Post by shinigami on Sept 15, 2008 0:18:12 GMT -8
Question: Valentine and Beatrix are both adopted. They were older when they became family. How come they act so much like they've always been related? What'd Valentine do to get on Beatrix's good side?
Answer: Take a look at the past.
"Hi." Valentine sat crosslegged next to Beatrix. He was a teenager, middling in height; his hair in disarray, worn longish so that it curled around his ears, at the nape of his neck, more than it would in later years. She was on the very edge of childhood, flat-chested and delicate-boned, maybe too skinny 'cept for some plumpness to her cheeks.
"Hi," she said. They'd been siblings for maybe three months. Maybe four. Not yet a year.
It was past midnight; the moon was the barest sliver of white. Bone fragment. The desert was dark; the nearest lights were behind and few. It was hard to see more than two feet in front of you, and the shadows played tricks on the eyes, hid stones and holes, ravines and thornbushes. Dangerous time.
"Brought you a flashlight," Valentine said. "I saw you go outside. You went pretty far. So, uh, I was worried. I guess. Is what I'm trying to say."
When Valentine handed her the flashlight (let it not be said that witches couldn't modernize; no torches or lanterns for these!), she rolled it in her palm, the battery shaking inside the girlish purple shell. "Okay," she said. "You really don't have to, though."
"What do you mean?" Valentine replied. He reached over to ruffle her hair, but she looked at him and he let his hand drop, a sheepish smile hiding behind his mouth; he was too sheepish to even smile it. "Of course I do. You're my little sister."
"Not really," Beatrix said. Valentine frowned, but didn't say anything, so Beatrix glanced over at her 'big brother'. "It's just paper," she said, almost apologetically. "And it's not you, anyway, it's just Mom and Dad. You don't have to do anything."
Furrow appeared between Valentine's eyebrows, and he picked some stones out of the desert sand, getting his fingers dirty. Finally, the frown lightened. "I was looking forward to having a sister. Doesn't matter that it's just on paper. I, uh. Hm."
Val dragged his fingers through his hair, rain it down his face and then looked at it. It was really, really dark; he could only just see his fingers. He could only just see Beatrix. "So," he said. "If we shared blood, we'd really be siblings, right?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's generally how it works, I hear."
He smiled. "You want to become my blood sister?"
Beatrix snuck a sidelong glance at Valentine. He watched her reaction with a serious expression on his face. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He explained, when she didn't say anything,
"I'll cut my palm and you can cut your own palm, or prick your finger, it doesn't have to be a lot of blood or very painful, and then we just press the wounds together, make an oath. And then you can't use that 'you're only my brother on paper' argument if I tell you to do something."
"...Really?"
"Yeah," he said. "Please?"
He'd caught her off-guard, and she smiled quickly and briefly -- shyly; a radiant shadow; a true smile. The first he'd seen from her. It made him glad that he'd thought of it.
"That's okay," she said. "We don't have to unless you really want to."
"Yeah, I think I really do. I don't want to hear that 'it's just paper' crap again. So put out your palm; I'll cut myself first; -- see? Done." He'd pulled his pocket knife from his pocket, snapped it open, drew it carefully across his palm so that blood began to well up. He held it close to his face the better to see.
"I can do myself," Beatrix said, turning to face Valentine fully. She took the pocket knife, and before he could even say, don't worry, it'll only hurt for a second, sliced it across her palm and grinned, mischief, at Val. The mischief was quickly replaced by a serious expression. Val took Bea's hand, smooshed their palms together, closed his hand over both of theirs. Beatrix winced.
"Now it's as if we were born to the same parents; you're my sister, I'm your brother," Val said, and Beatrix nodded. Then, after they'd held hands together for a minute, they both turned back to the desert -- and the dark.
"You know," Beatrix said. "I'm just not going to listen to you or do what you say because I don't want to. This family thing isn't really going to change that."
"What do you mean?" Val replied. "Of course you are. I'm the elder. You have to listen to me."
She stared ahead for a second, then blinked and turned toward Val again. "...What'd you say?"
"Brat."
Answer: Take a look at the past.
"Hi." Valentine sat crosslegged next to Beatrix. He was a teenager, middling in height; his hair in disarray, worn longish so that it curled around his ears, at the nape of his neck, more than it would in later years. She was on the very edge of childhood, flat-chested and delicate-boned, maybe too skinny 'cept for some plumpness to her cheeks.
"Hi," she said. They'd been siblings for maybe three months. Maybe four. Not yet a year.
It was past midnight; the moon was the barest sliver of white. Bone fragment. The desert was dark; the nearest lights were behind and few. It was hard to see more than two feet in front of you, and the shadows played tricks on the eyes, hid stones and holes, ravines and thornbushes. Dangerous time.
"Brought you a flashlight," Valentine said. "I saw you go outside. You went pretty far. So, uh, I was worried. I guess. Is what I'm trying to say."
When Valentine handed her the flashlight (let it not be said that witches couldn't modernize; no torches or lanterns for these!), she rolled it in her palm, the battery shaking inside the girlish purple shell. "Okay," she said. "You really don't have to, though."
"What do you mean?" Valentine replied. He reached over to ruffle her hair, but she looked at him and he let his hand drop, a sheepish smile hiding behind his mouth; he was too sheepish to even smile it. "Of course I do. You're my little sister."
"Not really," Beatrix said. Valentine frowned, but didn't say anything, so Beatrix glanced over at her 'big brother'. "It's just paper," she said, almost apologetically. "And it's not you, anyway, it's just Mom and Dad. You don't have to do anything."
Furrow appeared between Valentine's eyebrows, and he picked some stones out of the desert sand, getting his fingers dirty. Finally, the frown lightened. "I was looking forward to having a sister. Doesn't matter that it's just on paper. I, uh. Hm."
Val dragged his fingers through his hair, rain it down his face and then looked at it. It was really, really dark; he could only just see his fingers. He could only just see Beatrix. "So," he said. "If we shared blood, we'd really be siblings, right?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's generally how it works, I hear."
He smiled. "You want to become my blood sister?"
Beatrix snuck a sidelong glance at Valentine. He watched her reaction with a serious expression on his face. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He explained, when she didn't say anything,
"I'll cut my palm and you can cut your own palm, or prick your finger, it doesn't have to be a lot of blood or very painful, and then we just press the wounds together, make an oath. And then you can't use that 'you're only my brother on paper' argument if I tell you to do something."
"...Really?"
"Yeah," he said. "Please?"
He'd caught her off-guard, and she smiled quickly and briefly -- shyly; a radiant shadow; a true smile. The first he'd seen from her. It made him glad that he'd thought of it.
"That's okay," she said. "We don't have to unless you really want to."
"Yeah, I think I really do. I don't want to hear that 'it's just paper' crap again. So put out your palm; I'll cut myself first; -- see? Done." He'd pulled his pocket knife from his pocket, snapped it open, drew it carefully across his palm so that blood began to well up. He held it close to his face the better to see.
"I can do myself," Beatrix said, turning to face Valentine fully. She took the pocket knife, and before he could even say, don't worry, it'll only hurt for a second, sliced it across her palm and grinned, mischief, at Val. The mischief was quickly replaced by a serious expression. Val took Bea's hand, smooshed their palms together, closed his hand over both of theirs. Beatrix winced.
"Now it's as if we were born to the same parents; you're my sister, I'm your brother," Val said, and Beatrix nodded. Then, after they'd held hands together for a minute, they both turned back to the desert -- and the dark.
"You know," Beatrix said. "I'm just not going to listen to you or do what you say because I don't want to. This family thing isn't really going to change that."
"What do you mean?" Val replied. "Of course you are. I'm the elder. You have to listen to me."
She stared ahead for a second, then blinked and turned toward Val again. "...What'd you say?"
"Brat."
