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shinonTitle: Pristine
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Pelleas, Almedha
Word count: ~700
Warnings: none
Notes: One-word prompt meme thing; prompt is "snow," courtesy of Raphien.
Pelleas had always liked snow.
He had always liked snow, though his tolerance for the cold had always been abominable, and he had come off the worst in every snowball fight (he'd never wanted to be in snowball fights, but the older children at the orphanage had seldom left him any choice), and he had always come back inside blue-lipped and shivering. He liked snow, even though within a few hours of everyone else's waking up it turned into that depressing grayish-brown sludge that sat in sullen heaps in the alleys for months until it melted.
It was just so beautiful. It made the world look so pure and quiet. You could get up before anyone else and set out, to go get a book or look at the trees in their shells of ice, and when you looked back and saw only your tracks leading you there, you felt like everything you knew was a secret. You felt like the only person in the world.
But that was the point this time, wasn't it? That last was much too close to the truth now. The air was pristine and the hills were trackless and somehow every hour of the day felt like the last few minutes before dawn, and it was beautiful, and it was dreadful, and he hadn't expected to see much of this season at all.
"My son," said Almedha, bustling over. The hem of her dress left fluttering trails in the snow, and he looked at them rather than at her, wondering: if anyone ever came here again, would they see those traces and think they'd been left by some kind of outlandish sled? Or was that only the mistake of someone who didn't know near enough about royal dress? "You're cold. Your hands are like ice" - she didn't take his hands until after she'd said it, but of course she would immediately find she was quite right - "and those boots of yours are leaking, I'm sure. Your poor feet. Come, Pelleas. Let Mother fetch you some more furs - and you really ought to be riding, my dear, it doesn't do for a king to go tromping about -"
He shook his head, withdrawing his hands from hers. "Thank you, Mother, but I don't mind."
"Your teeth are chattering."
So they were. He'd hoped she wouldn't notice. "I'd really prefer..."
"To die of a chill now? After all I went through to get you back?" Her voice had dropped low and that dangerous look was in her eyes, like a door somewhere in her mind had swung off its hinges. "I won't allow it," she said, touching his face. Her hands were much colder than his. "I'll have them call a halt," she said. "You need a fire and something hot to drink. I don't know why you let them abuse you like this." And here was a different dangerous look she had, one he hadn't started seeing until recently. The one that said, Where did this boy go wrong? Any son of hers, any son of Ashnard's, and certainly any child fortunate enough to be endowed with such strong blood on both sides, ought to take what was due him. She'd told him so more than once. If she had never gone on to explicitly call him disappointing, she hadn't had to.
"I said I don't mind," he said, trying to sound firm. "If the others can bear it, so can I. Since I have, um... such powerful blood... and everything. Like you said." Never mind his fingers; the cold was even making his wits sluggish. He hoped she'd find this satisfactory all the same.
"If the others can bear it, let them. You have nothing to prove," she said sharply, but flounced off all the same.
She might have been happier if she knew: he had every intention of taking what was due him. Someone who could look at the snow falling on a dead and silent world and be relieved, and think it beautiful, was surely due all the sting of its cold.
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Pelleas, Almedha
Word count: ~700
Warnings: none
Notes: One-word prompt meme thing; prompt is "snow," courtesy of Raphien.
Pelleas had always liked snow.
He had always liked snow, though his tolerance for the cold had always been abominable, and he had come off the worst in every snowball fight (he'd never wanted to be in snowball fights, but the older children at the orphanage had seldom left him any choice), and he had always come back inside blue-lipped and shivering. He liked snow, even though within a few hours of everyone else's waking up it turned into that depressing grayish-brown sludge that sat in sullen heaps in the alleys for months until it melted.
It was just so beautiful. It made the world look so pure and quiet. You could get up before anyone else and set out, to go get a book or look at the trees in their shells of ice, and when you looked back and saw only your tracks leading you there, you felt like everything you knew was a secret. You felt like the only person in the world.
But that was the point this time, wasn't it? That last was much too close to the truth now. The air was pristine and the hills were trackless and somehow every hour of the day felt like the last few minutes before dawn, and it was beautiful, and it was dreadful, and he hadn't expected to see much of this season at all.
"My son," said Almedha, bustling over. The hem of her dress left fluttering trails in the snow, and he looked at them rather than at her, wondering: if anyone ever came here again, would they see those traces and think they'd been left by some kind of outlandish sled? Or was that only the mistake of someone who didn't know near enough about royal dress? "You're cold. Your hands are like ice" - she didn't take his hands until after she'd said it, but of course she would immediately find she was quite right - "and those boots of yours are leaking, I'm sure. Your poor feet. Come, Pelleas. Let Mother fetch you some more furs - and you really ought to be riding, my dear, it doesn't do for a king to go tromping about -"
He shook his head, withdrawing his hands from hers. "Thank you, Mother, but I don't mind."
"Your teeth are chattering."
So they were. He'd hoped she wouldn't notice. "I'd really prefer..."
"To die of a chill now? After all I went through to get you back?" Her voice had dropped low and that dangerous look was in her eyes, like a door somewhere in her mind had swung off its hinges. "I won't allow it," she said, touching his face. Her hands were much colder than his. "I'll have them call a halt," she said. "You need a fire and something hot to drink. I don't know why you let them abuse you like this." And here was a different dangerous look she had, one he hadn't started seeing until recently. The one that said, Where did this boy go wrong? Any son of hers, any son of Ashnard's, and certainly any child fortunate enough to be endowed with such strong blood on both sides, ought to take what was due him. She'd told him so more than once. If she had never gone on to explicitly call him disappointing, she hadn't had to.
"I said I don't mind," he said, trying to sound firm. "If the others can bear it, so can I. Since I have, um... such powerful blood... and everything. Like you said." Never mind his fingers; the cold was even making his wits sluggish. He hoped she'd find this satisfactory all the same.
"If the others can bear it, let them. You have nothing to prove," she said sharply, but flounced off all the same.
She might have been happier if she knew: he had every intention of taking what was due him. Someone who could look at the snow falling on a dead and silent world and be relieved, and think it beautiful, was surely due all the sting of its cold.
