Attolia: Corpora Delicti (Irene/Gen)
For yuletide 2006, I wrote a stocking stuffer for Willow Smith, who requested The Thief (Megan Whalen Turner), with Gen or Irene.
Title: Corpora Delicti
Author: voleuse
Fandom: The Thief [Megan Whalen Turner]
Pairing: Irene/Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Like a wandering third eye, a floating caste mark.
Notes: Set during The King of Attolia
In the quiet hours, after they have sated each other, but have not yet lapsed to sleep, Irene traces the lines of Gen's remaining hand, and picks at that throb of guilt in her breast.
He does not smile at her, or say he forgives her. He must have, of course, but he doesn't say it out loud. She is grateful for that.
They both understand why she was so compelled, and to what path they were led.
At the time, she feared she had destroyed him utterly. Perhaps, for a time, she had.
He touches her face, with his calloused fingers, and for a while the guilt subsides.
*
His mind is a marvel, twisting down paths she wouldn't dare pursue. He wears his eccentricities as a badge of honor, as well as battle-scars.
Sometimes she envies his freedoms. Sometimes she looks into his eyes and sees resentment quelled, and she realizes freedom is not so simple as a quip and a sneer.
After a long day of ignoring his presence, he slides through her window and smiles at her.
She opens her arms to him, and curses his cleverness.
It is easier to execute, but his methods are more effective.
*
Dawn approaches, and he dresses himself. Even so reduced, as she has heard some whisper, Gen is graceful to a fault. She watches the way his fingers tuck cloth, finagle fastenings. He slips a key into a hidden pocket, and she sits up in a sudden movement.
"What?" he asks, his composure close to startled.
She directs her gaze to his hand, still hovering next to the subtle stitching. "Can you teach me how to do that?"
He lifts his brow, all sarcasm. "To dress? Perish the--"
"To," she gestures, "hide things as you do. To pick pockets."
"To steal?" His demeanor lightens, and he chuckles. "It is nothing, an easy task."
"How long did it take you to learn?"
"Several years," he responds. "The space of a day."
"You're playing with me," she accuses. "Speak true."
He's across the floor and beside her in a moment, kissing the inside of her wrists. "I cannot help but do so," he tells her.
She believes him, and kisses him to answer.
"So teach me," she finally says.
His breath is warm on her lips, and he nods. "Tomorrow."
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Cathryn Hankla's Invasion. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Originally posted here.
Title: Corpora Delicti
Author: voleuse
Fandom: The Thief [Megan Whalen Turner]
Pairing: Irene/Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Like a wandering third eye, a floating caste mark.
Notes: Set during The King of Attolia
In the quiet hours, after they have sated each other, but have not yet lapsed to sleep, Irene traces the lines of Gen's remaining hand, and picks at that throb of guilt in her breast.
He does not smile at her, or say he forgives her. He must have, of course, but he doesn't say it out loud. She is grateful for that.
They both understand why she was so compelled, and to what path they were led.
At the time, she feared she had destroyed him utterly. Perhaps, for a time, she had.
He touches her face, with his calloused fingers, and for a while the guilt subsides.
*
His mind is a marvel, twisting down paths she wouldn't dare pursue. He wears his eccentricities as a badge of honor, as well as battle-scars.
Sometimes she envies his freedoms. Sometimes she looks into his eyes and sees resentment quelled, and she realizes freedom is not so simple as a quip and a sneer.
After a long day of ignoring his presence, he slides through her window and smiles at her.
She opens her arms to him, and curses his cleverness.
It is easier to execute, but his methods are more effective.
*
Dawn approaches, and he dresses himself. Even so reduced, as she has heard some whisper, Gen is graceful to a fault. She watches the way his fingers tuck cloth, finagle fastenings. He slips a key into a hidden pocket, and she sits up in a sudden movement.
"What?" he asks, his composure close to startled.
She directs her gaze to his hand, still hovering next to the subtle stitching. "Can you teach me how to do that?"
He lifts his brow, all sarcasm. "To dress? Perish the--"
"To," she gestures, "hide things as you do. To pick pockets."
"To steal?" His demeanor lightens, and he chuckles. "It is nothing, an easy task."
"How long did it take you to learn?"
"Several years," he responds. "The space of a day."
"You're playing with me," she accuses. "Speak true."
He's across the floor and beside her in a moment, kissing the inside of her wrists. "I cannot help but do so," he tells her.
She believes him, and kisses him to answer.
"So teach me," she finally says.
His breath is warm on her lips, and he nods. "Tomorrow."
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Cathryn Hankla's Invasion. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Originally posted here.