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Of boars and peonies

[Okay, so Iruka's song is terrible. It's because I just can't imagine him being a good poet. Besides, a little humiliation never hurt no one...]

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... And that's all I actually wrote.
 Obfirmo in tempus/Locked in time
A Godric Gryffindor - Salazar Slytherin challenge for all!

We are pleased to announce a challenge for these upcoming months, hosted by the moorandfen community here at Livejournal! In this, it is our goal to inspire you about those who started it all: Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin. And though we are a slash (boy/boy) community, we would love to see any take on the relationship of these mysterious founders, as well as all means of fandoming, with all ratings; Pre-Hogwarts, post-Hogwarts, AUs, crossovers - all is welcome!

The deadline is october 7, when the voting will begin. To submit your entry, LJ message either 
miss_simon or me or message Yksesh at devinatart with a link to your post, a short summary and a rating. Submissions will be linked to a central post at moorandfen and all will be welcome to vote after the deadline through LJ messaging, or anonymously at the post (IP addresses will be logged in this case). The winner gets a spiffy winner pic/banner/icon as requested (and the laureate!), but all get the joy and fun of creativity! 

ææææ

To inspire you, we have also compiled a list of prompts, though keeping to them is not mandatory as long as the piece of fandom is about, as key figures, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin.

 




 

We wish every contestant the best of luck, and hope you all enjoy this challenge!

ktēma es aei

 

:ALIF:

There were lights everywhere, small and vibrant, yet soft, like a strange snowy dream. There was a breeze, and along came with it a smell he would never forget, just like he’d never forget him. Him. He watched the tall, broad monster, magnificent in the garden of corpses, where bloody roses grew, like orbs of the deepest magic glowing - but he was terrifying in his tough beauty, muscles and tattoos, hard, frozen edges. There was stillness, yet movement everywhere: the air was full of expectation and resignation as he stood, beginning and end, strong and ruling, yellow mane deep with blood in the center of his hollow.

His mouth was dry.

But he set sail over the sea of dried grass nevertheless, eyes shifting nervously as souls drifted meaninglessly over their lost lives, begging to be buried and put to peace (so, so many of them), and he came closer and closer to the beast, fear and love making his neck prickle.

He almost saw the hackles on Godric’s neck.

“Go away.”, but he touched his arm softly, despite that low warning, fingertips smooth against rough skin, “I’ll kill you.”

He had a whisper of a thought, like moth and the light, but it disappeared like smoke in a dark, damp night, like this night.

 

 

:TA:

The summer was dry, the air almost crackling, his breath fast and furious as he ran in grass that tickled and grabbed his thighs, and he felt like a barbarian, sky crushing him, and there were things flying against him-

Blood-(red)-blood-(red)-blood.

There were snakes hissing in the grass. He fell, sliding on the warm ground, rolling in the dust – birds screeched, and there was a badger – he panted up at the moon silver and weird, fingers scraping against the bark: he jumped over dried yellow carnations, mouth dry.

He had… oh, those flowers… dead… his monster.

“I love you, I love you.”, he hissed, sobbing, “Believe me.”

There was someone behind him, and his head throbbed from fear, his heart frightened and fragile in his chest. He was prey. The forest loomed over him, choking. He searched for a lake, for water desperately, but this world was a desert, he was going to die of thirst-

-kisses. There were strong arms, cornering him to the three, and there were lips – he swooned. His name was suddenly the only word on his lips, it was all he could say, all he could breathe, and there was wetness, life on his dry mouth, a tongue pushing at him, and heat, so much heat – Godric was always on fire.

“I’ll kill you.”, he gasped into his mouth, roared in the quiet night, and the tree cracked under his weight, his power.

“Let me go… please… I must…”

That was the last night he ever saw beauty, ever felt heat, and ever heard a melody.

Of the emotions of a tenth century jarl

Of the emotions of a tenth century jarl

There is something about Salah’Zar Slytherin that captures him, makes him want to pull close even though he is trying his hardest to be as far away as possible.
It’s something he is a hairbreadth away from realizing, from naming each time he tries, and never succeeds. It’s not lust, or not just lust – but it’s not love either. Or is it?
He isn’t supposed to be attracted to another man! Oh, should anyone find out, his honor – his life – would be in pieces! Oh the gods have mercy on him, he cries each time into his bed, when the stars are blood-red rubies in the monstrous black sky, and when he wakes, silent and almost dead from want and longing, he gasps for breadth, suffocating in the still and silent sea of his life, without a thing to turn his mind from sin, and swears that tomorrow, he’d stop. He’ll end it.
But as the next day comes, blue eyes follow, unwilling, clothes smelling of lands never known, soft and silent steps of exotic worlds, hands painted with intricate designs. He follows, watches him bathe in the rooms that are all his, that are hidden well from all students and the women, a small ‘oasis of home’ that is only allowed for him and Gryffindor, like a lover’s forbidden kiss, with glittering blues and greens and reds and yellows that shine in the sun, with complex curves – snakes in his Norse eyes – and pillars and water: water, water, water.

Salah’Zar Slytherin bathes so much Guthrik tends to wonder if it’s his way of shedding his skin.

The Norseman leans against one of the exotic pillars, feet cold on the floor.
“Come and lie down. You should rest after that dragon.”
“’Twas nothing.”, he shrugs, and lies on the rug that is complex and colorful like Salah’Zar himself, and feels the other put a soft pillow under his head.
The Arab hums, and begins to paint his hands with the magic Guthrik knows can summon fears and spirits and demons, and heal and teach and help ghosts move on, and he closes his eyes against it. He feels the sunlight warm his face, hears the children and the earth, and suddenly, he just wants to go out, wants to leave, wants to be free again, instead of being locked up forever in this castle, unmoving and dead.

(Suddenly, he wants to hurt Salah’Zar, if for nothing else, then for the sound of his tears.)

Tags:

[FIC] As luck would have it

Author notes: The following discrimination is, unfortunately, a real part of our lives here (and a real social problem), and hence, I felt it needed to be written. This of course does not mean it is right, should be followed, etc., etc... (if it even occurs to you to judge someone by the color of their skin or ethnic origin, then you can consider yourself a... Well, you get my point. Go rethink it.)
On a lighter note, I changed the c in Godric's name to a k, because the whole thing was originally Hungarian, and it stuck with me as I translated.

Characters are J.K.Rowling's.

As luck would have it

It was a late summer night, already dark, and Godrik has just missed his bus, running up from the dirty underground of Metro 3. It was irritating, as has been his whole day at the office: he wasn't the kind of man who took waiting for things very well. Huffing in the empty bus stop, he fished for a cigarette from his hind pocket, lighting it in the half-deserted street, settling in for the good fifteen minute wait.

A homeless muttered not for away, and as he took a drag, Godrik stepped away and casually ignored the poverty. But the sound of the gypsies - the loud, harsh cries - not far away filled him with anger and anguish, and he took another, harder drag, stepping closer to the light. Unlike in his childhood, he wasn't afraid of them, or around this time of night anymore (he didn't feel much afraid of anything anymore, in fact), but this wasn't a part of the city it was good to be around in, after all.

The bus came. He climbed on, sitting by the window behind the second to last door where his place was on the bus he usually took, and glad that finally he'll be on his way home: that was when he got on.

Well, it wasn't like love at first sight, or anything.

In fact, at first, he thought he was a gypsy, as he was walking through the dimness outside, and sighting darker skin, when he got on in front of him, Godrik was already cringing, praying he'd sit as far from him as possible. But then he'd turned around, ... and in the shabby light of the bus, Godrik realized he was a foreigner, a bit tanned, but white. He was also wearing a suit, minus the coat, with a normal bag pack, clean face, and as good a smell as one can have after working all day in this kind of heat. He wasn't one of those thieves, after all.

But he was looking at Godrik a bit crossly.

"Sorry? Is there something wrong?", he was sure he hadn't looked at the man in any way to offend him, so unless he could read his mind..
"Oh, no, I'm sorry.", he said, smiling slightly, with the tiniest hint of an accent, "It's really silly. It's just... you are sitting in my spot."

"Oh." Well, that was really rather stupid in Godrik's opinion, but he wasn't about to say so. "I didn't realize somebody else like this spot too. If you-"
"N-no, stay, that wasn't my-", he began, but the doors closed, and the bus lurched forward like a wild animal, in a last attempt to get into safety before it fell pray, and this threw the small man off balance: out of reaction, Godrik reached out, and before he realized, pulled him into the seat next to him.

"Careful."

The man smiled, embarrassed, as he swiped curls of black hair away from his face, slipping the bag off his shoulders. For a moment, Godrik studied him: he was a few years younger then himself, a birthmark under his right ear and just by his slightly pug-nose: greenish-brown eyes, long lashes. An earring in his left. He took out a book: Habib Cöm...lec... Something, and the...Lamp of the Genie?

The guy smelled of liberal arts faculty. Shit.

A techie sitting with a libie in the back of a bus (made around the 80s when they were born) late at night alone? Sounds like some blood's gonna spill.

He stared out the window. Or at least, tried: there was a scratched graffiti blocking his view, something that frustratingly he couldn't even read: so he settled for letting the ups and downs of the articulated bus lull him into a half-snooze. He only came to once, when the bus stopped, and the warmth at his side disappeared: it was a bitter miss, and he was surprised and angry at himself that he found he wanted it back.

... A stranger, really, Godrik.

A little late New Years...

So... contrary to my earlier beliefs, life does go on, even if a year or so ago you thought you should throw yourself out the window, because you can't live like this. More then a year has passed, and now I'm thinking how abnormal would it be to have things different from the way they are now. It's really a relief, to be like this again.

I promised myself I'd try hard this year, to achieve things I really want or didn't get to do because of the whole thing.