fic: tangle heart
Film: Pan's Labyrinth
Pairing: Faun/Moanna
Title: tangle heart
Word Count: 518
Summary: "She cannot abide their restrictive walls - she needs dirt; warm moist earth under her nails, in her eyes; beneath her skin, she wants vines that twist tight in her ribs."
"For all its ethereality and remoteness, it yearns, "Like a God in pain," over the sorrows of the world."
- Visions and Revisions A Book of Literary Devotions
tangle heart
x
She cannot abide their restrictive walls - she needs dirt; warm moist earth under her nails, in her eyes; beneath her skin, she wants vines that twist tight in her ribs, protecting her small rabbit heart.
...and he is old, warm darkness. He is the one who saves her from choking on sparrows when men want to talk to her and have her attention, and she is expected to think of things to say. Like a child, she needs to be saved from her own terror at ruling such a wide realm.
She feels younger than she is, which is very old - she remembers when fairies first sprung from creation, skipping about; she remembers when the sun first fell in love with the moon, lucent and smiling in its loneliness. This was all in her first life, before she tumbled down, falling falling. Such a strange place is earth. It makes her feel strange and yearning deep inside her, though she doesn't remember such, that little girl child was she. Who dreamt of fey and kelpie, she couldn't understand.
And her faun was there, too. He lifted her up, whispering like a sidereal saint: this is you. They tell her that he is sly, a trickster of sorts. She can't recall ever seeing him like that.
x
They walk together by the willows, who wept for all the lost children. Moanna cries, too. Hot silver tears that make the whole world shiver for an instant. "It's okay," she tells them, "Don't weep for them, they are everlasting." Kind lies for the tree mothers, who carry the sorrow of the earth on their branches. She knows the souls of children who die before they truly live do not exist in any kingdom or isle.
He'll ask her later when the realm sleeps in a vanilla sky haze, "Why did you protect them from the truth? Those infants were not but glimmers, they will not be seen by eyes on any plane."
When she smiles, the room grows brighter for it. She has a shimmer wimsy that goes with immortality. She replies, "Why further grieven the heartsick? When the universe collapses, how am I to know that they won't see those lost babies yet-to-be again?"
x
He prefers her when she is unadorned, lounging beside him in the grass. Licking her brown forearm, like a kitten with a sandpaper tongue. He has fireblood that burns the lining of his bones, because of his longing; his unquenchable secret heart.
He could lay here always in a haze of his silver tongue'd nymph, but not this unrestlessness that feels like pain. It can't last forever, he muses. Her parents must understand her aversion to the idea of an arranged marriage. His face is so close to that tangle of bronze sheen, he whispers to her, "You were born to be loved."
Smiling impishly, she peeks up at him. She could look at him eternally
- the mass of feulillemorte shades, bole bright; his skin thick and safe, practically an exo-skeleton. So many shades, so many secret hearts.
"By you, my antediluvian prince?"
Pairing: Faun/Moanna
Title: tangle heart
Word Count: 518
Summary: "She cannot abide their restrictive walls - she needs dirt; warm moist earth under her nails, in her eyes; beneath her skin, she wants vines that twist tight in her ribs."
"For all its ethereality and remoteness, it yearns, "Like a God in pain," over the sorrows of the world."
- Visions and Revisions A Book of Literary Devotions
tangle heart
x
She cannot abide their restrictive walls - she needs dirt; warm moist earth under her nails, in her eyes; beneath her skin, she wants vines that twist tight in her ribs, protecting her small rabbit heart.
...and he is old, warm darkness. He is the one who saves her from choking on sparrows when men want to talk to her and have her attention, and she is expected to think of things to say. Like a child, she needs to be saved from her own terror at ruling such a wide realm.
She feels younger than she is, which is very old - she remembers when fairies first sprung from creation, skipping about; she remembers when the sun first fell in love with the moon, lucent and smiling in its loneliness. This was all in her first life, before she tumbled down, falling falling. Such a strange place is earth. It makes her feel strange and yearning deep inside her, though she doesn't remember such, that little girl child was she. Who dreamt of fey and kelpie, she couldn't understand.
And her faun was there, too. He lifted her up, whispering like a sidereal saint: this is you. They tell her that he is sly, a trickster of sorts. She can't recall ever seeing him like that.
x
They walk together by the willows, who wept for all the lost children. Moanna cries, too. Hot silver tears that make the whole world shiver for an instant. "It's okay," she tells them, "Don't weep for them, they are everlasting." Kind lies for the tree mothers, who carry the sorrow of the earth on their branches. She knows the souls of children who die before they truly live do not exist in any kingdom or isle.
He'll ask her later when the realm sleeps in a vanilla sky haze, "Why did you protect them from the truth? Those infants were not but glimmers, they will not be seen by eyes on any plane."
When she smiles, the room grows brighter for it. She has a shimmer wimsy that goes with immortality. She replies, "Why further grieven the heartsick? When the universe collapses, how am I to know that they won't see those lost babies yet-to-be again?"
x
He prefers her when she is unadorned, lounging beside him in the grass. Licking her brown forearm, like a kitten with a sandpaper tongue. He has fireblood that burns the lining of his bones, because of his longing; his unquenchable secret heart.
He could lay here always in a haze of his silver tongue'd nymph, but not this unrestlessness that feels like pain. It can't last forever, he muses. Her parents must understand her aversion to the idea of an arranged marriage. His face is so close to that tangle of bronze sheen, he whispers to her, "You were born to be loved."
Smiling impishly, she peeks up at him. She could look at him eternally
- the mass of feulillemorte shades, bole bright; his skin thick and safe, practically an exo-skeleton. So many shades, so many secret hearts.
"By you, my antediluvian prince?"