he'd said. I was an idiot back then.

Liar, she said. But it made her smile.

H for "hunger", Valkyrie Profile (Lenneth), characters of your choice


I kinda feel like I might come up with something for other unrequested letters later maybe... If that's okay. ^^;

Okay! Look what I've found here! :D

X for "xeric" (aka "being deficient in moisture" etc), fandom - Xenogears (of course), characters - this literally begs for Krellian or Citan/Hyuuga.

This should work, right?

wunderkind + Sasarai

Though the Masked Bishop was a man of many gifts - some said too many - it was his assistant that arrested Sasarai's attention. Silverberg downplayed her involvement in Grassland operations; she did not appear at meetings, except to notify her superior of conditions on the front or to take his paperwork; she had not appeared once in Crystal Valley to his memory, and that was strangest of all.

The mysterious bishop's party was reported as taking part in unauthorized missions no less than three times, which was expected, as he was new to the council and risking his reputation on the pursuit of the true fire rune. If it were Sasarai, he would leave as little to chance as possible. He would conceal the abilities of his agents - perhaps refrain from revealing their presence at all, except as accessories to one's retinue or, as was rumored about the bishop and his companion, dismiss their presence as a personal affair.

He might have believed it, had he remained ignorant of her skill with runes. One simply did not cast so many spells in quick succession. It was impossible - even he couldn't do it with the help of his rune.

She was seen praying at the altar in Le Buque, Clovis told him. It seemed to react, but I was too far away to tell. They were interrupted. Should I look into it?

Of course he should. Talent like that was rare. The thought of it curled in the pit of Sasarai's stomach and kept him awake at night. Harmonia had ways of harnessing such talents; he didn't believe in the method - he didn't like depriving children of freedom when they might make stronger, more loyal allies if given a choice. He'd watched the Grassland contingent that ambushed them outside of Le Buque, watched them crumble before the force of her spells - silence, then fire, then ice, then water - and thought at the time how lucky they were to have this Sarah on their side, how lucky she was with him at that moment on her bishop's orders to notify him of some matter he'd already forgotten-- because if she were to oppose them, he wasn't positive he could contain her.

The temple enslaved such children on that pretext - better to keep them within our grasp, it was said, than to risk facing them on the other side of the battlefield. Such prodigies existed for the glory of the mother country. Most of them learned to believe.

Sasarai could have been one of those children. But he wasn't. He was an orphan, chosen by a rune, elevated by the high priest.

What was she?

M - munificent - incognito!travelling!bishop!Sephiran with optional Zelgius.

When his master neglected to meet him at the appointed time and place, Zelgius donned the armor of the Black Knight and searched the Crimean outposts overtaken by Daein. Their prison lists were brief, thick bars of black ink blotting out intervals of names, times of capture and then death recorded in the margins. He reached Canteus with a knot in his throat to make speaking difficult, and convinced the jailer to remain in the guard room and took the keys into the prison corridors alone. They clinked in his loose-fingered grip, bronze and hollow steel.

The nameless priest on their roll sheet was at at the end of the last turn, near a passage ruined during the siege. He heard breathing behind the doors he passed, whispers above the snap of the torch flames. The pressure in Zelgius's chest eased when he recognized the faint summer scent his master carried with him wherever he went - pine, grass, and sage losing a battle against the acrid smell of burning pitch and wood.

Sephiran's dim shape stood up when Zelgius unlocked the door and stepped inside. The last torch was ten paces to the right down the hall, barely enough to illuminate the keyhole. There were no windows, not even a cot.

His master pressed his fingers into his ears when the door clanged closed. The sound echoed, and the ambient noise outside fell silent. "Why are you--"

Zelgius lifted his hand and gestured; he might have been followed, though he'd only heard his own footsteps. He removed his helmet, anchored it under one arm, and pitched his voice low. "I was worried."

Sephiran was lost in shadow. The glint of his eyes moved aside; then he stepped closer, and his breath warmed Zelgius's chin as the seconds passed for a count of twenty. "I don't hear anyone," his master said, clearing his throat. "I bribed a guard with my rings when he came to put me to questioning, and he said I will be pressed into service if they need a healer."

Zelgius glanced aside, looking for a cistern, a bucket, a glimmer to indicate standing water, but found nothing. He didn't carry water with him - what was the use, when he wasn't supposed to remove the helmet? But he wished he'd thought to bring some. "I'll have you out by midnight. They aren't even watching - I can walk in and take care of them, free the others. The danger is negligible."

"No..." A count of ten. Zelgius waited, feeling the muscles in his throat tense. His arm jerked when Sephiran curled his fingers into the black padding of his sleeve, under a strap - as if to keep him from moving, though he had no intention of leaving. "Where is the Crimean princess? Her party should pass through this area soon. They will wish to free as many of her retainers as they are able if they intend to put her back on the throne, don't you agree? I've heard their strategist is quite capable."

He looked at the thin gray halo ringing his master's hair. The heat and shape of his body implied against the blackness made Zelgius wish he could discard his armor. "You would gamble your life on that?"

He could imagine Sephiran's lips curving by the sound he made, something between a laugh and a sigh. "They'll do it. Motivate them - provide their agents with more information if you're worried."

Zelgius flexed his fingers closed when his master released his arm. "I won't leave this area until you're free."

"Don't be silly. If you neglect Daein, you will endanger--"

"I don't care."

Another count of ten. "Zelgius."

He found Sephiran's mouth in the dark and silenced him with a finger. "How did you end up in here?"

His master breathed a nearly silent hmmm. "I was healing soldiers." Sephiran pushed a hand through his hair. It smelled like dust, and the remnant of incense he burned at home, at camp - everywhere he went. "Of both persuasions."

Of course. Zelgius didn't even shake his head. "You are too generous."

"Not at all." Sephiran's hand ghosted over his cheek, and then Zelgius heard him turn around. The gray oval of his face disappeared. "I'll tell them you questioned me. Now go."

Zelgius waited another few seconds, waited for his master to turn back - but he didn't. He pulled his helmet on and left the door unlocked - just in case.

A: Aoi festival - Hikaru no Go, Sai, of course

It just took place in Kyoto, too, so... ^^;

Z: zealot, Micaiah.
I: incredible, Chihiro/Haku

They called her a miracle worker, the Maiden of Dawn, though Jared had other terms he used to reference her when absolutely necessary; rebel leader and zealot priestess in formal reports - and no, he didn't know her origin, though she claimed to be a native of Daein, nor did he care. In private, usually to Avery, she was scum, sometimes that silver-plated whore - too beautiful, too good to be true, the type that should be bled, arrested, put through her paces until she collapsed, good for nothing.

Your excuses pile up, Numida's last letter said in cramped, bold handwriting. We placed you in Daein for results. If you value your rank--

Jared had valued his rank, once. He'd maintained a perfect record in Seliora's provincial army, and when his forehead hit the glass ceiling, he killed two men to break past it, blackmailed another, and saved a senator's worthless life. Begnion's ranking system was horseshit; you were born with prestige, or you slept your way up, like their fop of a prime minister. He'd speculate the man manipulated his way into the imperial bedchamber if the empress weren't so young. Give it time, he'd said to Avery. Twenty gold says she'll hold the reins when it happens. Little spitfire.

Silver-haired Micaiah, on the other hand, was born to be bent over a desk - or a table, or a prison cot, he wasn't picky. What was she, but street scum in the right place at the right time? The natives would believe in anything shiny enough, pretty enough - it was the hair, and he wondered, was it coarse or fine? - as long as they heard what they wanted to hear. She told them they had a king, they cheered. She told the king he would have a country if he bled gold for her, and he threw Daein at her feet.

What they'd forgotten, and what Jared intended to remind them of when he slit her pale throat, was the passing of the deed into Begnion's hands, and therefore his own. Daein was his. The senate didn't care how he achieved results as long as they got what they wanted. They weren't much better than commoners. He should know.

If he returned, defeated, to Begnion, there would be no ladder to climb. He would grub dirt like his ancestors beside sub-human filth, eek out a living between winters by breaking his back in the fields - cotton, wheat, corn, the Parsian vineyards and Culbert's orchards.

Some time, some place, the Silver Maiden would leave her friends and render herself vulnerable. His agents assured him this was a habit of hers, that she sought solitude after waving and smiling to her adoring subjects and flinched away from close company same as she did when confronted by a sword or an axe, or the back of a hand. The liberation army would celebrate their apparent victory, she would walk apart from them, and Jared-- he would tarnish her pretty hair with rust and blood. He would take the silver whore down with him.

Daein could have its victory - but they'd have it without their silver goddess. She was his.

preparation - Chrodechild!

It was a rule of armies, in Chrodechild's experience, to make enough noise to wake the dead before an important battle, yet be simultaneously quiet. Meruvis was the only man speaking in the barracks; he murmured something to Roberto, whose answers were short, and the scrape of several swords being sharpened drowned the words. Someone leapt onto the sleeping platform with a thump, ran across. She didn't even hear the waterfall outside any longer unless she tried, though it made the details outside blur into a runny green tapestry of the forest through the sheet of water. It had kept her up many nights when they first moved the Blades to this castle, but she'd slept well since then-- until the night before.

Her swords were sharpened; her boots were polished, the tear in her coat was mended and the belt replaced with one of Fredegund's own, because she wouldn't have the forge spare a bit of leather for her when there were more important objects to craft for an attack on Cynas - armor, weapons. She'd nearly laughed to hear a pair of metal fans were made with slim blades of metal sharp enough to slide through skin like butter and painted - painted! - with a sunset landscape, a monochrome of reds, some brown, some yellow. But it was Yula who mentioned it over yesterday's afternoon meal, her plate decorated with a small dome of white sticky rice and thin slices of pink tuna brought from the waters of the Porpos-kin. Many an enemy has laughed when confronted by such a weapon, she said, holding her fork as Chrodechild remembered her sister doing as a child - like a shovel. A true warrior will make a weapon of anything. This fork, perhaps, if he so chose.

Yes. It was true, what Yula said; anything might be a weapon, and anyone, but Chrodechild did not think it the province of warriors to do so. With a few years that man had made a mockery of her sister and twisted the purpose of the Divine Edge, yet he was no warrior. He was nothing. He ran away from the justice of her blade, and what was his name-- Beardsley. Fredegund would not speak it aloud, even to remind her. Chrodechild wanted to ask what really happened while she was gone, but always stopped herself when her sister's hand curled at her throat, when her shoulders hunched as if she expected some blow.

So his name, if she chose, might be a weapon. She was glad the others had not noticed.

Fredegund cried last night. Chrodechild had lain still, stared at the stone ceiling, and watched the shift of light as the waterfall warped the shape of the moon. The day was overcast but hot, and the same play of light glimmered in the black mirror of her arm guards where they waited on the sill to be strapped on. She picked one up, pressed it to her arm and curled her fingers to hold it by a strap so she could turn it over and buckle, but it slipped from her hands and clattered onto the floor, and it felt as if the entire room watched her bend to pick it up.

Only Yula was watching when she straightened, her glance sidelong, while she appeared to face the window. It seemed sometimes that she carried nothing - that being ready, for this princess of the North Star, simply meant she must be awake. And it seemed she was always awake, though she must sleep some time. She'd lain with the rest of them, on Chrodechild's left, while her sister slept to the right, and she entertained dreams, some more elaborate than others, which involved running Beardsley through, striking his head from his shoulders in one blow, or worse.

She would kill that man if she did nothing else on this mission. She hoped the others would understand.

DO I EVEN DESERVE TO ASK FOR ANYTHING, WHEN YOU WRITE ME SO MUCH AWESOME? : (

(i-if you're still up to it, though:

Cliche - Chris/Roland (Suikoden III)
OR
Jilted - Ovelia/Delita (FFT)

Well, I guess I should get one in.

Languid - Naesala.

"Are you sure about this?" Naesala turned his coat out across the pillows and squinted at the seams in the dim gold lamplight, chin propped on his hands and his elbows digging into the mattress. He'd heard something snap when the empress tried to yank it over his head. Normally he would blame it on her beorc habits - he had wings, and they complicated things when one wanted to undress, and he couldn't shed them whenever he liked as Lehran could; but she hadn't seemed to care his arms were still in his sleeves either. "We still have plenty of time."

"I'm sure I want to appear before my councilors dressed, yes," Sanaki said, voice muffled slightly. He heard her silk robe slither over her skin and saw it flip over the top of the screen in his peripheral vision. "You should do the same. I won't be held responsible if Sigrun tries to spit you on her lance when they come in for their rounds. I'm sure you deserve it."

"Probably." There. Naesala pinched the seam between his fingers. It was in the sleeve, just as he'd thought. He heard the empress shimmy into a petticoat behind the screen, heard her yank on the drawstrings and knot them. His feet hung over the end of her bed, and the posts hardly left room for his wings to move; he stretched them to either side, felt the muscles in his back twinge, and decided he would take her somewhere else next time they had a meeting like this - or at least to a room with a bigger bed. "Do you have a needle and thread?"

There was a pause, a stretch of several seconds which he wasn't sure had anything to do with whatever she was dressing in. Then Sanaki leaned out, curling her pale hand around the edge of the screen. Her hair fanned down like a purple curtain. "You're asking me?" Her eyes drifted, following his bare arms to his back, to the spread of his wings over her mattress, and lifted an eyebrow. "I thought that nonsense about men lazing around afterward was in jest."

Naesala pushed up, pulled his legs up, and tried to fold his wings without smacking the bedposts. "You ripped my coat, your majesty." He swept it up and tossed it at the screen. She disappeared with a squeak that shouldn't have been adorable in the slightest. "I've got my pants on. What more do you want?"

Sanaki appeared again, stepping over his coat, arms twisted behind her to button the dress. It was plain, white, and draped across her hips, gathered so the folds made his eyes linger there to follow the curves. "Ask when Sigrun comes in, and she'll find some thread for you."

He looked up-- at her face. "Need some help?"

Sanaki smiled, the line of her mouth slanted. "I need to keep it on, Naesala."

He compressed his wings against his back and used her arms as leverage to stand. "I can do that." He reached around her shoulders and brushed her hands away, pulled her hair over her shoulder. The buttons were tiny pearls of glass, probably also white, and the closures were tiny loops of silk cord. Her dress left bare an expanse of flesh wider than his hand. "Give them a piece of my mind for dragging you out at this time of night, will you?"

"Naturally." Her fingers worked on his arm, her nails a slight bite to the skin. "You'll still be here when I return, I hope?"

"I was planning on it." Naesala let her go when she stepped back and watched her twist her long hair into one of those beorc styles that looked twice as complicated as it actually was. She should leave it loose; it was silky, thick, shiny - it should be shown off. Tangles were nothing. He'd take care of that. "We're not finished yet, remember?"

Sanaki walked away, bent over her dressing table with one hand holding her hair up, found a pin for it, and looked at him in the mirror. "Twenty minutes."

"I give it ten before you start yelling."

Sanaki snorted and strode to the door. "It's so hard to find good help these days."

Yeah, it was. He wondered how long it would be before she called the old hands back and made all of this impossible.

She'd never forget her heron, but it worked out alright for him - he wouldn't forget about his either.

Errm... I'm sorry... ^^; But it is fun and I do enjoy your writing very much. Well, if anybody else would like to claim it, I don't mind, but for now, if there is noone interested in G....

G: "Go ahead - break my heart!" Valkyrie Profile, Lucian & Lenneth

...okay, that is made of cheese, but I'm a sucker for angsty romance after all?? ^^;

WELL IF YOU INSIST. Q, querulous. young!Sanaki.

(TWO PARTS, LOOK WHAT YOU DO TO ME.)


As with most outings involving his young empress, their tour of the Five Mountain Vineyard ended with Sephiran carrying her in both arms - like a princess, she said, stretching her arms around his neck. She was small for six years, light and thin, but he wasn't beorc; his arms weren't solid or muscled, and he wished for the better part of an hour for Zelgius to appear, though Sephiran knew it was unlikely. Even if Lady Sanaki allowed someone else to carry her - and he knew from experience she wouldn't, not even Sigrun or Tanith - it wasn't a risk he could take.

It was still afternoon when they approached the public pavilion from the back path, led by the resident manager, through a copse of cottonwood trees with leaves fluttering in the wind, light and dark green, and the vineyard stretched at his back in neatly covered rows a mile long and four paces apart, exactly. The hills from which the place took its name were mostly yellow and patched with golden brown, their edges indistinct some dozen leagues farther north near the border between Persis and Culbert. The wind smelled like dust and grass, and wet stone. Sanaki leaned her head on his hair and said again, I'm hungry, Sephiran, and he told her they were almost back - there would surely be a feast waiting for them.

"Can't I go to sleep for a little while?"

He tried to see her expression in his peripheral vision, but it was a blur, and shielded by her hair. "If there is enough time left, certainly."

"But--" Even though her voice was a soft breath on his ear, he couldn't help wondering if their guide overheard. She walked five paces ahead, her long gait and the sway of her hips reminding him of the dragon princess he was once acquainted with. She held her head high, shoulders thrown back. Sanaki had hidden behind his leg when she greeted them, and even now her arms tightened around his neck when he saw her face turn to look at the woman. The tail of her skirt slid over the cobbled walk, a shimmering green like peacock feathers. "You said I wasn't allowed to taste--"

"You're allowed to eat. Don't be silly." Sephiran shifted more of her weight onto his right arm and took the steps up to the building quickly before he risked looking at her. Blue-liveried attendants swung the glass doors open to admit them, the wash of air smelling of baking bread and spices. "It's the wine you can't have, and you didn't like it last time anyway."

She wrinkled her nose. "Ew."

"Exactly."

"But why can't we eat in our rooms?"

opalescent + Manaril!

T: Tenacity - Ensei

The things one finds, randomly going through someone's journal! Mayhap I'm far, far too late . . . and yet. Why not?

C - canticle- Seiran and Kouchou
N - nobis pro lemma vobis (for us, and thus, for you) - Shuurei and Ryuuki and Jyusan-hime