Word of the Day (yesterday): Deem (YuGiOh/DAL, Sefton)
Soooooo, Monday's word left me so confuddled, I skipped the ficlet.
Tuesday, I finished the ficlet but my stupid computer crashed so I get to post it . . .
Today. Today's ficlet is coming as soon as I wrap it up.
Anyway, I have decided that I really need to write something for Marthea and Sefton that is NOT angsterific. I just don't know what that will be or when.
Title: Embracing the Light
Series: Yu-Gi-Oh/Dying Autumn Leaves
Characters: Sefton
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: K+
Summary: It was with something closely resembling resignation rather than joy that he acknowledged in his mind what his soul had known all along. She was neither servant nor hostage nor dalliance but the lady of his heart, the woman at his side, the wife in his bed.
The calm is stifling, strangling what little peace he had gleaned with sleep, and yet, here he stands in his private chapel - gray, drafty little room that it is. Morning sunlight beams down from the stained yellow glass illustration of Christ and his Ascension, and Sefton wonders how a place advertised to grant rest and sanctuary has such an opposite, unnatural effect on him.
Perhaps it is because his soul is naturally restless and hot as fire surrounded by spiny thorns and covered in the rough of old leather. Perhaps it is because he longs for the noise and clash of battle rather than the silence of prayer. Or perhaps it is because his house prisoner has - with her delicate fingers and deceptively gentle looks - overrun his authority with little more than a firm word and small unbroken promises.
Pulling his hands into fists, he searches the face of God and notes a missing panel of glass - a small space, barely the size of a child’s hand - near the lowermost corner. It would explain the dying autumn leaves littering the floor. He sighs, shuffling forward to - hesitantly - genuflect at the base of a bedraggled stone altar. The area around it has been freshly cleaned and new flowers are strewn along the surface - red peonies and blue hyacinth, a tribute from the Lady, no doubt.
Her faith remains a mystery to him not because he in turn bears so little but because she has known so many undeserved challenges and remains so steadfast in the belief that she is blessed. He cannot fathom how she can remain pure when so admittedly sullied; cannot understand how her smile can still bring such light when there is so little to be glad of. They are both damaged yet only she has proved the strength to heal.
Bowing his head, he silently pledges his sword, his arm, and his own strength before raising his face to the sun and the window once more. At first, he had resented her for the situation they both found themselves in though he knew from the first that such an attitude was folly. It was his father - as per usual - who was to blame for the danger brought to his door. However, as the months saw no contact from runaway knight, Sefton had begun a silent campaign . . . a game of sorts, one without rules or clearly delineated barriers, with the sole purpose of rectifying the multitude of wrongs committed against his unlawful step-mother.
“Lord Most Holy, I cannot confess to loving thee well or at all just as I cannot admit to trusting in the practicalities of prayer.” He lowers his head, his fist, and the sound of crushed leaves crackle in the golden circle of light. “However, I must beg a favor on behalf of my Lady.”
He is not a beggar and immediately regrets the word choice though it is probably the most accurate term for the respite he seeks. In three days, he will see her away from this place forever if he has to resign his title and properties to accomplish such an escape. It will the first and last time he openly defies his father’s will - a prospect that spells relief and anticipation rather than dread. Likely it will also be the last he sees of the Lady, and it is this possibility that brings him here at this time to fall to his knees.
“Please . . ., “ he pauses here, unaccustomed to asking without demanding, unable to properly form old thoughts into honest words, “I humbly request her safe passage from my house to her own. I further require that you protect her with better skill where I am unable. “ He swallows . . . It was with something closely resembling resignation rather than joy that he acknowledged in his mind what his soul had known all along. She was neither servant nor hostage nor dalliance but the lady of his heart, the woman at his side, the wife in his bed. “Let her know happiness and peace. Let her be surrounded by the love she has so freely given to every soul that has forsaken her." He closes his eyes. "She deserves such recompense.”
Deliberating silently, he wonders how he should end such a request, somewhat taken aback by the uncharacteristic selflessness of his own heart. When nothing further is inspired forth, he grips the hilt of his sword and rises, turning on his heel to quicken to the exit. However, just as his palm touches the raw oak door, he pauses and in a soft voice - raw with vulnerability and unspoken shame - adds, “Let her forget about myself and Michael in time. Let her forget it all.”
- Kysra
Tuesday, I finished the ficlet but my stupid computer crashed so I get to post it . . .
Today. Today's ficlet is coming as soon as I wrap it up.
Anyway, I have decided that I really need to write something for Marthea and Sefton that is NOT angsterific. I just don't know what that will be or when.
Title: Embracing the Light
Series: Yu-Gi-Oh/Dying Autumn Leaves
Characters: Sefton
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: K+
Summary: It was with something closely resembling resignation rather than joy that he acknowledged in his mind what his soul had known all along. She was neither servant nor hostage nor dalliance but the lady of his heart, the woman at his side, the wife in his bed.
The calm is stifling, strangling what little peace he had gleaned with sleep, and yet, here he stands in his private chapel - gray, drafty little room that it is. Morning sunlight beams down from the stained yellow glass illustration of Christ and his Ascension, and Sefton wonders how a place advertised to grant rest and sanctuary has such an opposite, unnatural effect on him.
Perhaps it is because his soul is naturally restless and hot as fire surrounded by spiny thorns and covered in the rough of old leather. Perhaps it is because he longs for the noise and clash of battle rather than the silence of prayer. Or perhaps it is because his house prisoner has - with her delicate fingers and deceptively gentle looks - overrun his authority with little more than a firm word and small unbroken promises.
Pulling his hands into fists, he searches the face of God and notes a missing panel of glass - a small space, barely the size of a child’s hand - near the lowermost corner. It would explain the dying autumn leaves littering the floor. He sighs, shuffling forward to - hesitantly - genuflect at the base of a bedraggled stone altar. The area around it has been freshly cleaned and new flowers are strewn along the surface - red peonies and blue hyacinth, a tribute from the Lady, no doubt.
Her faith remains a mystery to him not because he in turn bears so little but because she has known so many undeserved challenges and remains so steadfast in the belief that she is blessed. He cannot fathom how she can remain pure when so admittedly sullied; cannot understand how her smile can still bring such light when there is so little to be glad of. They are both damaged yet only she has proved the strength to heal.
Bowing his head, he silently pledges his sword, his arm, and his own strength before raising his face to the sun and the window once more. At first, he had resented her for the situation they both found themselves in though he knew from the first that such an attitude was folly. It was his father - as per usual - who was to blame for the danger brought to his door. However, as the months saw no contact from runaway knight, Sefton had begun a silent campaign . . . a game of sorts, one without rules or clearly delineated barriers, with the sole purpose of rectifying the multitude of wrongs committed against his unlawful step-mother.
“Lord Most Holy, I cannot confess to loving thee well or at all just as I cannot admit to trusting in the practicalities of prayer.” He lowers his head, his fist, and the sound of crushed leaves crackle in the golden circle of light. “However, I must beg a favor on behalf of my Lady.”
He is not a beggar and immediately regrets the word choice though it is probably the most accurate term for the respite he seeks. In three days, he will see her away from this place forever if he has to resign his title and properties to accomplish such an escape. It will the first and last time he openly defies his father’s will - a prospect that spells relief and anticipation rather than dread. Likely it will also be the last he sees of the Lady, and it is this possibility that brings him here at this time to fall to his knees.
“Please . . ., “ he pauses here, unaccustomed to asking without demanding, unable to properly form old thoughts into honest words, “I humbly request her safe passage from my house to her own. I further require that you protect her with better skill where I am unable. “ He swallows . . . It was with something closely resembling resignation rather than joy that he acknowledged in his mind what his soul had known all along. She was neither servant nor hostage nor dalliance but the lady of his heart, the woman at his side, the wife in his bed. “Let her know happiness and peace. Let her be surrounded by the love she has so freely given to every soul that has forsaken her." He closes his eyes. "She deserves such recompense.”
Deliberating silently, he wonders how he should end such a request, somewhat taken aback by the uncharacteristic selflessness of his own heart. When nothing further is inspired forth, he grips the hilt of his sword and rises, turning on his heel to quicken to the exit. However, just as his palm touches the raw oak door, he pauses and in a soft voice - raw with vulnerability and unspoken shame - adds, “Let her forget about myself and Michael in time. Let her forget it all.”
- Kysra