Diamond


Her hands are beautiful. She has long, slender, elven fingers- so very suitable for dipping into pockets or purses, for purposes that befit an imp more than an elf. Her knuckles are so small they don't seem to be there. Her nails are filed with military precision so as not to snag on the silken seams of the Wutaian upper class.

And yet, below the knuckles which hardly seem to be there, below the slender fingers that steal and snatch, battle is painted on her palms.

Her lines of life, head, and heart have all but been erased by the harshness of the life she has lead. Her palm has been cut, scored and notched by the weapons she wields. Some cuts are barely noticeable, tiny red marks bought in a few days and healed in fewer. Those are the new cuts.

The older cuts are embossed with sallow pink, arching across her palm like an arrow shot skywards. The scars tell the story of a time when those elfin fingers were shorter and thicker, those knuckles yet smaller, those nails not yet shortened for their larcenous task. They tell of a time when a child's hand wept red onto the unyielding stone of the many-faced mountain, and of a child who spilt her own blood as if it would never run out.

They tell of a girl who foolishly believed that, by giving her blood to blade and stone, she could restore the life of a dying culture.

His hands are beautiful. Or, perhaps not; one of them certainly is, but the other remains sheathed in metal, like an ancient warrior's noble sword. The hand he shows is worth showing. The fingers are long and elegant, tapering to a point with some shadowy, understated menace. They are strong, efficient fingers, toned for one motion and one motion alone. As they tense around the butt of his gun, the menace bursts forth with lead as its escort, and his purpose is fulfilled.

His palms are curious and unnatural things. The lines meant to proclaim his fate to anyone brave enough to read them are warped and featureless. There are merely broken shadows where a destiny was once scribed.

Perhaps, of course, the lines have migrated elsewhere. His fate has been rewritten by a fool who played God; mayhap the jester that writes upon the hand knows it, and has made adjustments. Whatever the truth, his lines have moved to places they should not be, pushed from place to place by the sprouting of beast's claws and demon's talons, and no longer show one heart but many.

Their hands are different, yet similar. They seem to fit easily with each other, as one half fits with another. Their palms are no longer the map of their fate; they are free to wander the paths of life without compass nor sextant.

Their hands are similar on one other count. Upon the third finger, both carry a diamond that shines with many faces.


A/N: Sorry about the delay. This was somewhat difficult to write, and it was hard to get a concept for diamond that fitted with the overall theme of this collection. I'm not sure how it came out, but I hope it was good enough to entertain.