Warnings: I watched Smallville ages ago, and only in snatches, but I read a lot of fanfics, so this makes things even, right? The timeline is undoubtedly screwed. Just treat it as AU.
of towers and hearts
Had you asked her a year ago, Chloe would have told you (and quite vehemently, too) that the towers were stupid, the whole concept was outdated and chauvinistic, and that surely - surely - in this day and age other, better, ways of matchmaking were invented.
Boy, had she ever been more wrong.
Well, she had, of course. Many times, in fact. It was an occupational hazard printed in big black letters - all caps - in the job description. Need to have thick skin, it proclaimed. Do not take everything to heart,it encouraged. Therein lay the problem. The heart. Chloe's heart was always a problem. A stubborn and willful organ, much like the owner herself, it did as it was wont to do and fell too hard and far too fast for boys who were forever enamored with Lana Lang ( in its defense, most of the boys were - the pickings were scarce these days).
In addition, and to Chloe's unending chagrin, her heart was also feeble and brittle, and the years of watching Clark pine after Lana had chipped it almost into nothing. Not that it mattered, anyhow, for what little had been left of it, had been smashed into pieces a couple of hours ago when Chloe had seen them kissing in the barn.
Moonlit barn. Which had made it worse in way she couldn't quite explain.
Hurriedly, Chloe had stuffed her mouth full of her broken heart, choked on it - each piece like a shard of glass in her throat, sharp and bitter - and run home where she had promptly locked herself in the tower. Her father who had been supportive, if a little doubtful, of her methods of finding the true love, was surprised at this sudden turn of events, but wisely chose not to question it and not look too closely at her watering eyes or, at least, not to comment on them. Chloe suspected that there would be 'the talk' waiting for her in the morning, guessed as much from the way her father's gaze had fleeted worriedly over her, scanning for injuries or newly-healed scabs. Yet he had let her have her dignity intact for now.
And Chloe was thankful. She would cry into his shirt tomorrow and blow her nose into the offered kerchief and cry some more. But crying was exhausting business, and her throat was still raw where the pieces of her broken heart had cut her and she could not bear to croak the tale of her woes to anyone right now.
She'd take this respite, she'd have this night for herself.
And so, as any princess marooned in the tower and guarded by the dragons (well, those were extinct, but she supposed her father's rumbling snores would spook many a brave prince into premature grey hair), Chloe positioned herself strategically at the window and set about staring soulfully at nothing in particularly.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2013-03-06 10:30 pm (UTC)of towers and hearts
Had you asked her a year ago, Chloe would have told you (and quite vehemently, too) that the towers were stupid, the whole concept was outdated and chauvinistic, and that surely - surely - in this day and age other, better, ways of matchmaking were invented.
Boy, had she ever been more wrong.
Well, she had, of course. Many times, in fact. It was an occupational hazard printed in big black letters - all caps - in the job description. Need to have thick skin, it proclaimed. Do not take everything to heart,it encouraged. Therein lay the problem. The heart. Chloe's heart was always a problem. A stubborn and willful organ, much like the owner herself, it did as it was wont to do and fell too hard and far too fast for boys who were forever enamored with Lana Lang ( in its defense, most of the boys were - the pickings were scarce these days).
In addition, and to Chloe's unending chagrin, her heart was also feeble and brittle, and the years of watching Clark pine after Lana had chipped it almost into nothing. Not that it mattered, anyhow, for what little had been left of it, had been smashed into pieces a couple of hours ago when Chloe had seen them kissing in the barn.
Moonlit barn. Which had made it worse in way she couldn't quite explain.
Hurriedly, Chloe had stuffed her mouth full of her broken heart, choked on it - each piece like a shard of glass in her throat, sharp and bitter - and run home where she had promptly locked herself in the tower. Her father who had been supportive, if a little doubtful, of her methods of finding the true love, was surprised at this sudden turn of events, but wisely chose not to question it and not look too closely at her watering eyes or, at least, not to comment on them. Chloe suspected that there would be 'the talk' waiting for her in the morning, guessed as much from the way her father's gaze had fleeted worriedly over her, scanning for injuries or newly-healed scabs. Yet he had let her have her dignity intact for now.
And Chloe was thankful. She would cry into his shirt tomorrow and blow her nose into the offered kerchief and cry some more. But crying was exhausting business, and her throat was still raw where the pieces of her broken heart had cut her and she could not bear to croak the tale of her woes to anyone right now.
She'd take this respite, she'd have this night for herself.
And so, as any princess marooned in the tower and guarded by the dragons (well, those were extinct, but she supposed her father's rumbling snores would spook many a brave prince into premature grey hair), Chloe positioned herself strategically at the window and set about staring soulfully at nothing in particularly.