non-challenge entry
challenge: non-challenge
title: märchen
word count: 205
rating: g
characters: naminé, zexion
spoilers? implied for chain of memories
notes: written for iki_teru on the prompt 'scheherazade' at my fairytale meme. ♥ & thank you, yo_yo_san, for the beta! ♥
They were said to be incapable of original creation.
She sets her crayon down and looks at him. He regards her through his veil of hair, impassive.
Who? she asks.
Those referred to as the good folk. The lift of his shoulder is eloquent. You would know them by a more prosaic name, perhaps. She who took the Bastion is one. She who gave a wooden puppet the facsimile of life, another.
Do you mean fairies?
His smile isn't. To call them such is to invite trouble upon yourself.
She lowers her chin, staring down at her half-finished drawing. Her own face stares back.
I didn't know you liked fairyta-- stories, she says.
I care not. Her crayon lifts between gloved fingertips. But he did.
Who? she says, again. He replaces the crayon in her hand, wraps her fingers closed. Red wax smudges his palm.
One capable of original creation.
The crayon is yellow. He's almost to the door before she remembers the question she'd meant to ask.
Why?
For the same reason you tell them. His voice is very quiet. She thinks she can smell something, almost-- something like the ocean, or maybe tears, only neither of those are sweet.
To save his life.
title: märchen
word count: 205
rating: g
characters: naminé, zexion
spoilers? implied for chain of memories
notes: written for iki_teru on the prompt 'scheherazade' at my fairytale meme. ♥ & thank you, yo_yo_san, for the beta! ♥
They were said to be incapable of original creation.
She sets her crayon down and looks at him. He regards her through his veil of hair, impassive.
Who? she asks.
Those referred to as the good folk. The lift of his shoulder is eloquent. You would know them by a more prosaic name, perhaps. She who took the Bastion is one. She who gave a wooden puppet the facsimile of life, another.
Do you mean fairies?
His smile isn't. To call them such is to invite trouble upon yourself.
She lowers her chin, staring down at her half-finished drawing. Her own face stares back.
I didn't know you liked fairyta-- stories, she says.
I care not. Her crayon lifts between gloved fingertips. But he did.
Who? she says, again. He replaces the crayon in her hand, wraps her fingers closed. Red wax smudges his palm.
One capable of original creation.
The crayon is yellow. He's almost to the door before she remembers the question she'd meant to ask.
Why?
For the same reason you tell them. His voice is very quiet. She thinks she can smell something, almost-- something like the ocean, or maybe tears, only neither of those are sweet.
To save his life.