Genre: Smut, Romance, and a hint of Fluff
Ships?: Tony Stark/Zexion
Characters: Tony Zexion
Rating: R
Spoilers: Nope
Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, Ironman, or any related characters. This was written out of enjoyment of the series, and no profit is being made.
Music: One Minute Man by Missy Elliot
Notes:
Decisive
They are lesser, but they are not blind, not completely.
She reflects on this truth in the harsh light of their desire given shape. Others may twist and slink and twitch, but not she. Her body of holy silver is held straight as a punishing rod. Power is laced throughout her, pulsing gently, like a heartbeat.
It is not a proper substitute, but she makes due, just like she makes due with a faint scrap of memory. It is one little thing, near insignificant, but the clarity cuts at her: bones warmed by dry desert heat in her fingers, touch dipping into marks cut delicately into bone.
Her life before the Prophet is that, and nothing more. So little decides so much.
she begins at the greatest in number first.
Once, the Kindly Ones would curl about great spires in a part of the Castle which jutted out. Their claws would welcome the lightning which would be drawn to them and their laughter would echo. Now, naught remains but piles of rusted metal. Like so many legends beforehand, the nymph and her attendants can be remembered only by the ruins they leave. In a torrent of rain, she quietly draws a piece of rain ruined steel to her, a pink cube holding it in place.
She does not feel the dead and dry grass beneath her but she knows that the sanctuary which the Harvesters had been so proud of is no longer the same. How 'proud' the Harvest gatherers had been of their graceful lord's haven. What words would flower in them to see this dead place, gray and empty? No leaves, no flowers... Transparent violet snips through the stem of a flower lacking petals and carries it away.
The youngest of the eldest is a room she avoids and instead finds herself in a wide space with little to decorate it. The quiet children with guardian hands had required as little as their elder. Even they leave remnants, however. With more gentleness than she knew herself to possess, she bends her will to curl beneath a heavy chain, only a small piece of a greater puzzle.
Many among the elders had mocked their brother of ice and the shields which followed him so loyally. They had made jests of how it seemed he and his lab were one. Perhaps it is true, for with his absence, so much of the underground rooms have fallen into disarray. Decay spreads over the walls, claims delicate tools. The shields would bristle to see her sealing away a test tube in a box of pale pink.
Eventually, she acknowledges the room she had taken care to avoid must be visited.
The Library of times past is a thing giant and made all the more enormous and maze-like in memory. When the carved doors swing open for her, there is little left. No more treacherous images, no more whispers, no more false turns. The room is small. There are no books, let alone shelves. There is only a table. There is only one small notebook, opened to a page.
She waits, but nothing comes. With weary resignation, she enters the room. Great care is taken as she lays her 'tools' on the surface.
Metal, plant, chain, test tube... and a book. Each is inspected carefully before she does something she has not done in many, ,many years: she removes her hands from her sleeves. Despite the rare sight, she spares only a cursory glance towards the long thin fingers of black. More vital are the objects before her. Like in the memory she cradles so close, her fingers trace over the remains of those lost to oblivion. Tales and warnings are in each crack, each curve. Rough edges cling to her fingertips, and glass soothes the burn of minor scratches. The link of chain is unyielding even broken off, and the plant threatens to crumble at a ghost of her touch. Words are traced.
Hours later, and a shifting shadow of a flame finds her. She is still staring down at the array before her as shadow is shaped by her elbow. Once more are her hands hidden.
What thoughts?
There is no answer. Words are a haunting thing; the Whispers had known this best of all. It is no surprise, then, of that which is left of them in this place, or why it holds a future so well.
Besides her, the Assassin makes a noise low and keening. It almost manages desperation. What thoughts? Have you decided? Hala! A secret name not even the Prophet knows. Or perhaps he merely cares not.
Slowly and with the disconcerting grace she is so known for, she turns to look upon the Assassin. her voice is fingertips-on-bone soft. You are a fuse. She shakes her head only slightly. We are a kingdom still yet falling. Come. almost serenely, she floats past her companion, who hurries after.
Where?
To sentinels and dragons, my Fuse.
They leave. The door shuts. In the room, the five bones of those near forgotten remain.
