I told myself before starting: "Structure and sense, be damned. Write now, post after, edit much later."
A three-shot to lull me be back into writing. A writing exercise. Pointless rambling at its fi…nest. You judge.
Disclaimer: I claim nothing. 'Cept for the time spent on the odd string of words that were thrown together like a bibimbap fix, one cold wintry day.
til kingdom come
By: rinaissance
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A princess, a knight, and as far as fairytale conventions go, they are never meant to be. Athrun and Cagalli, in a three-shot spanning from their once upon a dream to an ever after. (Canon, post-canon, and a universe beyond.)
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I. Once upon a dream
Theirs was a tale that began like any other.
Once upon a time, in a kingdom crumbling beneath wars raging and death tolls ticking thrice the speed of time, there lived she, who did not sing or dance about romance and sweet nothings with a picnic basket on hand, and a group of captivated animals in tow. The only sound she could hear, was the sobbing plea of Innocence, romancing Death (who gallivanted from one life to another, declaring what he claimed was his) in a desperate struggle to remain alive; and the only rhythm she could dance to, were that of the raining bullets pelting at her feet.
She was a princess who had traded gold and diamonds, for the sinister glint of bombs and cannons. She was a girl, unripe at sixteen, who had traded her own life for the life of others. Therefore she, who strongly opposed to becoming an embodiment of beauty, became neither the subject of men's preying eyes nor women's envy. And with this, she strongly believed, ne'er could she be a victim of Cupid's machinations on the frailty of the human heart.
"A princess, only in title," she would snarl to those who dared tell her the otherwise.
On the other hand, he, a noble knight of a kingdom even farther away, conformed to conventions and rose beyond expectations. His footsteps were precise and succinct. His character was painted in all corners with the noblest red, and outlined in black ink with the thickest nib. His eyes though, despite the firm setting on the corners, mellowed towards the centre in a deep sea green of drowning depth.
"Yes sire," he would reply, stiff and composed, and no one ever did see how the slight waver in his eyes, inwardly responded a resounding no.
And so when she, the princess (askew in more ways than one) and he, the knight, (saturated to feigned perfection) met for the first time in a land far far away, between them sparked a force that could dismember all worlds out of orbit. And it did.
o
He was poised, ready to strike with the knife in his hand, until she lost all defiance and let out a cry for him to stumble from. It surprised him, when her scream pierced through the air and jolted the surge of killing intent out of his system. How her once deep and wilful voice suddenly resembled the sound of an infant's chirp echoing in crescendo, he would never know. But -
"A girl?"he asked. The harsh glint on the surface of his knife became as translucently childlike, as the bemused twinkle in his eyes.
- it surprised him even more, when her face that was once contorted into a pitiful surrender, was replaced (again) with a glare so indignant and fearless that he might as well be the prey, and she, the predator. How ironic, given their position.
"That's right, I'm a girl. What is it with you men?" the she-wolf howled, hostile in her wordless command to be set free.
Who are you, he was tempted to ask. He was a knight, true to his duties, truer to his kingdom, truest to his King, and so to comply to the wishes of some measly underling - a fellow citizen or not - was treason to his ears. So he tied her up, hands and feet, just as how it should be. But foremost he is Athrun, with the half purest heart, concealed in layers of armour, but never hardened, only tilled. So he let her live, setting the world's orbit, in a counter clockwise direction.
"Then kill me," he ordered. No mockery. No fear. No doubt that she knew how every tremble in her conviction, only fed the fire set ablaze in his eyes. But Athrun was concealed in layers of armour and lived on a tilled infertile soil, so he corrected, "Try and kill me and then I'll kill you."
And she is Cagalli and a renegade she might be, covered in scars and wielding weapons just like he did, but she only wore shabby clothes which couldn't cover the sunshine she was gifted with. So she let him live.
"Sorry," she said. No knowledge of how much she shone through the armour he wore. Never knowing how her unbidden tears watered their way down to the barren land of his own.
It was funny. How the tables could no longer turn, or how the world had stopped moving the moment the line drawn between them was crossed.
"I'm Cagalli, what's yours?"
There was a moment of hesitation before he replied, "Athrun."
And it wasn't until she turned around and ran away with a vitality reminiscent of the rising sun, that he tried her name on his lips with a smile. "Cagalli."
It was better than the mental imprint of the newborn sun he would forever associate with her, of sharp streaks of orange, yellow and red smiling in the horizon. He would see her again someday. He would find her. And there wouldn't be a need to scour the universe holding the image of a daybreak beside any girl he would see. Because she is Cagalli, the only one whose name and very being was the embodiment of everything he would see.
And that's as far as my typing skills can go for tonight. Continuing this tomorrow.
I am excited to finish the next chapters to MTG and TPS. Muse, muse, muse is on the way, yeah!
Read and review, please? (And throw tomatoes, if you must.)
Thank you!