#fff220

The King’s Own Blood (poem)

Characters: Martyn InTheLittleWood, Ren (red king), mentioned Grian and Scar

Wc: 114

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 220, “Blood is Thicker than Water”.

AO3: Here!

King’s blood, metallic and crimson in hue  His Hand, aware of what he has just done  An axe, forever it’s covered in rue A doubt, on whether the winter will come

Atop the altar a new bond has formed With new vigour have the partners come close And now, together, the desert’ll be stormed A war will start, to test both of the oaths

The coldness seeps in, his bones at unrest Unguided may be the Hand of the Red The battle finishes, done with the Pest  Yet there it still is, a war with no end 

It Shows

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial 220 prompt.

“It shows,” she says, staring at the new baby. He frowns.

“What?”

“Blood shows. You know who he really belongs to.” The queen continues, “no matter how the princess tries to hide it.”

Her husband studies his ‘grandson’ again. She is right as much as he hates to admit it. This child isn’t a true heir.

“What is wrong with our son.” He turns away from the newborn. He will join all the others in being cared for away from the castle.

Her laugh is harsh. “A very good question, my Lord. This is the fifth child born looking like…”

“Don’t speak it.” He orders. Behind him the baby let’s out a cry. He is soothed by his nurse. “It is known but shouldn’t be spoken.”

They go to their daughter -in -law.  She reclines on her bed recovering from childbirth. At seeing the look on her in laws faces, she sits up.

“Another to be sent away.” His Majesty reports .

“You cannot keep sending my children away.”

“As long as they remain just yours and not our son’s, yes we can.” The Queen coldly says.

They turn and leave her weeping.

“Blood is thicker then water, my child.” The king speaks with the prince, “I am sorry that the princess isn’t who you want, but you must do your duty and produce a heir.”

“Father, I swore to love her forever. How am I to lay with another?” He paces about the garden, “She doesn’t desire me either.”

“That is obvious in her children. Nevertheless, you must. Both of you close your eyes, and pretend it is your loves.”

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Pain. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed as soon as awareness flooded back in. Well…that, and Crowley’s insistent muttering from somewhere on his left side, voice tinged with panic and breathing harsh.

“Ohshitohshitohshit” Crowley carefully picked his way down the slope as quickly as he could, though careful enough so that he wouldn’t slip like a certain angel had. “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale certainly didn’t feel very alright, sprawled out as he was at the bottom of a muddy slope; head pounding with a horrible pressure that was almost to the point of being unbearable while something that definitely wasn’t rain—it was too warm and viscous for that—trickled down from his temple.

Blood, his hazy mind provided at the same time Crowley gently started probing around the area, causing him to involuntarily hiss in pain.

Oh, bugger, did that smart.

“Right, sorry.” Crowley soothed, carefully combing Aziraphale’s hair back to get a better look at the wound, and winced at what he found. Fuck…that didn’t look great at all. Even though it definitely wasn’t the worst head wound he’d ever seen (or had), it still looked like a nasty one nonetheless. “Wow, you hit your head pretty good on the way down, didn’t you?”

Blood is thicker than water

So goes the old adage

But who is to decide

Where 'blood'

begins and ends

The protection of each others blood

Against a spilling blow

And the knowledge that this may be counted apon

Above all else.

Is that not a bond of blood?

Shakespeare notes it, I know, in that speech

Set in October 1415

"For he today that sheds his blood with me

shall be my brother"

Above class and all other ties.

And where is the line, when they mau look to you as Uncle-esq,

And you see a dozen Sons,

(And by the end, they're young enough to be your sons in truth, without even 'starting early')

Who you watch grow in to a Manhood

And who when cut short, you grieve for

Hear the news through the message tree

Think, 'One of mine.' and "one of mine" and "One of mine" again.

Yet if your heart would harden,

You'd be no good to them

The jokes, the japes, the odd right word,

Are lift, a shelter that they need

To pick up, dust off, and grit their teeth to do again

With as much heart as you can help them find.

"My boys..." rolling, shifting, but ever etched.