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kolI 'finished' a fic and don't know if I should publish it... but when has that ever stopped me? This is very much a draft, but I think it would be good to see where it goes :D
fandom: Et Ego In Arcadia
character: Neve Tamar aka Icarus In Exile
prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
31_days: one pierced moment whiter than the rest (due to be finished on the 17th).
Further note:
Okay, the whole thing is awkward and hurty and needs a lot of work, but feel free to comment if you think I went in the wrong direction. Comments keep me going. If you see anything you want me to keep, let me know so I don't cut it XD. Also #4 is going to change because I can't write adult-drabble, especially when I got the whole thing out in under 45 minutes. XD
.one. (Backcliffs, Icarus)
“When is Gamma coming back?” is the last thing Variya Tamar, age three, says. There is no answer, even though her whole world stands beside her, staring at the stupid fire.
To her, the flames seemed to bite and claw at the sky, tearing at the too-blue mass and making it bleed orange. She has never been allowed outside this late, and wonders where the sun has gone. Gamma would know, but no one will tell her when she’ll be back. Maybe the sun has left to find Gamma, like something out of the stories the old woman would tell her.
Something heavy presses against her curls. She wriggles out of the hold to find her only Uncle smiling down at her, his face cracked and ancient. “Gamma Neve isn’t coming back, little Varii,” He explains, patting her head with is heavy claw. “She has joined our family who passed on before her. But as long as we remember her, a part of Neve will live on forever.”
She frowns at the fire before her, remembering Gamma’s story about why her sister changed her name. Vinya had become Sofronia so that her sister’s best friend, taken by the cliffs, would live on in her sister.
“Gamma will be remembered by everyone,” She vows, suddenly realizing what part of the story she has stumbled upon. “Because when I become the best space pirate dragon slaying knight ever, the whole universe will remember our name, Neve.”
.two. (Heir Quarters, Uranus)
It was on the third pass of the vapors that Neve saw the flash of metal exploding in the atmosphere, felt the pressure tear her own skin to nothingness. It was death, she knew at once, the canister falling from her nerveless fingertips. She is brought back to the room only by the brush of Emarii’s hand against Neve’s thigh, reaching for the canister with fingers made vapor-clumsy.
“Silly Neve,” the blond girl teases, filling the cramped quarters with a breathless laugh. “You have to breathe in the gases. I thought you were a pro at this.”
Neve says nothing, watching the gas trick Emarii’s mind to ecstasy for the fourth time that night. It is just a hallucination, she tells herself as the canister tumbles to the floor. Emarii’s slender body glides onto the mattress as she tells herself safe in the tower. It is easy to dismiss the fear clawing at Neve’s heart as a slow smile tugs at Emarii’s usually stern face.
But she cannot craft a lie strong enough to convince her hand to take the canister again that night, nor the next. Emarii gently laughs at her fears, counting all the turns Neve will have to take with the canister to match Emarii. In a week, she promises, Neve will have forgotten any silly hallucination and be forced to catch up.
After all, what hopeful Space Pirate is scared shitless by a tiny bit of vapors?
As she strolls into the shuttle, Emarii reminds Neve she’s six turns behind. But Uranus swallows Emarii three hours later, leaving Neve next for the starseed... and the canister.
It is always Emarii’s turn now.
.three. (somewhere in Vega Space)
Three days into the spiraling fall away from the slaughter, Neve wishes she knew how to trick the gauges to lie. She has two, maybe three days left of oxygen, and the fuel gauge is stubbornly refusing to bulge from zero. The last of the rations are stale in her mouth as she considers her situation.
For the first time, she wishes she was in Emarii’s shoes, death in a fiery instant. Dying of oxygen starvation will take a long time, and her mind will be hopelessly aware of the slow, spiraling fall.
She wonders on the fourth day as she sips the last of the water if all who wear the mantle of Sailor Icarus are cursed to relive that lethal dive. Icarus needs no fuel, she realizes, racing to prepare the aft compartment for its wings.
As the explosion rocks the shuttle away from the melted corpse of the aft compartment, she rationally knows the motion is not enough to bring her to the nearest station. But this is her last flight, and as she settles in against the ship’s thin skin, she knows she has earned this fall.
On the fifth day, she tapes 50% over the oxygen gauge and wonders if the next Icarus will fly on wings not crafted of such transparent, desperate lies.
The answer is delayed by the arrival of Taavi Kuusi and her motley crew.
.four. (Corridor on the Kuusi Raider... um kind of racy in the Kol can't write racy stuff unless it is about the pretender kind of way)
“You will leave us one day.” Vitor’s hot breath digs into Neve’s neck, branding her after all these years the outsider she couldn’t deny she was. But his hands are possessive as they press against her skin, his hips digging into her own. It is uncomfortable being sandwiched between Vitor and the bulkhead, but the fire in his eyes makes her keep her mouth closed. She doubts her discomfort would win her any favors, not with Vitor in one of his moods.
“Perhaps,” Neve can feel his pulse, striking fast and hard, and cannot ignore her own has risen to match his. “But if I leave, who do you have for this?”
In their short week as lovers, Neve has learned precisely where to press her lips to make him moan, to make him lose control and forget how much traffic walks this corridor. The passion that follows is fast and messy and too quick for her own release. He leans back, leaving chill and fear when he is unable to meet her eyes.
He rips out her heart with five words. "I love you, Neve Paju.”
She is a lie born of necessity, and the reminder is as unwelcome as her thwarted passion. She will never be satisfied as Neve Paju.
But maybe she shouldn't stop trying. So she tightens her legs, holding him to her as if his cooled ardor will be enough to make her real. “Call me yours.”
.five. (On the Kuusi Raider, which seriously needs a name)
Seventeen year olds are not suppose to have hair peppered gray.
Neve doesn’t mind what her life has done to her body. She is stronger than she looks, and in a fight she can still take down any loyalists who refuse to be parted with their treasures. That is all that she believes should matter, which is why she ignores Taavi’s gentle warning that her hair attracts attention.
Her hair, Neve believes, is the one thing about her that is not a lie.
But any pirate knows things that witnesses find memorable are a health hazard, and after getting a tail put on her that blows the raid on the Factory, Neve has no choice but to request enough harsh bleach to get the job done.
She watches the stain in the sink grow, wondering if her history has finally bled from her.
There are no blond Tamars.
-------
So you see, awkward and yet it still hurts. Hopefully. I really need to fix this thing, but at least having it out there is enough to force me to fix it? Maybe?
fandom: Et Ego In Arcadia
character: Neve Tamar aka Icarus In Exile
prompt:
31_days: one pierced moment whiter than the rest (due to be finished on the 17th). Further note:
Okay, the whole thing is awkward and hurty and needs a lot of work, but feel free to comment if you think I went in the wrong direction. Comments keep me going. If you see anything you want me to keep, let me know so I don't cut it XD. Also #4 is going to change because I can't write adult-drabble, especially when I got the whole thing out in under 45 minutes. XD
.one. (Backcliffs, Icarus)
“When is Gamma coming back?” is the last thing Variya Tamar, age three, says. There is no answer, even though her whole world stands beside her, staring at the stupid fire.
To her, the flames seemed to bite and claw at the sky, tearing at the too-blue mass and making it bleed orange. She has never been allowed outside this late, and wonders where the sun has gone. Gamma would know, but no one will tell her when she’ll be back. Maybe the sun has left to find Gamma, like something out of the stories the old woman would tell her.
Something heavy presses against her curls. She wriggles out of the hold to find her only Uncle smiling down at her, his face cracked and ancient. “Gamma Neve isn’t coming back, little Varii,” He explains, patting her head with is heavy claw. “She has joined our family who passed on before her. But as long as we remember her, a part of Neve will live on forever.”
She frowns at the fire before her, remembering Gamma’s story about why her sister changed her name. Vinya had become Sofronia so that her sister’s best friend, taken by the cliffs, would live on in her sister.
“Gamma will be remembered by everyone,” She vows, suddenly realizing what part of the story she has stumbled upon. “Because when I become the best space pirate dragon slaying knight ever, the whole universe will remember our name, Neve.”
.two. (Heir Quarters, Uranus)
It was on the third pass of the vapors that Neve saw the flash of metal exploding in the atmosphere, felt the pressure tear her own skin to nothingness. It was death, she knew at once, the canister falling from her nerveless fingertips. She is brought back to the room only by the brush of Emarii’s hand against Neve’s thigh, reaching for the canister with fingers made vapor-clumsy.
“Silly Neve,” the blond girl teases, filling the cramped quarters with a breathless laugh. “You have to breathe in the gases. I thought you were a pro at this.”
Neve says nothing, watching the gas trick Emarii’s mind to ecstasy for the fourth time that night. It is just a hallucination, she tells herself as the canister tumbles to the floor. Emarii’s slender body glides onto the mattress as she tells herself safe in the tower. It is easy to dismiss the fear clawing at Neve’s heart as a slow smile tugs at Emarii’s usually stern face.
But she cannot craft a lie strong enough to convince her hand to take the canister again that night, nor the next. Emarii gently laughs at her fears, counting all the turns Neve will have to take with the canister to match Emarii. In a week, she promises, Neve will have forgotten any silly hallucination and be forced to catch up.
After all, what hopeful Space Pirate is scared shitless by a tiny bit of vapors?
As she strolls into the shuttle, Emarii reminds Neve she’s six turns behind. But Uranus swallows Emarii three hours later, leaving Neve next for the starseed... and the canister.
It is always Emarii’s turn now.
.three. (somewhere in Vega Space)
Three days into the spiraling fall away from the slaughter, Neve wishes she knew how to trick the gauges to lie. She has two, maybe three days left of oxygen, and the fuel gauge is stubbornly refusing to bulge from zero. The last of the rations are stale in her mouth as she considers her situation.
For the first time, she wishes she was in Emarii’s shoes, death in a fiery instant. Dying of oxygen starvation will take a long time, and her mind will be hopelessly aware of the slow, spiraling fall.
She wonders on the fourth day as she sips the last of the water if all who wear the mantle of Sailor Icarus are cursed to relive that lethal dive. Icarus needs no fuel, she realizes, racing to prepare the aft compartment for its wings.
As the explosion rocks the shuttle away from the melted corpse of the aft compartment, she rationally knows the motion is not enough to bring her to the nearest station. But this is her last flight, and as she settles in against the ship’s thin skin, she knows she has earned this fall.
On the fifth day, she tapes 50% over the oxygen gauge and wonders if the next Icarus will fly on wings not crafted of such transparent, desperate lies.
The answer is delayed by the arrival of Taavi Kuusi and her motley crew.
.four. (Corridor on the Kuusi Raider... um kind of racy in the Kol can't write racy stuff unless it is about the pretender kind of way)
“You will leave us one day.” Vitor’s hot breath digs into Neve’s neck, branding her after all these years the outsider she couldn’t deny she was. But his hands are possessive as they press against her skin, his hips digging into her own. It is uncomfortable being sandwiched between Vitor and the bulkhead, but the fire in his eyes makes her keep her mouth closed. She doubts her discomfort would win her any favors, not with Vitor in one of his moods.
“Perhaps,” Neve can feel his pulse, striking fast and hard, and cannot ignore her own has risen to match his. “But if I leave, who do you have for this?”
In their short week as lovers, Neve has learned precisely where to press her lips to make him moan, to make him lose control and forget how much traffic walks this corridor. The passion that follows is fast and messy and too quick for her own release. He leans back, leaving chill and fear when he is unable to meet her eyes.
He rips out her heart with five words. "I love you, Neve Paju.”
She is a lie born of necessity, and the reminder is as unwelcome as her thwarted passion. She will never be satisfied as Neve Paju.
But maybe she shouldn't stop trying. So she tightens her legs, holding him to her as if his cooled ardor will be enough to make her real. “Call me yours.”
.five. (On the Kuusi Raider, which seriously needs a name)
Seventeen year olds are not suppose to have hair peppered gray.
Neve doesn’t mind what her life has done to her body. She is stronger than she looks, and in a fight she can still take down any loyalists who refuse to be parted with their treasures. That is all that she believes should matter, which is why she ignores Taavi’s gentle warning that her hair attracts attention.
Her hair, Neve believes, is the one thing about her that is not a lie.
But any pirate knows things that witnesses find memorable are a health hazard, and after getting a tail put on her that blows the raid on the Factory, Neve has no choice but to request enough harsh bleach to get the job done.
She watches the stain in the sink grow, wondering if her history has finally bled from her.
There are no blond Tamars.
-------
So you see, awkward and yet it still hurts. Hopefully. I really need to fix this thing, but at least having it out there is enough to force me to fix it? Maybe?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-16 03:32 pm (UTC)I actually don't think much needs fixing except a general smoothing-out. It's amazing how your speed-stories tend to be so brilliant and compact considering the time spent. And I would not add much to this story either - its choppiness in length and emotional rawness almost seems to be a part of Neve's characterization in itself.