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RULES:

Leave an anon prompt in the comments
Answer an anon prompt in the comments

That's simple right? ^_^

THIS POST IS NOW CLOSED FOR NEW PROMPTS

You can still answer prompts though! there is no limit on that.

Have fun!

FILLED PROMPTS:

1. "Good for the Goose, Good for the Gander", Kate/Ollie - hair removal

3. "(Dis)assemble" - Guy

4. "Three Blind Mice", J'onn + Ollie + Guy - threesome

6. "The Weft and the Warp", Damian - fantasy

7. "Sun Sun Twenty-One", Ollie/Steph - cunnilingus

8. "In Vino Veritas", Kyle + Dick
drinking contest, Kyle/Dick

10. Bai in a box, all chars

the weft and the warp

Date: 2013-03-25 07:58 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
"They say he was one of the most beautiful and powerful of the foltdhubh, your father," Rose tells him, her nimble fingers rubbing through his hair. It's almost at harvest length, so she's careful with the strands, oiling them in small locks with enough tug to stimulate growth but not enough to pluck a single hair. That's her skill, the skill of all the shios girls. Damian lets himself lean back between Rose's knees as she talks and strokes.

"And my mother?" he asks. The greediness in his voice never lessens, no matter how much he hears this story. "Like a dream," Rose tells him. "Her hair was so long and glorious that one cold winter, when she had the desire to swim into a still pond, the sight of her dark hair floating out upon the water between the white lilies drove men mad to see it." Rose moves to Damian's scalp, anointing him with more of the thin clear oil, the heat of his skin scenting the air with chypre woods and clean fresh herbs.

The story never varies, but Damian never tires of it. He closes his eyes and hooks his arms over Rose's knees, prepared to pass the rest of this ritual basking in silence, but after a moment she adds something more. Something he hasn't heard before.

"Fhiùi Oliver knew your parents," Rose says, voice low. "They were all young together, back before the Ash Years."

Damian tries to turn to look at her, but Rose holds his head where it is. She doesn't say anything more.

--- --- ---

Mia has the task of harvest, as she is the first daughter of House Fhiùi. She doesn't take the responsibility seriously enough, to her father's displeasure, but as first daughter she also escapes the lord's wrath more often than not.

"Keep still," she tells Damian unnecessarily, petting through his hair as if he's one of the family's beloved antlered foxes. He raises his head to give her an impassive look and Mia laughs, shaking back her own golden curls, and gently pushes Damian's head down. The whole court watches him kneel at the harvest block, dressed in embroidered robes of a dark, shifting violet that echoes the living purple-black iridescence of his hair, his forehead pressed into the concave of the whitgold block.

"Life and memory," Mia says, her voice ringing loudly as she winds three of Damian's hairs around her fingers. "Name and family. Be ever present, an' it weave thee." She yanks and he feels the tiny prickle, sitting back to watch as Mia mounts the dias and presents the hairs to her lord father, who sonorously replies, "An' it weave thee," the words barely out before Mia interrupts with a kiss to his bearded face that causes her nurse to make a strangled noise. Laughing again, Mia sits in her own throne as Oliver gives her a pained look and then gestures to the woman with a scarred head who has been standing next to Damian.

Bowing, Mari moves forward to do the actual work of the harvest. Her hands aren't gentle on Damian's head as she fletches and cards his hair, using the small, forever-sharp whitgold knife to slice it off close to his skull. Damian watches his hair collect in the ceremonial green basket, wondering if that was how his mother's hair looked on that cold winter morning when she longed to feel the chill water on her body. Mari's fingers press into his scalp until it hurts, but Damian savors the discomfort. She was foltdhubh once, like Damian, but her hair was torn out by poachers when she was a child, left mutilated. Now she is shios like white-haired Rose.

Lord Oliver no doubt thought the position was a kindness, putting Mari among the shios in his castle instead of sending her to toil in the fields or to work among the weavers, but Damian knows better. He can feel her pain and anger every time she shears him. He's seen the way she holds her whitgold knife when she sits in the kitchens, fury in her too-big eyes.

Mari smells of lilies, and of ashes. Her hair must have been even more beautiful than his own. It will never grow back.

--- --- ---

"You're growing so quickly," Lord Oliver says to Damian one evening. He's a restless man and stays up half the night, roaming the halls and stairways of his castle as if he's both haunting and haunted, holding conversation with whoever he meets regardless of position. House Fhiùi is well-known for two things: the wealth it has accrued from its foltdhubh tapestries, and the mercurial, curious natures of its members.

Damian is accustomed to these late-night encounters, and when he inclines his head in response, the lord reaches out to skate one large, rough hand over the boy's shorn skull. He brings his hand down the side of Damian's face, drawing his thumb between Damian's eyebrows and then cupping his jaw to hold Damian still. Damian lets himself be inspected, a faraway look in Fhiùi Oliver's eyes that gets darker and darker until Damian asks, "Do I remind you of them?"

The lord's fingers tighten, digging painfully into the hinge of Damian's jaw before he snatches his hand away. He says nothing, just turns and stalks in long, angry strides out of the room.

--- --- ---

Damian goes to his room and pries one of the stones from the wall, reaching into the cold to extract a bundle of oilcloth. There is no need for him to hide anything he owns, the family has never denied him anything he could desire and they respect his private belongings, but Damian nevertheless keeps this hidden out of some wild, desperate need.

He unbundles the oilcloth, unwraps the velvet underneath, and unfurls the thick section of tapestry from inside. It would be only enough to wear across his chest, were he grown; it covers his lap as he sits on his bed with it.

The dark violet threads glint in the candlelight and Damian looks at each corner separately, taking in the intricate scrolling borders before moving his gaze to the middle, the antlered fox stooping to drink at a lily pond, the black moon above the tableau. He touches the threads lightly, imagining that the more ebon black ones are his father's hair, the rich chestnut-tinted ones his mother's. He imagines what it must have been like, before the Ash Years, before the Weeping King had begun the burnings, before the War in the Weeds had brought stability back to the land. Before so many of the foltdhubh had died in the fires.

Damian brings the tapestry up to his face and inhales the scent, so hard it makes him dizzy, and falls back onto his bed. When he dreams, it is of sinking fast into deep purple waters and finding only weeds of golden hair beneath.

Re: the weft and the warp

Date: 2013-03-26 12:05 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
I'm gonna have to read this a whole bunch of times to get the nuances but DAMN, anon. DAMN.

Re: the weft and the warp

Date: 2013-03-27 12:31 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
This took my breath away, really. It's so delicate and intricate, all these threads of the past hinted at throughout the ceremony taking place. Absolutely beautiful, and it truly felt like something from an epic fantasy-- I just loved it

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