Fandom: Fire Emblem Sacred Stones Pairing: L'Arachel x Eirika WC: 456
Dawn breaks gentle over the rolling foothills of who-knows-where, spilling warm colors into the lightening sky to paint the still-slumbering war camp in hues of pastel. Once the sun crests the horizon, morning role call and breakfast will begin, and their march will resume.
In the meantime, their motley herd of horses and pegasi graze together, tails swishing, whilst the free-roaming wyverns fly in at their leisure from their nocturnal hunt. Birds trill to each other and flit about from tent to tent, searching determinedly for spilt grains or hardtack. L'Arachel listens to the silly little things pecking and singing without any heed to whose beauty sleep they might disturb with their antics, and scowls at the firmly closed tent flap.
She dreamt she was in her childhood bedroom, safe in Rausten, until reality proved otherwise. Nature can be so inconsiderate.
On the bedroll beside hers, Eirika stirs slightly, long hair spilled over her pillow, lips parted on some unspoken syllable. The poor dear has been tossing and turning about for hours. No doubt her dreams have been less than pleasant, but at this rate, she's going to make herself ill. Exhaustion and stress have hollowed dark circles beneath her closed eyes, and her complexion has gone as pallid as that white face powder that the courtiers have been clamoring for of late.
Without thinking, L'Arachel reaches across the modest space between their bedrolls, and takes Eirika's small hand within her own.
She sought only to offer some small measure of comfort, empathetic and benevolent holy woman that she is. As soon as L'Arachel realizes what she's done, though, flustered heat rushes to flood her cheeks.
They're holding hands. Bare hands. They don't even have gloves on!
She hurriedly closes her eyes lest Eirika catch her awake, though she can do nothing for the wild hammering of her heart against her ribs. Hypocrite though she is, L'Arachel also doesn't let go, as she is loath to lose a moment of that precious, rarified contact. They've never held hands before. She's sure her face is positively aflame, imagining Eirika accepting her hand willingly.
(And, oh – L'Arachel might as well rescind her vows of purity to Saint Latona now, before the shame of corruption forces her to retire from her profession entirely!)
With a soft sigh, Eirika's fingers curl, squeezing her hand.
L'Arachel bravely cracks one eye open for a peek.
Her dearest companion still appears to be fast asleep. L'Arachel's shoulders slump in relief. She fires off a swift prayer for forgiveness – never hurts to throw in a little extra piety, like Uncle Mansel says – and silently promises to leave some seed out for the songbirds in thanks for waking her up just a few minutes early.
FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM
Pairing: L'Arachel x Eirika
WC: 456
Dawn breaks gentle over the rolling foothills of who-knows-where, spilling warm colors into the lightening sky to paint the still-slumbering war camp in hues of pastel. Once the sun crests the horizon, morning role call and breakfast will begin, and their march will resume.
In the meantime, their motley herd of horses and pegasi graze together, tails swishing, whilst the free-roaming wyverns fly in at their leisure from their nocturnal hunt. Birds trill to each other and flit about from tent to tent, searching determinedly for spilt grains or hardtack. L'Arachel listens to the silly little things pecking and singing without any heed to whose beauty sleep they might disturb with their antics, and scowls at the firmly closed tent flap.
She dreamt she was in her childhood bedroom, safe in Rausten, until reality proved otherwise. Nature can be so inconsiderate.
On the bedroll beside hers, Eirika stirs slightly, long hair spilled over her pillow, lips parted on some unspoken syllable. The poor dear has been tossing and turning about for hours. No doubt her dreams have been less than pleasant, but at this rate, she's going to make herself ill. Exhaustion and stress have hollowed dark circles beneath her closed eyes, and her complexion has gone as pallid as that white face powder that the courtiers have been clamoring for of late.
Without thinking, L'Arachel reaches across the modest space between their bedrolls, and takes Eirika's small hand within her own.
She sought only to offer some small measure of comfort, empathetic and benevolent holy woman that she is. As soon as L'Arachel realizes what she's done, though, flustered heat rushes to flood her cheeks.
They're holding hands. Bare hands. They don't even have gloves on!
She hurriedly closes her eyes lest Eirika catch her awake, though she can do nothing for the wild hammering of her heart against her ribs. Hypocrite though she is, L'Arachel also doesn't let go, as she is loath to lose a moment of that precious, rarified contact. They've never held hands before. She's sure her face is positively aflame, imagining Eirika accepting her hand willingly.
(And, oh – L'Arachel might as well rescind her vows of purity to Saint Latona now, before the shame of corruption forces her to retire from her profession entirely!)
With a soft sigh, Eirika's fingers curl, squeezing her hand.
L'Arachel bravely cracks one eye open for a peek.
Her dearest companion still appears to be fast asleep. L'Arachel's shoulders slump in relief. She fires off a swift prayer for forgiveness – never hurts to throw in a little extra piety, like Uncle Mansel says – and silently promises to leave some seed out for the songbirds in thanks for waking her up just a few minutes early.