Random-ass R/J for Kate
Prompt: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lu7b5f6bqY1qfze4lo1_400.jpg
A/N: Tempus Fugit-verse. Set in the future. PG to PG13
“Tell me a story.”
The man scoffs out a laugh, blue eyes faraway as he gazes out towards the indigo sky. The tree branches are black filigree against the pallor of the full moon, and a cool breeze comes in through the window. He carefully folds his calloused hands over his lap, clears his throat, and begins.
***
He has never seen her face.
She’s young when he first meets her, a little girl with her head bowed, standing next to a suitcase almost as tall as she is. Behind her is a gingko tree, its leaves falling yellow fans in the chilly autumnal air. He can all but smell the incense and see the white band around her black hair, hear the cawing of carrion crows. Birds of ill omen and funereal white. She never looks up, but he knows that she is not crying.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep. It’s bad luck to dream of ghosts, but he knows she’s real. A true warrior protects his princess, but he can’t save her from that which haunts her, not when he’s barely older than she is and only just pretending to be brave.
During the daylight hours, when he’s sweeping the temple steps and courtyards, he can hear her sighs and soft footfalls in the whisk-whisk-whisk of the broom against cobblestone. Somewhere she also sweeps the steps and courtyards, but she’s always walking away.
He pushes back, pushes himself harder and harder as he grows up. Maybe if he’s just a little faster, he can catch her on this everlasting chase down endless paths behind his eyelids. Maybe if he’s just a little stronger, he can hold on when he reaches her, if only to her hand, for a moment.
He thinks that if he can just touch her, warm flesh and blood and bone, he won’t feel so sick inside with something too big and fragile for him to understand.
She grows taller with him, from a wisp of a girl-child to a misty sylph of a young woman. Always in white or red, always walking away. He does what anyone would do, really.
He chases.
He follows the dream-nightmare-illusion down the mountain’s safe haven and into a world where the roads are loud and chaotic with smelly automobiles and even weeds won’t flourish in the garbage-stained concrete of the city streets, where men would sooner kill than share and pain and pleasure alike are sources of profit. He fights to stay alive, and it’s a shame to raise a sword for another’s amusement rather than for a worthwhile cause. He pretends, sometimes, that he’s fighting for her. But she’s still only a figment of his dreams-nightmares-illusions, the white-clad girl with the calligraphy-stroke black hair, always too far. He wonders sometimes if he’s going mad.
When he ends up in the employ of a foreign dignitary, he is one of the greatest warriors in the world. And the worst part about it is-- the faster he runs, the farther away she is, and the stronger he becomes, the harder it is to hold on.
He comes to the strange and terrible realization that she’s running away from him.
The next day, he’s given the strange assignment to share dinner and give flowers to a girl he has never met.
He gets dropped off across the street from where she is waiting, and for a split-second-eternity he--she--the unforgiving universe-- are all absolutely still. Raven hair and a spotless white dress.
And then there’s a screech of tires and the barrel of a gun and he’s running-flying-desperate faster than he has ever, ever been, and maybe he’s just in time this once, or maybe he was always too late, but he finally manages to see her face, look into her eyes. They’re vivid purple, like the elusive mountain columbines that grow in the rock crags that only the most agile and foolhardy climbers might attempt to pick.
When he’s hit, when he falls, it’s her that he sees bleeding, and he thinks he feels, through the pain and the cool falling leaves of the white lilies slipping through his fingers, the brush of her hands.
He begs for her forgiveness with what breath he has left, promises never to leave, but his words are as lost as he is.
He doesn’t really, truly find her again for years, though he never stops searching. A black-haired girl in a white dress who’s always walking away. It’s a strange, exquisite pain to love someone whose name he doesn’t even know, whose face is nebulous as woodsmoke.
But then again, he’s always been a firm believer in fate. And a life and death of devotion is barely the due that she deserves...
***
“Does he ever catch up with her?” The voice is childish, thick with sleep but anxious. Black-lashed blue eyes blink up before drifting half-shut again.
The man smiles faintly and pulls the covers over the child lying on the bed, then glances towards the doorway. A woman’s silhouette is visible, leaning against the door-jamb. Black hair and a white dress.
“Mmm. That’s a story for another day. Maybe you should ask your mother tomorrow night.” His hand lands gently on the child’s head, brushes back soft, wispy hair several shades darker than his own. “Sleep, now.”
The man stands, walks towards the woman standing at the door. She quirks an eyebrow as he reaches her side.
“You know, everything’s far less spooky in reality than you make it seem. I’m not a ghost.”
“No,” he agrees, brushing back a lock of her hair. The wide-palmed, blade-calloused hand is unerringly gentle against her cheek. “You’re real. But I could only know that when I had earned it.”
“Also, I’ve never run.” She raises her chin, half-challengingly. “Not from you, or anyone, ever.”
“I wouldn’t have caught you, even if you were standing still,” he muses. “It had to be this way, I think. Nevertheless, all’s well that ends well.”
The moonlight shines a silent blessing as he touches his lips to hers.
A/N: Tempus Fugit-verse. Set in the future. PG to PG13
“Tell me a story.”
The man scoffs out a laugh, blue eyes faraway as he gazes out towards the indigo sky. The tree branches are black filigree against the pallor of the full moon, and a cool breeze comes in through the window. He carefully folds his calloused hands over his lap, clears his throat, and begins.
***
He has never seen her face.
She’s young when he first meets her, a little girl with her head bowed, standing next to a suitcase almost as tall as she is. Behind her is a gingko tree, its leaves falling yellow fans in the chilly autumnal air. He can all but smell the incense and see the white band around her black hair, hear the cawing of carrion crows. Birds of ill omen and funereal white. She never looks up, but he knows that she is not crying.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep. It’s bad luck to dream of ghosts, but he knows she’s real. A true warrior protects his princess, but he can’t save her from that which haunts her, not when he’s barely older than she is and only just pretending to be brave.
During the daylight hours, when he’s sweeping the temple steps and courtyards, he can hear her sighs and soft footfalls in the whisk-whisk-whisk of the broom against cobblestone. Somewhere she also sweeps the steps and courtyards, but she’s always walking away.
He pushes back, pushes himself harder and harder as he grows up. Maybe if he’s just a little faster, he can catch her on this everlasting chase down endless paths behind his eyelids. Maybe if he’s just a little stronger, he can hold on when he reaches her, if only to her hand, for a moment.
He thinks that if he can just touch her, warm flesh and blood and bone, he won’t feel so sick inside with something too big and fragile for him to understand.
She grows taller with him, from a wisp of a girl-child to a misty sylph of a young woman. Always in white or red, always walking away. He does what anyone would do, really.
He chases.
He follows the dream-nightmare-illusion down the mountain’s safe haven and into a world where the roads are loud and chaotic with smelly automobiles and even weeds won’t flourish in the garbage-stained concrete of the city streets, where men would sooner kill than share and pain and pleasure alike are sources of profit. He fights to stay alive, and it’s a shame to raise a sword for another’s amusement rather than for a worthwhile cause. He pretends, sometimes, that he’s fighting for her. But she’s still only a figment of his dreams-nightmares-illusions, the white-clad girl with the calligraphy-stroke black hair, always too far. He wonders sometimes if he’s going mad.
When he ends up in the employ of a foreign dignitary, he is one of the greatest warriors in the world. And the worst part about it is-- the faster he runs, the farther away she is, and the stronger he becomes, the harder it is to hold on.
He comes to the strange and terrible realization that she’s running away from him.
The next day, he’s given the strange assignment to share dinner and give flowers to a girl he has never met.
He gets dropped off across the street from where she is waiting, and for a split-second-eternity he--she--the unforgiving universe-- are all absolutely still. Raven hair and a spotless white dress.
And then there’s a screech of tires and the barrel of a gun and he’s running-flying-desperate faster than he has ever, ever been, and maybe he’s just in time this once, or maybe he was always too late, but he finally manages to see her face, look into her eyes. They’re vivid purple, like the elusive mountain columbines that grow in the rock crags that only the most agile and foolhardy climbers might attempt to pick.
When he’s hit, when he falls, it’s her that he sees bleeding, and he thinks he feels, through the pain and the cool falling leaves of the white lilies slipping through his fingers, the brush of her hands.
He begs for her forgiveness with what breath he has left, promises never to leave, but his words are as lost as he is.
He doesn’t really, truly find her again for years, though he never stops searching. A black-haired girl in a white dress who’s always walking away. It’s a strange, exquisite pain to love someone whose name he doesn’t even know, whose face is nebulous as woodsmoke.
But then again, he’s always been a firm believer in fate. And a life and death of devotion is barely the due that she deserves...
***
“Does he ever catch up with her?” The voice is childish, thick with sleep but anxious. Black-lashed blue eyes blink up before drifting half-shut again.
The man smiles faintly and pulls the covers over the child lying on the bed, then glances towards the doorway. A woman’s silhouette is visible, leaning against the door-jamb. Black hair and a white dress.
“Mmm. That’s a story for another day. Maybe you should ask your mother tomorrow night.” His hand lands gently on the child’s head, brushes back soft, wispy hair several shades darker than his own. “Sleep, now.”
The man stands, walks towards the woman standing at the door. She quirks an eyebrow as he reaches her side.
“You know, everything’s far less spooky in reality than you make it seem. I’m not a ghost.”
“No,” he agrees, brushing back a lock of her hair. The wide-palmed, blade-calloused hand is unerringly gentle against her cheek. “You’re real. But I could only know that when I had earned it.”
“Also, I’ve never run.” She raises her chin, half-challengingly. “Not from you, or anyone, ever.”
“I wouldn’t have caught you, even if you were standing still,” he muses. “It had to be this way, I think. Nevertheless, all’s well that ends well.”
The moonlight shines a silent blessing as he touches his lips to hers.