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FIC: November Blessings (Puck/Sean)
Title: November Blessings
Author: shiiki
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Kate Connolly (Puck)/Sean Kendrick
Fandom: The Scorpio Races
Word Count: 643
Summary: For Puck and Sean, there's only one month they would choose for their wedding, and only one blessing that truly matters.
Link to fic at Ao3
There’s more than a few misgivings when the date is set for November. November, the month of the races. The month of the festival.
The month of the capaill uisce.
Even Finn, who usually can be counted on to go against the majority, is baleful. But then, he’s never come round to the water horses. Still, he’s not ever tried to stop anyone from doing as they pleased.
The rest of the island’s inhabitants are a different matter, though.
‘Plain bad luck, t’is, to be wed among those monsters, mark my words.’
‘Tempting fate, I tell you, to risk one of them making an appearance.’
‘You won’t be making your guests dine under threat of attack now, would you, Kate Connolly?’
Of course, it’s always me they talk at. The wagging tongues still have the habit of falling silent when Sean approaches; although it’s been seven years since his last race, the air of mystery has never quite left him. I wish sometimes some of that aura would rub off on me, but no, the only reputation winning the Scorpio Races seems to have given me is a determination by half the island’s population that I need to be domesticated.
You’d think that four years of mucking out the stables at Malvern Yard-and three more exercising stallions for Sean-would have disabused them of that notion.
They can say what they want, though. Their opinions didn’t stop me joining the races back then and it’s not about to start now. When I slip out of bed at dawn on my wedding day, it is not the church ceremony or wedding party on my mind. My dress is hung up by the door, but I barely spare it a glance, pulling on my customary shirt and breeches.
Sean is waiting for me by the stables. He smiles faintly but says nothing as we fall in step together, following a well-trodden path through the meadows, down the hill. It is an old ritual we are following, an appointment we have kept regularly over the years, but I have the sense that it is still the most important thing that will happen today.
The salty smell of the sea hangs in the air, tinged with the slightest hint of blood. The wind blows my hair into my face and I sweep the damp curls away as I turn to face the November sea.
You might say this is where we began.
Beside me, Sean is completely still. His eyes search the foaming crests, waiting. To an outsider, he would seem like a statue. The only clues that indicate otherwise are in the tautness of his muscles, coiled like a spring; the intensity of his gaze, reflecting the churn of the ocean.
Seven Novembers have taught me that he will never be more alive than he is this month.
Heat colours my face despite the biting chill in the air, as I imagine all that energy tonight, at last.
Sean shifts, a half second before the dark shadow breaks the foam crowning on the beach. I’ve watched him do this for years, welcoming his other, water-bound half. To my surprise, this time, he reaches out and takes my hand.
We step forward together as Corr emerges, slow and unsteady, from the surf. As always when he first returns, he is more than half-wild. He keens with every step, blowing the salty drops from his mane as he shakes his head against the wind.
Sean is ready with the iron, but today he presses it into my hand. When Corr reaches us, I take it and lay it against his hide until he stills to a mere shiver. Corr snorts suddenly, his damp breath landing on Sean and my entwined hands: a blessing.
‘Welcome home,’ says Sean, and I know he is speaking to both of us.
Author: shiiki
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Kate Connolly (Puck)/Sean Kendrick
Fandom: The Scorpio Races
Word Count: 643
Summary: For Puck and Sean, there's only one month they would choose for their wedding, and only one blessing that truly matters.
Link to fic at Ao3
There’s more than a few misgivings when the date is set for November. November, the month of the races. The month of the festival.
The month of the capaill uisce.
Even Finn, who usually can be counted on to go against the majority, is baleful. But then, he’s never come round to the water horses. Still, he’s not ever tried to stop anyone from doing as they pleased.
The rest of the island’s inhabitants are a different matter, though.
‘Plain bad luck, t’is, to be wed among those monsters, mark my words.’
‘Tempting fate, I tell you, to risk one of them making an appearance.’
‘You won’t be making your guests dine under threat of attack now, would you, Kate Connolly?’
Of course, it’s always me they talk at. The wagging tongues still have the habit of falling silent when Sean approaches; although it’s been seven years since his last race, the air of mystery has never quite left him. I wish sometimes some of that aura would rub off on me, but no, the only reputation winning the Scorpio Races seems to have given me is a determination by half the island’s population that I need to be domesticated.
You’d think that four years of mucking out the stables at Malvern Yard-and three more exercising stallions for Sean-would have disabused them of that notion.
They can say what they want, though. Their opinions didn’t stop me joining the races back then and it’s not about to start now. When I slip out of bed at dawn on my wedding day, it is not the church ceremony or wedding party on my mind. My dress is hung up by the door, but I barely spare it a glance, pulling on my customary shirt and breeches.
Sean is waiting for me by the stables. He smiles faintly but says nothing as we fall in step together, following a well-trodden path through the meadows, down the hill. It is an old ritual we are following, an appointment we have kept regularly over the years, but I have the sense that it is still the most important thing that will happen today.
The salty smell of the sea hangs in the air, tinged with the slightest hint of blood. The wind blows my hair into my face and I sweep the damp curls away as I turn to face the November sea.
You might say this is where we began.
Beside me, Sean is completely still. His eyes search the foaming crests, waiting. To an outsider, he would seem like a statue. The only clues that indicate otherwise are in the tautness of his muscles, coiled like a spring; the intensity of his gaze, reflecting the churn of the ocean.
Seven Novembers have taught me that he will never be more alive than he is this month.
Heat colours my face despite the biting chill in the air, as I imagine all that energy tonight, at last.
Sean shifts, a half second before the dark shadow breaks the foam crowning on the beach. I’ve watched him do this for years, welcoming his other, water-bound half. To my surprise, this time, he reaches out and takes my hand.
We step forward together as Corr emerges, slow and unsteady, from the surf. As always when he first returns, he is more than half-wild. He keens with every step, blowing the salty drops from his mane as he shakes his head against the wind.
Sean is ready with the iron, but today he presses it into my hand. When Corr reaches us, I take it and lay it against his hide until he stills to a mere shiver. Corr snorts suddenly, his damp breath landing on Sean and my entwined hands: a blessing.
‘Welcome home,’ says Sean, and I know he is speaking to both of us.