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the_sandseaTitle: Lady Macbeth never wore white gloves either
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Mild implied Larsa/Penelo, Gabranth, Vayne.
Warnings/Content: About 10 years post game.
Summary: Vayne’s madness was in his blood, Larsa seems not to be able to escape it.
Larsa props himself up; Penelo is sleeping like the dead, like the dead man present in their chamber. The fractured armour shows one gunmetal eye and a tussock of yellow hair. Larsa would ask, Gabranth – is that you?
Larsa would, but for the answer the shade has given him several times;
“Nay, milord, I am madness.”
He, it, Larsa cannot define, fades away. Larsa rakes uncertain fingers down his palm. He has not worn his white gloves since they were the last thing Gabranth ever held in his living hand.
Larsa watches Penelo’s back ripple down the hall as she, not quite sedately, follows a page to her destination. His fond smile freezes, as does his skin, when he notices a dark hand at the edge of his sight; crouched like a spider just above his shoulder.
He follows hand to wrist to arm and the flicker of long hair leads him to look at the face. Hazed eyes stare down at him, shrewd, possessing, as they were in life.
Vayne? brother, truly, are you here? Larsa aches to say, needs to say as if it were scripted. But this is no play, and the farce of his brother would reply, if he had asked,
“Nay, Larsa, I am insanity.”
Gabranth (Madness) Vayne (insanity) but for their changing faces they have ever been the blood legacy of house Solidor.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Mild implied Larsa/Penelo, Gabranth, Vayne.
Warnings/Content: About 10 years post game.
Summary: Vayne’s madness was in his blood, Larsa seems not to be able to escape it.
Larsa props himself up; Penelo is sleeping like the dead, like the dead man present in their chamber. The fractured armour shows one gunmetal eye and a tussock of yellow hair. Larsa would ask, Gabranth – is that you?
Larsa would, but for the answer the shade has given him several times;
“Nay, milord, I am madness.”
He, it, Larsa cannot define, fades away. Larsa rakes uncertain fingers down his palm. He has not worn his white gloves since they were the last thing Gabranth ever held in his living hand.
Larsa watches Penelo’s back ripple down the hall as she, not quite sedately, follows a page to her destination. His fond smile freezes, as does his skin, when he notices a dark hand at the edge of his sight; crouched like a spider just above his shoulder.
He follows hand to wrist to arm and the flicker of long hair leads him to look at the face. Hazed eyes stare down at him, shrewd, possessing, as they were in life.
Vayne? brother, truly, are you here? Larsa aches to say, needs to say as if it were scripted. But this is no play, and the farce of his brother would reply, if he had asked,
“Nay, Larsa, I am insanity.”
Gabranth (Madness) Vayne (insanity) but for their changing faces they have ever been the blood legacy of house Solidor.
