Bollywood Fanfic: Salvation, 1/1 (Asoka)
Apr. 25th, 2006 03:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTITLE: Salvation
AUTHOR: Dangermousie
RATING: PG
NOTE/WARNING: An Asoka fic. This is in honor of the brand-new (join! join!)![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bolly_fics. It's x-posted there, as well.
When he is in battle, he forgets everything, all past wiped clean in his berserker rage. There is nothing but the smell of blood, and the wait for the next opponent, and the weight of the sword in his arm. There is no self outside of slaughter, no memories, and no regrets.
She is his. He belongs to her.
He has always been good at this, at the concentrated violence of war, and he's been getting better, with every battle, every body, every victory he claims.
She is graceful when she holds the sword, her stance like a dancer's. But her face is a warrior's, determined in its purity. They are close and distant all at once, and the arc of the sword as she swings it in practice is not half as fierce as the arch of her back as she touches him for the first time.
When the battle is done (and it always goes his way. Always), and the rush and the noise subside, he is already half-way to his tent.
Her fingertips are cool when they touch his face, but his own are hot when they pull her closer and she laughs into his mouth
His servants take off his armor. His servants draw his bath. His servants examine him for wounds (he is always faintly surprised that he doesn't remember recieving the bruises and the cuts). His servants scrub the blood (not his) from his armor, and his clothes and his hair and his body. His servants withdraw.
There are no servants in the woods of his memory. Just Arya. And him. And her. Her hair and her eyes and her mouth and her skin.
He is alone, and the water is soothing and his guard is down and his mind drifts and it happens. It always does, no surprise and no peace.
Her skin is lacerated and her eyes are scared and her hair is burned away. His Kshatrani is calling for him and he needs her voice to be angry or bitter. He could bear that, he would bear that, he should. But his punishment fits the crime and so that is not what he hears. Her voice is afraid. She is scared and that is wrong. She is terrified and he is not there. And that he cannot bear.
Darkness hits him and he hits back.
Kaurwaki, Kaurwaki, Kaurwaki.
He's tried dying and it didn't take. He tried killing instead and obtained blankness. And it is worth it.
Kshatrani.
END
Note: "Kshatrani" means "My Warrior" (if you've seen Asoka, you know that's Asoka's endearment for Kaurwaki)
AUTHOR: Dangermousie
RATING: PG
NOTE/WARNING: An Asoka fic. This is in honor of the brand-new (join! join!)
bolly_fics. It's x-posted there, as well.When he is in battle, he forgets everything, all past wiped clean in his berserker rage. There is nothing but the smell of blood, and the wait for the next opponent, and the weight of the sword in his arm. There is no self outside of slaughter, no memories, and no regrets.
She is his. He belongs to her.
He has always been good at this, at the concentrated violence of war, and he's been getting better, with every battle, every body, every victory he claims.
She is graceful when she holds the sword, her stance like a dancer's. But her face is a warrior's, determined in its purity. They are close and distant all at once, and the arc of the sword as she swings it in practice is not half as fierce as the arch of her back as she touches him for the first time.
When the battle is done (and it always goes his way. Always), and the rush and the noise subside, he is already half-way to his tent.
Her fingertips are cool when they touch his face, but his own are hot when they pull her closer and she laughs into his mouth
His servants take off his armor. His servants draw his bath. His servants examine him for wounds (he is always faintly surprised that he doesn't remember recieving the bruises and the cuts). His servants scrub the blood (not his) from his armor, and his clothes and his hair and his body. His servants withdraw.
There are no servants in the woods of his memory. Just Arya. And him. And her. Her hair and her eyes and her mouth and her skin.
He is alone, and the water is soothing and his guard is down and his mind drifts and it happens. It always does, no surprise and no peace.
Her skin is lacerated and her eyes are scared and her hair is burned away. His Kshatrani is calling for him and he needs her voice to be angry or bitter. He could bear that, he would bear that, he should. But his punishment fits the crime and so that is not what he hears. Her voice is afraid. She is scared and that is wrong. She is terrified and he is not there. And that he cannot bear.
Darkness hits him and he hits back.
Kaurwaki, Kaurwaki, Kaurwaki.
He's tried dying and it didn't take. He tried killing instead and obtained blankness. And it is worth it.
Kshatrani.
END
Note: "Kshatrani" means "My Warrior" (if you've seen Asoka, you know that's Asoka's endearment for Kaurwaki)
