Ico Fic: Splinters
Writing all the fluffs for this game. ALL OF IT.
Title: Splinters
Fandom: ICO
Rating: K+
Pairing: None
Summery: The castle takes it's toll on them both.
It’s when she plops down by the still pool by the base of a lazily spinning windmill does he grow worried. They could rest on the many couches that exist for a break from escaping, solving, and protecting, but for some reason her face is alight with ache.
Ico immediately thinks it’s his fault, that he hadn’t been fast enough to stop the shadows from hurting her, and drops what he’d been doing to hurry to her side.
Yorda is dipping her feet into the water, rubbing them under the surface. They have been running, climbing, jumping since their escape from the confines of what may very well have been their tombs in the tower, and she is the one without shoes.
The boy with horns kneels at the waters edge to examine the damage he may have done. There are no cuts or bruises, but they must hurt a whole lot.
“Sorry…” Ico mumurs to her, even though she wouldn’t understand him. Her eyes turn to him as he says this, looking up from massaging the soles of her feet. He can’t meet hers, guilt running through his tiny frame.
There’s silence, before Yorda reaches over to take his right hand. Her silver hand, so frail and so delicate, is warm when gentle fingers run along his palm. He looks over to see the same guilt he feels etched in her experssion.
His hands are angry red from swinging the stick in her defense, not bleeding, but not in the best condition. He then notices the splinters digging into his skin in various places.
Yorda says something with an apologetic expression on her face. He thinks he knows what she’s said.
And yet it brings a smile to his face. It’s another moment before his reassuring look brings one to mirror his own.
Title: Splinters
Fandom: ICO
Rating: K+
Pairing: None
Summery: The castle takes it's toll on them both.
It’s when she plops down by the still pool by the base of a lazily spinning windmill does he grow worried. They could rest on the many couches that exist for a break from escaping, solving, and protecting, but for some reason her face is alight with ache.
Ico immediately thinks it’s his fault, that he hadn’t been fast enough to stop the shadows from hurting her, and drops what he’d been doing to hurry to her side.
Yorda is dipping her feet into the water, rubbing them under the surface. They have been running, climbing, jumping since their escape from the confines of what may very well have been their tombs in the tower, and she is the one without shoes.
The boy with horns kneels at the waters edge to examine the damage he may have done. There are no cuts or bruises, but they must hurt a whole lot.
“Sorry…” Ico mumurs to her, even though she wouldn’t understand him. Her eyes turn to him as he says this, looking up from massaging the soles of her feet. He can’t meet hers, guilt running through his tiny frame.
There’s silence, before Yorda reaches over to take his right hand. Her silver hand, so frail and so delicate, is warm when gentle fingers run along his palm. He looks over to see the same guilt he feels etched in her experssion.
His hands are angry red from swinging the stick in her defense, not bleeding, but not in the best condition. He then notices the splinters digging into his skin in various places.
Yorda says something with an apologetic expression on her face. He thinks he knows what she’s said.
And yet it brings a smile to his face. It’s another moment before his reassuring look brings one to mirror his own.