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Title: well.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael, Ruadhan
Prompt: 064 "Fall"
Word Count: 427
Rating: PG
Notes: again with the direct progression.
It didn't take long for the guitar to make an appearance, its case set down near-touching Ruadhan's thigh as the seven strings were tuned to the murmur of music around them. He stretched his fingers to their full span before he set them against the metal strings, coaxed a chord in harmony to the music around them, then gentle dissonance, building something in echos and clear high notes Isael couldn't identify.
He wondered idly if the guitar and its case served much the same function as his first sword--reassurance, comfort and absurd deference to something unreal at once. The real guitar was long gone, after all, given to a collector who'd brushed long fingered reverent hands across the unvarnished satiny wood and asked what work the beautiful instrument had so obviously carried out. Isael had shrugged in answer, unable to give verbal clarity in reply and thus unwilling to speak at all.
The collector hadn't pressed the issue, just told Isael that if he ever changed his mind, the collector was to be found in such and such a place, at the turning of leaves.
He hadn't, so far. But he spared a regret that the guitar hadn't died a true death with its owner, one that let the ghosts walk together, instead of apart and dreaming.
The world wavered suddenly, a roar in his ears rising briefly that made him clench his hand around the pommel of his sword, trying to stay where he was. "Ngh," he remarked, half-involuntary, and his father looked up, startled, from the guitar.
"Well," as the strings stilled and the roar faded, "that didn't work. And you need to eat, kid. Or at least get out of the shower."
"Fuck you," he replied, reflexive irritation at the tone of amusement.
"Uh-huh." His father half-rotated the guitar, chin resting on the carved head and arms wrapped loosely around the wide wooden waist. "Out, son. Before we experiment to see if I can force the issue."
He lifted a corner of his mouth in a snarl, canines exposed, then let go. The sword in his hand, the expression on his face, the faint music that didn't hurt, the feeling of actually being able to touch at least in moments the whole of his life.
Let himself fall backwards into a rush of running--still warm--water and a headache that made him involuntarily hiss at the light in the room, reach out a blind hand to smack at the spell holding it together, taking the additional pain of working as a welcome price for darkness.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael, Ruadhan
Prompt: 064 "Fall"
Word Count: 427
Rating: PG
Notes: again with the direct progression.
It didn't take long for the guitar to make an appearance, its case set down near-touching Ruadhan's thigh as the seven strings were tuned to the murmur of music around them. He stretched his fingers to their full span before he set them against the metal strings, coaxed a chord in harmony to the music around them, then gentle dissonance, building something in echos and clear high notes Isael couldn't identify.
He wondered idly if the guitar and its case served much the same function as his first sword--reassurance, comfort and absurd deference to something unreal at once. The real guitar was long gone, after all, given to a collector who'd brushed long fingered reverent hands across the unvarnished satiny wood and asked what work the beautiful instrument had so obviously carried out. Isael had shrugged in answer, unable to give verbal clarity in reply and thus unwilling to speak at all.
The collector hadn't pressed the issue, just told Isael that if he ever changed his mind, the collector was to be found in such and such a place, at the turning of leaves.
He hadn't, so far. But he spared a regret that the guitar hadn't died a true death with its owner, one that let the ghosts walk together, instead of apart and dreaming.
The world wavered suddenly, a roar in his ears rising briefly that made him clench his hand around the pommel of his sword, trying to stay where he was. "Ngh," he remarked, half-involuntary, and his father looked up, startled, from the guitar.
"Well," as the strings stilled and the roar faded, "that didn't work. And you need to eat, kid. Or at least get out of the shower."
"Fuck you," he replied, reflexive irritation at the tone of amusement.
"Uh-huh." His father half-rotated the guitar, chin resting on the carved head and arms wrapped loosely around the wide wooden waist. "Out, son. Before we experiment to see if I can force the issue."
He lifted a corner of his mouth in a snarl, canines exposed, then let go. The sword in his hand, the expression on his face, the faint music that didn't hurt, the feeling of actually being able to touch at least in moments the whole of his life.
Let himself fall backwards into a rush of running--still warm--water and a headache that made him involuntarily hiss at the light in the room, reach out a blind hand to smack at the spell holding it together, taking the additional pain of working as a welcome price for darkness.
