Title: Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Author: Rokeon
Rating: Say PG13 to be safe
Archive: Drop me a line if you do, please?
Warnings: It's Farf-fic. Blood and pointy things present. AU.
Disclaimer: Don't own him, wish I did. Title is James Joyce's.
Summary: Vignette, snapshot glimpse of Farfarello mid-Fall
Notes: This mental image for this appeared fully fledged (no pun
intended) in my mind one day while I was in the middle of reading
a fic. Gundam Wing fic, inexplicably. My art begins and ends with
stick figures, so I tried to draw it with words, though 1000
seemed like overkill. No beta. No sleep, either.
----
The very tips are already complete; a dull, matte black that
absorbs the light. Farther up, the black fades to a rusty brown,
then brightens again to become vibrant crimson. The color ends
abruptly in a ragged line of slashes and droplets, and the
feathers closest to his skin are the unblemished white of purity
and driven snow.
He halts his work for a moment, brow furrowing above the single
golden eye and its negative reflection. Two fingers are run
across his chest and he frowns again at the thin, sticky film
of drying fluid that covers them. Setting down the tool in his
hand he reaches for another, more familiar, where it sits by
his curled legs: ten inches of mirror-bright metal with edges as
sharply defined as the three scars crossing his face. There is
no hesitation as he drives the blade into his chest, tugging it
sideways to widen the wound and twisting to ensure that the
largest arteries are opened as well.
He cleans the dagger on his other wing, this one as yet unmarked
save for the fresh streaks. Then he picks up the same brush he
had held and set aside before. He loads the bristles with color,
the unmistakable red of heart's blood, and returns to painting
careful stripes of crimson over the pristine canvas with which
he was created.
Author: Rokeon
Rating: Say PG13 to be safe
Archive: Drop me a line if you do, please?
Warnings: It's Farf-fic. Blood and pointy things present. AU.
Disclaimer: Don't own him, wish I did. Title is James Joyce's.
Summary: Vignette, snapshot glimpse of Farfarello mid-Fall
Notes: This mental image for this appeared fully fledged (no pun
intended) in my mind one day while I was in the middle of reading
a fic. Gundam Wing fic, inexplicably. My art begins and ends with
stick figures, so I tried to draw it with words, though 1000
seemed like overkill. No beta. No sleep, either.
----
The very tips are already complete; a dull, matte black that
absorbs the light. Farther up, the black fades to a rusty brown,
then brightens again to become vibrant crimson. The color ends
abruptly in a ragged line of slashes and droplets, and the
feathers closest to his skin are the unblemished white of purity
and driven snow.
He halts his work for a moment, brow furrowing above the single
golden eye and its negative reflection. Two fingers are run
across his chest and he frowns again at the thin, sticky film
of drying fluid that covers them. Setting down the tool in his
hand he reaches for another, more familiar, where it sits by
his curled legs: ten inches of mirror-bright metal with edges as
sharply defined as the three scars crossing his face. There is
no hesitation as he drives the blade into his chest, tugging it
sideways to widen the wound and twisting to ensure that the
largest arteries are opened as well.
He cleans the dagger on his other wing, this one as yet unmarked
save for the fresh streaks. Then he picks up the same brush he
had held and set aside before. He loads the bristles with color,
the unmistakable red of heart's blood, and returns to painting
careful stripes of crimson over the pristine canvas with which
he was created.