(no subject)
Felt like doing a little piece on Jeddy and it seems like I'll be doing a lot of those!! ^_^
Title: Lips
Genre: Dark/General
Setting: SilMil
Rating: PG13
Jadeite had not needed to scan the room for long before he had found her body, semi-hidden in the temple room of the palace by shredded ceremonial drapes and broken pillars. He approached, half weary that she would suddenly rise up and attack him; the other half hoping the same was true - but she had long been gone, overpowered in her own sanctuary, he observed.
She lay sprawled on the floor, graceless and almost hideous in her disfiguration, the opposite of what she had been in life. She was bruised and beaten, her source of vanity tied back roughly into a long, greasy black braid and snaking along the filthy floor. The blood had drained from her body, pooling around her like someone had spilt a bottle of crimson oil paint, discolouring her skin to a pallid off-white.
He smiled grimly as he saw the artless angles that she lay in and the cloudy membranes that coated her once dark and smouldering amethyst eyes. The parts of her body that were not caked in dust, blood and bruises or that were hidden by her pathetic excuse for a uniform were dry and unshaven, her nails were short and broken and her hands calloused and rough, the war causing the once goddess-like Senshi of Mars to ignore her own personal hygiene for things infinitely more important; he winced as he noticed she was missing a foot.
Jadeite shook his head in pity, she had been a beautiful creature, they had called her the dark jewel of the Martian empire, the seer princess Kamala, with a body that had been sculptured to perfection, eyes that could set a man on fire with their intensity, and hair that was blacker than coal yet shone the colour of deep blood when she was angry. But here she lay, defeated, scarred and neglected.
Jadeite sighed deeply as he approached, squatting down to see her closer and leaning heavily on his sword; he rested his chin on the hilt, planting the tip of the weapon into the wooden floorboards. His angel blue eyes burned with brutal disappointment - and anger. She was supposed to have been his to kill, but from the familiar stench of rotting youma that filled his nostrils, she had probably been surprised and overwhelmed by the monsters. A small sense of pride filled him at the fact that no youma was left standing, but it did not quench the bitter resentment. He should have had that honour; he would have given her the death she deserved - quick, clean, something that would have salvaged the little dignity she had left - he would not have been as brutal as Kunzite was to Nafretiri, she would not have suffered as much as her blood sister had, but that didn't mean that there would have been no pain…he watched her as time moved on, unsure of how fast or slow it went, trying to distinguish between his feelings of pity and hate, remembering when the dead eyes had been alive and she had stubbornly resisted him and yet silently encouraged him to continue; but recalling also the promise that she had broken to protect the Prince and his own vow to have his revenge. After so many years of fighting the war against the Silver Millennium his rage had been reduced to nothing but the feeling of failure for Endymion’s death and the drive that Beryl inspired in him to at least do the duty that was owed to their late Prince. And that vow had almost been fulfilled, the Senshi of Jupiter had been caught, the Moon Princess and the Senshi of Venus were dead, and now so was Mars. All that was left was little Iseult - and Jadeite had every faith in Zoisite’s abilities.
But he could not feel anything except a mesh of conflicting emotions, hate, satisfaction, grief, pity, loss and relief. On a sudden impulse he reached out his hand to stoke away her hair from her face but stopped, realising that her eyes were better hidden. Instead he traced her lips, dry and white where they had once been full and painted in a siren red. He wished he had kissed her more when her lips had been so inviting, at the very least, he wished that he could take away the ugliness that seemed to haunt her.
He dropped his sword, and moved closer to her head, kneeling by her ear. He closed her eyelids quickly, hiding the pale, lifelessness that beamed out. He undid the long braid and fanned out the dark tresses as best he could, slipping his gloved hands through her hair like it was tangled silk, unsure of what else he could do. He stood up and walked away from her slightly, analysing for any small resemblance of his former lover in the shell that lay deep in blood. He picked up his sword and sheathed it, finding nothing and feeling frustrated that with her death, his feelings had not become less confusing.
He started to walk away but stopped as he saw the remnants of a painting on one of the wooden walls, it was of a blonde priestess - although she had been split lengthways in two (most likely by the axe that a headless youma held nearby) - and he couldn’t help but stare at her face, pale and red lipped. He turned back to Kamala and knelt down next to her again. This time he took his right index finger, and dipped it gingerly into the blood beside him, lifting it out quickly as if it stung him. He berated himself for being afraid of her and dipped his finger in again holding it before delving deeper, sliding it across the wooden floor and lifting it up only to watch the trail disappear as more blood filled its place.
He looked at his finger, coated in her essence, the closest colour he could find to match, and traced it delicately along her chapped lips. Satisfied with his work, like a two year old would be of his crude and imperfect drawing, he got up and walked out of the room.
Title: Lips
Genre: Dark/General
Setting: SilMil
Rating: PG13
Jadeite had not needed to scan the room for long before he had found her body, semi-hidden in the temple room of the palace by shredded ceremonial drapes and broken pillars. He approached, half weary that she would suddenly rise up and attack him; the other half hoping the same was true - but she had long been gone, overpowered in her own sanctuary, he observed.
She lay sprawled on the floor, graceless and almost hideous in her disfiguration, the opposite of what she had been in life. She was bruised and beaten, her source of vanity tied back roughly into a long, greasy black braid and snaking along the filthy floor. The blood had drained from her body, pooling around her like someone had spilt a bottle of crimson oil paint, discolouring her skin to a pallid off-white.
He smiled grimly as he saw the artless angles that she lay in and the cloudy membranes that coated her once dark and smouldering amethyst eyes. The parts of her body that were not caked in dust, blood and bruises or that were hidden by her pathetic excuse for a uniform were dry and unshaven, her nails were short and broken and her hands calloused and rough, the war causing the once goddess-like Senshi of Mars to ignore her own personal hygiene for things infinitely more important; he winced as he noticed she was missing a foot.
Jadeite shook his head in pity, she had been a beautiful creature, they had called her the dark jewel of the Martian empire, the seer princess Kamala, with a body that had been sculptured to perfection, eyes that could set a man on fire with their intensity, and hair that was blacker than coal yet shone the colour of deep blood when she was angry. But here she lay, defeated, scarred and neglected.
Jadeite sighed deeply as he approached, squatting down to see her closer and leaning heavily on his sword; he rested his chin on the hilt, planting the tip of the weapon into the wooden floorboards. His angel blue eyes burned with brutal disappointment - and anger. She was supposed to have been his to kill, but from the familiar stench of rotting youma that filled his nostrils, she had probably been surprised and overwhelmed by the monsters. A small sense of pride filled him at the fact that no youma was left standing, but it did not quench the bitter resentment. He should have had that honour; he would have given her the death she deserved - quick, clean, something that would have salvaged the little dignity she had left - he would not have been as brutal as Kunzite was to Nafretiri, she would not have suffered as much as her blood sister had, but that didn't mean that there would have been no pain…he watched her as time moved on, unsure of how fast or slow it went, trying to distinguish between his feelings of pity and hate, remembering when the dead eyes had been alive and she had stubbornly resisted him and yet silently encouraged him to continue; but recalling also the promise that she had broken to protect the Prince and his own vow to have his revenge. After so many years of fighting the war against the Silver Millennium his rage had been reduced to nothing but the feeling of failure for Endymion’s death and the drive that Beryl inspired in him to at least do the duty that was owed to their late Prince. And that vow had almost been fulfilled, the Senshi of Jupiter had been caught, the Moon Princess and the Senshi of Venus were dead, and now so was Mars. All that was left was little Iseult - and Jadeite had every faith in Zoisite’s abilities.
But he could not feel anything except a mesh of conflicting emotions, hate, satisfaction, grief, pity, loss and relief. On a sudden impulse he reached out his hand to stoke away her hair from her face but stopped, realising that her eyes were better hidden. Instead he traced her lips, dry and white where they had once been full and painted in a siren red. He wished he had kissed her more when her lips had been so inviting, at the very least, he wished that he could take away the ugliness that seemed to haunt her.
He dropped his sword, and moved closer to her head, kneeling by her ear. He closed her eyelids quickly, hiding the pale, lifelessness that beamed out. He undid the long braid and fanned out the dark tresses as best he could, slipping his gloved hands through her hair like it was tangled silk, unsure of what else he could do. He stood up and walked away from her slightly, analysing for any small resemblance of his former lover in the shell that lay deep in blood. He picked up his sword and sheathed it, finding nothing and feeling frustrated that with her death, his feelings had not become less confusing.
He started to walk away but stopped as he saw the remnants of a painting on one of the wooden walls, it was of a blonde priestess - although she had been split lengthways in two (most likely by the axe that a headless youma held nearby) - and he couldn’t help but stare at her face, pale and red lipped. He turned back to Kamala and knelt down next to her again. This time he took his right index finger, and dipped it gingerly into the blood beside him, lifting it out quickly as if it stung him. He berated himself for being afraid of her and dipped his finger in again holding it before delving deeper, sliding it across the wooden floor and lifting it up only to watch the trail disappear as more blood filled its place.
He looked at his finger, coated in her essence, the closest colour he could find to match, and traced it delicately along her chapped lips. Satisfied with his work, like a two year old would be of his crude and imperfect drawing, he got up and walked out of the room.