Drabbles

Aug. 23rd, 2008 04:33 pm
elfscribe5: (Default)
Posting the first three of my 8 drabbles here.  Recipients have already commented, so no need to do so again. 
All these should be 100 words exactly.

For [personal profile] talullahred   request  something from The Persian Boy by Mary Renault
Triumph
They have drenched me in a primal sound like the surf’s thunderous exaltation. “Bagoas! Bagoas!” they roar.  A seething motion of limbs and faces, colored banners waving in frenzy.  I am drunk on it. So, this is what it’s like for him.  This adulation.  No wonder he craves it.  “Go on,” someone prods.   I see a beloved face, glint of golden hair, and mount the stairs on Eros-gifted wings.  He sets the laurel wreath on my head, eyes bright with pride that is for me alone.  The others recede and all sound fades except for the beating of my heart.

          
For [personal profile] red_lasbelin   request - Glorfindel from Osse’s Gift
Substitute
He was not Erestor, this pale elf who eyed him longingly over the glass of claret.   He did not possess a sweep of ebony hair and glittering eyes, nor a haughty tilt to the chin that, charm as he might, Glorfindel could not cajole or soften.  He did not dance like a dragonfly, or eat strawberries with a frisson of longing. He could not vivisect some foolish fop with a honeyed word nor curse like a wounded soldier.  He did not glare when Glorfindel's hand slid over another’s willing arse. He was not Erestor.  But he would have to do.
          

For [profile] ennorwen   request:  Richard and Alec from Swordspoint
Explanation: This is from the scene where Richard discovers Alec has taken a powerful drug called "Fool's Delight." 
"The stars are watching me," he [Alec]declared in a voice of terrible pain. "Make them stop!"

Besotted
The stars wanted to tear out his eyes.  Equations prowled the room, inking themselves on the curtains, marching to the tune of a sickly sweet smell. Manacle bruises marked his wrists. His tongue so thick. The book his only hope. He cradled it, caressed the cool, burgundy leather against his cheek. Richard’s gift of love.  They wanted to take it from him: they,  the dreadful stars, Lord Horn, the Duchess, and the twittering bat‑like scholars. Well, they couldn’t have it!  He opened the grate, and one at a time, tore out the creamy pages, and fed them to the fire.


 

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