fic: multiple
Mar. 21st, 2009 05:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisThis is a get well present for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
myaru. I was going to give her a chapter of The Lost Children, but I’m too cranky to pull off that right now. The point about poetry and silks was inspired by history in Japan – Heian, I think? One very could get banished from the court for mispronouncing poetry, and that always stuck with me.
I overdid the limit so I’ll have to do another. Murr.
Challenge: XV – Noble
Title: Masks
Word Count: 849
Game: FE9
A/N: Spoilers, as per usual.
Begnion was a decadent thing, like too-sweet chocolate that left a vile aftertaste on the tongue. Ladies died under the weight of their flowered silks, woman fainted from the heat. A mere wrong pronunciation in a poetry reading could put one in poor standing about the court and ruin their name entirely. Sephiran dodged and delved deeper into this underworld of lies and facade. Appearances were everything, and his ethereal beauty gave him an edge in a vain world. He was handsome, witty and given to a serenity that was deeply admired by the court. He could quote even the most obscure of poetry from heart and was given to a wisdom beyond his years. Some had heard him singing on aside and found that too to be a beauty beyond compare, though he refused to preform in public, which was a momentary despair, but ladies were too fickle in their whims to be sad for the loss the any long period of time.
Courts had long memories for scandals, but whims and fads came easily. If high laced bodices were in this summer, before winter was in, they would be horribly out of fashion. Sephiran spoke with pursed lips, he danced their dances, spoke their lies and kissed the hands of bejeweled countesses and duchesses when offered. Once, he was called to help in a minor skit to be done by the royalty, a bit of playacting to ease the boredom of the elite.
Sephiran was complimented on the rich timbre of his voice as he enunciated the lines of his character, Cornelius, the man who fell for the Heron girl. It was a predictably tragic thing done by a Duke who was a far too blinded by his own concepts of beauty to see the flaws. They ran off together only to die in each other’s arms. The lady Tremonet with her blond curls and wispy figure was an obvious choice for Falelia, the beautiful heron girl. Though she looked the part, the poor girl could not act. She stilted out lines until it was substituted for Heron chatter simply to save face. But Sephiran carried the performance with such a grace that put tears to the audience’s eyes. His last monologue as Faleia died in his arms was filled with such passion. His lip quivered and his voice shook as he said the last lines before plunging the knife into his own breast. And man and beast hereafter shall never be joined, for the goddess hath forbidden such a union and would strike us down, and I wish it was to be the gods wrath upon me for no life is a life without my Falelia. My beating heart hath stopped upon the ground and lay beneath me, dying and dead to the world. And soon shall go I..
When he rose, it was to cheers and a shower of roses. This strange noble had proved his lot, even if he did come from some unfashionable place which no one had heard of, but everyone pretended they had simply to save face. From royals to scullery maids, everyone who had caught sight of the play was enchanted by the passion of this man of all trades, his skill for elocution and acting made Duke Tanas an automatic patron of Sephiran’s own arts. Sephiran was more than a simply fashion, he was a bauble to be passed about the nobility, a sign of rank to have him bless their gatherings with his presence.
And with that, he grew. From outsider to into the inner core, Sephiran took many different roles. Entertainer, speaker, politician, and eventually guardian to an Apostle. He smiled and wiled his way through the ranks. It would take a true actor to survive what Begnion had become, and wasn’t Sephiran the best of actors? His mask didn’t fall with the closing of the curtain. He smiled and it was still firmly in place, a lie, the best and worst of lies formed to Tellius. A breath, a plan, another lie cloaked within a lie.
But there were truths within those falsities. When one acts one must carefully arrange the truth, like flower arranging. Such as hiding a rotting stem, or concealing the barbs of a rose so the pricking will be that much more painful. When the audience said that his first play was well acted, they had no idea that he had uttered those words, or some similar after the passing of a human woman who took his voice along with his heart to the cold grave with her.
Challenge: XV – Noble
Title: Lady Paramount
Word Count: 495
Game: FE7
Lady paramount (Archery), the lady making the best score.
-Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)
It wasn’t all fairytales, being whisked away by some handsome noble. The nobles were frankly, quite tedious and it made Louise want the presence of her husband so much more – if only because he was the only one of the lot who wasn’t an arrogant blowhard. Louise did not like the dresses, the itchy lace and the too-tight collars that were the fashion of the day.
Most proper ladies did not take archery as a pastime, let alone a way of life. They did not proclaim to guard their husband, nor did they have any say in the doings of their husband and lord. Louise did not let this mire her down. She would not submit, in the end, she herself would change them. Archery would become fashionable for a time. Bows too, would become the sign of the wildflower Pent had plucked up from some hick town, a place smelling of cow dung and dust and mountain air; a place so small as to be a footnote on most maps. They stayed indoors where the musty air was diffused by potpourri scents which never quite captured the aroma of Spring co ming onto the mountains, or the smell of after rain. They worked on their needlepoint and gossiped, but the servants always had the best gossip for they never sugarcoated it and gave it with all its bawdy truth.
She was an emblem, a fairy story come true. A commoner taken up by a high ranking man. They were the things girl’s dreams were made of. Even the noble ladies couldn’t completely scorn her, for she was a romantic figure come to life. But even if they at first disdained her, no one could ignore her. She was like staring at the sun, all brightness and humor. Some secretly (or not so secretly) emulated her loose braids and carefree ways, as if they could appropriate her own buoyancy and hang it in their hair as jeweled pins. The results always came a little too strained, one could simply not capture the sun as a hair-bauble.
She learned how to dance, and with time, her thick country accent lessened to the more genteel Etruian noblesse inflections. Her edges might have softened, but there was always a trace of that burning day, that wildness within her. No noble lesser or greater could take that spark from her, for it belonged to herself and Pent alone. It was their fire from the heavens, their wound about world boundaries that were strung as taut as a bowstring. She would don dresses for her lord, and take the tiresome dealings of the nobility, but she would never quite bend to them. She lived in this world via promise and pact and contract for her lord alone, nothing more and nothing less.
Ok! That one's down, now just to get Sam's birthday gift andsearains comment!drabble done! ...and various other things, chapters, etc. Whatev, I'm too sore to think about that.
myaru. I was going to give her a chapter of The Lost Children, but I’m too cranky to pull off that right now. The point about poetry and silks was inspired by history in Japan – Heian, I think? One very could get banished from the court for mispronouncing poetry, and that always stuck with me. I overdid the limit so I’ll have to do another. Murr.
Challenge: XV – Noble
Title: Masks
Word Count: 849
Game: FE9
A/N: Spoilers, as per usual.
Begnion was a decadent thing, like too-sweet chocolate that left a vile aftertaste on the tongue. Ladies died under the weight of their flowered silks, woman fainted from the heat. A mere wrong pronunciation in a poetry reading could put one in poor standing about the court and ruin their name entirely. Sephiran dodged and delved deeper into this underworld of lies and facade. Appearances were everything, and his ethereal beauty gave him an edge in a vain world. He was handsome, witty and given to a serenity that was deeply admired by the court. He could quote even the most obscure of poetry from heart and was given to a wisdom beyond his years. Some had heard him singing on aside and found that too to be a beauty beyond compare, though he refused to preform in public, which was a momentary despair, but ladies were too fickle in their whims to be sad for the loss the any long period of time.
Courts had long memories for scandals, but whims and fads came easily. If high laced bodices were in this summer, before winter was in, they would be horribly out of fashion. Sephiran spoke with pursed lips, he danced their dances, spoke their lies and kissed the hands of bejeweled countesses and duchesses when offered. Once, he was called to help in a minor skit to be done by the royalty, a bit of playacting to ease the boredom of the elite.
Sephiran was complimented on the rich timbre of his voice as he enunciated the lines of his character, Cornelius, the man who fell for the Heron girl. It was a predictably tragic thing done by a Duke who was a far too blinded by his own concepts of beauty to see the flaws. They ran off together only to die in each other’s arms. The lady Tremonet with her blond curls and wispy figure was an obvious choice for Falelia, the beautiful heron girl. Though she looked the part, the poor girl could not act. She stilted out lines until it was substituted for Heron chatter simply to save face. But Sephiran carried the performance with such a grace that put tears to the audience’s eyes. His last monologue as Faleia died in his arms was filled with such passion. His lip quivered and his voice shook as he said the last lines before plunging the knife into his own breast. And man and beast hereafter shall never be joined, for the goddess hath forbidden such a union and would strike us down, and I wish it was to be the gods wrath upon me for no life is a life without my Falelia. My beating heart hath stopped upon the ground and lay beneath me, dying and dead to the world. And soon shall go I..
When he rose, it was to cheers and a shower of roses. This strange noble had proved his lot, even if he did come from some unfashionable place which no one had heard of, but everyone pretended they had simply to save face. From royals to scullery maids, everyone who had caught sight of the play was enchanted by the passion of this man of all trades, his skill for elocution and acting made Duke Tanas an automatic patron of Sephiran’s own arts. Sephiran was more than a simply fashion, he was a bauble to be passed about the nobility, a sign of rank to have him bless their gatherings with his presence.
And with that, he grew. From outsider to into the inner core, Sephiran took many different roles. Entertainer, speaker, politician, and eventually guardian to an Apostle. He smiled and wiled his way through the ranks. It would take a true actor to survive what Begnion had become, and wasn’t Sephiran the best of actors? His mask didn’t fall with the closing of the curtain. He smiled and it was still firmly in place, a lie, the best and worst of lies formed to Tellius. A breath, a plan, another lie cloaked within a lie.
But there were truths within those falsities. When one acts one must carefully arrange the truth, like flower arranging. Such as hiding a rotting stem, or concealing the barbs of a rose so the pricking will be that much more painful. When the audience said that his first play was well acted, they had no idea that he had uttered those words, or some similar after the passing of a human woman who took his voice along with his heart to the cold grave with her.
Challenge: XV – Noble
Title: Lady Paramount
Word Count: 495
Game: FE7
Lady paramount (Archery), the lady making the best score.
-Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)
It wasn’t all fairytales, being whisked away by some handsome noble. The nobles were frankly, quite tedious and it made Louise want the presence of her husband so much more – if only because he was the only one of the lot who wasn’t an arrogant blowhard. Louise did not like the dresses, the itchy lace and the too-tight collars that were the fashion of the day.
Most proper ladies did not take archery as a pastime, let alone a way of life. They did not proclaim to guard their husband, nor did they have any say in the doings of their husband and lord. Louise did not let this mire her down. She would not submit, in the end, she herself would change them. Archery would become fashionable for a time. Bows too, would become the sign of the wildflower Pent had plucked up from some hick town, a place smelling of cow dung and dust and mountain air; a place so small as to be a footnote on most maps. They stayed indoors where the musty air was diffused by potpourri scents which never quite captured the aroma of Spring co ming onto the mountains, or the smell of after rain. They worked on their needlepoint and gossiped, but the servants always had the best gossip for they never sugarcoated it and gave it with all its bawdy truth.
She was an emblem, a fairy story come true. A commoner taken up by a high ranking man. They were the things girl’s dreams were made of. Even the noble ladies couldn’t completely scorn her, for she was a romantic figure come to life. But even if they at first disdained her, no one could ignore her. She was like staring at the sun, all brightness and humor. Some secretly (or not so secretly) emulated her loose braids and carefree ways, as if they could appropriate her own buoyancy and hang it in their hair as jeweled pins. The results always came a little too strained, one could simply not capture the sun as a hair-bauble.
She learned how to dance, and with time, her thick country accent lessened to the more genteel Etruian noblesse inflections. Her edges might have softened, but there was always a trace of that burning day, that wildness within her. No noble lesser or greater could take that spark from her, for it belonged to herself and Pent alone. It was their fire from the heavens, their wound about world boundaries that were strung as taut as a bowstring. She would don dresses for her lord, and take the tiresome dealings of the nobility, but she would never quite bend to them. She lived in this world via promise and pact and contract for her lord alone, nothing more and nothing less.
Ok! That one's down, now just to get Sam's birthday gift and
searains comment!drabble done! ...and various other things, chapters, etc. Whatev, I'm too sore to think about that.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-03-22 02:22 am (UTC)Thank you! <3 This is very inspiring.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-22 08:11 am (UTC)