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Sinbad Prompt Meme!



This is the comm's prompt meme for all your creative needs. This is how it works.

• one prompt per comment
• more than one person can respond to a prompt
• you can write fic, make graphics, fanmixes, mini mixes, fanart whatever. fic should be 100 min~
• put any warnings in the subject line
• you can link to your stories elsewhere if you wish
• provide ratings for fiction, artwork and mixes if lyrics content explicit content.
• Use UK ratings. A guide to the ratings can be found in the community profile

Advertise the meme!

From: [personal profile] bigbrasskey
(1) someone asked me what home was

"Sinbad!" Jamil whispers, crawling forward on his hands and knees. His round face is worried and his hands are muddied. She'll know what they were up to in a hot second. "Sinbad, she'll be angry with you!"

"I'm hungry," Sinbad says. Jamil is always full of prophecies of doom. "She won't notice just one or two."

Jamil tugs at his shirt. "Sinbad," he says anxiously.

"Look, see," Sinbad says, and scrambles out from the shadow of the doorway. "Come on!"

She catches his ear before he can touch the flatbread.

Out of the two of them Sinbad assumes an expression of virtue; Jamil stands in the doorway, guilty, his hands empty of all but knowledge of his brother's misdeeds.



(2) the centre cannot hold

"Sinbad," Jamil says. He keeps his voice conscientiously quiet, so as to not wake the sleepers next door and cups his hand over the candle flame. "Come to bed."

Sinbad looks up, his eyes reddened and absent. Their mother does not move, though Sinbad holds her hands in his. He is still small enough that the reach is awkward as he sits at her feet.

"I will, Jamil," he says. "You sleep."

Jamil lingers with the light. "Not without you."

Sinbad cracks a smile. "Miss me?"

"Your snoring has become a staple," Jamil says. "How long have you been out here?"

Sinbad looks up at their mother, his face smoothing into blankness. "Not - long." - enough, his silence fills in.

Jamil sits down. The wax is threatening to run onto his fingers. Sinbad looks at him, though his expression is too weary to pose a proper question.

"It's nearly morning anyway," Jamil says anyway. "Soon I'll have things to do."

Sinbad's smile is one more ghost in a room full of them.



(3) This above all: to thine own self be true

Jamil groans when he spots him, drawing the dry cloth around his head like a beggar. "Oh, Sinbad," he says. "Don't." Sinbad grins at him instead.

"Help me with this, won't you?" he asks.

Jamil hovers in the doorway until Sinbad gestures as the caked mud already covering his hands. "If it makes you feel better, it already itches."

Jamil gives in and goes to him. "You could do honest work, you know."

"Put on armour?" Sinbad's scorn is worse than scathing, it's dismissive. "Yell in the market?"

"Sinbad," Jamil says.

"You'll see," Sinbad says. He grins up at Jamal, seizes and shakes him gently by the back of his neck. "We'll eat well tonight."



(4) You always had to be the flash of lightning

"Are you trying to charm the girl or rob her?" Jamil asks.

Sinbad frowns at him, stern, then breaks and knocks his brother's head with his knuckles. "Depends," he says. "Which do you value more: a kiss for me or dinner for you?"

"Try a kiss," Jamil says, knowing it a lost cause from the start.

Sinbad laughs and musses his hair, his eyes already turned ahead.



(5) i don't want tomorrow. that's a bad word.

"Sinbad," Jamil says, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, the wind gusting at their shirts as the city spreads out below them like a promise, "you know she won't approve of getting money this way."

The roar of the betters spikes below them.

Sinbad laughs. "Who says she needs to know?"



(love) choosing our jagged truths with care

"Breathe, Sinbad."

He thinks his brother is crying, and the sound is a knife in his chest.

"Please, brother," Jamil says. "It's not time for us to meet again so soon."

Jamil should come with him, then. He never meant to leave him behind; Jamil had never strayed so far before. Even with his back turned, Sinbad always knew where his brother was.

"Just this once, listen to me."

(Breathe.)
From: [personal profile] bigbrasskey
Thank you so much! This was a heartbreakingly awesome prompt, I knew what I was going to write the instant I saw it. ;_; boyyyyys

walking wounded, 1/1, pg

Date: 2012-07-29 09:54 am (UTC)
From: [personal profile] bigbrasskey
ridiculously terrible but


With every step she remembers him.

He is there when she lands on foreign shores, desolate and sand-baked, the ground heating her feet through her sandals and coating her skin with dust. He is there when Sinbad ducks her eyes, when he presses his lips together and she can see a thousand thoughts running in his eyes, possessing only the barest grace of not voicing them.

He is there when she takes his dagger from Sinbad's hands. She feels the gentle weight of his palm on her shoulder, his steady voice. She would weep but for the imperative, after all; among strangers she must be strong, and duty must supercede loss.

There are people who must be told. There are measures - whether futile or preventative, whether grasping of ingenious - that must be put into place. Nala has had one desolate moment to weep for him; it will take time before she allows herself another.

Still, she hears her father's voices in the moments when it comforts her and the moments when it does not. She hears his murmur in Razia's cages, smells the oils he used on his hands, glimpses the worried furrow his brow as they trek across the parched desert to questionable fate. Each time she turns anew, her hands opening, her lips parting - each time her heart hurts, a raw and open ache in her chest. She touches her breastbone, feels the emptiness there, the cool wind on her side where once his warmth would have comforted her.

They do not speak of their dead, and none of them are intrude on her loss. The doctor is the only one whose temperament would incline him to do such, and none of them pretend to such familiarity, or even a desire for such.

At times, at night when she wakes, she almost finds herself speaking to a stranger, a sympathetic shoulder, perhaps an aunt whose perfumed hand would stroke her hair and lend a listening ear. It is only that my father, she begins, and abandons the line of thought, though she looks for his face every morning before she can catch herself. I am unsure of my path without him, she tries, but that is untrue; she knows of her fate, her intentions, the roadmap of the new battle she must conduct spider out in her mind and span an age and a legacy.

He was my father, she tells her ghost companion instead, and presses her hands to the mouth in silent grief so as not to wake her companions in the hold. We had only just suffered such a loss.

She has no such friend with her. Every morning she must rise and every day she must stand with them on the rolling deck, keeping the company of strangers and stranded far away from any efforts to undo the damage that has been wrought. Her hands are tied and her feet are free.

Nala will have time to mourn.

She tells herself she cannot take it now.

Re: walking wounded, 1/1, pg

Date: 2012-07-31 08:34 pm (UTC)
From: [personal profile] bigbrasskey
Thank you so much.

brother of mine, 1/1, g

Date: 2012-07-29 11:13 am (UTC)
From: [personal profile] bigbrasskey
"Come on," Sinbad says. "You expect me to believe that?"

Gunnar steals a glance at his face, gregarious and smiling and untrustworthy. He does not regret his choice and he will not act on it, certainly not with her severity, but he does not contest the lady's judgement of his character. This is not a boy who has lived well on any honour or great love in and of the hearts of other men.

"I have given you your answer," Gunnar says. "Be satisfied with it or not."

Sinbad looks at him sideways, in the way that he has, taking a man's mettle without meeting his eyes in case square offence could be taken and a blow dealt. Gunnar wishes for surer ground in this place and this company, but perhaps he is simply out of practice. Sinbad is not always an easy man to read, but his emotions are clear.

Gunnar picks his next words carefully. "You owe me nothing," he tells Sinbad.

"Ah," Sinbad says, shrugs. "Well in the end I owe you my life, don't I?"

"Or you owe the storm," Gunnar says.

A shadow crosses Sinbad's face and then is gone, leaving behind a lopsided smile. "I wouldn't have been there for the storm to save me if not for you."

"Is this your way of giving thanks?" Gunnar asks. "An interrogation?"

Sinbad laughs full-throated. "No," he says. "I promise."

"The answer to your question is..." Gunnar falls silent, looks at his hands. Big hands, good at their tasks, tough with the falling of the years and the salt of the sea. "It was none of my business," he says.

Sinbad nods, as though out of all the answers Gunnar could have offered up, from mercenary to sentimental, this one suits him best. "And now?" he says, squinting briefly at the horizon.

"If survival is our aim," Gunnar says, "then none of us have the luxury of neutrality any longer."

Sinbad pushes away from the railing and stretches, one hand locked around the opposite wrist. His expression is at first easy, then traced with bitter amusement at some distant thought. "Looks like I arrived just in time, then."

Gunnar watches him go.

Re: brother of mine, 1/1, g

Date: 2012-07-31 09:41 pm (UTC)
From: [personal profile] bigbrasskey
Thank you!

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