[ficlet] VF: An Honest Heart
Title: An Honest Heart
Character: Feilong
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Warning: AU, fantasy
Happy Birthday nafra! (I'm still working on the Amaury fic and it keeps getting longer my dear. Someday you will have his romance with Feilong!).
This too was meant to be a romance. But when I ask myself, with whom would I most like Feilong to fall in love, the answer is always 'himself'. Couple that with my view of Feilong as a figure of mythic potential and you get this fantasy ficlet which has been stuck in my head for days so I thought it best to let it out.
The strains of a waltz drifted into the night from a nearby café. He heard the patrons' quiet laughter under the music as he glided past, a mere shadow to all those inside, and to himself. Normally he'd avoid such places, but this was Paris, the City of Lights, and he stopped to look, wondering if it was the same as the world over. The golden paned windows drew him near.
It was an old bar, almost ancient, the solid oak of the tables and chairs stained dark with age and use. Friends sat around them, white beeswax candles in hurricane lamps giving their smiles warm glows. Even those who argued ferociously about politics or books looked happy in their light. A few couples swayed on the tiny dance floor at the back to the strains of an upright piano played by a tall and sprightly old woman who looked to be well on her way to the Guinness Book of Records for her age. Feilong fancifully wondered if she'd been there when the place had been built centuries before.
It was a comfortable place, for those who belonged. But he knew he was fated to stand on the outside. They might invite him in, drawn by his beauty, but when they learned more of him they'd turn their backs. Good people always did. Murderers might be welcome, if their cause just. His was not. He turned away.
And collided with the hard body of another who had been standing directly behind him.
Feilong was shocked. He'd heard no one approach, and yet this man had been close enough to touch him. To kill him. His instincts told him this was a distinct possibility.
The stranger stood there, silent, allowing inspection. His height was foreboding, two meters at least, and Feilong sensed a whipcord strength about him. His face was angelic and pale, the lights of the café giving it a color that felt all wrong. It seemed like it should be lit only by the moon. Ebony hair fell across half of it, a partial eclipse. Feilong saw the long strands of black, almost as long as his, lifting as if tossed about by the wind. He shivered when he realized there was no breeze.
"Who are you?" he whispered. "What are you?"
The other smiled. He didn't wear it well. "My name is Michel. Don't you remember me, Feilong? I've known you for a long time. Or of you." His voice sounded like the rasping of dry leaves down a dark alley.
Feilong shook his head. Something tugged at his thoughts, a shard of a dream perhaps, but nothing came to mind. "I'm sorry. I meet so many people. Please refresh my memory." His eyes were unable to leave that weaving hair. His skin crawled at the thought of it touching him and he pulled his arms closer to his body.
Michel ignored the request, stepping up to stand beside him. He gestured toward the people inside the café. "Were you wishing you could be a part of that? That is not for the likes of us."
Feilong looked at him curiously. The man's face was blank, but he thought he saw wistfulness in the eyes for just a moment. He lied, unwilling to give anything of himself away. "Normalcy is something I'll never have. I simply find it interesting, how they could be so oblivious to what's happening all around them."
"Do you really think they are? I think perhaps they merely know it's wise to be afraid, and they flock to the light." The stranger's face turned, his eyes dark pools of black that seemed to pull at Feilong, sucking his soul into their whirlpool-like depths. It would be so easy to give in and fall....
A shout of laughter inside the store awakened him in time and he took a quick step backward. "What are you?" A flick of his wrists sent knives down into either hand.
"What you could be. What you will be, once you've accepted what you are. You are close, so close that it attracted me here. It's rare to witness the birth of one of us, and I'd be privileged to assist one whose hands are as stained with blood as yours. Come, Assassin, Kinsman. You've been training for this all your life. What would be more natural than becoming Death itself?"
He waved at the crowd of drinkers inside their small sanctuary. "You know you don't belong with the likes of them. You know your name is Outsider. But there are those like you, like us. We understand you. We want and need you. It's time to come home."
Michel reached out with a pale hand.
But Feilong had seen that hand before, though another face had been above it. And no fool he, he took another step back.
Home... He imagined some dark castle somewhere, pale angels of death lounging about in boredom, discussing the day's kills, life meaningless to them, and tried to imagine himself fitting in there. But it felt no different. Outsider, he still heard in his head. You cannot care and be one of us. He shook his head, trying to dispel the despair the images called forth.
Other thoughts suddenly intruded, as if charging to his side: a glowing fire in his library on cool nights, the sweet grassy taste of his favorite tea warming him, Tao's smile and care taking off any chill that remained. Ah, home. There was a place for him, one far more welcome.
He raised his head and faced those dark eyes, eyes that no longer pulled at him. "I am not like you."
"Then you have no one, for you do not belong with the likes of them." The man, if that's what he was, tossed his head toward the window, his hair trying to avoid the light.
"Perhaps. And perhaps I've remained outside because I was unwilling to make a choice."
"And perhaps you have no choice in the matter."
To his horror, the strands of hair thickened and lengthened, and the ends turned toward him, searching, slithering through the air, the ends flicking about like snake tongues. He froze for a moment, but then his heart jumped in his chest, reminding him that while he lived he could fight, and choose what he pleased. His knives slashed outward, shearing the strands, the tendrils abruptly recoiling. He drew himself up in anger. "Who are you to decide that? I am Liu Feilong of the White Snake. I decide my own fate."
He reached his hand out and wrenched open the door to the café, and stepped purposefully across the threshold into the light, slamming the door behind him. There was a great pause as if the world around him sighed, then the music and laughter started up again.
Looking around he spotted a group of men of varying ages sitting halfway back, who were arguing over the merits of various 17th century playwrights. He boldly walked up to their table.
"May I join you?"
They looked up with approving eyes, one dragging over a chair. "You were always welcome." The truth of the words struck him forcefully. This seat had always been his to take.
As he sat down, his eyes passed across the window, revealing a shadow standing outside, waiting. He remembered that brief wistfulness he'd seen earlier, and that this too had once been a man like him and he held his hand out, offering entry. For a moment it seemed as if the shadow leaned closer, but then it turned and faded from sight.
He understood. Everyone made his own choice. His had led to this, and melancholy flew from him as the life in the room coursed through him like strong drink.
The men watched him indulgently, someone setting a mug of mulled wine in front of him.
"Tell us, Feilong," one asked, "do you prefer Racine or that upstart Molière?"
Feilong considered the question seriously as he sipped the hot rich drink, the cinnamon adding a warm and toasty flavor. He didn't even bother to wonder how they knew his name; it was just more proof that he was where he was meant to be. "I had always liked Racine's tragedies, but I believe Molière's comedies are beginning to grow on me."
Shouts of laughing agreement and mock battle cries arose around him as the spirited discussion began anew, this time with the addition of a welcomed new perspective.
Later that evening the debate finally fell into laughter on both sides when Feilong remarked to the opposition, "But you must certainly love him well, for you flatter him not!"
Smiling into the last of his wine, his gaze came to rest upon the window and he realized he'd not thought of the darkness for hours. It no longer had hold of him. It would always be a part of him, but he didn't have to dwell within it. The choice had always been his.
His heart beat strong and sure in his chest, as if approving his thoughts.
The old lady at the back caught his eye and winked at him, and struck up another waltz on her piano. Laughing, he rose and walked toward her, fully intending to ask her to dance.
~end~
*Feilong teased the Racine bunch with a play on a quote of Molière's "The more we love our friends, the less we flatter them; it is by excusing nothing that pure love shows itself."
**The title was taken from something else Molière wrote, which struck me as apt for Feilong (though not quite for this story ^_~):
Betrayed and wronged in everything,
I’ll flee this bitter world where vice is king,
And seek some spot unpeopled and apart
Where I’ll be free to have an honest heart.
Character: Feilong
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Warning: AU, fantasy
Happy Birthday nafra! (I'm still working on the Amaury fic and it keeps getting longer my dear. Someday you will have his romance with Feilong!).
This too was meant to be a romance. But when I ask myself, with whom would I most like Feilong to fall in love, the answer is always 'himself'. Couple that with my view of Feilong as a figure of mythic potential and you get this fantasy ficlet which has been stuck in my head for days so I thought it best to let it out.
The strains of a waltz drifted into the night from a nearby café. He heard the patrons' quiet laughter under the music as he glided past, a mere shadow to all those inside, and to himself. Normally he'd avoid such places, but this was Paris, the City of Lights, and he stopped to look, wondering if it was the same as the world over. The golden paned windows drew him near.
It was an old bar, almost ancient, the solid oak of the tables and chairs stained dark with age and use. Friends sat around them, white beeswax candles in hurricane lamps giving their smiles warm glows. Even those who argued ferociously about politics or books looked happy in their light. A few couples swayed on the tiny dance floor at the back to the strains of an upright piano played by a tall and sprightly old woman who looked to be well on her way to the Guinness Book of Records for her age. Feilong fancifully wondered if she'd been there when the place had been built centuries before.
It was a comfortable place, for those who belonged. But he knew he was fated to stand on the outside. They might invite him in, drawn by his beauty, but when they learned more of him they'd turn their backs. Good people always did. Murderers might be welcome, if their cause just. His was not. He turned away.
And collided with the hard body of another who had been standing directly behind him.
Feilong was shocked. He'd heard no one approach, and yet this man had been close enough to touch him. To kill him. His instincts told him this was a distinct possibility.
The stranger stood there, silent, allowing inspection. His height was foreboding, two meters at least, and Feilong sensed a whipcord strength about him. His face was angelic and pale, the lights of the café giving it a color that felt all wrong. It seemed like it should be lit only by the moon. Ebony hair fell across half of it, a partial eclipse. Feilong saw the long strands of black, almost as long as his, lifting as if tossed about by the wind. He shivered when he realized there was no breeze.
"Who are you?" he whispered. "What are you?"
The other smiled. He didn't wear it well. "My name is Michel. Don't you remember me, Feilong? I've known you for a long time. Or of you." His voice sounded like the rasping of dry leaves down a dark alley.
Feilong shook his head. Something tugged at his thoughts, a shard of a dream perhaps, but nothing came to mind. "I'm sorry. I meet so many people. Please refresh my memory." His eyes were unable to leave that weaving hair. His skin crawled at the thought of it touching him and he pulled his arms closer to his body.
Michel ignored the request, stepping up to stand beside him. He gestured toward the people inside the café. "Were you wishing you could be a part of that? That is not for the likes of us."
Feilong looked at him curiously. The man's face was blank, but he thought he saw wistfulness in the eyes for just a moment. He lied, unwilling to give anything of himself away. "Normalcy is something I'll never have. I simply find it interesting, how they could be so oblivious to what's happening all around them."
"Do you really think they are? I think perhaps they merely know it's wise to be afraid, and they flock to the light." The stranger's face turned, his eyes dark pools of black that seemed to pull at Feilong, sucking his soul into their whirlpool-like depths. It would be so easy to give in and fall....
A shout of laughter inside the store awakened him in time and he took a quick step backward. "What are you?" A flick of his wrists sent knives down into either hand.
"What you could be. What you will be, once you've accepted what you are. You are close, so close that it attracted me here. It's rare to witness the birth of one of us, and I'd be privileged to assist one whose hands are as stained with blood as yours. Come, Assassin, Kinsman. You've been training for this all your life. What would be more natural than becoming Death itself?"
He waved at the crowd of drinkers inside their small sanctuary. "You know you don't belong with the likes of them. You know your name is Outsider. But there are those like you, like us. We understand you. We want and need you. It's time to come home."
Michel reached out with a pale hand.
But Feilong had seen that hand before, though another face had been above it. And no fool he, he took another step back.
Home... He imagined some dark castle somewhere, pale angels of death lounging about in boredom, discussing the day's kills, life meaningless to them, and tried to imagine himself fitting in there. But it felt no different. Outsider, he still heard in his head. You cannot care and be one of us. He shook his head, trying to dispel the despair the images called forth.
Other thoughts suddenly intruded, as if charging to his side: a glowing fire in his library on cool nights, the sweet grassy taste of his favorite tea warming him, Tao's smile and care taking off any chill that remained. Ah, home. There was a place for him, one far more welcome.
He raised his head and faced those dark eyes, eyes that no longer pulled at him. "I am not like you."
"Then you have no one, for you do not belong with the likes of them." The man, if that's what he was, tossed his head toward the window, his hair trying to avoid the light.
"Perhaps. And perhaps I've remained outside because I was unwilling to make a choice."
"And perhaps you have no choice in the matter."
To his horror, the strands of hair thickened and lengthened, and the ends turned toward him, searching, slithering through the air, the ends flicking about like snake tongues. He froze for a moment, but then his heart jumped in his chest, reminding him that while he lived he could fight, and choose what he pleased. His knives slashed outward, shearing the strands, the tendrils abruptly recoiling. He drew himself up in anger. "Who are you to decide that? I am Liu Feilong of the White Snake. I decide my own fate."
He reached his hand out and wrenched open the door to the café, and stepped purposefully across the threshold into the light, slamming the door behind him. There was a great pause as if the world around him sighed, then the music and laughter started up again.
Looking around he spotted a group of men of varying ages sitting halfway back, who were arguing over the merits of various 17th century playwrights. He boldly walked up to their table.
"May I join you?"
They looked up with approving eyes, one dragging over a chair. "You were always welcome." The truth of the words struck him forcefully. This seat had always been his to take.
As he sat down, his eyes passed across the window, revealing a shadow standing outside, waiting. He remembered that brief wistfulness he'd seen earlier, and that this too had once been a man like him and he held his hand out, offering entry. For a moment it seemed as if the shadow leaned closer, but then it turned and faded from sight.
He understood. Everyone made his own choice. His had led to this, and melancholy flew from him as the life in the room coursed through him like strong drink.
The men watched him indulgently, someone setting a mug of mulled wine in front of him.
"Tell us, Feilong," one asked, "do you prefer Racine or that upstart Molière?"
Feilong considered the question seriously as he sipped the hot rich drink, the cinnamon adding a warm and toasty flavor. He didn't even bother to wonder how they knew his name; it was just more proof that he was where he was meant to be. "I had always liked Racine's tragedies, but I believe Molière's comedies are beginning to grow on me."
Shouts of laughing agreement and mock battle cries arose around him as the spirited discussion began anew, this time with the addition of a welcomed new perspective.
Later that evening the debate finally fell into laughter on both sides when Feilong remarked to the opposition, "But you must certainly love him well, for you flatter him not!"
Smiling into the last of his wine, his gaze came to rest upon the window and he realized he'd not thought of the darkness for hours. It no longer had hold of him. It would always be a part of him, but he didn't have to dwell within it. The choice had always been his.
His heart beat strong and sure in his chest, as if approving his thoughts.
The old lady at the back caught his eye and winked at him, and struck up another waltz on her piano. Laughing, he rose and walked toward her, fully intending to ask her to dance.
~end~
*Feilong teased the Racine bunch with a play on a quote of Molière's "The more we love our friends, the less we flatter them; it is by excusing nothing that pure love shows itself."
**The title was taken from something else Molière wrote, which struck me as apt for Feilong (though not quite for this story ^_~):
Betrayed and wronged in everything,
I’ll flee this bitter world where vice is king,
And seek some spot unpeopled and apart
Where I’ll be free to have an honest heart.