a white and crumbling princess
i have no friggin' clue where this came from. but i'm kind of freaked out by wherever that place is. written for sm_monthly.
Title: A White and Crumbling Princess
Theme: Nineteen
Genre: Dark/Drama
Version: AU/Manga-ish
Rating: PG-13
A White and Crumbling Princess
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…
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…
It's funny, really, how Kunzite thinks himself especially careful. Thinks only his lover’s own morning star sees her stealing home.
And perhaps that’s their strange love game - dancing the steel edge of palace rumor, growls and moans emptied into silencing skin, suspiciously golden lights on dark balconies. That gamble’s not for everyone, perhaps.
But love in a graveyard? This, certainly, is reserved just for madmen and logicians.
…
These two play at something altogether different. They’ll never be discovered where they lie, drenched more with dew than sweat in a bed of unruly vines. Aenor's short cries ricochet clearly off old marble and older bones; his murmurs could be a misbehaving ghost’s. Only a white and crumbling princess witnesses their passion play. The flame-haired god of spring often shepherds death to this sacrificial mound. Today, as flowers push up between their tangled limbs, he brings life.
“How does it feel?” she wants to know.
“What?”
A long-fingered hand shades them, but trapped sun still smiles on his mischievous eyelashes. Always, always she wants to know something. Her sigh skitters across Zoisite's chest, moth-winged.
“To kill.”
The druid king doesn’t start or flinch, as most others would. They are, after all, stretched atop a tomb scarcely older than he is. How many men has he slaughtered on this altar, by means brief or brutally prolonged? How many blades of grass carpet this burial ground?
“At first, you feel shame,” he begins, and Aenor props her pointed chin on his lean shoulder. “But not shame in the way you expect. You’re ashamed that you feel none. Nothing is changed for the worse. It’s ugly, like finding rabbits drowned in the well.”
Her eyes are bottomless, solemn. “More bile than tears.”
“Clever girl.”
“And then?”
Windswept branches kiss and part, and tumbling leaves vainly attempt to clothe their nakedness. Zoisite brushes a stray from the hollowed little dimples above her bottom, preferring his unobstructed view.
“There’s a routine to it, and you're competent. It can be satisfying when you're efficient, and it’s always irritating when you’re not. Mess is unpleasant. You’re clear-eyed, and you feel a clean purpose in acting, a balance.”
“How long did it take you to get there?” she asks.
A loose twig snags in her hair, and her startled fit of blinking makes Zoisite laugh in place of his usual snicker. When his palm passes over her head, fresh petals erupt, and he trails the blue-black mass out. Nimble fingers form braids out of habit, out of need for constant movement, and he only answers Aenor with another question.
“Don’t you want to know what happens next?” he taunts.
He’s far better at making her blush than at skipping pebbles across the smooth surface of her temper. It makes him feel like a naughty schoolboy to even try, as thick lashes fall primly over her cheeks.
“I do. But you don't want to tell me.”
How he still underestimates her, even now. Forever Zoisite's cutting tongue darts ahead of his brain; she waits at path’s end, serenely delivers the coup de grâce. Having caught up with his own wit, the druid king now considers. Does he want to tell her, how killing feels for one so accustomed as the Prince's black hand, his royal gaoler? It seems as though his mouth decides for him once again; the words hurry toward her like rivers gain strength down icy peaks.
“It’s noble, almost. Like bedecking a bride for her groom. You feel unworthy of this terrible chivalry, of taking her hand and escorting her to the gods. But if it has to be done, there must be artistry, there must be - “
“Beauty,” she finishes softly. “If it has to be done, there must be beauty.”
There’s no condemnation in Aenor's voice, only curiosity, and he imagines the names her sisters would excitedly call him. Barbarian. Torturer. Murderer. Have they no rituals that bind them to their lifeless silver soil? Unbidden, his hand grips her heavy braid, and she makes a faint sound of discomfort when he sits up, dragging her with him.
“You’re hurting me - “
“They aren’t just criminals, and I’m not just an executioner,” Zoisite informs her matter-of-factly, not wanting any secrets. “Once, when we were weak, when we needed the gods to show us favor...“
“Black things are done to win power, but Earth is better for your rule,” she tries to soothe, tucking stray copper curls back. “Your Prince and your brothers aren’t alone in those sins.”
“They were mine alone,” he corrects Aenor. “Even my Prince doesn’t know what happened in this cold kingdom before his time.”
She pauses in her ministrations, lips pressing together. Behind her, a forlorn, pallid statue watches to see what he will say.
“When our sacrifices are especially worthy," he begins, "...we carve effigies that we do not forget them...”
“Oh,” she whispers. “I have read how innocents are given up to the gods of your realm, in times of great need. Immortalized in stone - ”
“Innocents, and even kin."
His clenched fist releases her plait; dead petals fall. "These flowers first grew when I braided my own sister’s hair. When I readied her for death.”
“Her statue - “ she twists around sharply. In the arch of her slender back, pearlescent vertebrae protrude like dorsal fins, one, two, three.
“I did not know,” he says plainly. “Nobody explained. I was just a boy.”
“So - so you grew from weak to strong - ” her voice wavers.
“The gods favored me.”
“You became king - ”
“Yes,” he breathes at her nape.
“And you said - if it has to be done - ” a sob in her gasp, she's already swinging to face him.
“If - !”
…
The lost stone princess looks sorrowfully down upon her sacrifice.
Even Aenor's blue-black braid is severed by the force of his blow, and short strands tickle her pale cheeks. There is artistry, and there is beauty.
But Zoisite is at a loss as to how it feels.
…
…
…
…
…
Title: A White and Crumbling Princess
Theme: Nineteen
Genre: Dark/Drama
Version: AU/Manga-ish
Rating: PG-13
A White and Crumbling Princess
…
…
…
…
…
It's funny, really, how Kunzite thinks himself especially careful. Thinks only his lover’s own morning star sees her stealing home.
And perhaps that’s their strange love game - dancing the steel edge of palace rumor, growls and moans emptied into silencing skin, suspiciously golden lights on dark balconies. That gamble’s not for everyone, perhaps.
But love in a graveyard? This, certainly, is reserved just for madmen and logicians.
…
These two play at something altogether different. They’ll never be discovered where they lie, drenched more with dew than sweat in a bed of unruly vines. Aenor's short cries ricochet clearly off old marble and older bones; his murmurs could be a misbehaving ghost’s. Only a white and crumbling princess witnesses their passion play. The flame-haired god of spring often shepherds death to this sacrificial mound. Today, as flowers push up between their tangled limbs, he brings life.
“How does it feel?” she wants to know.
“What?”
A long-fingered hand shades them, but trapped sun still smiles on his mischievous eyelashes. Always, always she wants to know something. Her sigh skitters across Zoisite's chest, moth-winged.
“To kill.”
The druid king doesn’t start or flinch, as most others would. They are, after all, stretched atop a tomb scarcely older than he is. How many men has he slaughtered on this altar, by means brief or brutally prolonged? How many blades of grass carpet this burial ground?
“At first, you feel shame,” he begins, and Aenor props her pointed chin on his lean shoulder. “But not shame in the way you expect. You’re ashamed that you feel none. Nothing is changed for the worse. It’s ugly, like finding rabbits drowned in the well.”
Her eyes are bottomless, solemn. “More bile than tears.”
“Clever girl.”
“And then?”
Windswept branches kiss and part, and tumbling leaves vainly attempt to clothe their nakedness. Zoisite brushes a stray from the hollowed little dimples above her bottom, preferring his unobstructed view.
“There’s a routine to it, and you're competent. It can be satisfying when you're efficient, and it’s always irritating when you’re not. Mess is unpleasant. You’re clear-eyed, and you feel a clean purpose in acting, a balance.”
“How long did it take you to get there?” she asks.
A loose twig snags in her hair, and her startled fit of blinking makes Zoisite laugh in place of his usual snicker. When his palm passes over her head, fresh petals erupt, and he trails the blue-black mass out. Nimble fingers form braids out of habit, out of need for constant movement, and he only answers Aenor with another question.
“Don’t you want to know what happens next?” he taunts.
He’s far better at making her blush than at skipping pebbles across the smooth surface of her temper. It makes him feel like a naughty schoolboy to even try, as thick lashes fall primly over her cheeks.
“I do. But you don't want to tell me.”
How he still underestimates her, even now. Forever Zoisite's cutting tongue darts ahead of his brain; she waits at path’s end, serenely delivers the coup de grâce. Having caught up with his own wit, the druid king now considers. Does he want to tell her, how killing feels for one so accustomed as the Prince's black hand, his royal gaoler? It seems as though his mouth decides for him once again; the words hurry toward her like rivers gain strength down icy peaks.
“It’s noble, almost. Like bedecking a bride for her groom. You feel unworthy of this terrible chivalry, of taking her hand and escorting her to the gods. But if it has to be done, there must be artistry, there must be - “
“Beauty,” she finishes softly. “If it has to be done, there must be beauty.”
There’s no condemnation in Aenor's voice, only curiosity, and he imagines the names her sisters would excitedly call him. Barbarian. Torturer. Murderer. Have they no rituals that bind them to their lifeless silver soil? Unbidden, his hand grips her heavy braid, and she makes a faint sound of discomfort when he sits up, dragging her with him.
“You’re hurting me - “
“They aren’t just criminals, and I’m not just an executioner,” Zoisite informs her matter-of-factly, not wanting any secrets. “Once, when we were weak, when we needed the gods to show us favor...“
“Black things are done to win power, but Earth is better for your rule,” she tries to soothe, tucking stray copper curls back. “Your Prince and your brothers aren’t alone in those sins.”
“They were mine alone,” he corrects Aenor. “Even my Prince doesn’t know what happened in this cold kingdom before his time.”
She pauses in her ministrations, lips pressing together. Behind her, a forlorn, pallid statue watches to see what he will say.
“When our sacrifices are especially worthy," he begins, "...we carve effigies that we do not forget them...”
“Oh,” she whispers. “I have read how innocents are given up to the gods of your realm, in times of great need. Immortalized in stone - ”
“Innocents, and even kin."
His clenched fist releases her plait; dead petals fall. "These flowers first grew when I braided my own sister’s hair. When I readied her for death.”
“Her statue - “ she twists around sharply. In the arch of her slender back, pearlescent vertebrae protrude like dorsal fins, one, two, three.
“I did not know,” he says plainly. “Nobody explained. I was just a boy.”
“So - so you grew from weak to strong - ” her voice wavers.
“The gods favored me.”
“You became king - ”
“Yes,” he breathes at her nape.
“And you said - if it has to be done - ” a sob in her gasp, she's already swinging to face him.
“If - !”
…
The lost stone princess looks sorrowfully down upon her sacrifice.
Even Aenor's blue-black braid is severed by the force of his blow, and short strands tickle her pale cheeks. There is artistry, and there is beauty.
But Zoisite is at a loss as to how it feels.
…
…
…
…
…