[Wild Roses] Queen
Title: not this year
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Aifiric, Brighid
Prompt: 96A "wishes", 'jeweled bracelet' (billradish)
Word Count: 506
Notes: two of two. Follows homecoming.
She came home subdued, wearing a blue dress so dark it was nearly black, a gray wrap about her shoulders and over her hair.
She found him in her own small library--he suspected Iarlaith had handed her a chart--kissed his temple by stretching up onto her toes with a hand on his shoulder for support, then sank gracefully into the chair he'd gifted her with not long after they married.
Settling her skirts around herself, not looking at him, "I attended a funeral today."
"My condolences on your loss," he replied automatically, which earned him a mildly bemused look before she looked back at the wall, her fingertips drumming out something syncopated.
Her marriage ring flashed occasionally in the lamplight, casting pale sparks onto the ceiling, and he noticed that she was wearing the bracelet he'd given her at new-year clasped around her other wrist. It nearly glowed, enamel and delicately cut stones nearly hiding the fact that the underlying metal was silver, not gold, small gesture of affection towards her own preferred colours.
"It was my youngest sister's," she said, and his attention jerked immediately back to her.
"Winter, what happened? Are you all right?"
She stared up at him for a long moment. "It wasn't an accident."
Something cold coiled in his gut, and he kept himself from reaching for the spell that would summon his brother by sheer force of will. "Were they after you?"
"Aifiric, she died of old age."
"She what?" Disbelief made his voice louder than he meant it to be; she winced, just a little, but didn't lean away.
"She was eighty seven!" his wife flared back, then blinked at him, a half-involuntary smile spreading across her face, and she covered her mouth with her hand before she started laughing.
"Eighty-seven is barely old enough to be running your own business," he put in when the shaking subsided and she was starting to dab at her eyes with her sleeve.
"Only here, husband-mine, only here," she replied, but made space for him when he sat down at her feet, leaning his head back against the silky material of her skirt. "She was old, there. Frail as a pottery doll in a mage's hands."
She sighed, began petting his hair with her fingers. "People mistook me for her niece, Aifiric. I could not possibly be her sister, let alone the elder of we two. After a while I stopped arguing."
Something rustled as she rearranged herself more comfortably. "Would you care to enlighten me as to why I look at least forty years younger than I am?"
He tilted his head back to catch her eye. "Wishes have power, when they're backed by desh-blooded and deshae, love. Even aside from me--do you think your sons want to see you leave them?"
She stared down at him for a long moment, thoughts chasing one another across her face, before she murmured "You'll have to let me go eventually."
"But not this year," he half-agreed, then, carefully "Please?"
" . . No, beloved. Not this year."
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Aifiric, Brighid
Prompt: 96A "wishes", 'jeweled bracelet' (billradish)
Word Count: 506
Notes: two of two. Follows homecoming.
She came home subdued, wearing a blue dress so dark it was nearly black, a gray wrap about her shoulders and over her hair.
She found him in her own small library--he suspected Iarlaith had handed her a chart--kissed his temple by stretching up onto her toes with a hand on his shoulder for support, then sank gracefully into the chair he'd gifted her with not long after they married.
Settling her skirts around herself, not looking at him, "I attended a funeral today."
"My condolences on your loss," he replied automatically, which earned him a mildly bemused look before she looked back at the wall, her fingertips drumming out something syncopated.
Her marriage ring flashed occasionally in the lamplight, casting pale sparks onto the ceiling, and he noticed that she was wearing the bracelet he'd given her at new-year clasped around her other wrist. It nearly glowed, enamel and delicately cut stones nearly hiding the fact that the underlying metal was silver, not gold, small gesture of affection towards her own preferred colours.
"It was my youngest sister's," she said, and his attention jerked immediately back to her.
"Winter, what happened? Are you all right?"
She stared up at him for a long moment. "It wasn't an accident."
Something cold coiled in his gut, and he kept himself from reaching for the spell that would summon his brother by sheer force of will. "Were they after you?"
"Aifiric, she died of old age."
"She what?" Disbelief made his voice louder than he meant it to be; she winced, just a little, but didn't lean away.
"She was eighty seven!" his wife flared back, then blinked at him, a half-involuntary smile spreading across her face, and she covered her mouth with her hand before she started laughing.
"Eighty-seven is barely old enough to be running your own business," he put in when the shaking subsided and she was starting to dab at her eyes with her sleeve.
"Only here, husband-mine, only here," she replied, but made space for him when he sat down at her feet, leaning his head back against the silky material of her skirt. "She was old, there. Frail as a pottery doll in a mage's hands."
She sighed, began petting his hair with her fingers. "People mistook me for her niece, Aifiric. I could not possibly be her sister, let alone the elder of we two. After a while I stopped arguing."
Something rustled as she rearranged herself more comfortably. "Would you care to enlighten me as to why I look at least forty years younger than I am?"
He tilted his head back to catch her eye. "Wishes have power, when they're backed by desh-blooded and deshae, love. Even aside from me--do you think your sons want to see you leave them?"
She stared down at him for a long moment, thoughts chasing one another across her face, before she murmured "You'll have to let me go eventually."
"But not this year," he half-agreed, then, carefully "Please?"
" . . No, beloved. Not this year."