(no subject)
Title: Give each creation
Summary: Adeline had not previously considered how close making something is to breaking it.
Author's Notes: For merfilly, who gave me the initial prompt, and for ilyena_sylph, who is not feeling well.
It isn't, Adeline thinks as she smooths the blanket over her son, whispering French lullabies as he stirs fretfully, as though she has never created anything before. She has, at the very least, certainly refined -- she had made Slade. Shaping out flaws, working strengths into greater prominence. Adeline is not an artist, but she considers Slade the most beautiful thing she has made.
Until this.
Adeline has never had anything purely hers -- Slade had had his father, his mother, Frannie, Wintergreen, other hands giving her shapes to work from. She had made him from what they had made first.
Even she was made by what came before. She is a Kane of Kanes, and what is hers is also theirs.
Except this.
"I will not," she murmurs to Grant as she rocks, "fail you." Or herself. The first thing that is *hers* -- Slade's, too, but Slade had not made him. Slade will help her shape what she has already made, this tiny fragile thing held between her hands. Something so delicate it is hard to believe it came from her scarred, callused weapon of a body.
Adeline has made beautiful things. She has destroyed beautiful things, as well. She has destroyed and broken far more than she has made -- Adeline knows where her skills lie.
She has never created. Not quite like this.
This, she tells herself silently in her head, running her hand over her son's head with quiet adoration, she will not destroy.
-- Finis
Summary: Adeline had not previously considered how close making something is to breaking it.
Author's Notes: For merfilly, who gave me the initial prompt, and for ilyena_sylph, who is not feeling well.
It isn't, Adeline thinks as she smooths the blanket over her son, whispering French lullabies as he stirs fretfully, as though she has never created anything before. She has, at the very least, certainly refined -- she had made Slade. Shaping out flaws, working strengths into greater prominence. Adeline is not an artist, but she considers Slade the most beautiful thing she has made.
Until this.
Adeline has never had anything purely hers -- Slade had had his father, his mother, Frannie, Wintergreen, other hands giving her shapes to work from. She had made him from what they had made first.
Even she was made by what came before. She is a Kane of Kanes, and what is hers is also theirs.
Except this.
"I will not," she murmurs to Grant as she rocks, "fail you." Or herself. The first thing that is *hers* -- Slade's, too, but Slade had not made him. Slade will help her shape what she has already made, this tiny fragile thing held between her hands. Something so delicate it is hard to believe it came from her scarred, callused weapon of a body.
Adeline has made beautiful things. She has destroyed beautiful things, as well. She has destroyed and broken far more than she has made -- Adeline knows where her skills lie.
She has never created. Not quite like this.
This, she tells herself silently in her head, running her hand over her son's head with quiet adoration, she will not destroy.
-- Finis