DRABBLE BANK
Final Fantasy Tactics
Aries (Ramza)
Libra (Ramza, Delita)
Scorpio (Ramza, Dycedarg)
The Poet's Lesbia (Alma/Teta)
Hot Bricks (Alma/Ovelia)
Juliet, the Dice Was Loaded From the Start (Delita/Ovelia)
Both Alike in Dignity (Delita/Ovelia)
Romeo Is Bleeding, But Not So As You'd Notice (Delita/Ovelia)
Leo ( ( Read more... )
Aries (Ramza)
Libra (Ramza, Delita)
Scorpio (Ramza, Dycedarg)
The Poet's Lesbia (Alma/Teta)
Hot Bricks (Alma/Ovelia)
Juliet, the Dice Was Loaded From the Start (Delita/Ovelia)
Both Alike in Dignity (Delita/Ovelia)
Romeo Is Bleeding, But Not So As You'd Notice (Delita/Ovelia)
Leo ( ( Read more... )
Comments 27
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Wherever he went, he was heralded by trumpets. Even his footstep was a proclamation. When he passed the nursery door, the children were waiting with expectant faces.
He paused. "Ramza? What are you doing?"
Ramza was cutting cloth for Alma's doll. He said, "Nothing, sir."
"Come, then," his father said. Ramza scrambled after him.
They went down the hall. "You should be learning the sword by now."
Ramza's brothers had forbidden him a blade. Ramza merely said, "Yes, sir."
"How old are you?"
"Seven, sir."
His father nodded and touched Ramza's downy hair. "You will need something sharp and light."
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A thud, an oath. Two pairs of hands pulled Ramza through the window.
Delita, a sack over one shoulder, swung himself over the sill. "Evening, girls."
"It's nearly dawn," Alma cried as Teta asked, "How was the banquet?"
"It's still going," Ramza rasped. "Would you like some little cakes? We snagged a good haul of little cakes." He smiled blearily at their long nightgowns.
"Prince Larg got drunk," Delita informed them, "and danced with a dog."
"I wish we could attend revels," Alma groused.
"Nonsense, child." Delita handed a raspberry tart to his sister. "Your sensibilities are far too tender."
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She weighs as much as grief does. He lifts her easily.
Lingering snowflakes settle against her body as he carries her from the dark garden. Her hair smells like green tea, and he is pleased that she preserves at least something of her sister. The lines of neck and knee belong to the Feys; the shampoo belonged to Mia alone.
He lays her on the cold floor of the Hall. There is a trace of ash on her cheek, and he brushes it away, almost tenderly.
He does not see the blood on her sleeve. He does not wake her.
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He sleeps beneath a translucent oxygen mask and awaits true love's kiss.
He dreams. The air conditioner's hum is the whispering forest. Seven nurses move past in squeaky shoes. Smocked hunters search for his heart.
The apple's bite taught him well. He knows the persistence of bitterness and hope. Lost in the wilderness, he knows someone is coming to break his mirrored coffin and resurrect him with her breath.
His dreams have no color, and so he sees in temperature. Pale as cold snow. Dark as warm blood.
Winter comes once again. He sleeps within glass, and nobody wakes him.
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"You should see yourself, kitten."
Mia woke up, and there he was. Drinking coffee. Smugly.
"Law books make terrible pillows." He leaned forward and touched her cheek. "You've got the title to Fowler's Guide to Contract Law printed right here, where you slept on the cover. Lucky cover."
Groggily, Mia stretched and ignored him.
"It's backwards, though," he continued. "You'd need a mirror to read it."
She twisted her hair into a bun and began tidying her desk.
"But who needs that glass with me here? What to know how you look? Just ask me, kitten."
"Thanks," she said dryly.
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I dare you to write Delita Alma.
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