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femslashficlets2015-10-14 08:28 pm
rosage) wrote in femslashficlets2015-10-14 08:28 pm
Entry tags:
Her Wish (Sappho #1)
Title: Her Wish
Fandom: Fire Emblem (Archanea games)
Pairing: Palla/Minerva
Rating: G
Prompt: Sappho #1 - Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind
Word Count: 975
Summary: Post-canon, Minerva makes a serious request.
Minerva leans her axe against the outer corner of the fence, the bloodied blade pointing away from the convent. A fresh stump where a tree was surrendered to the fire heap serves as a suitable stool, letting her bend her aching knees and set her head between them. Flying from mountain to mountain over a battlefield never made her this dizzy. Perhaps it’s the immediacy. Each corpse had been a dot beneath the clouds, a web of which the connections were beyond her. Three brigands now lay beneath the tree where Maria once taught a pair of twins to climb, marked with rocks Minerva plans to explain to no one, and it presses upon her that she could not carve their names.
A winged shadow passes over her. When Palla lands and dismounts, Minerva only lifts her head, afraid that by standing she’ll immediately give away her injuries. She’s sure Palla makes the connection herself when she sees the axe, though she drops easily to one knee before Minerva.
“Forgive me for not arriving sooner,” Palla says, her chin lowered. Minerva thinks of lifting it but doesn’t.
“Think nothing of it. I took care of matters myself.”
Questions seem to swim in Palla’s eyes when she looks up, though she asks after the important thing first, the safety of those in the convent. Minerva confirms they are sequestered inside, the children in bed with a fever and the clerics looking after them. It is a hidden blessing, as Maria would have insisted upon coming with her.
“She’ll give you an earful if we don’t see to those wounds,” Palla says.
“The healers have their hands full already. Besides, they’re only scrapes.” Minerva waves an arm, taking care to avoid grimacing. Palla purses her lips.
“The sole protector of those children doesn’t have a choice in whether or not to care for her body.”
Though it’s inane, Minerva always wants to grin when Palla is blunt with her. The words keep her sober. “You’re right, as usual. Yet my body is not what ails me.”
The hard edges of Palla’s eyes and voice soften. “Then what does?”
Minerva works her jaw, chewing at her thoughts. She would not be so trite as to say she regrets killing; to do so would dishonor the men she’s slain and herself. How can she claim to be above the savageness when the smell of blood still tints the air, rust and metal overpowering the freshness of dirt and dew?
“Macedon is a land founded by slaves, not a land for the noble houses to weed out those who feel they must take,” she finally says. “Perhaps something could have been done to prevent this.”
It’s Palla that tips down Minerva’s chin with a firm hand. “Do not speak of regret. I know you would never have abandoned a post where you felt you were most needed.” Her fingers slide up to brush grime away from a cut at the edge of Minerva’s cheek. Minerva’s eyelids twitch at the sting. Behind them Palla’s words circle, chasing away her fog.
“You always find me when I forget myself,” Minerva says. Her thumb presses into a crease on the leg of her trousers, trying to stem the ache below. “And I know you would not do that, either. More so than I.”
Palla’s knee is still planted in the dirt, her pose nonetheless noble. Her pegasus whinnies at the gate, trained well enough she never has to tether it to keep it still. She seems to sense that Minerva has more to say, though Minerva herself feels the words trip, half-formed, on her tongue. She continues slowly.
“Palla, more than anyone I know the depth of your devotion. How you set all else aside for the sake of your duty, both to the crown and your siblings. All of Macedon needs you.”
She has the urge to close her eyes; her voice already feels as if it comes from somewhere outside of her. But Palla deserves to be faced fully.
“I thought it right this morning that I set out myself. I sat here afterward, feeling less grounded than I can remember, even though my boots were set in soil and I was away from the loftiness of upper classes.”
Palla’s gaze is steady, unreadable. It hits Minerva what she’s preparing to ask for, a desire she had not considered voicing, not when Palla carries her own burdens and yet manages to take time to visit.
Minerva wants help with caring for and protecting the children. She wants trust and companionship, a piece of her old life. She wants Palla, her counsel and her tenderness and the strong line of her shoulders.
She wants the sky back.
Yet a want cannot move her. A cut from a bandit’s knife burns below Minerva’s elbow, and she bites her tongue through a hiss. “I will not belabor the point. I only ask that you hear me.”
“Always.”
“I need you,” Minerva says. “Whether more than anyone else does is not my right to decide. Perhaps it’s yours. Either way, I had to make myself plain.”
Something flickers across Palla’s face, a drop of guard she doesn’t seem to recover from even when her eyebrows lower and her mouth closes. After several breaths she takes Minerva’s hand, fist uncurling halfway as Palla presses the knuckles to her lips.
“I’ve already told you. I am yours before I am Macedon’s, Commander. That stands whether or not you’ve claimed the throne.”
The title strikes a dissonant chord. It’s something Minerva feels they should correct in the future, but that they need to carry them through this moment. Regardless she soars, feeling more stable in her path than she can remember.
“Thank you,” she says, her other hand moving to cover Palla’s. “I cannot ask for anything more.”
Fandom: Fire Emblem (Archanea games)
Pairing: Palla/Minerva
Rating: G
Prompt: Sappho #1 - Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind
Word Count: 975
Summary: Post-canon, Minerva makes a serious request.
Minerva leans her axe against the outer corner of the fence, the bloodied blade pointing away from the convent. A fresh stump where a tree was surrendered to the fire heap serves as a suitable stool, letting her bend her aching knees and set her head between them. Flying from mountain to mountain over a battlefield never made her this dizzy. Perhaps it’s the immediacy. Each corpse had been a dot beneath the clouds, a web of which the connections were beyond her. Three brigands now lay beneath the tree where Maria once taught a pair of twins to climb, marked with rocks Minerva plans to explain to no one, and it presses upon her that she could not carve their names.
A winged shadow passes over her. When Palla lands and dismounts, Minerva only lifts her head, afraid that by standing she’ll immediately give away her injuries. She’s sure Palla makes the connection herself when she sees the axe, though she drops easily to one knee before Minerva.
“Forgive me for not arriving sooner,” Palla says, her chin lowered. Minerva thinks of lifting it but doesn’t.
“Think nothing of it. I took care of matters myself.”
Questions seem to swim in Palla’s eyes when she looks up, though she asks after the important thing first, the safety of those in the convent. Minerva confirms they are sequestered inside, the children in bed with a fever and the clerics looking after them. It is a hidden blessing, as Maria would have insisted upon coming with her.
“She’ll give you an earful if we don’t see to those wounds,” Palla says.
“The healers have their hands full already. Besides, they’re only scrapes.” Minerva waves an arm, taking care to avoid grimacing. Palla purses her lips.
“The sole protector of those children doesn’t have a choice in whether or not to care for her body.”
Though it’s inane, Minerva always wants to grin when Palla is blunt with her. The words keep her sober. “You’re right, as usual. Yet my body is not what ails me.”
The hard edges of Palla’s eyes and voice soften. “Then what does?”
Minerva works her jaw, chewing at her thoughts. She would not be so trite as to say she regrets killing; to do so would dishonor the men she’s slain and herself. How can she claim to be above the savageness when the smell of blood still tints the air, rust and metal overpowering the freshness of dirt and dew?
“Macedon is a land founded by slaves, not a land for the noble houses to weed out those who feel they must take,” she finally says. “Perhaps something could have been done to prevent this.”
It’s Palla that tips down Minerva’s chin with a firm hand. “Do not speak of regret. I know you would never have abandoned a post where you felt you were most needed.” Her fingers slide up to brush grime away from a cut at the edge of Minerva’s cheek. Minerva’s eyelids twitch at the sting. Behind them Palla’s words circle, chasing away her fog.
“You always find me when I forget myself,” Minerva says. Her thumb presses into a crease on the leg of her trousers, trying to stem the ache below. “And I know you would not do that, either. More so than I.”
Palla’s knee is still planted in the dirt, her pose nonetheless noble. Her pegasus whinnies at the gate, trained well enough she never has to tether it to keep it still. She seems to sense that Minerva has more to say, though Minerva herself feels the words trip, half-formed, on her tongue. She continues slowly.
“Palla, more than anyone I know the depth of your devotion. How you set all else aside for the sake of your duty, both to the crown and your siblings. All of Macedon needs you.”
She has the urge to close her eyes; her voice already feels as if it comes from somewhere outside of her. But Palla deserves to be faced fully.
“I thought it right this morning that I set out myself. I sat here afterward, feeling less grounded than I can remember, even though my boots were set in soil and I was away from the loftiness of upper classes.”
Palla’s gaze is steady, unreadable. It hits Minerva what she’s preparing to ask for, a desire she had not considered voicing, not when Palla carries her own burdens and yet manages to take time to visit.
Minerva wants help with caring for and protecting the children. She wants trust and companionship, a piece of her old life. She wants Palla, her counsel and her tenderness and the strong line of her shoulders.
She wants the sky back.
Yet a want cannot move her. A cut from a bandit’s knife burns below Minerva’s elbow, and she bites her tongue through a hiss. “I will not belabor the point. I only ask that you hear me.”
“Always.”
“I need you,” Minerva says. “Whether more than anyone else does is not my right to decide. Perhaps it’s yours. Either way, I had to make myself plain.”
Something flickers across Palla’s face, a drop of guard she doesn’t seem to recover from even when her eyebrows lower and her mouth closes. After several breaths she takes Minerva’s hand, fist uncurling halfway as Palla presses the knuckles to her lips.
“I’ve already told you. I am yours before I am Macedon’s, Commander. That stands whether or not you’ve claimed the throne.”
The title strikes a dissonant chord. It’s something Minerva feels they should correct in the future, but that they need to carry them through this moment. Regardless she soars, feeling more stable in her path than she can remember.
“Thank you,” she says, her other hand moving to cover Palla’s. “I cannot ask for anything more.”