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The Daughter of the Air, Ten II/Rose, G
Oh this is shamelessly fluffy. I don't care.
Lucy Smith does not care for fairytales, though by the age of six her head is full of them., 507 words
Lucy Smith does not care for fairytales, though by the age of six her head is full of them. Princes and Princesses and true love's kiss. It is all her schoolmates talk of, on and on, until she knows all the stories forwards and backwards and can recite them by heart. She repeats them back to her mother at night as she's being tucked into bed, large brown eyes looking up solemnly as she explains Cinderella like her mother has never heard it, and the older woman is smiling as she tucks her child's butterscotch hair behind her ears.
"I think it's all very silly," Lucy tells her, her voice prim. "Wouldn't that shoe have fit another girl besides Cinderella? And what kind of name is that anyways? Cinderella?"
Her mother is smiling but she can tell she's about to say something sensible when the sound of someone's throat being cleared draws their attention elsewhere. Her father is standing there in the half light of the hallway, propped against her doorframe, and he is also smiling. He looks proud.
Lucy looks at her father in that single minded way only a five year old child can, not knowing or caring what he's done before only knowing he's hers. He's her father and she cannot imagine him being anyone else. He steps into the room, crouches next to her bed with one hand resting on her mother's leg, and gives her his most brilliant smile
"My turn then?" he asks, and she nods as she bites her lip against a grin.
And so he tells her his stories. He tells her of two strangers running through time and their many adventures, the way they danced from star to star and saved as many lives as they could. He tells her of running, of never stopping, never needing anything except a new place to go the next day and when he talks of wars, he sometimes frightens her. He makes up for it by holding her mother's hand a little tighter when he talks of love and giving her the grin Lucy only sees when they don't think she's watching.
She keeps her eyes open as long as she can but he continues even after her eyes close, knowing that she's still listening, her mind and ears full of the stories he tells her. On and on, he speaks, voice spinning words about alien planets and green skies into tales that hang on the backs of her eyelids as she slides into sleep. She awakes when she hears them stand and watches through the nearly closed slits of her eyes as her parents share a kiss in the small circle of light that spills in from the hallway. Even in the near dark her mother is achingly beautiful and her father is so handsome that for a moment she can imagine them as those two people, those reckless adventurers running through time.
She smiles as she sleeps and thinks that she might like fairytales after all, just of a different sort.
Oh this is shamelessly fluffy. I don't care.
Lucy Smith does not care for fairytales, though by the age of six her head is full of them., 507 words
Lucy Smith does not care for fairytales, though by the age of six her head is full of them. Princes and Princesses and true love's kiss. It is all her schoolmates talk of, on and on, until she knows all the stories forwards and backwards and can recite them by heart. She repeats them back to her mother at night as she's being tucked into bed, large brown eyes looking up solemnly as she explains Cinderella like her mother has never heard it, and the older woman is smiling as she tucks her child's butterscotch hair behind her ears.
"I think it's all very silly," Lucy tells her, her voice prim. "Wouldn't that shoe have fit another girl besides Cinderella? And what kind of name is that anyways? Cinderella?"
Her mother is smiling but she can tell she's about to say something sensible when the sound of someone's throat being cleared draws their attention elsewhere. Her father is standing there in the half light of the hallway, propped against her doorframe, and he is also smiling. He looks proud.
Lucy looks at her father in that single minded way only a five year old child can, not knowing or caring what he's done before only knowing he's hers. He's her father and she cannot imagine him being anyone else. He steps into the room, crouches next to her bed with one hand resting on her mother's leg, and gives her his most brilliant smile
"My turn then?" he asks, and she nods as she bites her lip against a grin.
And so he tells her his stories. He tells her of two strangers running through time and their many adventures, the way they danced from star to star and saved as many lives as they could. He tells her of running, of never stopping, never needing anything except a new place to go the next day and when he talks of wars, he sometimes frightens her. He makes up for it by holding her mother's hand a little tighter when he talks of love and giving her the grin Lucy only sees when they don't think she's watching.
She keeps her eyes open as long as she can but he continues even after her eyes close, knowing that she's still listening, her mind and ears full of the stories he tells her. On and on, he speaks, voice spinning words about alien planets and green skies into tales that hang on the backs of her eyelids as she slides into sleep. She awakes when she hears them stand and watches through the nearly closed slits of her eyes as her parents share a kiss in the small circle of light that spills in from the hallway. Even in the near dark her mother is achingly beautiful and her father is so handsome that for a moment she can imagine them as those two people, those reckless adventurers running through time.
She smiles as she sleeps and thinks that she might like fairytales after all, just of a different sort.