Dec. 15th, 2014

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 ASOIF, Arya and Sansa, at the end of all things for [livejournal.com profile] silvr_dagger 

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 [livejournal.com profile] 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 [livejournal.com profile] silvr_dagger

Journey's End

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 [livejournal.com profile] 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 [livejournal.com profile] lizzie_marie_23

Ukiyo

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 [livejournal.com profile] 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.

 

communi_kate: (Default)
This is great! I love fic challenges, but tend not to prompt myself, so I'm getting into it. None of these are what I would have written, and that is wonderful!

Game of Thrones, Daenerys, I am a lighthouse in a desert and I stand alone, filled by [livejournal.com profile] silvr_dagger 

She sees it while crossing the Waste, a stone tower standing on the crest of a hill, overlooking a cracked and barren plain. A lighthouse, Jorah tells, relic of oceans long gone dry; the khalasar mutters of haunted ground, and she leads them quickly onward, unwilling to disturb this land's ghosts - but she looks back as she passes and shivers to see it keeping its vigil there, stern and lonely and entirely useless.
It strikes her as a cruel fate, for something meant to light the way, and it seems then as though she cannot put it behind her soon enough - but in the desert of Mereen, she dreams that she stands on a promontory above receding waters to watch the world change beyond reckoning, crowns cast down and empires toppled, and she wakes alone to dust in her throat and the knowledge that she cannot put it behind her at all.

 

Dragon Age, Varric, writers are liars, my dear, filled by [livejournal.com profile] classicslover 

Some people never learned not to play Wicked Grace for actual money when Varric was getting ready to publish. Those in the know avoided his legendary poker face. When it was brought to his attention, usually by Aveline, complaining that he had cheated them, Varric simple laughed and explained that fiction was in his blood.

The Hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield, by night all cats are grey, filled by [livejournal.com profile] nessaniel

Glory has died here, long ago, he had seen it go up in brash gold flames and some ashes are probably best left for the wind to scatter across the lands.
There is no king under the mountain anymore, Thorin thinks, as he looks at his fellowship of lost souls, tinkers, toy makers and strays.
This is all he has, this is all he is: a king of cats.


Assassin's Creed, Altair, scandent, filled by [livejournal.com profile] backland

Altaïr climbs, as he was born and bred to; trained and honed and disciplined enough that he reached the Master class sooner than anyone else before him, though it never felt like a grand achievement, just another step in the ladder, and maybe that's why when it all came crashing down and he was a novice again it never felt like that much of a shock, because Altaïr knows how to climb down too, knows all the ways that your foothold can slip and sending you tumbling down.
He climbs so that he may bring people with him, clutching at his back, kicking and screaming in their fear of the unknown, of breaking away from the common denominator that keeps them chained to the muck and inequalities and utter unfairness of it all, because it's all they've ever known, yet still Altaïr climbs, because he has risen above and seen what awaits at the uppermost point of humanities potential.
Altaïr changes lives, changes history, and to do so he steps over himself, his hopes and dreams and desires, digs his fingers and the soles of his feet into them and pushes them down so that he may keep going, getting just that much higher, and with each centimeter gained he gets farther and farther away from them until he is so high up that he can no longer see them at all.


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