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psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2004-01-19 02:48 am
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2004-01-19 02:48 am
"Running Away? Let's Do It. Where Did You Have in Mind?"
Lordy, but I do have spare time.
A200 word Florian drabble for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
petronelle, because she Approved.
The poet amused him. The men called him Jehan, and as far as Florian could tell, it was his first name. The others went by surnames, but everyone called the poet Jehan.
He wrote nice poetry, Florian thought, draping himself over a chair to watch. Rather silly poetry about spring and love and dreams that couldn't come true, but far better than the nuisances who tried to write what Florian had done into ballads.
Jehan looked up at him at last, lifting his quill off the parchment. "Enjolras?"
"What are you writing?"
"A story-poem, about a girl who falls in love with an angel who was thrown out of heaven."
"Dear Lord." He smiled to himself, closing his eyes, and said softly, "I must do that some day. I'd fancy a pair of wings."
"Enjolras?" Jehan asked again.
"It's nothing. But you must let me see your poem when you're finished."
"Of course."
Florian took his legends from the air and the land. He used the things he saw and heard, and he had never yet turned down a chance to play with something new and perhaps turn it into a masterpiece.
He was awaiting the poet's work with pleasure.
~~~
And a little Nikkific forreincineir. He finally came back from his therapy session, in a worse state than usual. O_o There is something wrong with this boy.
Nicolas walks with Feuilly more often than before, and Feuilly helps him learn the city. He learns, carefully, by walking upon the same stones over and over, until he knows which street feels like what. Of course, they don't walk very far out of his way. The streets he memorises are the ones leading to the church, to certain cafes where he speaks, and to the places he wishes to go without help. It's important, more important than before, that he learn such things. He doesn't want to be lost ever again.
Feuilly also teaches him to defend himself. It doesn't seem to be a structured protection; just where to hit an attacker and how to duck under a knife. This, too, is important.
At last, Nicolas can go out by himself without feeling a sick, warm fear in his stomach, and the wound in the side of his head is almost forgotten.
He goes once more to visit his children, holding his back straight, his long coat flapping about his knees. He's taken out the velvet ribbon from his golden hair in a vague hope, and the strong wind blows it into his face. Between the dark coat and his pale face and his overlong, swirling hair, he looks rather like an ominous spectre.
He finds the customary place, and kneels, waiting, holding out his hands with offerings. It isn't long before they come, taking from him without giving back. Almost seven minutes later, he has nothing left, and he begins to stand.
He turns in the direction of the wind, letting it blow into his face and whisper in his ears and wrap silky invisible strands around his neck. He rests the back of his hand over his eyes, feeling rather tired, and cold. He begins his journey home wearily, tripping just a little over his boots.
Suddenly, he feels a tugging at the hem of his coat, and turns about quickly from habit.
"Monsieur, spare a sous?"
It makes his chest ache as though he were being torn apart. Her voice is soft, and ragged, and pleading, and he's given away everything he brought with him. He drops to one knee before her, wishing that he'd kept his hair ribbon, for surely velvet must be worth something.
"I... I don't..."
She backs away, slowly, and is gone just as suddenly as she came to him. He stands again, shivering a little, and feeling colder and more tired. It takes him very little time to return to his apartment, and when he gets there, he curls up in the bed without even bothering to take off his boots or coat.
Feuilly chances in a little while later, and sits beside him.
"Someday..."
"I know. Don't worry. It's soon."
"Will they be happy?"
"They'll be terribly happy, all of them. Don't fret."
"Perhaps they'll love me."
"Of course they will." Feuilly strokes back Nicolas' hair from his face. "Soon. Give it five months, perhaps even four. You haven't long to wait. And they shall be happy, and love you."
A
petronelle, because she Approved.The poet amused him. The men called him Jehan, and as far as Florian could tell, it was his first name. The others went by surnames, but everyone called the poet Jehan.
He wrote nice poetry, Florian thought, draping himself over a chair to watch. Rather silly poetry about spring and love and dreams that couldn't come true, but far better than the nuisances who tried to write what Florian had done into ballads.
Jehan looked up at him at last, lifting his quill off the parchment. "Enjolras?"
"What are you writing?"
"A story-poem, about a girl who falls in love with an angel who was thrown out of heaven."
"Dear Lord." He smiled to himself, closing his eyes, and said softly, "I must do that some day. I'd fancy a pair of wings."
"Enjolras?" Jehan asked again.
"It's nothing. But you must let me see your poem when you're finished."
"Of course."
Florian took his legends from the air and the land. He used the things he saw and heard, and he had never yet turned down a chance to play with something new and perhaps turn it into a masterpiece.
He was awaiting the poet's work with pleasure.
~~~
And a little Nikkific for
reincineir. He finally came back from his therapy session, in a worse state than usual. O_o There is something wrong with this boy.Nicolas walks with Feuilly more often than before, and Feuilly helps him learn the city. He learns, carefully, by walking upon the same stones over and over, until he knows which street feels like what. Of course, they don't walk very far out of his way. The streets he memorises are the ones leading to the church, to certain cafes where he speaks, and to the places he wishes to go without help. It's important, more important than before, that he learn such things. He doesn't want to be lost ever again.
Feuilly also teaches him to defend himself. It doesn't seem to be a structured protection; just where to hit an attacker and how to duck under a knife. This, too, is important.
At last, Nicolas can go out by himself without feeling a sick, warm fear in his stomach, and the wound in the side of his head is almost forgotten.
He goes once more to visit his children, holding his back straight, his long coat flapping about his knees. He's taken out the velvet ribbon from his golden hair in a vague hope, and the strong wind blows it into his face. Between the dark coat and his pale face and his overlong, swirling hair, he looks rather like an ominous spectre.
He finds the customary place, and kneels, waiting, holding out his hands with offerings. It isn't long before they come, taking from him without giving back. Almost seven minutes later, he has nothing left, and he begins to stand.
He turns in the direction of the wind, letting it blow into his face and whisper in his ears and wrap silky invisible strands around his neck. He rests the back of his hand over his eyes, feeling rather tired, and cold. He begins his journey home wearily, tripping just a little over his boots.
Suddenly, he feels a tugging at the hem of his coat, and turns about quickly from habit.
"Monsieur, spare a sous?"
It makes his chest ache as though he were being torn apart. Her voice is soft, and ragged, and pleading, and he's given away everything he brought with him. He drops to one knee before her, wishing that he'd kept his hair ribbon, for surely velvet must be worth something.
"I... I don't..."
She backs away, slowly, and is gone just as suddenly as she came to him. He stands again, shivering a little, and feeling colder and more tired. It takes him very little time to return to his apartment, and when he gets there, he curls up in the bed without even bothering to take off his boots or coat.
Feuilly chances in a little while later, and sits beside him.
"Someday..."
"I know. Don't worry. It's soon."
"Will they be happy?"
"They'll be terribly happy, all of them. Don't fret."
"Perhaps they'll love me."
"Of course they will." Feuilly strokes back Nicolas' hair from his face. "Soon. Give it five months, perhaps even four. You haven't long to wait. And they shall be happy, and love you."