Dedications: This is dedicated to the awesome Harbinger Loki, Bonny Fyfa, and Animegoil!

Harbinger Loki for not mocking my "artistic" attempts at drawing a paragraph from her story, for sending them pocky(Thats would like another load, by the way.), and for, as always, writing the first Thatchel I ever read. Yes, everybody can blame her. :points finger of blame and gives strawberry pocky:

Animegoil for getting me confused about what actually happened in DK and what was just something from her story, for that lovely "flowers" scene that is -still- stuck in my head, and for writing the only ThxDel I've ever liked. o-O; Yes, muchos skills, there...

And Bonny Fyfa for her lovely "Proposal Woes" chapter which had me alterating between almost passing out from laughing too hard and almost passing out from hyperventalating; for her acceptance of my random plees for the story to continue; and for the fact that I still spazz whenever I see the word "sunrise". :sweatdrop:

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Knights, and any segments stolen from the books aren't mine, either. Obviously. I do own the poem, however. It's titled "String Theory" and was part of my english quarter project.

Warnings: Eh, confusion, as the title relates to the idea of the poem and the story. Would help if you knew what String Theory was, but is not necessary.

A/N: If it helps, know that all the sections are tied together, although they seem to skip all over the place, running through different scenes and styles. It's a collage, a patchwork quilt, of sorts, although it should hopefully make some sense in the end. Each new segment is a different style and a slightly different perspective. Each section should also be able to stand alone(Although it would make an awfully short ficlet...), but are somewhat "tied" together by the poem, leading them on through the general theme.

:coughs: It would be nice to wish me a happy birthday... Like, in a review... Hint, hint.

:n:

Patchwork: String Theory

:n:

Thats paused.

The light was warm, the sun's rays casting golden trails down through the speckled shadows of the overhanging branches. Dust motes flickered through the illuminated pockets, wavering in and out of sight. The grass beneath the Dragon Knight of Earth's feet was fresh, still dew-laiden under the trees.

The castle was situated to his back, its vast white stone walls shining in the early morning light. The silver-gray of its shadings edged away as the sun climbed over the trees, radiating through the dawn cloudscape. Spigots of light flowed over the still-pure sky, filtering through rolling clouds edged not with rose, but honey.

He felt his heart jump at the crack of a twig, the nearby fluttering of a bird soaring into startled flight, the barely audible footsteps behind him.

Then he relaxed, unclenched his suddenly tense fists, drew in a deep breath. Forest-green eyes stared out through the space before him, concentrating on the more solid forms behind the beams of light: Not spot lit dreams, but a single sharpened anticipation.

The very air seemed heightened, cut through with a crescent of glass, a polished window to the hazy world. It was as if the swirling specks of dust were crystalline shards, glinting the light off of their facetted surfaces and reflecting it back into a mirage of colors. They were minute mirrors, dancing in the golden beams.

Through them, the world was visioned anew.

And he spoke, wondering vaguely why he had spent the previous night dreaming of a towering plateau of dirty-red rock, ringed by a dense woodland and framed by crashing waves.

"I know you're there, Kitchel."

:n:

The mountains are high, the tales ever taller;

The wavering dances of shooting stars bare

Their souls to the deep russet green of the forest,

Exposing themselves to the night's lonely care.

:n:

"Come on," she laughed, shoving aside a piece of the rubble, sending motor dust and dirt swirling through the dry air. "This is the last piece. One we get it, the Three Treasures are as good as found!"

He sent her a light glare, then grinned at the prospect of both the hunt and its final reward.

"Damnit, Kitchel, if you hadn't dropped it..."

She stuck her tongue out at him, a bead of sweat rolling down her face in the hot sunlit afternoon.

"It's your fault. Your Dragon knocked over the tower."

"Don't blame Earth!"

Still unnoticed by either, Ringleys flew by in the background, laboring to shift a moderately-sized pebble from one spot to the next, trying fruitlessly to help in their search.

His movement caught Kitchel's eye, and she fought to stifle a giggle.

"What?"

She lowered her voice, nodding her head towards the Water Light.

"If you got Earth to look like that lizard again, he'd be the perfect size to give Ringleys a lift."

The Knight blinked, startled, then stole a glance at Ringleys, now flying back to his original starting point to pick up another stone fragment.

Thats' slight smile broadened, and he laughed.

:n:

The waves crash down upon white speckled beaches,

Salt water running o'er shells and pine leaves.

The light from the heavens bursts a blurred neon dim,

And faint constellations start to stir from their eaves.

:n:

Sugared candies spill/ Falling / To the floor.

Losing their color to the dust/ She never much / Liked their taste, anyway.

A Lover's Choice-- / Kisses sweet and / Tainted.

"Hm?" Kitchel half-spoke out loud. Her eyes trained themselves upon the shadows of the watchful night. The crescent of the moon played overhead, the starlight misting down upon her form lying stretched out upon the thick grass.

She listened again to the silent question, posed perhaps by the waning sliver above, the sighing through the leafy trees, or by her own rampant thoughts.

A short laugh drifted through the air.

"No. I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

The wind whispered over her face, toying gently with her hair and light clothing. She slowly watched the clouds drift by overhead, almost teasingly adding in a yawned afterthought.

"Not that you'll believe me."

A half smile tugged at her mouth, but she shook her head to the dark.

"No."

She gave an almost exasperated sigh, dropping her hand from toying with a strand of her auburn hair, tinted with shadowed vanilla in the night, to the ground. A small cloud of dirt swirled around her now-closed fist.

"No way."

Kitchel rolled onto one side, her body language declaring the unheard conversation finished.

As she spoke once more, her eyes slid slowly closed, her voice growing softer, and her breathing deepening. The world seemed thick with sleep, and in the near pitch it was impossible to tell the reasons behind the almost nonexistent flush on her cheeks.

"...Never."

:n:

"Footsteps," they whisper, "Though this late midnight hour,

Of bandits and robbers, of princes and thieves.

Far away from their home, too deep in this memory."

The fallen stars shatter: Shards into keys.

:n:

It's not love, I know that.

So before my words get twisted around on themselves, I'd just like to state that.

I'm not in love, and I'm not in denial, and I'm not lying through my clenched teeth.

That's why I'm doing this: To just get everyone to shut up for a moment and listen. It's not that I want to constantly be in the lime light, or that I've got some deep secret to share. After all, I'm not the one with the missing girlfriend or the mid-life crisis going on.

And before you ask, no, I'm not bitter.

See, that's the problem with being a supporting role: Some sap comes along, takes pity on you, and starts reading more into your every move. Sometimes it seems as though I can't cough without deeper meaning. Stupid metaphors.

Regardless to whatever anything might imply or what anyone might say, I don't "do" that sort of thing. Which gets me wondering, why the hell am I bothering to explain this?

Inner monologues are Rath's thing: Not mine. And even if they were, I've got better things to talk about than this. What we're going to do about Rath, for example. Or how to get the hell out of here.

But I've been told there is a theme to this, and I want to get a word in sideways before being blown over.

And... It's just as fruitless as straining for gold through a sifter. Sure, there's the chance you'll find something, but more often than not, all you get is falling dust. Besides, luck is that any gold'll just slip through the netting as another speck of dirt.

...I don't love. Well, not like that. And definitely not now. There's no time for love now, and even if there was, I'm not the sort of guy who falls head over heels for some fantasy.

And definitely not for her.

:n:

But onwards forever their voices still trail:

High notes in the heavens, brushing low o'er the sea,

Surrounding in secret two daring offenders,

Marking their way as the mists turn to flee.

:n:

Muffled footsteps ran laughing through dilapidated rooms.

Sawdust and sootdust and tarnished flecks of dirt stolen from the cobbled street outside erupted into the air as a softly soled and undersold and lightheartedly souled figure...

Walked in.

Her heart beat as the only living thing in this maze of shadows. Gloom lurked both in the corners of the four walls and in the darkened roads of the midday sun burning searchingly in the sky.

Discount dreams and flighty fantasies and childlike implications danced through her head to the tune of far-off Fame...

...And Fortune called, urging her on, pressing her further away from this shoddy big-city life of stolen vessels and promises bound in both blood and crisscrossing fingers. Bound to be broken, bound to be bought, bound to be spirited away. Bound...

And bondings die hard. One more act of bondage, one more inconvenienced kiss, one more trick before the next.

Stealing away now, vanishing lightly into the misty gloom once more to reappear later, changed...

But not by much.

And leaving behind a shard of rough-written parchment, signed, fated to be cursed in her ever-spirited place.

"Dear Thats,

I'll be on the road. Thanks for the gift.

From, Kitchel

P.S. I'll buy you a present."

Stolen money buys taunting words buys jests from friends and others known.

And the bright footsteps echoing away left an annoyance, a hurt, a reminder better than any soul-searching kiss.

For soul is sacrosanct, but the spirit shines.

:n:

A celestial glance slides from wary to smug:

Human foolishness wandering 'neath tiny light pins.

Watched from above by the remaining night pictures,

The bull and the ram, a lone set of twins.

:n:

(Setting: Kainaldia; Time: Book 19, shortly after making the decision to find the Water of Change; Characters: Kitchel, Lim Kaana.)

Lim Kaana:after a silence in which the night can be felt breathing around them: What does it feel like to love someone?

Kitchel:eyes widen into a confused stare, startled by question:

Lim Kaana:turns bright red; stutters nervously; at first talking hastily, but speaks softer as she finishes: Um... Err... Okay, a little awkward... Look, I'm sorry, okay? And please don't tell Tintlett I asked. It's just that... I don't have anyone to ask about things like this.

Kitchel:notices the other girl's almost pleading look, thoughtfully cups head in hand: It's true. You can't ask Tintlett. I wish I could help you... But I'm not much of an expert on love.

:n:

A prayer flies strong from the bow of the archer,

Rocketing downwards, a bright shaft of light.

It reaches the duo: A strong silver bond.

All alone in the darkness, tied together in night.

:n:

What does it mean to fly?

The question echoed silently in his mind as he wondered, slightly startled, where it had come from. It hadn't been as though he had been testing the theories of aerodynamics, pondering the age-old question of a bumble bee's mass and the force given off by its rapidly pumping wings, or African Sparrows versus European Sparrows in any sort of competition, much less one involving a coconut.

He hadn't been watching the birds soar overhead, or Ringleys dart across the room. And even if he had been watching the rare zeppelin or Dragon, the question still wouldn't have sprung to mind.

He hadn't even been looking at the sky.

And it wasn't as though he had been pondering metaphors, probing phrases and lyrics and dreams for the deeper meaning beneath. He hadn't been searching for what one really meant when they said: "It's nothing: Just a clipped wing." He hadn't been thinking of the possibilities behind the "One-Winged Angel", or "It's like I'm a bird that can't walk or fly", or why raven-black feathers seemed so perfectly fitting for Rath.

He hadn't been thinking of much in general, really. He didn't have some pressing question to answer that could have possibly spawned the odd pealing note. And now that he thought about it, it was odd, wasn't it? It hadn't been asking what it felt like to fly, but what it meant. It wasn't a random wondering question of how that heart-in-your-mouth sensation felt, or of what the wind tasted like as it rushed into your face, drawing up your blood and striking up the tempo of your heart. It hadn't asked him about the dead silence of rushing white noise and shards of color that whirled around your tightly-closed eyes, or of the paralyzing tension of apprehension and nerves and not-so-hidden fear that spread through your veins before the plummet. It hadn't wanted reassuring whispers of the natural high of flight, of the way a grin seemed plastered to your mouth, of the way your eyes shone with delight. It hadn't asked of how, when the initial thrill was over, your head craned back to the sky as if pleading for another chance.

And he suddenly realized that were it asking any of those, he would have been able to respond.

He was startled out of his trance by a hand grasping his upper arm and tugging him to his feet.

"Come on," a female voice complained, "I've already got the Darnias ready; you were supposed to meet me outside! What're you doing still up here?"

A rampant notion of rushing skies and farmlands sprawled like patchworks far below swirled before him as motes in an updraft of air, and he shrugged out of her grip, letting a smile play about his lips.

"Nothing. Let's go."

:n:

His hand meets her's on their eons long journey,

Spontaneously clasping: A lull in her stride,

A startling pause, a questioning glance...

Then a tentative kiss by the moon-crested tide.

:n:

The grass was warm beneath their feet, acting almost as a muffler as she shifted, then slowly took a step forward. The shifting patches of sunlight lit up her questioning face, their drops of golden sheen giving her an illuminated glow.

The air was still, the glossy green leaves overhead not breathing as she haltingly took another step towards the young man facing away from her. They would have whispered to the tense frozen pause surrounding them, shattering the silence with the crack of voices, had there been a breeze to give them sound.

Her heart beat in her chest, echoing off the still as the pressure mounted in the sunlit gardens.

He hadn't moved, not physically, but it seemed to her as though she could see a waver in his form. Peridot eyes widened for a moment, then her gaze softened.

The world spun, very slowly, the centripetal force pulling her breath faster, her head lighter, her mouth dry.

"Thats..."

Then quickly, the spell seeming to crack as through a plate of sugar-spun glass, she walked forward, placing a hand on his shoulder and effortlessly turning him around.

A wind kicked up, the branches above them suddenly filled with voices.

Then a sudden lull before Thats reached up, slowly removing her hand from his shoulder and pulling it down before their close figures. Whose impulse it had been, neither could later tell, but their lips met, the world filled with speechless sound once again.

She shivered at the contact, at the touch of his warm skin and lips; he stiffened at her noiseless gasp, at the slight tensing of her body. A mingled scent of cinnamon and thyme and pine from the surrounding trees engulfed her suddenly heightened senses, and she dully noted the rest of her conscious thought slip away with the influx of passion. He felt the faint quiver of her hand in his own, the way it tightened in his grasp and he almost started as she leaned further into him.

The wind rustled through the early dawn as her free hand burrowed itself into the loose folds of his shirt, clinging to the brown material. A soft, sudden breath filtered through the sifting leaves, dying away ere it reached the sky above.

Then the whip-crack of a snapped twig jerked them both back and away, standing a good three feet apart and training their reddened faces in opposite rose-tinted directions.

As the still pointed to the fact that no human watchers were indeed present, Kitchel spoke, her voice wavering above a whisper.

"Thats, I..."

He cut her off.

"Yeah. I know."

And the dust slowly settled.

:n:

The island is lost, the surrounding sea strong,

No people around them; no secrets leave there.

A tarnished brass lock peers through thick wooded gates,

And is picked with the glass-shattered stars' golden glare.

:n:

It's my birthday. A review is always a nice present...