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femslashficlets2016-03-07 08:44 pm
rosage) wrote in femslashficlets2016-03-07 08:44 pm
Sappho #20
Title: Survival
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance
Pairing: Jill/Mist
Rating: G
Prompt: Sappho #20 -- spangled is/the earth with her crowns
Word Count: 440
Summary: They cling to life in a dead land.
A patch of flowers blooms in otherwise barren earth. If Mist hadn’t crouched beside them, Jill wouldn’t have noticed, but once she does the white cluster stands out like the inverse of a wyvern against a milky sky.
Jill’s boots make sucking noises in the mud. Upon closer look she sees the moisture clinging to the petals, which sag under the weight, stems valiantly holding them up. She has the foolish urge to say see, Daein has resilience, it’s not all destruction and rot—but pointing to weeds as her nation’s saving grace makes it look all the more wretched. Besides, she wouldn’t be giving credit where it’s due. She’s not surprised that Mist found the only bit of life in this wet desert.
Mist’s sigh doesn’t form a cloud as it did that morning. “It would be cruel to pick some when there are so few, wouldn’t it?”
Just the evening before, Jill cleaned blood off of her spear. “I guess.”
“I wish I could put a pitcher of them on the mess table. Or give a bouquet to Titania—oh! Or make chains for us to wear. You’d look so pretty.”
Seconds after her lament, she’s smiling at the idea. Jill will never understand how easily Mist releases moods. She can’t understand what would be so pretty about a flower chain over her scuffed breastplate, either, but again Mist has moved on, toddling at the effort to walk while her feet sink into the slop. Jill follows, watching dutifully in case Mist slips.
“There’s a lake near the fort,” Mist says in the tone she uses when thinking of Crimea. It reminds Jill, somehow, of the herons’ song. “The most beautiful wildflowers grow around it. They look kind of like those, but with wider petals, and there’s a whole blanket of them. I bet there’s a thousand.”
“Wow,” is all Jill can say. While she tries to picture a thousand flowers, she bumps into Mist, who’s halted. Her gloved fingers reach back in search of Jill’s. While Jill may hesitate about other aspects of their relationship, her grip on Mist is always firm, solidness being one of the few things she knows she can provide.
“I wanted to see them again, when spring came,” Mist says.
Jill stands silent, the fatalism and the slight wobble in Mist’s voice soaking in like the mud must through her cloth boots, until her offer of solidness seems as solitary and futile as a flower in a wintry land.
“You will,” Jill says, her old stubbornness returning in place of Mist’s optimism. Mist squeezes her fingers and continues on through the muck.
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance
Pairing: Jill/Mist
Rating: G
Prompt: Sappho #20 -- spangled is/the earth with her crowns
Word Count: 440
Summary: They cling to life in a dead land.
A patch of flowers blooms in otherwise barren earth. If Mist hadn’t crouched beside them, Jill wouldn’t have noticed, but once she does the white cluster stands out like the inverse of a wyvern against a milky sky.
Jill’s boots make sucking noises in the mud. Upon closer look she sees the moisture clinging to the petals, which sag under the weight, stems valiantly holding them up. She has the foolish urge to say see, Daein has resilience, it’s not all destruction and rot—but pointing to weeds as her nation’s saving grace makes it look all the more wretched. Besides, she wouldn’t be giving credit where it’s due. She’s not surprised that Mist found the only bit of life in this wet desert.
Mist’s sigh doesn’t form a cloud as it did that morning. “It would be cruel to pick some when there are so few, wouldn’t it?”
Just the evening before, Jill cleaned blood off of her spear. “I guess.”
“I wish I could put a pitcher of them on the mess table. Or give a bouquet to Titania—oh! Or make chains for us to wear. You’d look so pretty.”
Seconds after her lament, she’s smiling at the idea. Jill will never understand how easily Mist releases moods. She can’t understand what would be so pretty about a flower chain over her scuffed breastplate, either, but again Mist has moved on, toddling at the effort to walk while her feet sink into the slop. Jill follows, watching dutifully in case Mist slips.
“There’s a lake near the fort,” Mist says in the tone she uses when thinking of Crimea. It reminds Jill, somehow, of the herons’ song. “The most beautiful wildflowers grow around it. They look kind of like those, but with wider petals, and there’s a whole blanket of them. I bet there’s a thousand.”
“Wow,” is all Jill can say. While she tries to picture a thousand flowers, she bumps into Mist, who’s halted. Her gloved fingers reach back in search of Jill’s. While Jill may hesitate about other aspects of their relationship, her grip on Mist is always firm, solidness being one of the few things she knows she can provide.
“I wanted to see them again, when spring came,” Mist says.
Jill stands silent, the fatalism and the slight wobble in Mist’s voice soaking in like the mud must through her cloth boots, until her offer of solidness seems as solitary and futile as a flower in a wintry land.
“You will,” Jill says, her old stubbornness returning in place of Mist’s optimism. Mist squeezes her fingers and continues on through the muck.