Ficbits AGAIN?

[mithrigil]

.

Good god, am I doing one of these every other week now? (I. I just. I keep getting enough done. And I'm a little drained after Visitation.)

FICBIT ME.

Bits will be five hundred words at least. Any fandom you know I know.

I am receptive to crossovers* this time around. (white_aster, I am looking STRAIGHT AT YOU.) In fact, if it is something I have

Comments

[mithrigil]

I like this one. I like this one.

It's not fluff, precisely...but it's as close as I get.

TWO COMMENTS!

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for Boots - Weathervane

“Der Wind spielt drinnen mit dem Herzen wie auf dem Dach,” Gabranth sings, holding the note long and softer than it could be. The tone still on his lips, he reaches down toward the sleeping child’s cheek. When Larsa does not shudder at the faint testing touch of leather, and his sleep’s-breath remains even, Gabranth smiles and goes on with the phrase, “nur nicht so laut…”

Though the song itself is still not finished, Gabranth turns away from the child’s bed. On his way out, he sidesteps some fallen toys, soft caricatured animals and a complex mess of ribbons and hoops and beads. The boy is old enough now to not gnaw on his playthings, but not quite old enough to make sense of them. Nonetheless, he knows how to lay them, haphazard, to hinder Gabranth leaving.

The door is cracked open, and the foyer to the prince’s nursery is bright. Gabranth lifts his helm off the table nearest the door, and steps through.

Larsa’s regular Judge-guard waits until he has near-shut the door again. She sits facing the window-it rains, or at least the sky wishes it would rain-and wears the same armor as he, and her helm is also set aside. Her plaits hang separate today, on either side of the Judge’s ruff that denotes her as Magister-elect. “Are you through?” she asks, over the rim of something in thick teacup, steaming.

Nodding, Gabranth comes to stand before her. He does not know her very well, and does not think she particularly likes him-or likes anyone-but he has seen her fight and has nothing but respect for that tenacity. It is people like her that remind him of precisely how his homeland was conquered.

She sips the drink again and holds the cup in her hands, close to her pale lips. She is handsome the same way a fine chocobo is handsome. “I figured he meant you,” she says, with quiet crispness, “when he spoke of a singer.”

“Your Honor,” Gabranth says, because he does not know what he is holding back.

“But I did not expect to hear a song in that tongue,” she goes on, and Gabranth knows now what he dared not say. She looks up at him with one dart of her nearer eye, coin-brown, and raises the cup to her lips again. It does not smell like tea. “What manner of story was it?”

Some part of him is flattered, and the rest seethes with indignance. He could make some quip about a slave-song, mistranslate it-

“I ask only because you did not finish it,” she adds.

-what would have been a scowl hangs slack on his jaw.

[wodhaund]

Pfft, not fluff, says you.

What an absolutely lovely end to an evening. ♥

[mariagoner]

The boy is old enough now to not gnaw on his playthings, but not quite old enough to make sense of them. Nonetheless, he knows how to lay them, haphazard, to hinder Gabranth leaving.

Larsa, you cunning brat. You really are from Solidor stock.

AND DRACE IN PLAITS? HOT, MAN. I DEMAND ILLUSTRATION FROM A JAPANESE FAN-SITE NOW!