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FMA - Crimson
I am so insanely happy with this piece. In my personal opinion, it is the hottest thing I've ever written. WHOO-TAH.
Title: Crimson
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Ishbal. Blame goes to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pinstripesuit. ALL. HER. FAULT.
Summary: Arrays and red stone in Ishbal.
Everything in Ishbal was color. The deep burgundies and scattered yellows of robes, the bright reds of fresh blood and flame, the hard garnet of empty eyes. It made Kimbley think of the russet tones of an orchestra swelling through a concert hall until all you could hear was the music. He found himself humming along at inopportune moments; when Colonel Gran passed along orders, when Flame shivered sleepless in the dark, when he stood on the rubble of a house and wondered if it was really stable beneath his feet. The blue uniforms would look at him strangely, familiarly, and Kimbley knew their thoughts and smiled and made sure his pen was secure in his pocket.
They learned to fear that blue pen, innocent object devoid of intent that it was. He learned to draw perfect circles with both hands, overcoming a crippling left-handedness that wobbled the triangles and elongated the spheres. He found the best method to turn his lumpy palm into a precious collection of curves and lines, perfect in every way, and practised until he could calculate thirty-degree angles in his sleep. The heat was his enemy more than any soldier, smearing the lake-colored ink into the creases of his skin, and he soon found that no one dared question when he stripped to the essentials necessary to keep the sand off.
His days revolved around his hands. If he had a moment to breathe, he had a moment to fix the smear that had thrown off the sulfur isolation. If he had enough water to sip, he had enough to wash the faulty smudges from the deep creases speckled with moistened sand. He was never without the pen; its sand-roughened case was under his fingers when he slept, was heavy in his pocket when he ate, was cool in his hand when he threw himself behind a crumbling wall to dodge an onslaught of rifle fire. He went through the things like Flame went through gloves. Kimbley was issued a new pen twice a week, at seven-oh-hundred, and he was never late to pick it up and he never failed to curse them out for the delay because he had only a dribble of ink left.
On his one hundred fifty seventh pen, he was handed a rock set in a thin gold wristband as well as the usual plastic cylinder. He traded it to Crystal for a delicate chain that dripped the stone against his heartbeat. He could feel it resound in his chest, empty and echoing, humming hallelujahs. It sang through his veins and out his fingertips, sparking hot and red and crashing cymbals against the streets.
He spread himself open to it, giggling like a schoolgirl as it made his arteries thrum with deep booming bass. It was one long looping endless transmutation, spreading out from his heels in rippling waves and buckling the world beneath its weight. He blinked and stood on rubble; he grinned and stood on sand; he laughed with the joyful song of the stone and stood on rippled glass. His boots melted, so he kicked them off and walked barefoot, strolling through the garden of his pleasures. The shrieks of shattering windows and shattering lives stroked his ears, the heated air and chill ash caressed his shoulders, the debris of broken lives cracked open and smoothed out beneath his feet and the world died in the dark of night with the noise of a thousand screams.
The sun lifted its shaggy head over the desert, shaking its mane mournfully at the smell of ash and meat, and Kimbley screamed obscenities at its disdain. It could partake of this if only it tried, if only he had left anything standing, if only he hadn’t used the entire stone and was left wanting with nothing left to take. Hands grabbed his shoulder and he ignored them because there couldn’t be anyone there he killed them all they were gone and not coming back for him to kill again.
He woke in five hours, after the sedation wore off, in a quiet cool tent, with Crystal hovering over his feet with poultice in hand. He seemed relieved when Kimbley blinked around with a certain amount of drugged coherency, but he frowned with worry when Kimbley’s eyes latched onto the crimson stain on Crystal’s wrist. All doctor-like, Crystal fussed with his feet and muttered and prodded, then grudgingly held out the hand adorned with the golden band and Kimbley gasped at the feel of that stone god yes the stone pressing power into his heels and he arched beneath it, wanting so much from so little.
Crystal looked away and healed Kimbley’s feet with closed ears and closed eyes. He spoke when he was done, hurriedly and guiltily, telling Kimbley that they were giving him another stone and his feet would be tender but functional and there was nothing to be done about his hands there was only so much stone and… Kimbley stopped listening, tuning him out with the remembered resonance of the night, and held his hands in front of his face. The smell of scorched pork assaulted him and he frowned, seeing nothing wrong, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Burned into his hands. The arrays. Burned in - his power had - how deep did it - burned into his hands. The implications roared through his head - No new pens, he’d never have to be disarmed again, he could wash his hands without fear, he was stuck with that irritating smudge at the corner of the crescent’s south point and he’d never be able to fix it and absorb nitrogen properly-
But he was getting another stone. He grinned and stretched his fingers, humming like a doting mother at the pull of pain in his palms. Another stone, another stone, untouched and virginal in its song, thrumming in him and through him and around him, they’d give him another stone tonight.
He dug out his pen, blackened and dry, and made it blossom hot and scarlet in his hand and it wasn’t nearly enough but he would have another stone soon but not soon enough.
***
And this is how the idea came up:
Pinstripe: You were right about that episode, Kimberley was drawing the arrays on in Ishbal.
Me: Booyeah.
Pinstripe: See, he drew them on in blue ink, but then in prison they were tattooed in black. So I think you should write about how he got them tattooed in prison or somethi- Why are you grinning like that?
Me: BURNED INTO HIS HANDS.
Pinstripe: GOD YES!
Me: *scrambles to jot the idea down before the details fade*
On January 13th, 2007 (my 21st birthday!) "Crimson" was named "Best in Contest" in the Dogs of the Military fanfiction contest.
Title: Crimson
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Ishbal. Blame goes to
pinstripesuit. ALL. HER. FAULT.Summary: Arrays and red stone in Ishbal.
Everything in Ishbal was color. The deep burgundies and scattered yellows of robes, the bright reds of fresh blood and flame, the hard garnet of empty eyes. It made Kimbley think of the russet tones of an orchestra swelling through a concert hall until all you could hear was the music. He found himself humming along at inopportune moments; when Colonel Gran passed along orders, when Flame shivered sleepless in the dark, when he stood on the rubble of a house and wondered if it was really stable beneath his feet. The blue uniforms would look at him strangely, familiarly, and Kimbley knew their thoughts and smiled and made sure his pen was secure in his pocket.
They learned to fear that blue pen, innocent object devoid of intent that it was. He learned to draw perfect circles with both hands, overcoming a crippling left-handedness that wobbled the triangles and elongated the spheres. He found the best method to turn his lumpy palm into a precious collection of curves and lines, perfect in every way, and practised until he could calculate thirty-degree angles in his sleep. The heat was his enemy more than any soldier, smearing the lake-colored ink into the creases of his skin, and he soon found that no one dared question when he stripped to the essentials necessary to keep the sand off.
His days revolved around his hands. If he had a moment to breathe, he had a moment to fix the smear that had thrown off the sulfur isolation. If he had enough water to sip, he had enough to wash the faulty smudges from the deep creases speckled with moistened sand. He was never without the pen; its sand-roughened case was under his fingers when he slept, was heavy in his pocket when he ate, was cool in his hand when he threw himself behind a crumbling wall to dodge an onslaught of rifle fire. He went through the things like Flame went through gloves. Kimbley was issued a new pen twice a week, at seven-oh-hundred, and he was never late to pick it up and he never failed to curse them out for the delay because he had only a dribble of ink left.
On his one hundred fifty seventh pen, he was handed a rock set in a thin gold wristband as well as the usual plastic cylinder. He traded it to Crystal for a delicate chain that dripped the stone against his heartbeat. He could feel it resound in his chest, empty and echoing, humming hallelujahs. It sang through his veins and out his fingertips, sparking hot and red and crashing cymbals against the streets.
He spread himself open to it, giggling like a schoolgirl as it made his arteries thrum with deep booming bass. It was one long looping endless transmutation, spreading out from his heels in rippling waves and buckling the world beneath its weight. He blinked and stood on rubble; he grinned and stood on sand; he laughed with the joyful song of the stone and stood on rippled glass. His boots melted, so he kicked them off and walked barefoot, strolling through the garden of his pleasures. The shrieks of shattering windows and shattering lives stroked his ears, the heated air and chill ash caressed his shoulders, the debris of broken lives cracked open and smoothed out beneath his feet and the world died in the dark of night with the noise of a thousand screams.
The sun lifted its shaggy head over the desert, shaking its mane mournfully at the smell of ash and meat, and Kimbley screamed obscenities at its disdain. It could partake of this if only it tried, if only he had left anything standing, if only he hadn’t used the entire stone and was left wanting with nothing left to take. Hands grabbed his shoulder and he ignored them because there couldn’t be anyone there he killed them all they were gone and not coming back for him to kill again.
He woke in five hours, after the sedation wore off, in a quiet cool tent, with Crystal hovering over his feet with poultice in hand. He seemed relieved when Kimbley blinked around with a certain amount of drugged coherency, but he frowned with worry when Kimbley’s eyes latched onto the crimson stain on Crystal’s wrist. All doctor-like, Crystal fussed with his feet and muttered and prodded, then grudgingly held out the hand adorned with the golden band and Kimbley gasped at the feel of that stone god yes the stone pressing power into his heels and he arched beneath it, wanting so much from so little.
Crystal looked away and healed Kimbley’s feet with closed ears and closed eyes. He spoke when he was done, hurriedly and guiltily, telling Kimbley that they were giving him another stone and his feet would be tender but functional and there was nothing to be done about his hands there was only so much stone and… Kimbley stopped listening, tuning him out with the remembered resonance of the night, and held his hands in front of his face. The smell of scorched pork assaulted him and he frowned, seeing nothing wrong, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Burned into his hands. The arrays. Burned in - his power had - how deep did it - burned into his hands. The implications roared through his head - No new pens, he’d never have to be disarmed again, he could wash his hands without fear, he was stuck with that irritating smudge at the corner of the crescent’s south point and he’d never be able to fix it and absorb nitrogen properly-
But he was getting another stone. He grinned and stretched his fingers, humming like a doting mother at the pull of pain in his palms. Another stone, another stone, untouched and virginal in its song, thrumming in him and through him and around him, they’d give him another stone tonight.
He dug out his pen, blackened and dry, and made it blossom hot and scarlet in his hand and it wasn’t nearly enough but he would have another stone soon but not soon enough.
***
And this is how the idea came up:
Pinstripe: You were right about that episode, Kimberley was drawing the arrays on in Ishbal.
Me: Booyeah.
Pinstripe: See, he drew them on in blue ink, but then in prison they were tattooed in black. So I think you should write about how he got them tattooed in prison or somethi- Why are you grinning like that?
Me: BURNED INTO HIS HANDS.
Pinstripe: GOD YES!
Me: *scrambles to jot the idea down before the details fade*
On January 13th, 2007 (my 21st birthday!) "Crimson" was named "Best in Contest" in the Dogs of the Military fanfiction contest.
no subject
Greed losing a barfight. Goin' into the Lust thingy.
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And I go to fuckin' art school!
I think this corner of the fandom is going to be gushing over Kimberly's hands for quite some time now- well, more than usual. I've think you've done good. Everyone who has read this so far can only process the words "Kimberly" and "hands". *loves*
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I hope there is much gushing over his hands. *crosses fingers* Ah, man, I'm all twitchy and excited about this thing still - it doesn't feel finished, it feels like I'm still writing it, like I'll never stop writing it. Not a bad feeling. XD
You say the prettiest things to my ego. XD *loves back*
no subject
Exactly! There is so much that could be done with this.
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no subject