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dolevalanTitle: Breath
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG-13ish, for the blood...
A memory. A breath. He could see eyes. So many sets of eyes. When he closed his own, and exhaled. Brown. Gray. Gray. Green. Brown. Blue. Brown…
There were the eyes he didn’t care about. The kaleidoscope of hatred and fear and pain and sorrow. The endless chain of eyes meeting his before they emptied. But though he remembered them clearly enough, they meant no more than the color of blood on the ground, or the smell of death in the air. They meant good hunting, they meant protecting those who needed it. They meant weakness meeting its end.
Brown and gray. Approval, and worry, and anger. The eyes that had watched his first steps, that had lit with amusement at his childhood follies, that had calmly listened as he sorted through his problems. He had seen them go to the ice of the kill, and he had seen them on fire. And they were still a part of home.
Gray, but with flecks of gold, almost small enough to miss. He was the only one who had noticed them. He was the only one who had noticed a great deal. The callow youths who’d come to call certainly hadn’t noticed much, and it was seldom he had even needed to intervene. She was more than capable of dealing with them herself. But he had never expected the steely blades to be turned against him. He had never…
Green. So warm. So level. She had laughed at him the entire time, but he didn’t care. She had known… she was so much older than he was, even if not in years. He hadn’t understood anything beyond staring into the deep lakes of green, hadn’t understood that it wasn’t enough. And those eyes… they never accused him.
Brown, lighter, as if the sun had kissed them. They didn’t accuse him either, though they could have. Accuse him of being too weak, accuse him of being too strong. Eyes filled with tears and pain. But they turned away. They melted away.
Blue. Blue with a tiny ring of green around the pupil, damn her. How could she not care? After what he had done… what he would have done… she knew. He knew that she knew, and yet she would have just let it go. And every look she gave him scared him worse than he’d ever been scared in his life, because he wanted her eyes to be filled with nothing but peace. Nothing but laughter. And he knew that he had never put the first there, and the times for the second had been all too brief. And that the last thing he had left her with was another wound which might not ever heal.
Brown. Dark chocolate, like his. Scared. Alone. Cold. He never saw them with his eyes open, but he nearly always saw them when his eyes were closed; a reflection of himself, but purer, weaker, fuller. And, like all the others… there was never accusation. Just a question.
Why, Papa?
He breathed in. He didn’t know. And because he didn’t know… the eyes would never go away.
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG-13ish, for the blood...
A memory. A breath. He could see eyes. So many sets of eyes. When he closed his own, and exhaled. Brown. Gray. Gray. Green. Brown. Blue. Brown…
There were the eyes he didn’t care about. The kaleidoscope of hatred and fear and pain and sorrow. The endless chain of eyes meeting his before they emptied. But though he remembered them clearly enough, they meant no more than the color of blood on the ground, or the smell of death in the air. They meant good hunting, they meant protecting those who needed it. They meant weakness meeting its end.
Brown and gray. Approval, and worry, and anger. The eyes that had watched his first steps, that had lit with amusement at his childhood follies, that had calmly listened as he sorted through his problems. He had seen them go to the ice of the kill, and he had seen them on fire. And they were still a part of home.
Gray, but with flecks of gold, almost small enough to miss. He was the only one who had noticed them. He was the only one who had noticed a great deal. The callow youths who’d come to call certainly hadn’t noticed much, and it was seldom he had even needed to intervene. She was more than capable of dealing with them herself. But he had never expected the steely blades to be turned against him. He had never…
Green. So warm. So level. She had laughed at him the entire time, but he didn’t care. She had known… she was so much older than he was, even if not in years. He hadn’t understood anything beyond staring into the deep lakes of green, hadn’t understood that it wasn’t enough. And those eyes… they never accused him.
Brown, lighter, as if the sun had kissed them. They didn’t accuse him either, though they could have. Accuse him of being too weak, accuse him of being too strong. Eyes filled with tears and pain. But they turned away. They melted away.
Blue. Blue with a tiny ring of green around the pupil, damn her. How could she not care? After what he had done… what he would have done… she knew. He knew that she knew, and yet she would have just let it go. And every look she gave him scared him worse than he’d ever been scared in his life, because he wanted her eyes to be filled with nothing but peace. Nothing but laughter. And he knew that he had never put the first there, and the times for the second had been all too brief. And that the last thing he had left her with was another wound which might not ever heal.
Brown. Dark chocolate, like his. Scared. Alone. Cold. He never saw them with his eyes open, but he nearly always saw them when his eyes were closed; a reflection of himself, but purer, weaker, fuller. And, like all the others… there was never accusation. Just a question.
Why, Papa?
He breathed in. He didn’t know. And because he didn’t know… the eyes would never go away.
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no subject
Date: 2006-09-15 03:52 am (UTC)Lovely, as usual, my dear.
I think I've figured out all the owners of the eyes. The green ones gave me trouble, but I have an inkling...
no subject
Date: 2006-09-15 03:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-15 11:37 pm (UTC)Your use of language is fantastic. There's rhythm, there's flow, there's imagery...just great "music" for the mind. The fact that the events in the story are conveyed so nebulously (for lack of a better word) only serves to enhance the effects of the language on your reader. :)
Heh. Am I waxing poetic? Sorry. I really do love this ficlet.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-16 02:21 am (UTC)Funny what can come out in these little 15 minute shots, isn't it?