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whiskeycoffee2008-03-21 10:36 pm
mjules.livejournal.com) wrote in whiskeycoffee2008-03-21 10:36 pm
Entry tags:
"Miles from the Lightning" (The God Eaters; Ash, Kieran; 1/1, PG)
Title Miles from the Lightning
Author: m.jules
Rating: PG ... 13?
Fandom: The God Eaters
Disclaimer: Characters and setting belong to Jesse Hajicek. If you did pay me for this, I'd just turn around and send it to him. ...Hey, that's not a bad idea.
Author's Notes: I joked to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aidara that I was going to attach a note to this claiming it was my dowry to go along with my proposal for Jesse to be my gay internet boyfriend. (I have a serious, serious crush on his prose.) *chuckle* But maybe I'll save that for a really epic piece. Also, for anyone wondering: I am not trying to state that Burn River is only seven miles from Ladygate. I'm not that artistic with my license.
There hadn't been much of use in the boy's pockets; a few moons, a crown - probably milk money he stole from his momma - and two glass marbles. They were pretty, in a way. Useless except in a slingshot, but pretty. One was yellow-green, like a cat's eye; the other was the color of the sky after the rain washed it clean. He thought about taking the green one home to his mother; she liked the color, said it was her favorite (the color of my pretty Kai's eyes, ain't nothin' prettier), and it was only cheap glass but she liked when he gave her things.
Then he remembered: his mother was dead and so was the boy he'd stolen the marbles from. Both memories were fresh; one swollen and putrid, dark in his memory, tender and bruised-purple, the other spattered with sand and saliently scarlet, brilliant with its sanguine stain.
Emotion, sharp and bitter and isolated, rolled up in him as sudden as a thunderstorm and he pitched the green marble into the desert, hearing it thump as it rolled to the sand, away from his cliff, his overhang, elevated, away from the world. He almost sent the blue marble chasing after it, but just before it flew free of his fingertips, his fist clenched around it almost without his consent. Blue was his favorite color, high and wild as the sky, the depth and shadow and very scent of freedom. The marble blundered into his pocket, slippery as a pearl, and he didn't think about its green mate, lost in the dust below him, casting back the reflection of the stormy green sky that cried the approach of a storm that was likely to wash him out of his hiding place.
He hunkered down against the rock behind him and scowled at the sky; young, dirty, blood-crusted fingers curling around the blue bit of glass in his pocket.
"Ashleigh?"
His aunt's voice came wafting up the staircase and Ashleigh buried his face deeper in his downy pillow. It was useless as a way to hide his tears but he couldn't stop the reflex. The pillow stopped his breathing, which was already difficult, and he tried to pull air more forcefully through his nose, getting a mouthful of snot as a reward. It was amidst the resulting coughing fit that his aunt's hand came to rest on his small, thin back, rubbing gently.
"Ashleigh, sweetheart, can you tell me what happened?"
Her comforting hand brushed over a spot that was still tender and he flinched, aborting the action at the last, but it was too late. She'd noticed.
"Oh, Ashleigh." Her fingers moved into his auburn curls, pulling through them. "Again?"
Ashleigh sat up, the blankets falling around him, and knuckled at his wet eyes, sniffling again. "It's not so bad," he said, voice quavering, bravery a thin and flimsy mask he wore for his aunt's sake. "I'm used to it."
It was the wrong thing to say. The structure of Isobel's face seemed to melt with sorrow even while her eyes flared. Ashleigh was immediately wracked with guilt and Isobel tried to soften her expression, catching him close to her.
"It's not so bad," Ashleigh said again, voice muffled by Isobel's dress. "It's just that they... they took my... my pocket stuff. I had that tiny glass bottle and two marbles. They broke the bottle."
"What did they do with the marbles?" Isobel asked, and Ashleigh couldn't tell if she really wanted to know or if she just wanted to keep him talking, keep him feeling connected. He burrowed further into her arms and thought that it didn't really matter.
"Dunno," he sniffed. "Didn't see."
Her fingernails scratched lightly over his scalp and she kissed the top of his head. In the silence that followed, he could hear the patter of rain against the window and picked his head up just enough to peek. The glass was streaked with water and the world outside looked like a watercolor in soft greys and almost-blacks. "It's raining," he started to say, but the syllables were cut short when a bright white light streaked across his retinas. Lightning was a rare thing in the north, even more so in the winter. Several seconds later, a low rumble of thunder came rolling in, faint at first and then growing like a train coming from miles away.
"Hmm," Isobel hummed, something like contentment in her voice. "That lightning's a long way off."
"How can you tell?" Ashleigh wanted to know, sitting up, the sting of losing his possessions to the school bullies -- again -- pushed to the back of his mind by this new mystery, this new skill his aunt possessed that he, as yet, did not.
Isobel smiled at him, palming the rest of the tears from his flushed, freckled face. "You count the seconds between when you see the lightning and when you hear the thunder," she told him. "That tells you how many miles away the lightning is."
They had to wait a while, listening to the rain, the sounds of the city going on even amidst the cold winter downpour, but eventually there was another tremble of light, so far away Ashleigh couldn't even see the zig-zag shape of the bolt, only the sheet-flat echo of its glow. He counted slowly, guided by Isobel's patience, until he heard the thunder.
"Seven," he said. "Seven miles away." He disentangled himself from her arms and the blankets, spindle-thin eight-year-old legs carrying him across the floor to the window where he peered out as if he could see the next one better. His small fingers landed on the cold glass pane, fog spreading out from their warm tips, and the ghost of his breath spread in front of his face.
"So far away," he murmured as if to himself. "I wonder if it's lonely?"
The storm was on top of him, real and vicious and immediate, and all Kieran could think was At least no one will come looking for me in this. He was safe on the side of the mountain, huddled into the stone like a dirty rock dove, feathers ruffled against the buffeting winds that formed a wall between him and the rest of the world. The lightning was so bright it nearly blinded him, the thunder splitting his ears before he could blink, and he watched a sad, scraggly bush not even half a mile away from his hiding place burst into flames.
As the hail started falling, white frosted rings around a dingy grey nucleus, he rubbed his marble between his fingertips and thought about what color the sky would be after this storm was past.
It almost brought a smile to his face and he closed his eyes, the storm all at once a lullaby as his bleak world locked on to the idea of freedom that had a color and a shape and fit into the palm of his dirty hand.
The lightning lit him up and for just a moment he forgot how small a freedom that really was... and how easily it could be taken away.
Author: m.jules
Rating: PG ... 13?
Fandom: The God Eaters
Disclaimer: Characters and setting belong to Jesse Hajicek. If you did pay me for this, I'd just turn around and send it to him. ...Hey, that's not a bad idea.
Author's Notes: I joked to
aidara that I was going to attach a note to this claiming it was my dowry to go along with my proposal for Jesse to be my gay internet boyfriend. (I have a serious, serious crush on his prose.) *chuckle* But maybe I'll save that for a really epic piece. Also, for anyone wondering: I am not trying to state that Burn River is only seven miles from Ladygate. I'm not that artistic with my license.There hadn't been much of use in the boy's pockets; a few moons, a crown - probably milk money he stole from his momma - and two glass marbles. They were pretty, in a way. Useless except in a slingshot, but pretty. One was yellow-green, like a cat's eye; the other was the color of the sky after the rain washed it clean. He thought about taking the green one home to his mother; she liked the color, said it was her favorite (the color of my pretty Kai's eyes, ain't nothin' prettier), and it was only cheap glass but she liked when he gave her things.
Then he remembered: his mother was dead and so was the boy he'd stolen the marbles from. Both memories were fresh; one swollen and putrid, dark in his memory, tender and bruised-purple, the other spattered with sand and saliently scarlet, brilliant with its sanguine stain.
Emotion, sharp and bitter and isolated, rolled up in him as sudden as a thunderstorm and he pitched the green marble into the desert, hearing it thump as it rolled to the sand, away from his cliff, his overhang, elevated, away from the world. He almost sent the blue marble chasing after it, but just before it flew free of his fingertips, his fist clenched around it almost without his consent. Blue was his favorite color, high and wild as the sky, the depth and shadow and very scent of freedom. The marble blundered into his pocket, slippery as a pearl, and he didn't think about its green mate, lost in the dust below him, casting back the reflection of the stormy green sky that cried the approach of a storm that was likely to wash him out of his hiding place.
He hunkered down against the rock behind him and scowled at the sky; young, dirty, blood-crusted fingers curling around the blue bit of glass in his pocket.
"Ashleigh?"
His aunt's voice came wafting up the staircase and Ashleigh buried his face deeper in his downy pillow. It was useless as a way to hide his tears but he couldn't stop the reflex. The pillow stopped his breathing, which was already difficult, and he tried to pull air more forcefully through his nose, getting a mouthful of snot as a reward. It was amidst the resulting coughing fit that his aunt's hand came to rest on his small, thin back, rubbing gently.
"Ashleigh, sweetheart, can you tell me what happened?"
Her comforting hand brushed over a spot that was still tender and he flinched, aborting the action at the last, but it was too late. She'd noticed.
"Oh, Ashleigh." Her fingers moved into his auburn curls, pulling through them. "Again?"
Ashleigh sat up, the blankets falling around him, and knuckled at his wet eyes, sniffling again. "It's not so bad," he said, voice quavering, bravery a thin and flimsy mask he wore for his aunt's sake. "I'm used to it."
It was the wrong thing to say. The structure of Isobel's face seemed to melt with sorrow even while her eyes flared. Ashleigh was immediately wracked with guilt and Isobel tried to soften her expression, catching him close to her.
"It's not so bad," Ashleigh said again, voice muffled by Isobel's dress. "It's just that they... they took my... my pocket stuff. I had that tiny glass bottle and two marbles. They broke the bottle."
"What did they do with the marbles?" Isobel asked, and Ashleigh couldn't tell if she really wanted to know or if she just wanted to keep him talking, keep him feeling connected. He burrowed further into her arms and thought that it didn't really matter.
"Dunno," he sniffed. "Didn't see."
Her fingernails scratched lightly over his scalp and she kissed the top of his head. In the silence that followed, he could hear the patter of rain against the window and picked his head up just enough to peek. The glass was streaked with water and the world outside looked like a watercolor in soft greys and almost-blacks. "It's raining," he started to say, but the syllables were cut short when a bright white light streaked across his retinas. Lightning was a rare thing in the north, even more so in the winter. Several seconds later, a low rumble of thunder came rolling in, faint at first and then growing like a train coming from miles away.
"Hmm," Isobel hummed, something like contentment in her voice. "That lightning's a long way off."
"How can you tell?" Ashleigh wanted to know, sitting up, the sting of losing his possessions to the school bullies -- again -- pushed to the back of his mind by this new mystery, this new skill his aunt possessed that he, as yet, did not.
Isobel smiled at him, palming the rest of the tears from his flushed, freckled face. "You count the seconds between when you see the lightning and when you hear the thunder," she told him. "That tells you how many miles away the lightning is."
They had to wait a while, listening to the rain, the sounds of the city going on even amidst the cold winter downpour, but eventually there was another tremble of light, so far away Ashleigh couldn't even see the zig-zag shape of the bolt, only the sheet-flat echo of its glow. He counted slowly, guided by Isobel's patience, until he heard the thunder.
"Seven," he said. "Seven miles away." He disentangled himself from her arms and the blankets, spindle-thin eight-year-old legs carrying him across the floor to the window where he peered out as if he could see the next one better. His small fingers landed on the cold glass pane, fog spreading out from their warm tips, and the ghost of his breath spread in front of his face.
"So far away," he murmured as if to himself. "I wonder if it's lonely?"
The storm was on top of him, real and vicious and immediate, and all Kieran could think was At least no one will come looking for me in this. He was safe on the side of the mountain, huddled into the stone like a dirty rock dove, feathers ruffled against the buffeting winds that formed a wall between him and the rest of the world. The lightning was so bright it nearly blinded him, the thunder splitting his ears before he could blink, and he watched a sad, scraggly bush not even half a mile away from his hiding place burst into flames.
As the hail started falling, white frosted rings around a dingy grey nucleus, he rubbed his marble between his fingertips and thought about what color the sky would be after this storm was past.
It almost brought a smile to his face and he closed his eyes, the storm all at once a lullaby as his bleak world locked on to the idea of freedom that had a color and a shape and fit into the palm of his dirty hand.
The lightning lit him up and for just a moment he forgot how small a freedom that really was... and how easily it could be taken away.
no subject
But it appears I didn't need to, because this is awesome! Little Ash is adorable (I love the line about the lightning being lonely) and I desperately want to hug Kieran even if that's the last thing he'd want, heh.
Two opposite souls, taking comfort in such a strange thing in such different ways. Lovely.
no subject
Little Ashleigh would be exactly the kind of kid I would fall in love with in a motherly sense. I'd be all "My kid!" and "grr" and mother-bear about him. Which, I guess, is a typical reaction. *laugh*
Kieran I'd fall in love with in another sense. He'd be the one I'd love in the "let him go and do whatever he wants, and be there for him when he gets back" sense.
I'm glad you liked it. Sweet little kidlets. Almost makes me miss being a nanny. ALMOST.