let's be together like before
Whoa, I'm posting fiction. One of the AV1 Larshen I've dug out of the dusty woodwork and completed. I'm posting the finished half of another one-shot Larshen, and hopefully I'll be able to finish that shudder-worthy GyenStella I've promised to some people. And oh yes, I'll be trying my damnedest to start that long-delayed Ragnarok Online x Aveyond crossover fic I've been planning for ages. XD
Veldaran Days
Author: Aizhen Aschenhimmel
Fandom: Aveyond 1
Pairing: Lars x Rhen
Rating: PG-13 and...what, M for later suggestiveness? XD
She smiles at the swirl of relief and excitement and the little irony of an important choice starting from a postscript.
A/N: My Larshen ficlet collection, warning for suggestive themes. The first entries were easy to do - the stories and words came naturally - but the last ones were a headache. Worse, I’ve left this fic incomplete for so long, when I came back to complete it, I think I’ve lost touch of the style. I tried to approximate it in the later entries, but meh. Also, I hate LJ for destroying my italics, and since I'm that kind of lazy, I'll just put 'em back later. XD Anyways, enjoy and let’s get this show on the road~
Pieces
She looks at him, and she looks back. It feels strange, to see a face so different (in a dozen subtle ways) it must be new - it must be; it had been years ever since the last time they have met - but she remembers and falls back to fond yesterdays buried beneath dull yesterdays. But the memories have lost the magic to bring a smile, the same way a rose fades from a scent to an imprint then finally to dust, leaving a vague uneasiness. She twitches a hand as she curtsies, gives a cracked smile which she desperately hopes reveals nothing, and all the while her eyes search and see and she wonders what to do. She tries to grasp what had been her and him, but they escape her, and she stands there before him as fake as her resolve to become the person she is meant to be.
Language
He listens to the cadence of her words, the flow and pulse of her voice, the meanings beneath meanings and the lack of it. It is her and it is not her: the way her vowels had ceased to drag, the careful modulation of her tone, the use of words she would never have known when they were miles and miles away from ballrooms and crowns. They warp her, in a way; doll her up into that gold and silken idol, but he is not fooled, especially when she stops and the silence speaks for her. He sees her, see her clearly without crowns and duties to distort, see her uncertain and stifled and not her. He wants to reach out to see if she is still there, but he fears that she isn't, and that she has disappeared without him knowing.
Sharp
He sees her again, or he would like to think. She stands in the middle of the street without any care of humidity nor crowd nor oddly-timed tropical drizzle that promises a storm. If not for too-pale skin, too-pale hair and too-different skirt, she could have blended in, but as such she is a pale fairytale contrast pasted in a world of sodden browns and greens. She tells off guards and servants - I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you minister; a drizzle will not kill me, I've faced storms before and lived; yes, I can wield this sword while wearing this gown, I've tried it before - with a verve that strikes a chord of painful yet welcome familiarity. And when they finally begin to walk together - to where, they don't really know - it becomes even more nostalgic and very, very much real.
Everytime
She always wakes up feeling tired, as though sleep had been changed into something tedious. She lies down on a bed of velvet and fears the ticking of the clock, because it means that there is no real respite for her, even if the weariness pulls down her eyelids sometime after midnight. Morning comes and the monotony begins anew, and she is Queen and not her the moment she opens her eyes (she couldn't remember when and how she had fallen asleep). But tonight is different, like another world or another dream of humid airs and white tropical fragrances, and even though tomorrow she is still Queen, someone other than herself remembers that she is not, and the comforting realization of companionship is enough to lull her to peace.
Faultless
As much as she would like for their meetings to be as perfect as fantasy, she has to make do with the dead airs and stutters and floundering conversations. She does not know where to start (should she talk of her country? Or of their travels?); he does not when to end (why is he acting so formal? Why is he teasing her again?). Yet imperfect as it may be, there is still a connection, an understanding of sorts, because she feels it, especially when her masks fall off and she rambles on about her petty troubles, the past and the present and the unknown future all tumbling together; he looks at her and holds her hand and she knows that his unnatural silence is perfect in a way, because words would've spoiled everything anyway.
Savior
He is beside her at the last instance of her discomfort and the first sign of utter distress; with a few words to the diplomats, a choice glare and an aristocrat's charm he frees them both (and inwardly he sighs - he didn't expect freedom to be easy). He looks at her and she avoids his gaze - words are deflected, questions dodged and answers twisted back into vagueness.
He mutters under his breath, agitated; she looks away, frustrated.
But he wouldn't let go, because he is stubborn in that sort of way. And so he grabs her wrist and pulls her along to gods-know-where. They wander off, away and away, from the mercifully empty gardens, to the forest where there are trees instead of people and somehow at twilight they found themselves standing on the beach. He blinks, confused, realizing that every step had been random - he takes pride in his logic and it fails him now - but it doesn't matter to him, it doesn't mean anything to him right now. There are no people here, no things like royalty and respect and decorum, only air and rocks and star-sparkled sea. A part of him whispers that this is the stuff romance is made of - sea foam and diamond stars and velvet night - but the better part of him scoffs at the idea. He knows enough of the world to believe at happily-ever-after. Their romance is skewed and imperfect: their hands too tight, the wind too sharp, the water too cold, there is a cloud overhead and she is queen and he is head sorcerer and she is crying on his shoulder.
Deeper
He couldn't fully grasp what bothers her - indeed, some of her problems seem to be trivial to him. He knows the world of crowns and thrones, at ease with the decadence of royalty and the deviousness of nobility, deft with the tricks of status. It takes a few seconds to remember that she is not, and life used to be simple and easy in a village forgotten by the world. She is queen now, but growing up in gold and silk is different from being wrapped in it. His old brazen self would've said those aloud, but a few years and a trip around the world had taught him a little sensitivity. So he keeps his mouth shut, breathes even, calms his thoughts.
She keeps her silence, seemingly asleep, but her eyes are open, her gaze far away. Come morning they have to pull the same stunt again - it used to be easier back when they were just sorcerer and sword singer; too-elaborate robes and gowns didn't hinder their movements yet - but all that matters is that they aren't alone. He couldn't understand her troubles, but he could feel her pain. He hopes it is enough, knows it isn't but he stays nevertheless. If only he could touch her beneath silk and status and queenly veneer - because right now, even if they are together - he cannot.
He thinks of the words, the same traps of status that he knows so intimately, mouths them in the dark.
Queen. High Sorcerer. How far is too far and how high is too high?
Dawn is still far away. He closes his eyes, touches her hair and falls asleep dreaming of things he mercifully cannot remember upon waking.
Fragrant
There are times when, restricted by circumstance, she leans in, pretends to talk and simply breathes in his presence, with every smell and every detail sketching itself into memory, to become her future comforts.
She doesn’t know it, but he does the same too.
Darling
There are two farewells: one will be under the sun, the other under the moonlight. One will take place before the other, and will be imprinted on his mind for the years to come. It is bittersweet, it is forbidden, and he does not care, not now when his mind has gone blissfully and wonderfully blank under the spell of sweet madness. He holds her wrist, leans forward, whispers (beloved), the hand on the small of her back touching bare skin. She grins, half-shy and half-brazen, lips on his, fingers tangling in his hair before gliding down neck and shoulder and chest, then she breathes and whispers back (yes).
(They remember nothing of the other farewell, nothing at all.)
Letter
It is to be formal, distant, bare of anything her and him because she is the Queen of Thais and he is the High Sorcerer of Veldarah, but she couldn’t care less of should and shouldn’t right now, not when she feels that Thais has become too cold for her. It is nothing more but an invitation to a gilded event, a piece of paper nearly identical to the hundreds stacked in front of her, written in the elegantly curving apathy of Royal Scribes, but something tells her - perhaps her vanity or sentimentality or a thing more sublime - that it should be more. She had been thinking ever since her return, weighing possibilities and situations and trying to overcome difficulties not yet born, and she decides the first step must be written now, and with that certain giddy recklessness that made her decide she could defeat a demon after all, she adds --
We could be together.
(She smiles at the swirl of relief and excitement and the little irony of an important choice starting from a postscript.)
Veldaran Days
Author: Aizhen Aschenhimmel
Fandom: Aveyond 1
Pairing: Lars x Rhen
Rating: PG-13 and...what, M for later suggestiveness? XD
She smiles at the swirl of relief and excitement and the little irony of an important choice starting from a postscript.
A/N: My Larshen ficlet collection, warning for suggestive themes. The first entries were easy to do - the stories and words came naturally - but the last ones were a headache. Worse, I’ve left this fic incomplete for so long, when I came back to complete it, I think I’ve lost touch of the style. I tried to approximate it in the later entries, but meh. Also, I hate LJ for destroying my italics, and since I'm that kind of lazy, I'll just put 'em back later. XD Anyways, enjoy and let’s get this show on the road~
Pieces
She looks at him, and she looks back. It feels strange, to see a face so different (in a dozen subtle ways) it must be new - it must be; it had been years ever since the last time they have met - but she remembers and falls back to fond yesterdays buried beneath dull yesterdays. But the memories have lost the magic to bring a smile, the same way a rose fades from a scent to an imprint then finally to dust, leaving a vague uneasiness. She twitches a hand as she curtsies, gives a cracked smile which she desperately hopes reveals nothing, and all the while her eyes search and see and she wonders what to do. She tries to grasp what had been her and him, but they escape her, and she stands there before him as fake as her resolve to become the person she is meant to be.
Language
He listens to the cadence of her words, the flow and pulse of her voice, the meanings beneath meanings and the lack of it. It is her and it is not her: the way her vowels had ceased to drag, the careful modulation of her tone, the use of words she would never have known when they were miles and miles away from ballrooms and crowns. They warp her, in a way; doll her up into that gold and silken idol, but he is not fooled, especially when she stops and the silence speaks for her. He sees her, see her clearly without crowns and duties to distort, see her uncertain and stifled and not her. He wants to reach out to see if she is still there, but he fears that she isn't, and that she has disappeared without him knowing.
Sharp
He sees her again, or he would like to think. She stands in the middle of the street without any care of humidity nor crowd nor oddly-timed tropical drizzle that promises a storm. If not for too-pale skin, too-pale hair and too-different skirt, she could have blended in, but as such she is a pale fairytale contrast pasted in a world of sodden browns and greens. She tells off guards and servants - I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you minister; a drizzle will not kill me, I've faced storms before and lived; yes, I can wield this sword while wearing this gown, I've tried it before - with a verve that strikes a chord of painful yet welcome familiarity. And when they finally begin to walk together - to where, they don't really know - it becomes even more nostalgic and very, very much real.
Everytime
She always wakes up feeling tired, as though sleep had been changed into something tedious. She lies down on a bed of velvet and fears the ticking of the clock, because it means that there is no real respite for her, even if the weariness pulls down her eyelids sometime after midnight. Morning comes and the monotony begins anew, and she is Queen and not her the moment she opens her eyes (she couldn't remember when and how she had fallen asleep). But tonight is different, like another world or another dream of humid airs and white tropical fragrances, and even though tomorrow she is still Queen, someone other than herself remembers that she is not, and the comforting realization of companionship is enough to lull her to peace.
Faultless
As much as she would like for their meetings to be as perfect as fantasy, she has to make do with the dead airs and stutters and floundering conversations. She does not know where to start (should she talk of her country? Or of their travels?); he does not when to end (why is he acting so formal? Why is he teasing her again?). Yet imperfect as it may be, there is still a connection, an understanding of sorts, because she feels it, especially when her masks fall off and she rambles on about her petty troubles, the past and the present and the unknown future all tumbling together; he looks at her and holds her hand and she knows that his unnatural silence is perfect in a way, because words would've spoiled everything anyway.
Savior
He is beside her at the last instance of her discomfort and the first sign of utter distress; with a few words to the diplomats, a choice glare and an aristocrat's charm he frees them both (and inwardly he sighs - he didn't expect freedom to be easy). He looks at her and she avoids his gaze - words are deflected, questions dodged and answers twisted back into vagueness.
He mutters under his breath, agitated; she looks away, frustrated.
But he wouldn't let go, because he is stubborn in that sort of way. And so he grabs her wrist and pulls her along to gods-know-where. They wander off, away and away, from the mercifully empty gardens, to the forest where there are trees instead of people and somehow at twilight they found themselves standing on the beach. He blinks, confused, realizing that every step had been random - he takes pride in his logic and it fails him now - but it doesn't matter to him, it doesn't mean anything to him right now. There are no people here, no things like royalty and respect and decorum, only air and rocks and star-sparkled sea. A part of him whispers that this is the stuff romance is made of - sea foam and diamond stars and velvet night - but the better part of him scoffs at the idea. He knows enough of the world to believe at happily-ever-after. Their romance is skewed and imperfect: their hands too tight, the wind too sharp, the water too cold, there is a cloud overhead and she is queen and he is head sorcerer and she is crying on his shoulder.
Deeper
He couldn't fully grasp what bothers her - indeed, some of her problems seem to be trivial to him. He knows the world of crowns and thrones, at ease with the decadence of royalty and the deviousness of nobility, deft with the tricks of status. It takes a few seconds to remember that she is not, and life used to be simple and easy in a village forgotten by the world. She is queen now, but growing up in gold and silk is different from being wrapped in it. His old brazen self would've said those aloud, but a few years and a trip around the world had taught him a little sensitivity. So he keeps his mouth shut, breathes even, calms his thoughts.
She keeps her silence, seemingly asleep, but her eyes are open, her gaze far away. Come morning they have to pull the same stunt again - it used to be easier back when they were just sorcerer and sword singer; too-elaborate robes and gowns didn't hinder their movements yet - but all that matters is that they aren't alone. He couldn't understand her troubles, but he could feel her pain. He hopes it is enough, knows it isn't but he stays nevertheless. If only he could touch her beneath silk and status and queenly veneer - because right now, even if they are together - he cannot.
He thinks of the words, the same traps of status that he knows so intimately, mouths them in the dark.
Queen. High Sorcerer. How far is too far and how high is too high?
Dawn is still far away. He closes his eyes, touches her hair and falls asleep dreaming of things he mercifully cannot remember upon waking.
Fragrant
There are times when, restricted by circumstance, she leans in, pretends to talk and simply breathes in his presence, with every smell and every detail sketching itself into memory, to become her future comforts.
She doesn’t know it, but he does the same too.
Darling
There are two farewells: one will be under the sun, the other under the moonlight. One will take place before the other, and will be imprinted on his mind for the years to come. It is bittersweet, it is forbidden, and he does not care, not now when his mind has gone blissfully and wonderfully blank under the spell of sweet madness. He holds her wrist, leans forward, whispers (beloved), the hand on the small of her back touching bare skin. She grins, half-shy and half-brazen, lips on his, fingers tangling in his hair before gliding down neck and shoulder and chest, then she breathes and whispers back (yes).
(They remember nothing of the other farewell, nothing at all.)
Letter
It is to be formal, distant, bare of anything her and him because she is the Queen of Thais and he is the High Sorcerer of Veldarah, but she couldn’t care less of should and shouldn’t right now, not when she feels that Thais has become too cold for her. It is nothing more but an invitation to a gilded event, a piece of paper nearly identical to the hundreds stacked in front of her, written in the elegantly curving apathy of Royal Scribes, but something tells her - perhaps her vanity or sentimentality or a thing more sublime - that it should be more. She had been thinking ever since her return, weighing possibilities and situations and trying to overcome difficulties not yet born, and she decides the first step must be written now, and with that certain giddy recklessness that made her decide she could defeat a demon after all, she adds --
We could be together.
(She smiles at the swirl of relief and excitement and the little irony of an important choice starting from a postscript.)