(no subject)
So, I'm meant to be revising for a Greek Epigraphy exam tomorrow. Then this came and shouted at me. So badly it only took an hour to write.
Title: And We Could Be Heroes
Fandom: Original (Road to Moonstone)
Pairing: Liathon/Shaiel
Rating: PG
Summary: There is a story that goes like this... Liathon, Shaiel, and the turning points in their lives.
Notes: This was written in a slightly experimental manner, largely because I know bits of Liathon's tale, but not all of it. He's told me the important things and left out the detail, damn him.
When Liathon finds out about Shaiel’s dreams, he thinks ‘This is wonderful’.
He thinks ‘This will really help’.
He thinks ‘This is terrifying’.
And Shaiel looks at him because he already knows.
There is a story that goes like this:
Once, there was a dragon prince who very quickly became a dragon king. He became a dragon king by being sent far, far away to a land of burning desert and blazing sun, because his own people and his brothers could not stand to look at his brightness.
The prince took with him a man who was not a man, a man who was something more and something less. The prince took with him a being, a thing of cool shadows and rustling leaves and vines, with hair like beaten copper and eyes as green and sharp as emeralds. The prince took with him a serpent, a snake, a prophet and a witch.
The prince only took one person with him.
“Four more days,” Shaiel says, wiping the blood off his blade with care. “Four more days and they’ll sue for peace.”
Liathon grins, brilliant and bloody as he absently rubs a hand across his forehead, smearing blood and dust down one cheek. “Is that a promise or a prophecy?” he asks, and laughs at Shaiel’s frown. “Or is it just because you know them? Know how they think?”
“I know how they think,” Shaiel says and he could be forgiven for the sharpness in his voice. “They won’t want to waste time and precious resources, so they’ll accept you for now and wait and plot.” Liathon watches as he rubs his fingertips against one of the vine tattoos curling up his forearm. It constantly amazes the prince that the ink never smears - they always look so lifelike, so fresh.
They don’t fade as Shaiel uses his magic.
They grow.
“A new one?” he says, staring hard at Shaiel’s arm, and Shaiel looks down in surprise.
“A new one,” he says, and his voice is not his own at all.
There is a sword, because in all good legends there must be one.
Here is the secret; here is the truth: It is Shaiel who finds it.
There is no curse upon the sword, but there is a person, and she forces her way into Shaiel’s head, his heart, before he can even open his mouth to scream.
And just like that Meluse and her powers are there.
The Lady of the Vines, they used to call her, and she serves no purpose but her own. The sword goes to Liathon, the power goes to Shaiel and all Meluse asks in return - such a reasonable request - is to be carried along in Shaiel’s body. She clings to his soul like ivy, wrapping around him until he is her and she is him and they are intangible and inseparable and yet Shaiel still is.
Some nights he wakes up screaming in his own head, except really, he hasn’t made a sound.
Sometimes Liathon smiles at him and his eyes are a little too warm, a little too gentle. “We’ll fix this one day,” he says, and seems to forget that Meluse can hear him too, and this is something she will never, ever want.
The truth is, the dragon’s blood is old, stretching back into the mists of time in a river of fire.
The truth is; Meluse is older even than that.
This is how it ends, with Liathon’s blood pouring out on Shaiel’s hands and Shaiel crying; hot tears dripping onto their bare skin.
“I’m sorry,” he is saying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His fingers are still wrapped tight around the hilt of the dagger he has driven into Liathon’s heart.
And Liathon looks at him, and says the worst possible thing he can think of.
“I love you.”
It’s the truth.
It doesn’t make it any better.
Shaiel dreams and wakes and goes to Liathon.
“We are going to conquer the world,” he says, “Or at least a large part of it.” Outside it is raining heavily, the earth sending up the rich smell of forests and leaves. The foliage is so green it almost hurts Shaiel’s eyes to look at it, because he is not used to such life.
“Are we?” Liathon half sits up in bed, his hair rumpled and his eyes heavy, and if the greenery is too hard to look at, then Liathon’s bright blue eyes are worse, much worse. They are two pools of water and Shaiel is drowning, because until he had come to the sea, he had never seen water except in mugs and jars and vases, and even then it was brown - tinged with the desert. Liathon’s eyes are sea blue and bottomless and full of infinite potential.
“Yes,” he promises by way of reply. “And you will be a burning, brilliant star.” He smiles and Liathon’s fingers curl in the bedclothes so he does not reach out and pull Shaiel to him.
“Stars can go out quickly enough,” he says instead.
“Maybe,” says Shaiel. “Maybe. But you will never be forgotten.”
Liathon marries Classcila Amara, who everyone just calls Mara.
She is a native of the people he has conquered and people whisper she has hair like beaten copper and eyes as green and sharp as emeralds. She is clever and strong and rides her horses bareback. She can fight - and does - and throw a javelin as far as any man.
She is Shaiel’s sister, or was before he became someone else.
She never recognises her brother until it is too late, too near the end and Shaiel never, ever approaches her.
Liathon likes to keep them apart, because he doesn’t want anyone to notice that he has married Mara on the basis that if he cannot have Shaiel, he can at least have something.
In Shaiel’s head Meluse laughs and tells him how it could have been.
This is how it begins.
A youth, pulled from the sea half dead, carried to what he thinks are the ends of the earth. He is not used to dark soil and rain, to warm clothes and very little sun. And whilst he is curious, fingers never still, he cannot stop shivering.
And people whisper of the boy who walks the paths of Chua, with hair that flames like fire and eyes as hard as jewels. He brings old gods with him, they say, and talks to the beasts in the forests in a language none can understand. He carries a staff with him for walking and breathes spells over the sick to heal them, using his magical herbs and quick hands to save the poor and the needy.
Liathon hears of this and Liathon smiles and he goes to find the boy in the woods.
And somewhere in destiny and history, something goes click.
The day he is sent away, Liathon is cold and furious, barely struggling to contain the rage of the dragon.
“How dare they,” he hisses. “How dare they.”
Servants and courtiers alike scatter from his path, because at nineteen he is already tall and strong and beautiful and people do not argue with him.
“Oh,” says Shaiel lazily when Liathon finds him, “this was bound to happen.” He is basking in the weak light streaming through his bedroom window, and Liathon cannot help looking at the flame gold of Shaiel’s hair, at his lean hips and long legs, at the way he rolls, stretching.
“Well you could have warned me,” he growls, throwing himself into the remaining chair.
Shaiel shoots him a look through slitted eyes. “Your brothers are only doing this because they are afraid of you,” he says, voice completely noncommittal.
“Afraid of me?” Liathon snorts in a very undignified manner. “They have no reason to be.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Shaiel sits up abruptly, his hair tumbling over his shoulders. “Of course they do. You are the Dragon Prince; the people love you far more than they love Ithis and Biral. They fear you will steal their thrones from them.”
“I would never - ” Liathon begins angrily, but Shaiel cuts him off.
“You would,” he says gently. “Eventually. You’d have to. Your blood makes you want to conquer. It is in you and they have seen this. Besides,” he smiles slowly, wickedly, “now is the time for change. Now we shall start to conquer the world.”
“What, starting with a backwards little country I’ve never heard of?” Liathon demands.
“It is my country,” Shaiel tells him, amused. “I come from the far away province you and your family have governed for so long. But you won’t govern it for much longer. Soon, you will rule it. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Liathon still looks angry and unconvinced, so Shaiel reaches forward and picks up the prince’s hand between his own. Gently, he raises it to his lips.
“Of course there is,” he says, and kisses his fingers.
And Liathon burns.
After it is all over and finished with, the people of the place which will be known as the City lay the dragon and his witch in a cave and seal up the entrance.
It is Mara who tells them to do this, and it is Mara who puts the last stone in place.
And then it is done, and the people of the desert go their separate ways, and the cave is left to the hot empty silence.
And inside, Liathon takes a breath. Then another. And curls his hand around Shaiel’s fingers as they dream.
Shaiel is staring at the sky when Liathon finds him.
He is standing on the balcony, hands resting on the white marble, unmoving. Liathon stops next to him but does not make a sound, until finally Shaiel turns to look at him.
“Tomorrow,” he says dreamily, “Tomorrow it will rain.”
“This is the desert,” Liathon reminds him quietly, half afraid to break the solemnity of the moment. “It would take a miracle for it to rain tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Shaiel says, and gazes back up, up towards the burning sun. “Then tomorrow there will be a miracle.”
Title: And We Could Be Heroes
Fandom: Original (Road to Moonstone)
Pairing: Liathon/Shaiel
Rating: PG
Summary: There is a story that goes like this... Liathon, Shaiel, and the turning points in their lives.
Notes: This was written in a slightly experimental manner, largely because I know bits of Liathon's tale, but not all of it. He's told me the important things and left out the detail, damn him.
When Liathon finds out about Shaiel’s dreams, he thinks ‘This is wonderful’.
He thinks ‘This will really help’.
He thinks ‘This is terrifying’.
And Shaiel looks at him because he already knows.
There is a story that goes like this:
Once, there was a dragon prince who very quickly became a dragon king. He became a dragon king by being sent far, far away to a land of burning desert and blazing sun, because his own people and his brothers could not stand to look at his brightness.
The prince took with him a man who was not a man, a man who was something more and something less. The prince took with him a being, a thing of cool shadows and rustling leaves and vines, with hair like beaten copper and eyes as green and sharp as emeralds. The prince took with him a serpent, a snake, a prophet and a witch.
The prince only took one person with him.
“Four more days,” Shaiel says, wiping the blood off his blade with care. “Four more days and they’ll sue for peace.”
Liathon grins, brilliant and bloody as he absently rubs a hand across his forehead, smearing blood and dust down one cheek. “Is that a promise or a prophecy?” he asks, and laughs at Shaiel’s frown. “Or is it just because you know them? Know how they think?”
“I know how they think,” Shaiel says and he could be forgiven for the sharpness in his voice. “They won’t want to waste time and precious resources, so they’ll accept you for now and wait and plot.” Liathon watches as he rubs his fingertips against one of the vine tattoos curling up his forearm. It constantly amazes the prince that the ink never smears - they always look so lifelike, so fresh.
They don’t fade as Shaiel uses his magic.
They grow.
“A new one?” he says, staring hard at Shaiel’s arm, and Shaiel looks down in surprise.
“A new one,” he says, and his voice is not his own at all.
There is a sword, because in all good legends there must be one.
Here is the secret; here is the truth: It is Shaiel who finds it.
There is no curse upon the sword, but there is a person, and she forces her way into Shaiel’s head, his heart, before he can even open his mouth to scream.
And just like that Meluse and her powers are there.
The Lady of the Vines, they used to call her, and she serves no purpose but her own. The sword goes to Liathon, the power goes to Shaiel and all Meluse asks in return - such a reasonable request - is to be carried along in Shaiel’s body. She clings to his soul like ivy, wrapping around him until he is her and she is him and they are intangible and inseparable and yet Shaiel still is.
Some nights he wakes up screaming in his own head, except really, he hasn’t made a sound.
Sometimes Liathon smiles at him and his eyes are a little too warm, a little too gentle. “We’ll fix this one day,” he says, and seems to forget that Meluse can hear him too, and this is something she will never, ever want.
The truth is, the dragon’s blood is old, stretching back into the mists of time in a river of fire.
The truth is; Meluse is older even than that.
This is how it ends, with Liathon’s blood pouring out on Shaiel’s hands and Shaiel crying; hot tears dripping onto their bare skin.
“I’m sorry,” he is saying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His fingers are still wrapped tight around the hilt of the dagger he has driven into Liathon’s heart.
And Liathon looks at him, and says the worst possible thing he can think of.
“I love you.”
It’s the truth.
It doesn’t make it any better.
Shaiel dreams and wakes and goes to Liathon.
“We are going to conquer the world,” he says, “Or at least a large part of it.” Outside it is raining heavily, the earth sending up the rich smell of forests and leaves. The foliage is so green it almost hurts Shaiel’s eyes to look at it, because he is not used to such life.
“Are we?” Liathon half sits up in bed, his hair rumpled and his eyes heavy, and if the greenery is too hard to look at, then Liathon’s bright blue eyes are worse, much worse. They are two pools of water and Shaiel is drowning, because until he had come to the sea, he had never seen water except in mugs and jars and vases, and even then it was brown - tinged with the desert. Liathon’s eyes are sea blue and bottomless and full of infinite potential.
“Yes,” he promises by way of reply. “And you will be a burning, brilliant star.” He smiles and Liathon’s fingers curl in the bedclothes so he does not reach out and pull Shaiel to him.
“Stars can go out quickly enough,” he says instead.
“Maybe,” says Shaiel. “Maybe. But you will never be forgotten.”
Liathon marries Classcila Amara, who everyone just calls Mara.
She is a native of the people he has conquered and people whisper she has hair like beaten copper and eyes as green and sharp as emeralds. She is clever and strong and rides her horses bareback. She can fight - and does - and throw a javelin as far as any man.
She is Shaiel’s sister, or was before he became someone else.
She never recognises her brother until it is too late, too near the end and Shaiel never, ever approaches her.
Liathon likes to keep them apart, because he doesn’t want anyone to notice that he has married Mara on the basis that if he cannot have Shaiel, he can at least have something.
In Shaiel’s head Meluse laughs and tells him how it could have been.
This is how it begins.
A youth, pulled from the sea half dead, carried to what he thinks are the ends of the earth. He is not used to dark soil and rain, to warm clothes and very little sun. And whilst he is curious, fingers never still, he cannot stop shivering.
And people whisper of the boy who walks the paths of Chua, with hair that flames like fire and eyes as hard as jewels. He brings old gods with him, they say, and talks to the beasts in the forests in a language none can understand. He carries a staff with him for walking and breathes spells over the sick to heal them, using his magical herbs and quick hands to save the poor and the needy.
Liathon hears of this and Liathon smiles and he goes to find the boy in the woods.
And somewhere in destiny and history, something goes click.
The day he is sent away, Liathon is cold and furious, barely struggling to contain the rage of the dragon.
“How dare they,” he hisses. “How dare they.”
Servants and courtiers alike scatter from his path, because at nineteen he is already tall and strong and beautiful and people do not argue with him.
“Oh,” says Shaiel lazily when Liathon finds him, “this was bound to happen.” He is basking in the weak light streaming through his bedroom window, and Liathon cannot help looking at the flame gold of Shaiel’s hair, at his lean hips and long legs, at the way he rolls, stretching.
“Well you could have warned me,” he growls, throwing himself into the remaining chair.
Shaiel shoots him a look through slitted eyes. “Your brothers are only doing this because they are afraid of you,” he says, voice completely noncommittal.
“Afraid of me?” Liathon snorts in a very undignified manner. “They have no reason to be.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Shaiel sits up abruptly, his hair tumbling over his shoulders. “Of course they do. You are the Dragon Prince; the people love you far more than they love Ithis and Biral. They fear you will steal their thrones from them.”
“I would never - ” Liathon begins angrily, but Shaiel cuts him off.
“You would,” he says gently. “Eventually. You’d have to. Your blood makes you want to conquer. It is in you and they have seen this. Besides,” he smiles slowly, wickedly, “now is the time for change. Now we shall start to conquer the world.”
“What, starting with a backwards little country I’ve never heard of?” Liathon demands.
“It is my country,” Shaiel tells him, amused. “I come from the far away province you and your family have governed for so long. But you won’t govern it for much longer. Soon, you will rule it. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Liathon still looks angry and unconvinced, so Shaiel reaches forward and picks up the prince’s hand between his own. Gently, he raises it to his lips.
“Of course there is,” he says, and kisses his fingers.
And Liathon burns.
After it is all over and finished with, the people of the place which will be known as the City lay the dragon and his witch in a cave and seal up the entrance.
It is Mara who tells them to do this, and it is Mara who puts the last stone in place.
And then it is done, and the people of the desert go their separate ways, and the cave is left to the hot empty silence.
And inside, Liathon takes a breath. Then another. And curls his hand around Shaiel’s fingers as they dream.
Shaiel is staring at the sky when Liathon finds him.
He is standing on the balcony, hands resting on the white marble, unmoving. Liathon stops next to him but does not make a sound, until finally Shaiel turns to look at him.
“Tomorrow,” he says dreamily, “Tomorrow it will rain.”
“This is the desert,” Liathon reminds him quietly, half afraid to break the solemnity of the moment. “It would take a miracle for it to rain tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Shaiel says, and gazes back up, up towards the burning sun. “Then tomorrow there will be a miracle.”