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psalm_onethirtyoneHeyy. ^^ Tom. Thank you so much. You are--just amazing. I am writing a thank-you note that will hopefully be more coherent, but--guh. Thank you. ♥
Also, here is a quick Zara/Stock short for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kaliscoo, who is the best. ^__^
Myrhh
It's cold outside. No snow, but cold. The ground's hard. Her insides are hard, too. Burnt into place and then frozen. She doesn't move; she's been sitting like this for hours, just looking out steadily into the darkness.
Stock is dead.
There's a bitter smell in the air, from someone burning wood that's not good. Mushrooms or rot or something. It makes a black smoke that rises into the clear grey air, but it doesn't matter who sees right now. It doesn't matter who does anything and what happens, right now.
A dark place inside her is growing.
Stock was always an idiot. He talked too much and laughed too much and had stupid ideas that he pressed upon the rest of them. He made them take names that he invented in a fit of fancy, and he gave Zara one that was special, different from the others--not a bird but a dragon, with wings of fire instead of feathers. Few things have ever hurt as much as that name does.
She tells everyone that Florian found her alone, wandering, and took her home with him. The truth is he found Stock and Zara with him, Stock frostbitten, Zara bleeding, the both of them lost. Stock was more than glad that someone was inviting them towards warmth and food and a place to sleep; but Zara hung back and snarled at Florian, and try to pull them both away.
But Florian quieted her down and somehow made her want to come, too, and that was when they both followed after him.
The lie was one Stock never minded. He only laughed at her sometimes when they were alone, and told her how tragic he thought it was that she never wanted to be associated with him. He didn't understand, and Zara wouldn't tell him. She felt like a wolf then, creeping through everyone with her thin belly close to the ground, baring her teeth when anyone came too close.
She was loyal to Florian, and loved him; she didn't know why, and she hated that. It had been something in his gentle hands and his soft, steady voice that might sympathise, but never too much. Anyone's tragedy was a tragedy, but someone else always had a worse tragedy. He taught her that her own life could be used to better people whose lives were even worse.
Stock received the same message, but took it with his own mind. It didn't make him colder and angrier; it made him happier. Sometimes he told Zara that he was glad for this. Think where we'd be otherwise, he told her. Otherwise we'd probably be dead by now. This way, though--this way is glorious. We're going to be saving people, and think of the way we'll be remembered! People will always talk about us. Stock and Zara, they were part of Florian's children, people will say. We remember them! They were heroes!
Zara just scoffed.
And, said Stock, we have enough to eat. Think of that.
The secret, which isn't much of a secret--just a lie or a past tense or a memory--of why they were together when Florian found them--that's easy. Zara's parents were dead of sickness by the time she was twelve, and Stock's were hanged for illegal printing. They met at a marketplace where Stock was trying to read a speech he had written himself. He was all of eleven years and people weren't throwing him money; they were laughing. Zara was just dashing around stealing things. She had taught herself to sew and made alterations to dresses when people trusted her to do it. It wasn't enough for food money.
She stole his hat and the few coins in it, and he took off after her, shouting and panting. Finally she reached her tiny apartment and locked herself in. Stock waited outside her door all night, and when she came out the next morning he jumped on her, and then sat on her. She was far thinner and more wiry than he was, but not strong, not then. By sheer value of weighing more he was able to keep her pinned down until she agreed to let him share the apartment with her in return for keeping his hat. That was all he wanted. He was cold from sleeping in the streets.
Zara had meant to throw him out as soon as she could, but somehow the companionship made things easier. She started to get better at sewing, and by the time she was sixteen people brought her bolts of cloth that she turned into gowns. Stock spent his days wandering around looking for work. He held jobs for months at a time and then realised he couldn't stand them, and excuse himself. On those days, when he came home and explained that he wasn't hired any more, she would hit him.
But she wouldn't hit very hard.
And maybe she loved him and maybe she didn't; maybe they were just close friends because it was inevitable; but they went on like that until they were both in their twenties and hungrier than ever, colder than ever. Even Stock had grown thin, and Zara was little more than an angry shadow, one that would bite you if you spoke to it. The anger was too much. People stopped buying from her. Stock grew sad.
They lost the apartment, and went back to living in the street, stealing. Stock wasn't very pleased with the stealing, but Zara pointed out the necessity, and they both did it, taking what they could when they were able, fighting a thin, hungry battle that half the city was fighting with them. The half of the city didn't matter--once Zara stole from a cripple who was lying by the side of a building with a cup in front of him. She didn't tell Stock, although she was fairly sure the man was faking. Half the blind men in the world did the exact same thing. That evening Stock came home with nothing, smiled a tired smile at her, didn't even ask whether they would eat, and then she produced her handful of coins.
His new smile made her more determined than ever not to tell him where the money had come from, and they finally ate well--a roll for each of them.
Zara would have protested they were all right. But the winter came, and she was always cold. She didn't say anything about it, of course, but she was cold. It made her numb all over, no feeling in her fingers or any other part of her body, nothing but the cold. Stock complained, because he always complained, and she laughed her tight, rough laugh and told him to shut up.
And then, of course, they were caught thieving from a house--Zara inside and still and calm as ice, Stock outside making anxious noises and looking up and down the street constantly and rubbing his arms. That was when Florian found them, right after Zara broke them both out of prison. She had a cut in her head that was staining her face and dress (even though no one would have been able to tell; it was a black dress, Zara always wears black), and Stock was limping because parts of his feet had frozen through (he occasionally would try, later, to make people feel sorry for him, by showing them the toes that he had lost because of that).
Then Florian took them home. He got Stock warm, cleaned the blood from Zara's face, introduced them separately to Rina. Florian never told anyone how or where he found his children, never described their situations, never gave one detail of their lives away, even to his other children. That was always the secret between him and them. So Zara said that she was alone, and Stock laughed and said he was, too, and Rina smiled shyly and said so had she been.
They began to live for Florian, Stock with cheerful hero-worship, Zara with her fierce, passionate love. Stock seemed more like a stranger to her, as though her lie were really the truth, and she had never met Stock before Florian brought them both home. It didn't seem to matter. He was an idiot. She was a tiger. They fought and talked as she fought and talked with all of Florian's children.
But this is different.
It's as cold now as it was they night they broke out of prison. She's cold like she was then. There's blood on her face from a cut over her eye, from something that hit her while they were going through the woods to this place. The difference is that now she's alone.
The smell of the bitter wood is still rising, twisting around her boots and mingling with her red hair. Something hurts.
Finally she realises it's her. The hurting is coming from her.
Stock was never a stranger; but he is dead.
Left behind in the prison, or frozen stiff in the streets, or too hungry to keep awake any more. But that's wrong. Every time those things happened she always got them out of it. She always fought them out when they were backed into corners. The even colder thought settles on her that the difference now is that she wasn't there with Stock; she was here.
Her love for Florian, sharp and hot, has cooled too rapidly in this winter, and now it's brittle. And now it's broken. And now it's lying inside her. It's fallen and broken on the hard floor of her insides; her insides are frozen with this cold.
The dark place gathers and spreads, and Zara knows she, too, will die soon.
Probably because the damned smoke will choke her. She stands roughly, the curses already on her tongue, bitter and smoky as dry rot burning.
Also, here is a quick Zara/Stock short for
kaliscoo, who is the best. ^__^Myrhh
It's cold outside. No snow, but cold. The ground's hard. Her insides are hard, too. Burnt into place and then frozen. She doesn't move; she's been sitting like this for hours, just looking out steadily into the darkness.
Stock is dead.
There's a bitter smell in the air, from someone burning wood that's not good. Mushrooms or rot or something. It makes a black smoke that rises into the clear grey air, but it doesn't matter who sees right now. It doesn't matter who does anything and what happens, right now.
A dark place inside her is growing.
Stock was always an idiot. He talked too much and laughed too much and had stupid ideas that he pressed upon the rest of them. He made them take names that he invented in a fit of fancy, and he gave Zara one that was special, different from the others--not a bird but a dragon, with wings of fire instead of feathers. Few things have ever hurt as much as that name does.
She tells everyone that Florian found her alone, wandering, and took her home with him. The truth is he found Stock and Zara with him, Stock frostbitten, Zara bleeding, the both of them lost. Stock was more than glad that someone was inviting them towards warmth and food and a place to sleep; but Zara hung back and snarled at Florian, and try to pull them both away.
But Florian quieted her down and somehow made her want to come, too, and that was when they both followed after him.
The lie was one Stock never minded. He only laughed at her sometimes when they were alone, and told her how tragic he thought it was that she never wanted to be associated with him. He didn't understand, and Zara wouldn't tell him. She felt like a wolf then, creeping through everyone with her thin belly close to the ground, baring her teeth when anyone came too close.
She was loyal to Florian, and loved him; she didn't know why, and she hated that. It had been something in his gentle hands and his soft, steady voice that might sympathise, but never too much. Anyone's tragedy was a tragedy, but someone else always had a worse tragedy. He taught her that her own life could be used to better people whose lives were even worse.
Stock received the same message, but took it with his own mind. It didn't make him colder and angrier; it made him happier. Sometimes he told Zara that he was glad for this. Think where we'd be otherwise, he told her. Otherwise we'd probably be dead by now. This way, though--this way is glorious. We're going to be saving people, and think of the way we'll be remembered! People will always talk about us. Stock and Zara, they were part of Florian's children, people will say. We remember them! They were heroes!
Zara just scoffed.
And, said Stock, we have enough to eat. Think of that.
The secret, which isn't much of a secret--just a lie or a past tense or a memory--of why they were together when Florian found them--that's easy. Zara's parents were dead of sickness by the time she was twelve, and Stock's were hanged for illegal printing. They met at a marketplace where Stock was trying to read a speech he had written himself. He was all of eleven years and people weren't throwing him money; they were laughing. Zara was just dashing around stealing things. She had taught herself to sew and made alterations to dresses when people trusted her to do it. It wasn't enough for food money.
She stole his hat and the few coins in it, and he took off after her, shouting and panting. Finally she reached her tiny apartment and locked herself in. Stock waited outside her door all night, and when she came out the next morning he jumped on her, and then sat on her. She was far thinner and more wiry than he was, but not strong, not then. By sheer value of weighing more he was able to keep her pinned down until she agreed to let him share the apartment with her in return for keeping his hat. That was all he wanted. He was cold from sleeping in the streets.
Zara had meant to throw him out as soon as she could, but somehow the companionship made things easier. She started to get better at sewing, and by the time she was sixteen people brought her bolts of cloth that she turned into gowns. Stock spent his days wandering around looking for work. He held jobs for months at a time and then realised he couldn't stand them, and excuse himself. On those days, when he came home and explained that he wasn't hired any more, she would hit him.
But she wouldn't hit very hard.
And maybe she loved him and maybe she didn't; maybe they were just close friends because it was inevitable; but they went on like that until they were both in their twenties and hungrier than ever, colder than ever. Even Stock had grown thin, and Zara was little more than an angry shadow, one that would bite you if you spoke to it. The anger was too much. People stopped buying from her. Stock grew sad.
They lost the apartment, and went back to living in the street, stealing. Stock wasn't very pleased with the stealing, but Zara pointed out the necessity, and they both did it, taking what they could when they were able, fighting a thin, hungry battle that half the city was fighting with them. The half of the city didn't matter--once Zara stole from a cripple who was lying by the side of a building with a cup in front of him. She didn't tell Stock, although she was fairly sure the man was faking. Half the blind men in the world did the exact same thing. That evening Stock came home with nothing, smiled a tired smile at her, didn't even ask whether they would eat, and then she produced her handful of coins.
His new smile made her more determined than ever not to tell him where the money had come from, and they finally ate well--a roll for each of them.
Zara would have protested they were all right. But the winter came, and she was always cold. She didn't say anything about it, of course, but she was cold. It made her numb all over, no feeling in her fingers or any other part of her body, nothing but the cold. Stock complained, because he always complained, and she laughed her tight, rough laugh and told him to shut up.
And then, of course, they were caught thieving from a house--Zara inside and still and calm as ice, Stock outside making anxious noises and looking up and down the street constantly and rubbing his arms. That was when Florian found them, right after Zara broke them both out of prison. She had a cut in her head that was staining her face and dress (even though no one would have been able to tell; it was a black dress, Zara always wears black), and Stock was limping because parts of his feet had frozen through (he occasionally would try, later, to make people feel sorry for him, by showing them the toes that he had lost because of that).
Then Florian took them home. He got Stock warm, cleaned the blood from Zara's face, introduced them separately to Rina. Florian never told anyone how or where he found his children, never described their situations, never gave one detail of their lives away, even to his other children. That was always the secret between him and them. So Zara said that she was alone, and Stock laughed and said he was, too, and Rina smiled shyly and said so had she been.
They began to live for Florian, Stock with cheerful hero-worship, Zara with her fierce, passionate love. Stock seemed more like a stranger to her, as though her lie were really the truth, and she had never met Stock before Florian brought them both home. It didn't seem to matter. He was an idiot. She was a tiger. They fought and talked as she fought and talked with all of Florian's children.
But this is different.
It's as cold now as it was they night they broke out of prison. She's cold like she was then. There's blood on her face from a cut over her eye, from something that hit her while they were going through the woods to this place. The difference is that now she's alone.
The smell of the bitter wood is still rising, twisting around her boots and mingling with her red hair. Something hurts.
Finally she realises it's her. The hurting is coming from her.
Stock was never a stranger; but he is dead.
Left behind in the prison, or frozen stiff in the streets, or too hungry to keep awake any more. But that's wrong. Every time those things happened she always got them out of it. She always fought them out when they were backed into corners. The even colder thought settles on her that the difference now is that she wasn't there with Stock; she was here.
Her love for Florian, sharp and hot, has cooled too rapidly in this winter, and now it's brittle. And now it's broken. And now it's lying inside her. It's fallen and broken on the hard floor of her insides; her insides are frozen with this cold.
The dark place gathers and spreads, and Zara knows she, too, will die soon.
Probably because the damned smoke will choke her. She stands roughly, the curses already on her tongue, bitter and smoky as dry rot burning.
