First of all, this is an apology fic. :P Why? Because I've hit a rut with The Gray Between, that's why. So to apologize for not updating, here's some pretty writing. Second of all, I just stumbled upon two things that encouraged me to write this: One is the song, which almost made me tear up the first time I heard it. And two is a song-fic on here called Bonnie and Clyde, written by phantomgirl113. So here goes my second song-fic, which I hope you like. It's loosely tied to another story I wrote called Beginnings. Here's to you, phantomgirl113, and to the person out there that I really was thinking of when I heard the music. Peace to you, man.

Song: Turpentine, by Brandy Carlile

turpentine

(I watch you grow away from me in photographs
And memories like spies, and salt betrays my eyes again...)

She sat on her throne and crossed her legs most delicately at the knee, looking at the man before her with an expression on her face the mix between contempt and annoyance. The nameless Talon wrapped up his report and bowed. She dismissed him with a casual wave of her hand before wrapping her day up, heading back to her room. It's so late it's early, and the moon as already risen and fallen, trailing silver across the sky.

Her eyes danced in the darkness. She sat down on her bed and sighed, rubbing her temples with pale fingers. Rolling over on the mattress, something crinkled beneath the sheets. Frowning, she sat up and dug beneath the blankets, but there was nothing there. She jumped off of the bed and slid her hand between the springboard and the mattress, her fingers reaching about. They brushed something that did not belong; grabbing hold and yanking, her hand came out, plus something else.

Many pieces of paper, folded against each other.

A very familiar face smiled at her from the first and smaller one, yellow and dusty from the years. Her frown fizzed out. Looking at the other paper, she realized it was a letter, written many, many moon rises ago. Running her hand down the letters, she flicked on a crystal light and began to read the rough handwriting.

"It's been three weeks since I left, and I know I promised to write sooner, but a war got in the way. Things in the palace must be much more peaceful without me. And by peaceful I mean boring. It's late and I'm awfully tired, but I'll try to make my writing legible. Happy tenth, by the way. I know I'm being early with my congratulations, but it's a big deal. I'll try to get back with your present before the big day. Behave yourself, Lark. Yours..."

And then there was a very blurry signature that his sagging eyes had not taken the time to perfect. She sighed and glanced at the photograph, his forced smile taught on his face. She was barely in the frame; she never liked pictures, not when she was ten, and not now. She looked at the other letters, but did not bother reading them. Slouching a little, then tucking the precious pieces of paper back beneath her bed, she clambered onto her feet and stared out the window.

That's where he was right now: Out there in that vast expanse of open sky and stars. No doubt he was asleep by now. She chewed on her lip and leaned against the windowsill. Her weight sagged upon her limbs and made her wrists ache, but she didn't move. What time was it? She glanced at the clock. Early, that was for sure. It read some outrageous number that her brain refused to process. She needs sleep, but that is one truth she can afford to ignore.

(I started losing sleep and gaining weight
And wishing I was was ten again, so I could be your friend again...)

Thinking back to when she was still a child, at ten years old, and the strange sense of disappointment she'd felt when he told her he might not make it for the festivities, she realized just how close they had been. The letters sent home from afar had been cast off beneath a mattress with good intentions of being secrets, a little guilty pleasure. She doesn't remember hiding them, but for sure she had felt a strange sense of euphoria. Only to forget them until many years later when she was an adult and too old for such silly little things.

The sun will rise in several hours and she intends to watch it. The rosy glow will coat the sky and turn it red again. She will see the power of her empire, the great spread of her wings that covers half the world and then some. But inside, she's hollow as the guard that has been left out in the sun to dry. Turned into a rattle that is easily shaken by others. Striding away from the window to the closet, she wonders what other secrets she's got hidden. Skeletons in the wardrobe; how very appropriate. Opening the ancient doors of some ancient wood, she reaches up to the top shelf and can vaguely remember when she was a child.

"I'm telling you, I won't lose it."

"You better not," he warns, looking serious but smiling all at once.

"I won't." She then runs back to her room and slides her hand onto the top of the wardrobe and pulls out a battered little tin, into which she slides the treasure, along with many others. Then, slapping the lid on tight, she hides it again and prays it will never leave her memory...

The dust on the box is an inch thick. She traces her hands through it, then blows it off with a little puff of air. The sands of time fizz into the air and up her nose. She twitches it, then pries the lid away. Packets of old paper bound by silk and crystal fragments, a sliver of metal, and a little bit of stale air is all that greets her. She frowns and sets the box down, her interest drawn first to the paper. More letters, perhaps?

Pulls the string away impatiently. Yet no, they were not letters. Journal entries, more like it. She remembers now with a dry chuckle. Silly little venture. She should've known she had no patience for diaries. She flipped to the last page.

"I got into a fight with him. The coronation's tomorrow, and I don't want to be queen...It's all his fault and I hate him for it."

She blinked a few times before tossing the papers back into the box and tossing the box back into the closet.

(These days we go to waste like wine, that's turned to turpentine,
It's six AM and I'm all messed up.
I didn't mean to waste your time, so I'll fall back in line
But I'm warning you we're growing up...)

The conversation was a very long time ago. It didn't matter anymore; they seemed to have silently forgiven each other. Forgiven or forgotten. She ran her fingers through her hair and continued her silent little vigil at the window. "Why, why, why?" she mumbled, amused. Tapping the wood with her dusty fingertips, she made a little rhythm to think to.

"You did it, didn't you?"

"Did what, Lark?"

"DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT! You killed him!"

"You're mistaken, princess. I did nothing." His smile was wiped clean. She was so angry, her fists clenched tight as cheese with the water squeezed out of them.

"LIAR!"

The amused feeling inside her fizzed away. It had been a horrid argument, and he hadn't shown up for her coronation the next day. It had hurt. But he had shown up for her father's funeral. It was hardly his choice. And he had looked into the coffin in such a way that she could barely believe her own thoughts. Her own opinions. Her own silly little lies.

The sky was beginning to turn red again. She leaned forward and closed her eyes. She had been wrong, of course. He hadn't killed the old man, the geezer had died from natural causes. So no doubt she regretted shouting at him so, but he seemed fine a week later when she had raised the war up again between her kingdom and that distant ribbon of blue. Even tossed himself between her and a support beam.

"What on earth did you do that for? You could've been killed."

He merely shrugged and walked away. She was too shocked to dismiss him.

Collapsing inside her mind were the thin little cables that tied her to the past. She was a different person now. She was an empress, an overlord, a ruler. And she had no time for silly little memories. But remembering the letters lying at the bottom of her bed that she had slept on top of for many a year, her trademark curiosity got the better of her. "Arrgh," she grunted, kneeling and prying the papers out again. Her hands found the last one. She read it.

The words touched something that hadn't been touched in a very long time. Written three days before her father's departure from this world. She frowned and re-read the words. He always chose to write, instead of sending a message crystal. Somehow, he found it more personal that way. Even if it was slower to read. His handwriting was more flowing, then. More mature. The handwriting of a general, a true warrior. She sighed and stared out the window for what felt like the hundredth time.

(I heard you found some pretty words to say, you found your little game to play
and there's no one allowed in...)

He had pulled away so far from her, she couldn't even hold a decent conversation with him any longer. He thought of her as a master, and she thought of him as a servant. It was so simple on paper, yet so complicated if you truly thought about it. He was a soldier, now, and she was royalty. So perhaps it had always been like that, save one little detail: she had grown up, and he had grown distant.

So now he was off looking for his nemesis and continuing this outrageous little game of cat and mouse. He had been extremely successful when it came to wall building. And so had she; titanium and unobtainable was the barrier between her heart and the rest of the world. She often doubted if she even had one. You know, a heart. Stepping out onto the veranda, she wondered if she had been born with the capability to ever love anyone.

(Then just when we believe we could be great, reality it permeates
And conquers from within again..)

She had, in all her childhood innocence, believed in a day when she'd be the queen and he'd be her right hand man. And she supposed that reality hadn't been all that off the mark. She was a queen, wasn't he? And he had started off right at her side, but he had refused the position, so it seemed. First, that embarrassing defeat at the hands of those rag tag children. And then the cold attitude he held for her and the kingdom he now served.

"You know, one day, when I become queen, you can be my right hand man," she says, rather offhandedly. She continues down the hall. He looks a little taken aback.

"Er...O.k." He walks after her, shaken. "Sounds...fun."

"Oh, it will be," she said, smiling, before gripping his wrist. "Come, I've got something to show you..."

Icy was a good word to describe him, she supposed. Searching through her head, she wondered what a good word to describe herself would be. Nonchalant? Steely? Cold? Indifferent? Idiotic?

Now where had that last one popped up from? She mentally slapped herself. The sun's rays permeated through her window and the clouds of her kingdom. There was the roar of skimmer engines in the not so far distance. He was home. About time. Sighing, she drew up a chair, sat down, and leaned against the window. She had gotten no sleep...and was a little tired. The position was comfortable, and soon, she was asleep...

Only to be awakened by the feeling of hands on her shoulder and waist. And the sensation of being weightless. Her eyes popped open. A frowning face glared down at her.

"Sleeping on windowsills is not healthy, Master," he said tartly, setting her down on the bed, before drawing the window blinds. Her mouth was jammed shut and her eyebrows were locked in a downward position. He headed for the door and sank into a light bow, before turning the knob. She felt like saying something, something to call him back. She wanted so badly to explain. After tonight, things shouldn't have carried on for her as usual. But he was already gone.

Her eyes fell on a tiny sheaf of papers lying on the floor. She stood and picked them up.

(These days we go to waste like wine, that's turned to turpentine
It's six AM and I'm all messed up.
I didn't mean to waste your time, so I'll fall back in line,
But I'm warning you we're growing up...)

The final letter was lying on the top. The final piece was fitted in first. The morning star came before the sun. She did not read, just looked at his handwriting and imagined him, sitting on a rock on some terra some place, in the middle of the world, at the center of the universe. Scrawling some urgent lines to a friend back home, before shifting gears and shouting some incoherent orders at a soldier for the sake of shouting incoherent words.

"It's very very lovely weather we've been having, all the way home. We'll be back soon, I hope, unless we get caught in some giant storm. I'm sure you're getting too old for such nonsense, but fourteen is, in my eyes, still rather young. And you're doing a fine job of this messy business some call growing up and we call hell. I hope you're still training hard. I know we talked about you taking over eventually, what it will mean for our friendship, but don't forget all the years we've been through. I may call you Master, but you'll always be Lark in my heart. Silly, I know, but sometimes even smart people do stupid things.

"Watch the skies. I don't think it'll take us much longer."

She clutched the paper tight in one hand and walked over to the fireplace. Lifting the Blazer on the mantelpiece, she started a fire, and as soon as the flames were big enough, tossed the entire pile of letters into the blaze. The edges curled as the heat licked at the fragility of the paper, and the ink began to burn.

The sun rose, and it shed fire into her heart.

A/N: The two of them have such a unique relationship that one can hardly call romance at this stage, so I call it...the wear and tear of time. I think she's forgotten where she's coming from and is wearing blinkers so that all she can see is the goal ahead. Meaning she shoves aside so many people she used to hold dear...Oh, and if you haven't figured out who the two people are, something's wrong with either my writing or your reading. Maybe both.

I don't know why I wrote it, 'kay? It was a pretty song and I had a plot. Don't look at me with that odd look you've got right now. I don't know if it's a pairing, so it's not categorized as romance. See? /points to the top of the page\\ So don't flame me, please! I'll do whatever I can to avoid flamers. And that includes satiating your hunger for stories. Anyone have requests for one shots? I'll gladly dedicate one to you. Please review. And I'll try to update The Gray Between...Note the "try."

PS: Who else noticed that the Storm Hawks category has over one thousand stories in it already? Can I get a whoot whoot?