Wild Roses fic prompt 047 "Heart"
Title: define the rules
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael, Ruadhan
Prompt: 047 "Heart"
Word Count: 1000 (hah!)
Rating: PG
Notes: next in the sequence indexed here.
Rough-skinned hands caught him, this time, shoving him back against an invisible wall, and he found himself looking up in the face of the man he glimpsed in the mirror when he wasn't paying attention, too blue eyes with laugh-lines around the corners and a mouth that should be smiling but wasn't.
"You shouldn't be here," he repeated himself, more uncertain than he wanted to be.
If I had a choice, I wouldn't be, kid, the man--the bard?--replied, the corner of his mouth pulled down. Let go of one of Isael's shoulders, the other hand tightening in half-warning, tapped the center of Isael's forehead with two string-calloused fingertips. We'd likely both be better off.
His head didn't hurt, he realised suddenly.
That meant this wasn't real, in any way that really mattered.
So he pushed against the hand, reached over to yank at it with his own hand, got a black-booted foot up between them and shoved at the center of the man's chest, where the dark-green leather strap for the instrument case still across the other's back crossed the carved-wood buttons of his faded charcoal-blue coat.
The bard flew backwards, falling head over heels, body twisting to avoid landing on the case. He caught himself half-crouched, one hand and a knee keeping him from crushing the case beneath his weight, the knuckles of the hand on the floor white with pressure and the floor creaking slightly from the force.
By the time the other gained his feet again Isael was standing, the back of his right hand brushing the hilt of his first, lost sword for reassurance. Knew the dark clothes he wore as he knew the until-now forgotten pull of scar tissue between his shoulder-blades and along his left arm. Knew he probably looked younger than he really was, and found himself uncaring, because things fit again.
"You're the Bard, aren't you," he said, doubled meaning in the not-quite question. Without the ache in his ears that accompanied anything of this sort in the real world, he could pull on threads of the music and actually hear them respond. It was an odd feeling, to fit images over images over images and pull back clearest a memory of himself with boy-sized hands wrapped tightly around a thick-walled mug of hard-brewed tea, listening to this man tell easy lies about the towns away from home, secure in the knowledge that everyone--including the bard--acknowledged the embroidered truth.
And at the same time he knew, scar deep, that he was looking at the ghost of his father, within the confines of his own mind, and he would have a working-headache the like of which he could faintly remember from the latest war he'd survived. The one his father hadn't.
I was the Bard, yes, his father replied, pulling himself up to his full height, spine straightening out of the habitual slight slouch. When I was alive.
The slouch made him look smaller than he really was, less dangerous, and Isael touched the memory briefly of the first time he'd seen the Bard his father standing full height and angry, his own realisation for perhaps the first time that the man he'd seen all his life was something much, much different than he'd known. Set it aside, knowing he'd probably lose it again, and brushed the back of his hand against the corded grip of his sword before he spoke again.
"Price of the father fell due on the son?" the tone much softer than the words, long-ago soldiers' half-lie stories rising in the music around them for a moment before the bard his father gestured and the music died away to barest whispers and the rhythm of their breathing and the thud of Isael's heart in his chest.
"If I'd known what price would fall due," Ruadhan said, full living tones for the first time, the resonance of his voice backed by the depth of his chest and the breath in his lungs, "I would never have taught you this trick."
Isael let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, let his head fall slightly forward in acknowledgement of the words.
When he looked up again, he could have sworn he saw the trailing shadow edge of guilt and sorrow pass across his father's face. Then he blinked, and a wry smile had taken over.
"T'isn't working as it stands," his father said.
"No, it isn't," he agreed. Moved his skin against the sword he didn't own anymore, took a breath, "I see you out of the corner of my eye. I told Conall to break a mirror once for me, because you were looking at me from it." Another breath, another admittance. "I have dreams I can't remember when I wake, and I can't tell if they're memory I've lost, or dream in truth."
'This isn't real,' he told himself firmly, stilling the hand that wished to shake and clamping down the quiver in his gut. 'He couldn't tell, no matter his wish.'
He froze when his father's thumb touched his cheekbone by his nose, brushing up in a gentle sweep towards his temple then lifted away from his face; looked up in unthinking terror at the man who'd got so close without his noticing.
"I'm dead, son of mine," Ruadhan whispered, what noise my feet make is gift of you or me.
He drew a shaky breath, nodded once. " . . Please don't do that again."
Ruadhan nodded, then dropped abruptly to a crosslegged position, one hand reaching back to cushion the case before he let it rest on the floor behind him, hand returning to rest palm-up on his thigh. Looked up at Isael, the line of his throat exposed, half-smiled and made a grand inviting gesture at the floor. "Pull up a plank, if y'will."
Isael considered for a long moment, then knelt, half conscious of arranging himself around an imaginary sword and the absurdity of it but unwilling to give up the ritual. "I'm listening."
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael, Ruadhan
Prompt: 047 "Heart"
Word Count: 1000 (hah!)
Rating: PG
Notes: next in the sequence indexed here.
Rough-skinned hands caught him, this time, shoving him back against an invisible wall, and he found himself looking up in the face of the man he glimpsed in the mirror when he wasn't paying attention, too blue eyes with laugh-lines around the corners and a mouth that should be smiling but wasn't.
"You shouldn't be here," he repeated himself, more uncertain than he wanted to be.
If I had a choice, I wouldn't be, kid, the man--the bard?--replied, the corner of his mouth pulled down. Let go of one of Isael's shoulders, the other hand tightening in half-warning, tapped the center of Isael's forehead with two string-calloused fingertips. We'd likely both be better off.
His head didn't hurt, he realised suddenly.
That meant this wasn't real, in any way that really mattered.
So he pushed against the hand, reached over to yank at it with his own hand, got a black-booted foot up between them and shoved at the center of the man's chest, where the dark-green leather strap for the instrument case still across the other's back crossed the carved-wood buttons of his faded charcoal-blue coat.
The bard flew backwards, falling head over heels, body twisting to avoid landing on the case. He caught himself half-crouched, one hand and a knee keeping him from crushing the case beneath his weight, the knuckles of the hand on the floor white with pressure and the floor creaking slightly from the force.
By the time the other gained his feet again Isael was standing, the back of his right hand brushing the hilt of his first, lost sword for reassurance. Knew the dark clothes he wore as he knew the until-now forgotten pull of scar tissue between his shoulder-blades and along his left arm. Knew he probably looked younger than he really was, and found himself uncaring, because things fit again.
"You're the Bard, aren't you," he said, doubled meaning in the not-quite question. Without the ache in his ears that accompanied anything of this sort in the real world, he could pull on threads of the music and actually hear them respond. It was an odd feeling, to fit images over images over images and pull back clearest a memory of himself with boy-sized hands wrapped tightly around a thick-walled mug of hard-brewed tea, listening to this man tell easy lies about the towns away from home, secure in the knowledge that everyone--including the bard--acknowledged the embroidered truth.
And at the same time he knew, scar deep, that he was looking at the ghost of his father, within the confines of his own mind, and he would have a working-headache the like of which he could faintly remember from the latest war he'd survived. The one his father hadn't.
I was the Bard, yes, his father replied, pulling himself up to his full height, spine straightening out of the habitual slight slouch. When I was alive.
The slouch made him look smaller than he really was, less dangerous, and Isael touched the memory briefly of the first time he'd seen the Bard his father standing full height and angry, his own realisation for perhaps the first time that the man he'd seen all his life was something much, much different than he'd known. Set it aside, knowing he'd probably lose it again, and brushed the back of his hand against the corded grip of his sword before he spoke again.
"Price of the father fell due on the son?" the tone much softer than the words, long-ago soldiers' half-lie stories rising in the music around them for a moment before the bard his father gestured and the music died away to barest whispers and the rhythm of their breathing and the thud of Isael's heart in his chest.
"If I'd known what price would fall due," Ruadhan said, full living tones for the first time, the resonance of his voice backed by the depth of his chest and the breath in his lungs, "I would never have taught you this trick."
Isael let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, let his head fall slightly forward in acknowledgement of the words.
When he looked up again, he could have sworn he saw the trailing shadow edge of guilt and sorrow pass across his father's face. Then he blinked, and a wry smile had taken over.
"T'isn't working as it stands," his father said.
"No, it isn't," he agreed. Moved his skin against the sword he didn't own anymore, took a breath, "I see you out of the corner of my eye. I told Conall to break a mirror once for me, because you were looking at me from it." Another breath, another admittance. "I have dreams I can't remember when I wake, and I can't tell if they're memory I've lost, or dream in truth."
'This isn't real,' he told himself firmly, stilling the hand that wished to shake and clamping down the quiver in his gut. 'He couldn't tell, no matter his wish.'
He froze when his father's thumb touched his cheekbone by his nose, brushing up in a gentle sweep towards his temple then lifted away from his face; looked up in unthinking terror at the man who'd got so close without his noticing.
"I'm dead, son of mine," Ruadhan whispered, what noise my feet make is gift of you or me.
He drew a shaky breath, nodded once. " . . Please don't do that again."
Ruadhan nodded, then dropped abruptly to a crosslegged position, one hand reaching back to cushion the case before he let it rest on the floor behind him, hand returning to rest palm-up on his thigh. Looked up at Isael, the line of his throat exposed, half-smiled and made a grand inviting gesture at the floor. "Pull up a plank, if y'will."
Isael considered for a long moment, then knelt, half conscious of arranging himself around an imaginary sword and the absurdity of it but unwilling to give up the ritual. "I'm listening."