Lalala… What can I say about this one? Well, it's written for "30 Themes of Kisses". (www(dot)livejournal(dot)com(slash)community(slash)30kisses) One of my pairings is Raven/Lucius, soooooooo… Yup, going to be lots of that. This ficcy is for the theme "red", BTW.
Disclaimer: Fire Emblem doesn't belong to me.
Am to sleepy to make up witty (or dumb, rather) remarks, so here's the ficcy…
Red… Beautiful…
The fire crackles as it eats at the wood, spreading much-needed heat into my cold bones. I scoot closer, though still trying to keep my dignity. Oh, blessed warmth!
I relax, just the slightest bit, and wring out my hair. It feels so tangled, so absolutely disgusting, as it lies wet and limp in clumpy tendrils. I hope you do not mind the added puddle to the ground beneath our tent. It does not make a noticeable difference, not really.
Vapours rise, like mist over a lake. I feel better as the heat spreads through my chilled limbs, as it dissipates the water in my soaked clothing. Oh, beautiful fire!
Beautiful fire, scarlet.
I idly smooth out my robes, when I feel a patch of heat – wet heat. It is not water there; something sticky. I glance down, feeling unnaturally calm, detached. It is as I suspected – a deep gash, seeping blood, runs across my right thigh, painting a splash of violet. The cold of before numbed it, but now, I feel it, feel the pain. I will be brave for you, Milord. I will not cry out. I will remain calm and stoic, like you, as I wash and wrap the wound. Will you finally be proud of me, if I do?
The stain is spreading, a blooming flower. My robes cling to me; I do not feel a difference. A pot of water… Oh, how slow it boils! I prepare the cloth, the bandages.
Finally, the water is bubbling. I leave it on the fire. It radiates heat, soothing me, thawing me, causing that gash to throb and burn. I clench my teeth. I will be strong for you, Milord. I must.
Reaching down, I gingerly pick at my clothes with shaking fingers, lifting first the blue over-robe then the white under-layer, wincing as dried blood, stuck to the rain-stiffened fabric, sticks to and rips off small patches of skin. I tie the right of my robes at my waist; I hope I am adequately covered should you enter.
The blood keeps gushing, running in rivulets and tributaries, flowing and flowing and stinging and hurting as I scrambled to wash it all up. Why won't it stop?
It would be such a beautiful sight, if not for the pain, if not for the fact that is my own blood.
Glistening, beautiful, deep, deep garnet.
"Lucius, what are you doing? What happened!"
Your voice startles me. I jerk my head up, biting back a groan at the pain shooting through my leg. I am confused. Why are you here, Milord? Is the battle over? Have we won?
"Lord Raymond…" No, I should not try to speak. Speaking betrays too much the trembling in my voice. This time, it is already too late.
"You're hurt." You kneel beside me, your arm comforting and supporting on my back. I feel a wave of agitation course through me. I am the servant, Milord! It is I who should be on bended knees.
Before I can voice my protest, your lips silence me. I can only stare, shocked, into your eyes, harsh and soft and cold and fiery. How perfect they are, full of life, of vigor, of beauty. I can submerge myself in those eyes forever.
Beautiful, tantalizing… eyes of shimmering rubies.
"No arguments," you whisper as you pull away. I nod, unable now to speak. That seems to pacify you.
It is amazing, the swift efficiency with which you work. In what seems to be mere seconds, you stop the blood-flow and press a vulnerary to my wound. I suppose you are used to this, you, my beloved lord, who always protected me. I feel safe, here, in your presence.
"Why didn't you go to the healers?" Your voice is distracted, tinged with your usual anger, as if that act moments ago has not taken place. Your hands, though, are still gentle as they dabbed at the wound.
"I…" How do I answer this? You will not like my reply, yet I am sworn to tell the truth. "Lady Serra and Lady Priscilla were both exhausted, Lord Raymond, and their staves were wearing down. I would rather they heal the stronger members of our army, the ones who would be of use, who would be… cared about…"
"And what gives you the impression that no one cares about you?"
I close my eyes against your terse voice, not trusting myself to remain calm. "The army valued me for my knowledge of light magic, but Lady Serra would soon be able to use it too. And you, Milord, aren't you the one who always had to protect me, who always said I'm only in the way?"
"Lucius. Relax." You hook an arm around my shoulders hesitantly and pull me closer. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't have protected you. If you were truly in the way, I wouldn't have kept you by my side all this time."
"L-lord Raymond?" I finally crack open one eye, but your attention is still fixed on my leg, treating the gash. You continue to speak, as if I did not interrupt, though a faint blush stains your cheeks. I know I am the same.
These flushes darken, vivid patches of soft, beautiful crimson.
"Did you think the kiss was only to silence you?" you ask with an air of amusement. The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. I am glad. It has been so long since you last smiled, since you were last happy. Are you returning to your former self? "Did you think it meant nothing?"
"I… well… that is…" In fact, that is what I thought. Why would you… I… a servant…
"It means everything." At first unsure, then more firmly and confidently, you kiss me again, your wind-burnt lips gentle. The knot in my robes slip; the wound is cleaned and wrapped already. You break away reluctantly and look at me. "You mean everything, Lucius, my friend, my light. Don't belittle yourself again."
"Is that an order, Lord Raymond?" I ask innocently.
"…Yes. Yes, it is." Finally, your face breaks into a smile, though conserved. You pull me to you.
"As you wish, Milord." I bury my face in your hair, revelling in your scent. You have beautiful hair, Milord Raymond. Soft and silky and… red.
Red hair… Amazingly, beautifully red.