[July 24] [Princess Tutu] Marked
Title: Marked
Day/Theme: July 24: You are second hand smoke.
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Fakir, Charon
Rating: G
The whispers were hard to ignore.
“He’s bad luck, that boy,” Fakir could hear the woman mutter as he followed his adoptive father up to the stall. She had a sharp nose that sniffed disapprovingly at the colorful fruits and vegetables offered for sale, and her blond hair fell around her ears in a way that reminded the young boy of a dog in his neighborhood with floppy ears. He stared for her at a moment before Charon firmly placed a hand on his shoulder and turned his attention away from her.
“Fakir, what sort of fruit do you like?” the man asked, perhaps a little awkwardly. Fakir turned his attention away from the dog-haired woman to glance over the offerings of the stall. She continued her conversation to her companion, either unknowing or uncaring that the subject of her gossip could hear.
“It was obvious, even from his birth, that he would bring trouble. Rumors are he’s marked.” The woman’s tone made it sound as though he had been born with horns and a forked tail. “Of course, even before the boy was born there wasn’t much of a chance for him. His father was asking for it, marrying an outsider. Particularly a woman of heathen blood.”
Fakir frowned as he pointed silently at some pears. He wasn’t sure what ‘heathen’ meant-part of him wanted to ask Charon about it, and part of him wasn’t sure if he should.
“She seemed a pleasant woman,” the woman’s companion offered, timidly. She simply sniffed again, picking up a peach and rolling it in her hand.
“Oh, pleasant enough, and obviously beautiful. It was no wonder the poor man fell in love with her. But if her son’s any indication, a pleasant personality isn’t enough to escape a heritage like hers.”
The gossip’s friend hesitated, delicately tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “But Maja, a birthmark doesn’t really mean much. Even my little Ariane has one on her knee.”
“Tsk! It’s more than just-“ Maja interrupted herself, turning to the stall owner and saying “these peaches are far too soft.” The owner not-so-apologetically informed her that those were all the peaches he had, but she continued to argue with the man. Fakir grabbed hold of the rough wooden side of the stall and pulled himself up on his tippy-toes, stretching his hand out to try to reach an apple.
The blond gossip finally reached an agreement with the owner and turned back to her friend. “Anyway, it’s more than just the birthmark.”
Fakir gripped the wood tighter and pulled himself up more. The wood cut into his hand a little, but he was far too close to give up now.
“They say that…”
Fakir stretched out his hand. He could almost brush the apple with his fingertips-just a little bit closer…
“Sometimes, when he wrote-“
“Fakir!” Charon suddenly barked out, grabbing his hand away from the fruit. The two companions jumped, and the blond instantly grew silent, turning her attention to a selection of onions.
“We have enough,” he told the boy, more quietly this time. He quickly counted out a few coins and placed them in the owner’s outstretched hand. That done, he turned and walked away, the bag of food in one hand and Fakir’s hand in the other. The dark-haired boy had to walk quickly to keep up with the man’s steps.
“Charon?”
The man slowed his steps when he heard the boy’s slightly breathless question. “Yes?”
“What’s a heathen?”
Charon’s grip tightened, and his steps on the stone path began to get louder. “Don’t bother with what those sorts of people say.”
“But-“
“Fakir, it’s meaningless. Don’t worry about it.”
The boy quickly shut his mouth and walked on in silence, but he still wondered about the word. He could remember it long after he forgot the fruit they bought that day or the woman’s sharp nose.
Day/Theme: July 24: You are second hand smoke.
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Fakir, Charon
Rating: G
The whispers were hard to ignore.
“He’s bad luck, that boy,” Fakir could hear the woman mutter as he followed his adoptive father up to the stall. She had a sharp nose that sniffed disapprovingly at the colorful fruits and vegetables offered for sale, and her blond hair fell around her ears in a way that reminded the young boy of a dog in his neighborhood with floppy ears. He stared for her at a moment before Charon firmly placed a hand on his shoulder and turned his attention away from her.
“Fakir, what sort of fruit do you like?” the man asked, perhaps a little awkwardly. Fakir turned his attention away from the dog-haired woman to glance over the offerings of the stall. She continued her conversation to her companion, either unknowing or uncaring that the subject of her gossip could hear.
“It was obvious, even from his birth, that he would bring trouble. Rumors are he’s marked.” The woman’s tone made it sound as though he had been born with horns and a forked tail. “Of course, even before the boy was born there wasn’t much of a chance for him. His father was asking for it, marrying an outsider. Particularly a woman of heathen blood.”
Fakir frowned as he pointed silently at some pears. He wasn’t sure what ‘heathen’ meant-part of him wanted to ask Charon about it, and part of him wasn’t sure if he should.
“She seemed a pleasant woman,” the woman’s companion offered, timidly. She simply sniffed again, picking up a peach and rolling it in her hand.
“Oh, pleasant enough, and obviously beautiful. It was no wonder the poor man fell in love with her. But if her son’s any indication, a pleasant personality isn’t enough to escape a heritage like hers.”
The gossip’s friend hesitated, delicately tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “But Maja, a birthmark doesn’t really mean much. Even my little Ariane has one on her knee.”
“Tsk! It’s more than just-“ Maja interrupted herself, turning to the stall owner and saying “these peaches are far too soft.” The owner not-so-apologetically informed her that those were all the peaches he had, but she continued to argue with the man. Fakir grabbed hold of the rough wooden side of the stall and pulled himself up on his tippy-toes, stretching his hand out to try to reach an apple.
The blond gossip finally reached an agreement with the owner and turned back to her friend. “Anyway, it’s more than just the birthmark.”
Fakir gripped the wood tighter and pulled himself up more. The wood cut into his hand a little, but he was far too close to give up now.
“They say that…”
Fakir stretched out his hand. He could almost brush the apple with his fingertips-just a little bit closer…
“Sometimes, when he wrote-“
“Fakir!” Charon suddenly barked out, grabbing his hand away from the fruit. The two companions jumped, and the blond instantly grew silent, turning her attention to a selection of onions.
“We have enough,” he told the boy, more quietly this time. He quickly counted out a few coins and placed them in the owner’s outstretched hand. That done, he turned and walked away, the bag of food in one hand and Fakir’s hand in the other. The dark-haired boy had to walk quickly to keep up with the man’s steps.
“Charon?”
The man slowed his steps when he heard the boy’s slightly breathless question. “Yes?”
“What’s a heathen?”
Charon’s grip tightened, and his steps on the stone path began to get louder. “Don’t bother with what those sorts of people say.”
“But-“
“Fakir, it’s meaningless. Don’t worry about it.”
The boy quickly shut his mouth and walked on in silence, but he still wondered about the word. He could remember it long after he forgot the fruit they bought that day or the woman’s sharp nose.