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kh_drabble2009-03-26 09:52 pm
savagelilies.livejournal.com) wrote in kh_drabble2009-03-26 09:52 pm
Entry tags:
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Challenge: [181] Watch
Title: The Thin Ropes That Bind
Word Count: 500
Notes: Set sometime during the beginning of KHII.
The room is a square, perfect in its symmetry. It is a box, and a cage, where Namimé hunches over a table, nimble fingers tinkering with broken links. There is no tic-tic-toc to say how much time passes; it would drive her to the point of no concentration, just as the tap-tap-tapping did when she was confined to the same room as DiZ. Now, she has more legroom, but she is still imprisoned. By her own doing, by her own choice.
She contemplates the shadow beneath a line; returns a grey crayon to its place and picks a crimson in its stead.
Riku wanders in, quiet as a spectre, nought but a whisper to denote his presence. He folds his arms across his chest and fits himself in the only shadowed corner, bending the angles and shadows to his will.
He becomes a sentry, still as marble. She wondered, once, how it was possible to keep watch when blind. His mouth twisted into a grimace, and he told her that all his other four senses were intact, and more reliable than sight. And feeling—the most important of all—would always remain in him.
That vexed her, but she said nothing.
Now she deposits the red crayon on the table with a sigh, paying no attention as it rolls off the table. She rubs her arm and looks up at him, almost shy, and watches him press a palm to the white white wall and meld into the darkness he summons.
He returns, later, and she can’t say where he’s gone. He always returns smelling of sea salt—not the artificial kind he’s wont to buy her on trips around the world of perpetual half-light, keeping watch over another fabrication—but the real sea. A place she's only seen in scattered, hazy dreams.
He crosses from his asymmetrical corner to where she sits. Naminé closes her eyes for a moment and breathes in the ocean—a smell like home, though she’s never had such a place to call her own. Riku fiddles with something in his pocket, coming to a halt next to her.
She looks up at him, and her voice is a demure whisper, betraying none of the curiosity that she does well to hide. “Where were you?”
She asks this for the first time since his many disappearances, ones that have become less frequent with the passing of time. She suspects it has something to do with Sora awakening soon.
“I’m keeping a promise that Sora failed to.” His voice is strained with bitterness, at Sora or himself, she isn’s sure. All she knows is that he is here by his own doing, not by choice, and bound by fraying ropes.
He surprises her, then, depositing something next to her sketchbook. The object falls away with soft clinks against the table’s marble surface; shells, woven together by thin strands.
His voice is quiet, a whisper almost inaudible. “But I can only watch over her, now.”
Title: The Thin Ropes That Bind
Word Count: 500
Notes: Set sometime during the beginning of KHII.
The room is a square, perfect in its symmetry. It is a box, and a cage, where Namimé hunches over a table, nimble fingers tinkering with broken links. There is no tic-tic-toc to say how much time passes; it would drive her to the point of no concentration, just as the tap-tap-tapping did when she was confined to the same room as DiZ. Now, she has more legroom, but she is still imprisoned. By her own doing, by her own choice.
She contemplates the shadow beneath a line; returns a grey crayon to its place and picks a crimson in its stead.
Riku wanders in, quiet as a spectre, nought but a whisper to denote his presence. He folds his arms across his chest and fits himself in the only shadowed corner, bending the angles and shadows to his will.
He becomes a sentry, still as marble. She wondered, once, how it was possible to keep watch when blind. His mouth twisted into a grimace, and he told her that all his other four senses were intact, and more reliable than sight. And feeling—the most important of all—would always remain in him.
That vexed her, but she said nothing.
Now she deposits the red crayon on the table with a sigh, paying no attention as it rolls off the table. She rubs her arm and looks up at him, almost shy, and watches him press a palm to the white white wall and meld into the darkness he summons.
He returns, later, and she can’t say where he’s gone. He always returns smelling of sea salt—not the artificial kind he’s wont to buy her on trips around the world of perpetual half-light, keeping watch over another fabrication—but the real sea. A place she's only seen in scattered, hazy dreams.
He crosses from his asymmetrical corner to where she sits. Naminé closes her eyes for a moment and breathes in the ocean—a smell like home, though she’s never had such a place to call her own. Riku fiddles with something in his pocket, coming to a halt next to her.
She looks up at him, and her voice is a demure whisper, betraying none of the curiosity that she does well to hide. “Where were you?”
She asks this for the first time since his many disappearances, ones that have become less frequent with the passing of time. She suspects it has something to do with Sora awakening soon.
“I’m keeping a promise that Sora failed to.” His voice is strained with bitterness, at Sora or himself, she isn’s sure. All she knows is that he is here by his own doing, not by choice, and bound by fraying ropes.
He surprises her, then, depositing something next to her sketchbook. The object falls away with soft clinks against the table’s marble surface; shells, woven together by thin strands.
His voice is quiet, a whisper almost inaudible. “But I can only watch over her, now.”