![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shinonSomeday I will stop writing this terrible man and his excellent not-daughter. Someday, I say, even though it has been like six solid months
1. Salt
Characters: Fafnir, Chloe, Bertrand
Word count: ~900
Notes/warnings: Second person POV, character death, angst, language, I should be ashamed of myself but I'm absolutely not.
Flavio lives to be seventy-one, Arianna to eighty-seven, and Chloe a hundred and three. You thought you would lose them all at once, at some specified average human lifespan. Staggered out like this, it's much worse. You finally adjust to life with one familiar face fewer, and then disaster strikes you again.
Chloe's funeral is well attended, in part because she was much loved by her students and in part because she was very explicit that it had to be a big party with lots of snacks. “People are allowed to be sad,” she said, perfectly lucid and self-possessed to the last, “and they should be, because I'm great. I would miss me, too. But they can cry about it on their own time. If I only get one chance to get everyone I like under one roof, they should have a nice time. Remind them that I died to give them a nice time.”
You were there near the end, because she wrote you a letter saying that she wasn't hungry and you're capable of reading between the lines. You sat by her bed reminiscing for a few hours, and then she thanked you and squeezed your hand and said she was tired, so you left. She was found dead the next morning, as you knew she would be. You remembered – you still remember – how young she was when you met; you remember that the six years you have over her once seemed like a huge gap in maturity and experience. She has died of old age, peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, and you are still six years older than her. You were friends, and you'll always remember her as a friend, but you may have never really been peers. She was a weird kid and you were kinda-sorta an adult, and then one day you realized she'd overtaken you.
You've pledged your service to Arianna's family. It was the easiest thing to do, after Flavio didn't need you anymore. Individuals die, Caledonia will continue to cycle through heirs and rulers, but there will be continuity there. You'll have a purpose, and you won't have to hide your immortality, and the descendants of a dear friend will be your dear friends as well. You'll keep them safe. Arianna's son is king in Caledonia now and his kids are as strange and earnest as Arianna was. You don't really allow yourself to think about how you'll outlive them too. You're not there yet. You're not yet accustomed to the cycles of attrition. But they'll have children too. Royal families perpetuate themselves. You won't run out of people to protect.
So now it is after Chloe's funeral and you are in a dark corner of a bar, trying, unsuccessfully, to explain your decision to Bertrand. (Chloe said he'd show up, and you thought you were sparing her feelings by not telling her that you doubted it. But Chloe knows – knew – Chloe always knew things that you didn't.) You are trying to present an argument for why he should join you. You would like his company – you would like the company of anyone who doesn't hold you in awe, and that list is shortening by the year – and you worry about him, and what he might do to himself in continued isolation. You don't couch it in those terms, of course. You make noises about how the royal house of Caledonia is tied to the Fafnir Knight and owes the both of you a hell of an apology, so it's a pretty cushy position, mostly symbolic, they'll accept you no questions asked and you won't even have to do anything. This argument seems to be making headway, because you know this guy and you know on some level he wants to belong to something. But then you commit the fatal error of mentioning, offhand, that Arianna's family is Violetta's too, and -
“Okay,” he says, “shut the fuck up.” Out of courtesy you attribute the rasp in his voice to old age, even though he could still pass for fiftysomething. He's still bigger than you, and still strong. “I was already done with this... dynastic bullshit, and that's not helping your case. That's worse. I'm done watching people -” He gestures back in the direction of the cemetery where you left Chloe for the last time, and does not complete the thought.
You apologize. Your invitation was in earnest, but what else can you say? Nothing you can do will make him take it now.
“Yeah, yeah. Any more wounds you wanna grind salt into, or can I go?”
You consider telling him that Chloe is/was/would be happy he made it, but you can't decide whether this constitutes more salt. Despite the sarcasm, he is furtively pressing the heel of his hand against one reddened eye, as if treating his grief with boredom and contempt will make it go away.
You really only have one card left to play, and it's a big shitty guilt trip, but at least you know big shitty guilt trips work on him. If it's too much to handle, you tell him, then yeah, he can go. But when all's said and done, he's not even going to be the last man standing. It'll be you. You tell him to try not to let that be too soon.
He grumbles curses at you the whole way out. You hope this is an agreement not to fall in an unmarked grave a thousand miles from home. You can't be sure.
2. A Plan
Characters: Bertrand, Chloe
Word count: ~700
Notes/warnings: Only 5-6 years post canon this time, so nothing's gone too badly off the rails yet. Yet. Language and angst anyway.
“You’re scared,” said Chloe. A moment later she added, “Aren’t you,” to make it sound less like an accusation, but she left the question mark off that part too.
For a second he just stood there, his mind totally blank, until reflex kicked in and he said, “No, I -”
“Don’t lie.” She had him cornered in the garden behind the inn, and her face was unreadable in the dark of the half moon. “I know you. You’re scared, and you want to leave.”
He folded his arms. Chloe had gotten harder to stonewall over the years, but the tactics could be adapted. He’d had some luck lately with acting so superior that she got annoyed enough to drop the subject. “Honestly, Chloe, if you’re gonna spend your school break threatening me from the shadows, you shouldn’t be that surprised. Who’d wanna spend time with that? You gotta put some more thought into how you come off to people -”
“I’m not threatening you, and that’s not funny. I don’t care how I come off, and you don’t, either. You’re doing that thing.”
Well, crap. Better find a new angle for next time. “What thing?”
“That thing. Where you make sure everything is in order and I’m okay and I have people to look after me, and you start traveling lighter, and you stop answering questions. And you get super condescending. The last time you got like this, you turned into a giant monster and I had to fight you and you were medically dead for at least fifteen seconds, so don’t pretend. I know what I’m talking about.”
The situation had surpassed “well, crap” and gone straight into “ah, fuck.” “I mean, hey,” he said, with an uneasy shrug, “I couldn’t turn into a giant monster again if I tried. Do we really have to have this conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He groaned.
Then things took a turn. “You’re trying to make sure I’ll be okay and I have people to help me after you leave. What about you? Will you be okay? Do you have people?”
He didn’t have an answer. He’d expected to get either yelled at or quietly judged, and he would’ve preferred the former. Questions like that never even occurred to him. They had no bearing on reality. Who the hell would care about him? Why the hell should they? He wasn’t that kind of person. He didn’t live that kind of life. He wasn’t even human.
“Trand,” said Chloe. “If I have to have a plan, then you do, too. You can’t just go vanish. Promise.”
He stared at her in silence. How could he say anything? He didn’t understand what she was asking. This kind of shit shouldn’t apply to him. Right? So he never had to think about -
“I know you’re leaving eventually. But I’m not ready. And I’m not going to be ready until I know you’re safe. So you have to...”
“‘Safe,’” he echoed, and the word itself felt weird, like it didn’t fit in his mouth.
Yep. Calling it here. Getting yelled at would've been so much better.
“Yeah. You have to come back and get me for the next vacation and buy me a steak. It’s in two months. You don’t… have to show up for all of them, after that. But you have to live. And you definitely have to come back next time.”
In some corner of his mind, he thought, What the fuck, did I just get put on suicide watch by a college kid? That’s hilarious. But more to the point: one more visit was an easy thing to promise. Easy enough to just go with it and see where things went from there. (The same corner of his mind thought, Okay, but really, if she gives me the third degree next time too, I’m out.) “All right, I promise.”’
“Good.” She held out her hand. “Now shake on it.” He did, feeling ridiculous. “And just so you know, the steak part is legally binding.” And she pivoted and walked away before anything more could be said. There was nothing more to discuss. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around what she already had said.
Will you be okay?
I’m not ready.
1. Salt
Characters: Fafnir, Chloe, Bertrand
Word count: ~900
Notes/warnings: Second person POV, character death, angst, language, I should be ashamed of myself but I'm absolutely not.
Flavio lives to be seventy-one, Arianna to eighty-seven, and Chloe a hundred and three. You thought you would lose them all at once, at some specified average human lifespan. Staggered out like this, it's much worse. You finally adjust to life with one familiar face fewer, and then disaster strikes you again.
Chloe's funeral is well attended, in part because she was much loved by her students and in part because she was very explicit that it had to be a big party with lots of snacks. “People are allowed to be sad,” she said, perfectly lucid and self-possessed to the last, “and they should be, because I'm great. I would miss me, too. But they can cry about it on their own time. If I only get one chance to get everyone I like under one roof, they should have a nice time. Remind them that I died to give them a nice time.”
You were there near the end, because she wrote you a letter saying that she wasn't hungry and you're capable of reading between the lines. You sat by her bed reminiscing for a few hours, and then she thanked you and squeezed your hand and said she was tired, so you left. She was found dead the next morning, as you knew she would be. You remembered – you still remember – how young she was when you met; you remember that the six years you have over her once seemed like a huge gap in maturity and experience. She has died of old age, peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, and you are still six years older than her. You were friends, and you'll always remember her as a friend, but you may have never really been peers. She was a weird kid and you were kinda-sorta an adult, and then one day you realized she'd overtaken you.
You've pledged your service to Arianna's family. It was the easiest thing to do, after Flavio didn't need you anymore. Individuals die, Caledonia will continue to cycle through heirs and rulers, but there will be continuity there. You'll have a purpose, and you won't have to hide your immortality, and the descendants of a dear friend will be your dear friends as well. You'll keep them safe. Arianna's son is king in Caledonia now and his kids are as strange and earnest as Arianna was. You don't really allow yourself to think about how you'll outlive them too. You're not there yet. You're not yet accustomed to the cycles of attrition. But they'll have children too. Royal families perpetuate themselves. You won't run out of people to protect.
So now it is after Chloe's funeral and you are in a dark corner of a bar, trying, unsuccessfully, to explain your decision to Bertrand. (Chloe said he'd show up, and you thought you were sparing her feelings by not telling her that you doubted it. But Chloe knows – knew – Chloe always knew things that you didn't.) You are trying to present an argument for why he should join you. You would like his company – you would like the company of anyone who doesn't hold you in awe, and that list is shortening by the year – and you worry about him, and what he might do to himself in continued isolation. You don't couch it in those terms, of course. You make noises about how the royal house of Caledonia is tied to the Fafnir Knight and owes the both of you a hell of an apology, so it's a pretty cushy position, mostly symbolic, they'll accept you no questions asked and you won't even have to do anything. This argument seems to be making headway, because you know this guy and you know on some level he wants to belong to something. But then you commit the fatal error of mentioning, offhand, that Arianna's family is Violetta's too, and -
“Okay,” he says, “shut the fuck up.” Out of courtesy you attribute the rasp in his voice to old age, even though he could still pass for fiftysomething. He's still bigger than you, and still strong. “I was already done with this... dynastic bullshit, and that's not helping your case. That's worse. I'm done watching people -” He gestures back in the direction of the cemetery where you left Chloe for the last time, and does not complete the thought.
You apologize. Your invitation was in earnest, but what else can you say? Nothing you can do will make him take it now.
“Yeah, yeah. Any more wounds you wanna grind salt into, or can I go?”
You consider telling him that Chloe is/was/would be happy he made it, but you can't decide whether this constitutes more salt. Despite the sarcasm, he is furtively pressing the heel of his hand against one reddened eye, as if treating his grief with boredom and contempt will make it go away.
You really only have one card left to play, and it's a big shitty guilt trip, but at least you know big shitty guilt trips work on him. If it's too much to handle, you tell him, then yeah, he can go. But when all's said and done, he's not even going to be the last man standing. It'll be you. You tell him to try not to let that be too soon.
He grumbles curses at you the whole way out. You hope this is an agreement not to fall in an unmarked grave a thousand miles from home. You can't be sure.
2. A Plan
Characters: Bertrand, Chloe
Word count: ~700
Notes/warnings: Only 5-6 years post canon this time, so nothing's gone too badly off the rails yet. Yet. Language and angst anyway.
“You’re scared,” said Chloe. A moment later she added, “Aren’t you,” to make it sound less like an accusation, but she left the question mark off that part too.
For a second he just stood there, his mind totally blank, until reflex kicked in and he said, “No, I -”
“Don’t lie.” She had him cornered in the garden behind the inn, and her face was unreadable in the dark of the half moon. “I know you. You’re scared, and you want to leave.”
He folded his arms. Chloe had gotten harder to stonewall over the years, but the tactics could be adapted. He’d had some luck lately with acting so superior that she got annoyed enough to drop the subject. “Honestly, Chloe, if you’re gonna spend your school break threatening me from the shadows, you shouldn’t be that surprised. Who’d wanna spend time with that? You gotta put some more thought into how you come off to people -”
“I’m not threatening you, and that’s not funny. I don’t care how I come off, and you don’t, either. You’re doing that thing.”
Well, crap. Better find a new angle for next time. “What thing?”
“That thing. Where you make sure everything is in order and I’m okay and I have people to look after me, and you start traveling lighter, and you stop answering questions. And you get super condescending. The last time you got like this, you turned into a giant monster and I had to fight you and you were medically dead for at least fifteen seconds, so don’t pretend. I know what I’m talking about.”
The situation had surpassed “well, crap” and gone straight into “ah, fuck.” “I mean, hey,” he said, with an uneasy shrug, “I couldn’t turn into a giant monster again if I tried. Do we really have to have this conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He groaned.
Then things took a turn. “You’re trying to make sure I’ll be okay and I have people to help me after you leave. What about you? Will you be okay? Do you have people?”
He didn’t have an answer. He’d expected to get either yelled at or quietly judged, and he would’ve preferred the former. Questions like that never even occurred to him. They had no bearing on reality. Who the hell would care about him? Why the hell should they? He wasn’t that kind of person. He didn’t live that kind of life. He wasn’t even human.
“Trand,” said Chloe. “If I have to have a plan, then you do, too. You can’t just go vanish. Promise.”
He stared at her in silence. How could he say anything? He didn’t understand what she was asking. This kind of shit shouldn’t apply to him. Right? So he never had to think about -
“I know you’re leaving eventually. But I’m not ready. And I’m not going to be ready until I know you’re safe. So you have to...”
“‘Safe,’” he echoed, and the word itself felt weird, like it didn’t fit in his mouth.
Yep. Calling it here. Getting yelled at would've been so much better.
“Yeah. You have to come back and get me for the next vacation and buy me a steak. It’s in two months. You don’t… have to show up for all of them, after that. But you have to live. And you definitely have to come back next time.”
In some corner of his mind, he thought, What the fuck, did I just get put on suicide watch by a college kid? That’s hilarious. But more to the point: one more visit was an easy thing to promise. Easy enough to just go with it and see where things went from there. (The same corner of his mind thought, Okay, but really, if she gives me the third degree next time too, I’m out.) “All right, I promise.”’
“Good.” She held out her hand. “Now shake on it.” He did, feeling ridiculous. “And just so you know, the steak part is legally binding.” And she pivoted and walked away before anything more could be said. There was nothing more to discuss. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around what she already had said.
Will you be okay?
I’m not ready.
