[Last Exile] Ice
Oct. 28th, 2005 09:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
firstlightFirst attempt at... um. Actual serious fanfiction. Not used to playing with someone else's characters. Thoughts?
It's only about 600 words or so. I gotta start somewhere. ;)
Title: Ice
Genre: Angst
Fandom: Last Exile
Rating: PG
Characters: Lucciola (light DioxLucciola)
Warnings/Disclaimers: Err. Spoilers, mostly. Based on one of the last episodes. Syl, I'm looking at you. Oh, and it's not mine, obviously.
Summary: Lucciola's thoughts.
Lucciola feels cold, sees everything with an alarming clarity, an icy certainty. The world is full of hard edges and too-bright lights; Lucciola is all hard edges himself, now, the softness which he used to have frozen into something entirely different.
Flashes of memory punctuate the cold rage that has come to make up most of his mind. The memories are warm things, but fleeting. Lucciola cannot hold them for long (it’s like fire flickering in a lonely place, forever about to die), but they define his purpose, drive him of through the cold. Dio. Dio holding him, Dio’s smile, Dio laughing his strange childish laugh. Dio leaning in close to kiss him, the light touch of Dio’s lips against his own, almost teasing but absolutely serious. Lucciola’s own shock, the feeling that he could never be worthy of his friend, master... lover?
The memories are buried, though (a snowdrift has built up over them; how they have not died entirely Lucciola does not understand), and no trace of them can be discerned in Lucciola’s blank, empty face. Dio is gone, or Dio’s mind is gone - more or less the same thing - so now there’s only one thing left for Lucciola to do.
He will make himself worthy of the kindness he has been shown.
He will atone for his failures.
The world shifts, time progressing in a series of frozen frames, overexposed but sharp. A shot of a passage. The people looking at him, weapons ready, as though they sense something in his face, though he’s sure he shows nothing. Maybe that’s what they fear. Next, his blade is drawn. He doesn’t remember drawing it. Then, blood. Bodies caught in the process of falling. He’s beyond them. No sound, just a series of images. One step closer: he knows she won’t be far away.
Delphine.
Beyond the door, she’s waiting. More guards step towards him, better ones. In the strange altered stream of his consciousness, Lucciola prepares himself for a dance. A step. A turn. Blood flying up, following the arc of his blade, spinning off into the air for a moment after he’s moved on. Even his brother falls.
Too easy.
Then he’s face-to-face with the Maestro. He’s stunned by her coldness, shocked by the force of it. He thought he had become cold, but he realises he still has heat at the core of him, buried but protected, isolated from the world. Delphine stares at him, and he feels that core begin to freeze. He should move. He should strike a blow, should do what he came here to do.
But didn’t he always know it would be no good, really? He knows suddenly, a thought formed of ice, that he was never worthy at all, never had the capacity to be worthy. Dio was like Delphine, a higher order of being. He wonders at the fact that Dio ever showed affection for him at all and, as Delphine’s influence pours into the core of his being, he knows that this could have ended no other way. All he can hope now is to show his devotion by dying for Dio. Maybe that’s all he could ever do. It doesn’t matter. Delphine has him, now. Maybe she speaks, questions him, and maybe he responds, allowing her to tease out his wants, his feelings... but he’s beyond knowing, acting automatically. The fire at the core of him is really dying this time, the defences he’d built up swept away. Failure, again.
But he can barely feel it anyway. No pain. The ice has taken too much of him, and he’s not really aware of anything any more except in indistinct terms, the world seen through a snowstorm. He knows that he has only moments before his mind is no longer his. In a cold and distant way, he wonders what Dio would think.
And then his body, like his mind, is torn apart. It's a kind of peace, in the heart of the cold, as everything slips away; an ending.
It's only about 600 words or so. I gotta start somewhere. ;)
Title: Ice
Genre: Angst
Fandom: Last Exile
Rating: PG
Characters: Lucciola (light DioxLucciola)
Warnings/Disclaimers: Err. Spoilers, mostly. Based on one of the last episodes. Syl, I'm looking at you. Oh, and it's not mine, obviously.
Summary: Lucciola's thoughts.
Lucciola feels cold, sees everything with an alarming clarity, an icy certainty. The world is full of hard edges and too-bright lights; Lucciola is all hard edges himself, now, the softness which he used to have frozen into something entirely different.
Flashes of memory punctuate the cold rage that has come to make up most of his mind. The memories are warm things, but fleeting. Lucciola cannot hold them for long (it’s like fire flickering in a lonely place, forever about to die), but they define his purpose, drive him of through the cold. Dio. Dio holding him, Dio’s smile, Dio laughing his strange childish laugh. Dio leaning in close to kiss him, the light touch of Dio’s lips against his own, almost teasing but absolutely serious. Lucciola’s own shock, the feeling that he could never be worthy of his friend, master... lover?
The memories are buried, though (a snowdrift has built up over them; how they have not died entirely Lucciola does not understand), and no trace of them can be discerned in Lucciola’s blank, empty face. Dio is gone, or Dio’s mind is gone - more or less the same thing - so now there’s only one thing left for Lucciola to do.
He will make himself worthy of the kindness he has been shown.
He will atone for his failures.
The world shifts, time progressing in a series of frozen frames, overexposed but sharp. A shot of a passage. The people looking at him, weapons ready, as though they sense something in his face, though he’s sure he shows nothing. Maybe that’s what they fear. Next, his blade is drawn. He doesn’t remember drawing it. Then, blood. Bodies caught in the process of falling. He’s beyond them. No sound, just a series of images. One step closer: he knows she won’t be far away.
Delphine.
Beyond the door, she’s waiting. More guards step towards him, better ones. In the strange altered stream of his consciousness, Lucciola prepares himself for a dance. A step. A turn. Blood flying up, following the arc of his blade, spinning off into the air for a moment after he’s moved on. Even his brother falls.
Too easy.
Then he’s face-to-face with the Maestro. He’s stunned by her coldness, shocked by the force of it. He thought he had become cold, but he realises he still has heat at the core of him, buried but protected, isolated from the world. Delphine stares at him, and he feels that core begin to freeze. He should move. He should strike a blow, should do what he came here to do.
But didn’t he always know it would be no good, really? He knows suddenly, a thought formed of ice, that he was never worthy at all, never had the capacity to be worthy. Dio was like Delphine, a higher order of being. He wonders at the fact that Dio ever showed affection for him at all and, as Delphine’s influence pours into the core of his being, he knows that this could have ended no other way. All he can hope now is to show his devotion by dying for Dio. Maybe that’s all he could ever do. It doesn’t matter. Delphine has him, now. Maybe she speaks, questions him, and maybe he responds, allowing her to tease out his wants, his feelings... but he’s beyond knowing, acting automatically. The fire at the core of him is really dying this time, the defences he’d built up swept away. Failure, again.
But he can barely feel it anyway. No pain. The ice has taken too much of him, and he’s not really aware of anything any more except in indistinct terms, the world seen through a snowstorm. He knows that he has only moments before his mind is no longer his. In a cold and distant way, he wonders what Dio would think.
And then his body, like his mind, is torn apart. It's a kind of peace, in the heart of the cold, as everything slips away; an ending.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 03:21 am (UTC)It's good.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-11 11:48 am (UTC)And thank you! :)