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rainbowfic2013-11-20 09:50 pm
shadowsong26) wrote in rainbowfic2013-11-20 09:50 pm
Mikado Yellow #14, Transparent #9, Glitter #17
Name: shadowsong26
Story: Black Masks and Red Roses
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Mikado Yellow #14. I never thought of thinking of myself at all., Transparent #9. Shift, Glitter #17. The impossible dream. - Man of La Mancha
Supplies and Materials: graffiti (Tropes challenge, with reference to Good Weapon, Evil Weapon and Powder Keg Crowd), eraser (Generation Swap AU), oils, stain, feathers (courage, rank, and sin as concepts), charcoal, novelty beads, yarn, glitter, glue ("tBroadening your horizons and expanding your network gives you and others much-needed hope. But don't allow the present situation to dictate what's real. Open your eyes to all of the possibilities and take a leap of faith.")
Word Count: 342
Rating: R
Characters: Sorell, Nida, very brief Mel cameo.
Warnings: Oblique references to genocide, violence. If I missed anything, please let me know.
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. This is an AU where Sorell is Kellom's son, rather than the other way around. This takes place in approximately 981 FY.
He hadn’t expected her to want to come along. He hadn’t expected her to be able to help, not with this part.
But, “I love you,” she’d said, and “I’m with you.”
So they’d come, hidden behind black masks and red rosettes, becoming them—because that was the only way he could make this work; If they weren’t themselves anymore, just two black masks with red rosettes, a longsword and a pair of curved daggers.
They met another mask in the shadows, who silently rusted through the lock. His skin crawled when the water pulsed, but he swallowed it down.
I love you. I’m with you.
There is right and there is wrong.
The three of them—black masks and red rosettes, a longsword, a pair of curved daggers, and a shimmering sickening pulse of water—ghosted into the prison. He held the door, she moved through the guards faster than he would have thought, and the water made short work of the locks on the cells.
“We are all human,” someone said—it might have been her, might even have been him.
“We will not be broken,” echoed, and then, no longer silent, a mass of faces, a mask of faces, black velvet and red roses, sword and daggers and water and hands, they spilled out into the too-quiet night.
She touched his hand, her daggers dropping red roses in the moonlight, and they drifted away before the riot began in earnest.
They’d done what they could, but there had to be limits.
They washed their hands and their blades in water that was blessedly pulseless, and stripped off their masks and slipped into their skins again.
In the morning, he knew, he would pretend the raid had never happened, make all the right noises to condemn the riot.
But tonight, waking and sleeping, he was given wholly to black masks and red roses, a sword, her daggers, and a pulse of water, shining in the moonlight.
We are all human.
May the gods have forgive us for what we do.
Story: Black Masks and Red Roses
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Mikado Yellow #14. I never thought of thinking of myself at all., Transparent #9. Shift, Glitter #17. The impossible dream. - Man of La Mancha
Supplies and Materials: graffiti (Tropes challenge, with reference to Good Weapon, Evil Weapon and Powder Keg Crowd), eraser (Generation Swap AU), oils, stain, feathers (courage, rank, and sin as concepts), charcoal, novelty beads, yarn, glitter, glue ("tBroadening your horizons and expanding your network gives you and others much-needed hope. But don't allow the present situation to dictate what's real. Open your eyes to all of the possibilities and take a leap of faith.")
Word Count: 342
Rating: R
Characters: Sorell, Nida, very brief Mel cameo.
Warnings: Oblique references to genocide, violence. If I missed anything, please let me know.
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. This is an AU where Sorell is Kellom's son, rather than the other way around. This takes place in approximately 981 FY.
He hadn’t expected her to want to come along. He hadn’t expected her to be able to help, not with this part.
But, “I love you,” she’d said, and “I’m with you.”
So they’d come, hidden behind black masks and red rosettes, becoming them—because that was the only way he could make this work; If they weren’t themselves anymore, just two black masks with red rosettes, a longsword and a pair of curved daggers.
They met another mask in the shadows, who silently rusted through the lock. His skin crawled when the water pulsed, but he swallowed it down.
I love you. I’m with you.
There is right and there is wrong.
The three of them—black masks and red rosettes, a longsword, a pair of curved daggers, and a shimmering sickening pulse of water—ghosted into the prison. He held the door, she moved through the guards faster than he would have thought, and the water made short work of the locks on the cells.
“We are all human,” someone said—it might have been her, might even have been him.
“We will not be broken,” echoed, and then, no longer silent, a mass of faces, a mask of faces, black velvet and red roses, sword and daggers and water and hands, they spilled out into the too-quiet night.
She touched his hand, her daggers dropping red roses in the moonlight, and they drifted away before the riot began in earnest.
They’d done what they could, but there had to be limits.
They washed their hands and their blades in water that was blessedly pulseless, and stripped off their masks and slipped into their skins again.
In the morning, he knew, he would pretend the raid had never happened, make all the right noises to condemn the riot.
But tonight, waking and sleeping, he was given wholly to black masks and red roses, a sword, her daggers, and a pulse of water, shining in the moonlight.
We are all human.
May the gods have forgive us for what we do.