Hold My Hand
Well, I figured out the livejournal cut. It's just evil. Pure evil. -.-''
Title: Hold My Hand
Fandom: Fire Emblem
Pairing: Sothe/Micaiah
Disclaimer: I don't own FE.
Her first memory of him was touching his tiny hands. They were calloused and cold. His fingers more bone then fleshy appendages. She remembers casting a small spell to warm them. Her hands, though also rough, felt like spun silk against his. From that day forth, she vowed to never them go.
A few years passed at the beat of a heart. He grew taller by the second. Now, he stood at her height, able to see the gold in her eyes. She noticed when he grabbed her hand one day. They were soft and fleshy like a body should be and his palm was nearly her size. Sothe was learning to fight now, instead of thieving and running. She hated watching him. To scold him, for training too hard and making her worry, she wouldn’t heal the cuts on his hands. Instead, she’d stop the bleeding, and kiss each wound to make it better. It always did.
Micaiah had to reach up now to touch his face, soothe panic from his eyes and stroke away his fears with her thumbs. He was a man now, so she closed her eyes when she felt him start to cry. His arms and hands now large enough to completely circle her waist. She’d sigh, massage his scalp, and trace designs on the backs of his palms.
Then war broke out. She had to leave. He’d notice soon, and he’d understand the winged mark on her own hand. When he was just a boy, before he outgrew such child like ways, he’d outline each stroke and pretend to be the artist that marked her so beautifully. Sometimes she’d read his palm and tell him that one day he’d be a hero. She never said that he already was hers. She left before he woke, leaving a small note and the necklace. He loved playing with it, sitting in her lap and drifting to sleep. Micaiah kissed his forehead and his hand, running away before she started to cry.
She hated herself everyday that he wasn’t there to make her smile. Every child with skeleton hands and frightened eyes ate at her. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel them. So rough, yet so smooth. Like silken leather.
When Micaiah returned to Nevassa, she stopped by their our home. She could smell him through all the dust. A strong hand gripped her shoulder. She cringed only to be brought into a suffocating hug.
“I thought you were dead,” he said. His voice cracked, quaked. His shoulders tighten. Micaiah wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed.
“I’m here.” Micaiah held his hands. They were a man’s hands now. Strong, sturdy, bold. She snuggled into them, so soft, so worn. The callouses larger on the palm where the fingers meet.
“Don’t leave me again.” She nodded. She’d missed too much of his life as is. She wanted to be there to heal every scar and prevent every callous from ever forming.
Title: Hold My Hand
Fandom: Fire Emblem
Pairing: Sothe/Micaiah
Disclaimer: I don't own FE.
Her first memory of him was touching his tiny hands. They were calloused and cold. His fingers more bone then fleshy appendages. She remembers casting a small spell to warm them. Her hands, though also rough, felt like spun silk against his. From that day forth, she vowed to never them go.
A few years passed at the beat of a heart. He grew taller by the second. Now, he stood at her height, able to see the gold in her eyes. She noticed when he grabbed her hand one day. They were soft and fleshy like a body should be and his palm was nearly her size. Sothe was learning to fight now, instead of thieving and running. She hated watching him. To scold him, for training too hard and making her worry, she wouldn’t heal the cuts on his hands. Instead, she’d stop the bleeding, and kiss each wound to make it better. It always did.
Micaiah had to reach up now to touch his face, soothe panic from his eyes and stroke away his fears with her thumbs. He was a man now, so she closed her eyes when she felt him start to cry. His arms and hands now large enough to completely circle her waist. She’d sigh, massage his scalp, and trace designs on the backs of his palms.
Then war broke out. She had to leave. He’d notice soon, and he’d understand the winged mark on her own hand. When he was just a boy, before he outgrew such child like ways, he’d outline each stroke and pretend to be the artist that marked her so beautifully. Sometimes she’d read his palm and tell him that one day he’d be a hero. She never said that he already was hers. She left before he woke, leaving a small note and the necklace. He loved playing with it, sitting in her lap and drifting to sleep. Micaiah kissed his forehead and his hand, running away before she started to cry.
She hated herself everyday that he wasn’t there to make her smile. Every child with skeleton hands and frightened eyes ate at her. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel them. So rough, yet so smooth. Like silken leather.
When Micaiah returned to Nevassa, she stopped by their our home. She could smell him through all the dust. A strong hand gripped her shoulder. She cringed only to be brought into a suffocating hug.
“I thought you were dead,” he said. His voice cracked, quaked. His shoulders tighten. Micaiah wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed.
“I’m here.” Micaiah held his hands. They were a man’s hands now. Strong, sturdy, bold. She snuggled into them, so soft, so worn. The callouses larger on the palm where the fingers meet.
“Don’t leave me again.” She nodded. She’d missed too much of his life as is. She wanted to be there to heal every scar and prevent every callous from ever forming.