(no subject)

[strictdiscipline]

CHARACTERS: Riza and friends! ("""friends""")
DATE: Post-Ghost town log
WARNINGS: Talk of death?? Probably some throwing up too, we’ll see.
SUMMARY: Riza died and that was fun but now she has to talk about it and that’s less fun. A bunch of starters in the comments, give me a holler if you'd like something.

Comments

waits 2 days to read this

[riastraid]

[ Riza takes it more gracefully than his execution probably deserved, strong despite the way she curls in on herself. His irritation simmers as quickly as it flared up, though it's a hollow 'victory.' However well they knew the world—that life's fucked up, a constant lesson in hard knocks—it still stings to watch it in action. To see someone so wronged and having to rail on them to keep enduring... it isn't fair. The tense lines of his jaw relax again, but it still aches, teeth having clenched too tight, fingers circled taut into fists.

And it boils down simply: someone he cares for is in pain, and he isn't heartless. He's furious for her. (And something less barefaced than anger, quieter and no less cutting.) But secondhand hurt doesn't do any good. Soon, he laughs too, harsh and nearly soundless. ]

Quit thanking me—that sucked. [ She'd said so herself. He adds, more wearily, softer, ] And don't apologize.

[ Sapped of anger, the winter wind finally has room to settle in. He shivers pathetically before he rocks gently to his side, nudging her shoulder with his. ]

...You got room for one more under there?

[ It's cold. Blanket looks roomy. He's tired of not sitting by her in earnest. ]

wraps up no-shame november by making this the only tag i do today

[strictdiscipline]

[The folds of blanket part slightly, revealing half a pair of red-rimmed eyes, lashes still wet with tears. She's a sad sight, nose red and hair now a tangled mess around her face, but he's little better hunched forward as he is, defending against the chill. Might as well be a pathetic set together. And if she's honest—she wants to curl up next to him, be reminded that she isn't alone.

Wordlessly, she lifts up one arm, blanket draping open enough for him to scoot under and wrap the other end around his shoulder. It's a tight squeeze but she twists to make room for him, legs sliding back down as her body tilts sideways, cheek coming to rest on his upper arm. (He's cold. She regrets not sharing the blanket earlier.) Her left hand stays where it is, wrapped tight around the covers; her right stretches out, arm snaking around his and fingers settling at the base of his palm. An invitation if he wants to take it, but she's happy with what's currently given. Companionship, understanding, appreciation without any strings attached.

There is one thing she wouldn't mind if he's willing to give it, though some minutes pass before she gives the thought voice.]

Will you tell me about you?

[Surely a Heroic Spirit's life is far more exciting than that of a lonely girl with grandiose hopes and dreams.]

[riastraid]

[ The blanket's still warm from where it's clung to her for the past however long—they'd been out there a while. Probably better to hurry her back inside, drained as she's been after her death, but she's got a tight grip on the covers, heat trapped beneath. Besides, her cheek's wet against his arm and he doesn't have the heart to shoo her, wasting no time to catch her fingers between his.

That doesn't change when she finally speaks, though his thumb strokes against hers, distracted. Ordinarily, he keeps his stories to himself. The tales before his time were fine: sweet retellings of war, Ulster's sweeping, shining plains that seemed to ripple under a strong breeze, the jagged cliffs that dive straight into the ocean. Even his identity isn't anything to be overly cautious of—it just wasn't worth dredging up. It was... dull to think about.

But what good's a hero's life if not to lift spirits? (A cautionary tale. He'll skip those bits.) It only takes a moment's consideration. ]

Sure.

[ It's the least he could do for someone who'd shared so openly with him (someone obviously in need of a distraction). He summons up a smile, forced at first, but easily held. ]

I guess I'll start from the beginning.

[ The story where he'd earned his warrior's name: Cu Chulainn. Lighthearted vignettes from childhood amongst brash knights and their brasher sons. Questing forth from the Land of Shadows with Scathach and Ferdiad, his battles against Clan Calatin, the grandiose tales of a boy who earned his legend through combat.

Even skirting around the bleaker memories, there's plenty to choose from. He'd had a full life. However much time they need to pass for her to finally fall asleep, he fills with stories. ]