Chocolate #29, CNC #29 - light reaches through the deepest seas to those who need it.
Author: Thai
Challenge: Chocolate #29 - relief, Cookies N Cream #29 - shake
Extras: Fresh Peaches -You're in love with the world today, and you're most especially in love with your partner.
Rating: G
Story: blood princess
Timeline: The beginning of Falsehood arc - just after this piece.
Word Count: 907
She had been curled up in her alcove with tears running down her face - Haytham, Haytham, Haytham, her heart hammering through the rhythm of his name. She was so tempted to run back to him, quick feet quick, and take him back - love me, love me, love me. Her heart was the snare in her chest though it felt as if it had been torn from her, and -
The door creaked open, and Asma looked up - Astor's face rippling through indigo curtains - and then oh, bright gods preserve us, his voice. "Princess?"
She wrapped her arms protectively around herself as he approached, willing herself to ignore the way he was looking at her - confusion, pity, a strange worrying emotion. He did not love her, he could not - she loved him though she had loved Haytham (her heart was a despicable, fickle thing), and -
"Princess?"
The bastard was kneeling before her, reaching out a hand that Asma shrank away from - do not touch me do not know me do not love me. "Go away," she whispered.
"Princess - "
"Don't call me that."
"Princess - ?"
"Leave me alone!"
"Asma, I - "
"No!" she burst out, and tears wet her cheeks once again, damp with shame and rage and despair. Didn't he see what he was doing, he wasn't healing her heart, he was - he was ripping at it, wearing the hole ragged, unraveling her like a piece of careless weaving. "Don't call me that, don't call me anything, you don't even - !"
His eyes were bewildered, but he reached for her - and who said she was weak? She was as fast as those Rocs that were fortunate enough to change - she bolted for the door, but he trapped her in a viselike grip that held her tight even as she writhed to get away.
But his voice was gentle when he spoke. "Asma, you are only my princess."
The words cut her away from control, fragile puppet-strings torn with six careless words; he the snake-charmer, she the cobra with the torn-out fangs.
"Oh, I am not your anything," the words came, and when she fell he caught her, cradling her in his arms as she wept.
But his hands were on her and around her and his fingers twined into her hair, and for a moment or two she could believe that this was meant to happen - that he was holding her as a lover does (and Haytham had not held her so lovingly), instead of keeping her captive. That the feeling of his embrace was not alien to her.
But his lips were so soft on the nape of her neck, and -
"My princess," he whispered - it was the same voice that had told her his name that first day they met, and his eyes were still that delicate shade of blue. "Oh, princess, how could you - ?"
"I love you," came a voice, one that Asma distantly recognized as her own, and dimly she hated herself for being weak enough to say it. "You can't love a creature like me, though - I can't change, I'm the foolish princess bound to fail and never wear her feathers. I can't make my mother love me, I can't do what everyone else can, I'm - I'm completely pathetic, but - but Haytham - and you, and - "
His hands released their bruising grip on her shoulders, and his arms wrapped around her torso in a gentle touch so like the brush of summer flowers against her skin. And suddenly it flooded from her mouth - Haytham, Janan, the three-year tryst that left a burning hole where her heart used to be (and it still sang his name, wherever it was, Haytham, Haytham, Haytham). The way he was so free with his love, except when it came to her. The way she had learned through him what jealousy tasted like. The way they had betrayed Janan, together, but it was far more her fault than his.
Her tongue stilled, fell silent on the word love; and that resounding door-click echoed again in her mind.
She knew how it would go from here. Astor would be repulsed, that she could do such a thing behind the back of her guardian, and he would drop his arms and step away. She could perhaps beg him not to tell Janan, and maybe, if he still liked her, he would agree. But he would never tell her another fairy tale, never gift her with some foreign bauble again. He would never teach her the names of the stars or dance with her again, and she would never watch his nimble fingers pick up a quill or scuttle, spiderlike, across a piano's keys -
"I love you, too."
Asma froze, and her hands rose to clutch at her trembling mouth. And even as she shook he took her into his arms, cradling her as her mother should have done. No, no, no - Haytham, Haytham, Haytham.
Her heart beat so convincingly, and her arms ached to hold him again, and -
And yet -
"Stay with me," she said impulsively (the three words that no one had been able to fulfill - the three words that had caused her downfall), and the arms around her tightened.
"Always, my princess," Astor's voice said, and Asma's heart began to sing another name.
Challenge: Chocolate #29 - relief, Cookies N Cream #29 - shake
Extras: Fresh Peaches -You're in love with the world today, and you're most especially in love with your partner.
Rating: G
Story: blood princess
Timeline: The beginning of Falsehood arc - just after this piece.
Word Count: 907
She had been curled up in her alcove with tears running down her face - Haytham, Haytham, Haytham, her heart hammering through the rhythm of his name. She was so tempted to run back to him, quick feet quick, and take him back - love me, love me, love me. Her heart was the snare in her chest though it felt as if it had been torn from her, and -
The door creaked open, and Asma looked up - Astor's face rippling through indigo curtains - and then oh, bright gods preserve us, his voice. "Princess?"
She wrapped her arms protectively around herself as he approached, willing herself to ignore the way he was looking at her - confusion, pity, a strange worrying emotion. He did not love her, he could not - she loved him though she had loved Haytham (her heart was a despicable, fickle thing), and -
"Princess?"
The bastard was kneeling before her, reaching out a hand that Asma shrank away from - do not touch me do not know me do not love me. "Go away," she whispered.
"Princess - "
"Don't call me that."
"Princess - ?"
"Leave me alone!"
"Asma, I - "
"No!" she burst out, and tears wet her cheeks once again, damp with shame and rage and despair. Didn't he see what he was doing, he wasn't healing her heart, he was - he was ripping at it, wearing the hole ragged, unraveling her like a piece of careless weaving. "Don't call me that, don't call me anything, you don't even - !"
His eyes were bewildered, but he reached for her - and who said she was weak? She was as fast as those Rocs that were fortunate enough to change - she bolted for the door, but he trapped her in a viselike grip that held her tight even as she writhed to get away.
But his voice was gentle when he spoke. "Asma, you are only my princess."
The words cut her away from control, fragile puppet-strings torn with six careless words; he the snake-charmer, she the cobra with the torn-out fangs.
"Oh, I am not your anything," the words came, and when she fell he caught her, cradling her in his arms as she wept.
But his hands were on her and around her and his fingers twined into her hair, and for a moment or two she could believe that this was meant to happen - that he was holding her as a lover does (and Haytham had not held her so lovingly), instead of keeping her captive. That the feeling of his embrace was not alien to her.
But his lips were so soft on the nape of her neck, and -
"My princess," he whispered - it was the same voice that had told her his name that first day they met, and his eyes were still that delicate shade of blue. "Oh, princess, how could you - ?"
"I love you," came a voice, one that Asma distantly recognized as her own, and dimly she hated herself for being weak enough to say it. "You can't love a creature like me, though - I can't change, I'm the foolish princess bound to fail and never wear her feathers. I can't make my mother love me, I can't do what everyone else can, I'm - I'm completely pathetic, but - but Haytham - and you, and - "
His hands released their bruising grip on her shoulders, and his arms wrapped around her torso in a gentle touch so like the brush of summer flowers against her skin. And suddenly it flooded from her mouth - Haytham, Janan, the three-year tryst that left a burning hole where her heart used to be (and it still sang his name, wherever it was, Haytham, Haytham, Haytham). The way he was so free with his love, except when it came to her. The way she had learned through him what jealousy tasted like. The way they had betrayed Janan, together, but it was far more her fault than his.
Her tongue stilled, fell silent on the word love; and that resounding door-click echoed again in her mind.
She knew how it would go from here. Astor would be repulsed, that she could do such a thing behind the back of her guardian, and he would drop his arms and step away. She could perhaps beg him not to tell Janan, and maybe, if he still liked her, he would agree. But he would never tell her another fairy tale, never gift her with some foreign bauble again. He would never teach her the names of the stars or dance with her again, and she would never watch his nimble fingers pick up a quill or scuttle, spiderlike, across a piano's keys -
"I love you, too."
Asma froze, and her hands rose to clutch at her trembling mouth. And even as she shook he took her into his arms, cradling her as her mother should have done. No, no, no - Haytham, Haytham, Haytham.
Her heart beat so convincingly, and her arms ached to hold him again, and -
And yet -
"Stay with me," she said impulsively (the three words that no one had been able to fulfill - the three words that had caused her downfall), and the arms around her tightened.
"Always, my princess," Astor's voice said, and Asma's heart began to sing another name.