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kh_drabble2008-03-26 10:14 pm
nirvana-falling.livejournal.com) wrote in kh_drabble2008-03-26 10:14 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Challenge: [141] disturb the universe
Title: against our ruins
Wordcount: 466
Spoilers: CoM
Summary: Down the stairs waits the boy whose life she will dismantle. Naminé draws.
Notes: W-what is this? In my defence it was fun.
Naminé watches Marluxia leave with her bottom lip pressed against her teeth. He has left her in her room, curled in on herself on that white floor, with her pencils spiraling outwards like petals of some violent bloom. Every hue of the rainbow sings out to her, but she cannot move.
Down the infinite spirals of stairs waits the boy whose life she will destroy, the perfect puppet for the most perfect of masters. Zexion weaves beautiful patterns around the keybearer, webs with only one fly to catch. Yet Axel scorches and slices his way to center of things and plays Sora like the finest of instruments, pressed so close into Sora’s quest that the boy can’t get him quite in focus.
Naminé drew once for Axel, at his razor-edge insistence and his painfully thin fingers on her equally thin shoulders. Those pencils (gold, black, red, green and a breath-shattering blue) are duller and closer to her, familiar toys. She grazes their smooth shafts but cannot grasp.
There is also a boy in the basement and a girl on an island, far from this place but too near for comfort. Naminé is going to ruin them too; she already has her witchclaws in Vexen’s fake boy. The look in his face when he swears to protect her keeps her from picking up the silver and blending blue and green into maddening aqua.
Naminé has only ever drawn one picture, and she doubts she even has artistic skill, but Marluxia says her drawings are special, that she can change things with her clumsy anatomy and penciled-in smiles. She wonders if she could draw him away, somehow, leave only a creeping vine in the garden to remember him. If only she could color Larxene into some far place where all her barbs and bolts would be as useless as Naminé’s small hands.
Of course, she can’t. She won’t. Marluxia is coming back, she knows. Larxene will follow in his wake, a dog at the heel of her master, though no one dares to admit it aloud. Her sketchbook lies to her right, open to the soft crème of a blank page. She feels blindly for the muted brown of an island tan and drags the sketchbook to her. The round face of a boy, wanting to be more but not yet there, materializes, with a shock of brown hair and the bluest eyes Naminé can imagine. (She is careful, though, ever so careful, to use a new pencil: two halves make a whole but they are not equal.) The bright red jumpsuit is next, and from there Naminé finds that the scene flows from her pencils: two boys and a girl smiling on the beach, and behind them the pale ghost of their future.
Marluxia will be happy.
Title: against our ruins
Wordcount: 466
Spoilers: CoM
Summary: Down the stairs waits the boy whose life she will dismantle. Naminé draws.
Notes: W-what is this? In my defence it was fun.
Naminé watches Marluxia leave with her bottom lip pressed against her teeth. He has left her in her room, curled in on herself on that white floor, with her pencils spiraling outwards like petals of some violent bloom. Every hue of the rainbow sings out to her, but she cannot move.
Down the infinite spirals of stairs waits the boy whose life she will destroy, the perfect puppet for the most perfect of masters. Zexion weaves beautiful patterns around the keybearer, webs with only one fly to catch. Yet Axel scorches and slices his way to center of things and plays Sora like the finest of instruments, pressed so close into Sora’s quest that the boy can’t get him quite in focus.
Naminé drew once for Axel, at his razor-edge insistence and his painfully thin fingers on her equally thin shoulders. Those pencils (gold, black, red, green and a breath-shattering blue) are duller and closer to her, familiar toys. She grazes their smooth shafts but cannot grasp.
There is also a boy in the basement and a girl on an island, far from this place but too near for comfort. Naminé is going to ruin them too; she already has her witchclaws in Vexen’s fake boy. The look in his face when he swears to protect her keeps her from picking up the silver and blending blue and green into maddening aqua.
Naminé has only ever drawn one picture, and she doubts she even has artistic skill, but Marluxia says her drawings are special, that she can change things with her clumsy anatomy and penciled-in smiles. She wonders if she could draw him away, somehow, leave only a creeping vine in the garden to remember him. If only she could color Larxene into some far place where all her barbs and bolts would be as useless as Naminé’s small hands.
Of course, she can’t. She won’t. Marluxia is coming back, she knows. Larxene will follow in his wake, a dog at the heel of her master, though no one dares to admit it aloud. Her sketchbook lies to her right, open to the soft crème of a blank page. She feels blindly for the muted brown of an island tan and drags the sketchbook to her. The round face of a boy, wanting to be more but not yet there, materializes, with a shock of brown hair and the bluest eyes Naminé can imagine. (She is careful, though, ever so careful, to use a new pencil: two halves make a whole but they are not equal.) The bright red jumpsuit is next, and from there Naminé finds that the scene flows from her pencils: two boys and a girl smiling on the beach, and behind them the pale ghost of their future.
Marluxia will be happy.