At The End of All Things
They stand atop the Wall and stare together at the end of the world.The Iron Throne is Sansa's now and she needs no other sword, though Arya beside her carries enough knives for two. Their wolves pace nervously along the ice-slick path that runs along the Wall as they watch the White Walkers come.
FF8,Seifer, now or never for adraekh
Now or Never
She said it's now or never, and it should have been never.
Seifer quenches his cigarette with a whisper of frost and thinks how nice it would have been to know that at the time.
“Can't go back,” he says, and takes her hand.
FF10, Auron, journey's end for silvr_dagger
“We will make a flute from your bones,” the Ronso promises as he leans over Auron's body.
Auron opens his mouth to tell the Ronso he doesn't care what happens to his bones as long the Ronso promises to do as Auron tells him, but there is a sharp pain in his chest and he is very, very tired.
He takes a deep breath and holds it as long as he can before he exhales with a sigh, and then he's gone.
The Borgias, Lucrezia/Cesare, bound in blood for caramelsilver
A Rose for the Borgias
The rose is egg- yolk yellow, as yellow as the leaves that float down the Tiber in autumn to rot. Lucrezia takes the flower by its stem without flinching and wonders whether to tell Cesare that yellow roses symbolize infidelity.
But then, she thinks, why else would he have given me a rose?
Twelfth Night, Viola, fluid, for lizzie_marie_23
She has heard there is a land far from Illyria where they call the demi monde the floating world, where courtesans and acrobats mingle in the lantern light beside fast flowing rivers as they ply their water trade and boys and girls are never what they seem. Viola has always found the description peculiarly appropriate.
Women are like water, she thinks as she painstakingly glues the first of many boars' bristles onto her upper lip, they always change.
Dragon Age:Origins: any origin + any other origin, you think you've had it tough? for classicslover
Two Fantasy Protagonists
“We 'ad to catch a nug every morning for breakfast with a broken piece of string just to stay alive,” Warden Brosca said, frowning so the casteless brand on her cheek creased into a dark smudge, “and then for afters Ma'd let us lick the lichen from the rocks for dessert.”
Warden Mahariel raised one elegant Elvish eyebrow; “My mother was eaten by wolves,” she said, “and every morning my old aunt'd make us climb seven hundred feet straight up a kauri tree to scrape off a handful of moss from the topmost branches for our breakfast, and that was our only meal of the day, and the Dalish don't believe in dessert.”
“All right, said Warden Brosca grudgingly around another mouthful of ale, “you win.”
Inception, Ariadne/Arthur, slow dancing around the living room at three am to Frank Sinatra, for anonymous.
You and Frank Sinatra
They finish the maze, finally, in the living room of Ariadne's new apartment in Barcelona, at quarter to three in the morning and there's not a soul awake in the building except Arthur and Ariadne and the husky voice of Frank Sinatra on the midnight radio. Ariadne yanked the carpet up hours ago to draw patterns on the floorboards, and Arthur traces the route through the maze with the toe of his chalk-scuffed wingtip, singing one more for my baby and one more for the road.
Somewhere along the line the tap of feet on floorboards becomes a jaunty dance, and when Ariadne protests sotto voce that he'll wake the neighbours he switches to a waltz and removes an imaginary hat with a flourish as he holds out a hand to her in the monochrome moonlight, a moment so strange and so beautiful that Ariadne thinks it belongs in a dream.