kingdom hearts -- memento mori
title: memento mori
wordcount: 359
rating: PG-13
warnings: somewhat-implied Marluxia/Naminé, which can be squick.
summary: Everything dies; that is the truth of life.
He is fond of reminding her of the fact that she is his plaything.
When she opens her eyes in the morning, when she shuts off the lights at the onset of midnight, his presence lingers at the back of her mind like a malignant shadow, unravelling any train of thought she attempts to compose.
Some days, she finds a single scarlet rose lying innocuously on her pillow, shedding its lush scent over the linen; other times, she wakes up to find clumps of white clover scattered around her dresser, flower-heads nodding sleepily with the draught from her open window.
Marluxia is the one who teaches her the secret language of flowers, opening her eyes to a whole new world of meaning, trapped within their coyly-whorling petals.
Amaryllis for pride and splendid beauty, edelweiss for daring and courage, jasmine for modesty and grace. Aster for wishes, and cherry blossoms for the transience of life; anemone for vanishing hopes, rhododendron for danger and mock-orange for deceit. She has learnt them all, and wonders what would happen once she is unable to take any more.
That day comes when the Keyblade master makes his appearance in Castle Oblivion, storming through the hollow, hallowed halls with a feverish intensity she has never seen before. One moment she is alone, staring at her white knuckles clenched around the spiral spine of her sketchpad, and the next, she feels his presence looming behind her, cool, leather-gloved hands settling momentarily upon her shoulder.
“I trust you know what to do,” he purrs, gently ruffling her hair in a mocking parody of an affectionate gesture. She nods mutely, not trusting herself to speak.
Just as he is about to leave, he leans down to her, breath tickling her ear as his lips curve into a smirk she cannot see, but can definitely feel. “Remember, little nightingale, if you choose to disobey, to stretch your wings…memento mori, my weedling.”
And then he is gone, leaving nothing but the perfume of cherry blossoms in his wake, a delicate fragrance superimposed over what Naminé is certain is the tang of death, bittersweet and burning the back of her throat.
back to index.
wordcount: 359
rating: PG-13
warnings: somewhat-implied Marluxia/Naminé, which can be squick.
summary: Everything dies; that is the truth of life.
He is fond of reminding her of the fact that she is his plaything.
When she opens her eyes in the morning, when she shuts off the lights at the onset of midnight, his presence lingers at the back of her mind like a malignant shadow, unravelling any train of thought she attempts to compose.
Some days, she finds a single scarlet rose lying innocuously on her pillow, shedding its lush scent over the linen; other times, she wakes up to find clumps of white clover scattered around her dresser, flower-heads nodding sleepily with the draught from her open window.
Marluxia is the one who teaches her the secret language of flowers, opening her eyes to a whole new world of meaning, trapped within their coyly-whorling petals.
Amaryllis for pride and splendid beauty, edelweiss for daring and courage, jasmine for modesty and grace. Aster for wishes, and cherry blossoms for the transience of life; anemone for vanishing hopes, rhododendron for danger and mock-orange for deceit. She has learnt them all, and wonders what would happen once she is unable to take any more.
That day comes when the Keyblade master makes his appearance in Castle Oblivion, storming through the hollow, hallowed halls with a feverish intensity she has never seen before. One moment she is alone, staring at her white knuckles clenched around the spiral spine of her sketchpad, and the next, she feels his presence looming behind her, cool, leather-gloved hands settling momentarily upon her shoulder.
“I trust you know what to do,” he purrs, gently ruffling her hair in a mocking parody of an affectionate gesture. She nods mutely, not trusting herself to speak.
Just as he is about to leave, he leans down to her, breath tickling her ear as his lips curve into a smirk she cannot see, but can definitely feel. “Remember, little nightingale, if you choose to disobey, to stretch your wings…memento mori, my weedling.”
And then he is gone, leaving nothing but the perfume of cherry blossoms in his wake, a delicate fragrance superimposed over what Naminé is certain is the tang of death, bittersweet and burning the back of her throat.
back to index.