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Jul. 18th, 2008 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheensome stuff. unedited, kinda cruddy. eh, what can ya do.
Announcement of the broken engagement spread over Finito like fire to a bail of straw. It was said that the king was furious, it was said that the Nail Line would demand reprisal. For days, everyone thought there would be a duel.
But, no. The Sword Prince simply left for his estates, the Princess was swiftly engaged to a count, and the king said nothing at all. Business went on as usual. A disappointing conclusion.
Franz returned a day after Fritz.
“I heard,” he said.
Fritz sat in his offices, surrounded by the dogs. It was a sign of the circumstances that for once in their mangy lives, they paid Franz no attention.
“Thought you might have,” murmured Fritz. “Saves you the letter.”
“Saves me several. Thank you,” Franz meant this. He clasped his hand across his chest. “You could do better.”
…which was entirely the wrong thing to say. Fritz got up and walked to the window. “I know,” he said.
“I could arrange better.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“A better family. One less close to His Majesty—we couldn’t have put ourselves in his pocket.”
“And I know that as well.” Fritz looked over his shoulder. Franz bit his tongue, lowered his head, and looked away.
“…yes. Of course.”
Stories end, Jolanka knew. But that didn’t mean the characters ended with them. New receiver of this knowledge, Jolanka stood in the old town square. She could see the new town square past the northern high street. Behind her, the road turned to dirt and lead into the woods. The dirt from that road stayed stuck to her boots. It hadn’t taken long to leave the house in the forest. It had taken longer to get there. The trees were kinder on the way back.
Pity, Jolanka supposed. She started for the higher square, following the mosaics in the cobblestone. The inn lay across from the clock tower. She would go there. She would order a bath, no matter the hour. She would lie there. She would stare at the ceiling. She would wait, and perhaps request (time still be damned) something to eat. She had not indulged that bad habit in years. She had not indulged many things, for many years.
She only made it halfway before the bells began to toll. It rang four times, and each ring shuddered off of the inside of her ribcage. After the fourth, there was silence. Jolanka had stopped. She tried to move again but her feet would not do so. She leaned her arm against the fence and breathed. The ache in her chest would pass. She breathed. It had not vanished with the bell. She breathed. But it would go, she knew. And the certainty of it made it worse, she knew, shoving off the fence hard enough the boards shook. She needed nothing to steady her. She was steady. She would steay steady. The inn was no good, she decided. She headed west, to the fountain. She sat on the edge, willing the disobedience from her legs. She saw her reflection in the water, lit by the moon. The sight was true, rare shock to her.
Her hair had come undone. This would not do. Jolanka swiped at it but lost interest halfway, fingers going limp through the strands. She just let it hang. Her face was white in the moon. Her eyes were two black smears. She had never looked so sloppy. It was though a hand it wiped the proper features from her face and a thick wool scarf had been shoved down her throat. No amount of swallowing could shake it loose. She had an awful headache.
This would pass, too. This, the sticky pain in the ribs, the lungs, it would go. If not with the bells, it would go anyway. It would be foolish to believe otherwise. Footsteps echoed off the cobblestones. Jolanka straightened, at alert.
Only a drunk swaying out of a backstreet. He saw the woman at the fountain, saw her unkempt hair and the blank stare, and in a surprisingly sensible move he walked on as fast as possible.
His shadow was small and squat, though the lights had stretched it. Jolanka watched it go, the sound of his boots echoing till they were gone, gone, gone. She pressed her knuckles to her forehead.
“Foolish,” she rasped. The first thing she’d said in what felt like hours. How could she have ever even… stories ended. She knew. She knew.
“Well then let me end with it,” she said.
But of course, she didn’t.
The ghouls give him a ring of bone and bring him cushions stuffed with the feathers of vultures. They offer him fine cups of spoiled wine and helpings of rotting meat, all dishes embedded with those sickly blue gems. He sends them away with little more than a hollow stare. Queen Odette hears of his refusal and comes personally.
“My dear Oswald,” she purrs. The voice comes not from her lips but from the gaps in her torso. Her dry fingers touch his face. She combs his brittle hair away, but he does not see. “I am trying to be nice. Won’t you take our hospitality? It’s takes so very much to earn.”
Oswald says nothing.
“Hmph. Well, if you have no use for those lips, perhaps I should sew them shut? It will be with rose thorns. It will be quite painful.”
Oswald’s eyes flick up, barely.
Odette moves with a great creak of sinew, resting bony knuckles to bony hips. “Was the living world not to your liking? I am hardly surprised. All things there are fickle and transient. All are fools to believe otherwise. There is only thing that is truly eternal. There is only one thing that would embrace with no care for who you are.”
“I have no interest in this conversation,” says Oswald.
“I can make it so that there is no heart to break.” She leans over him. The dark folds of her gown billow like night. A starless night, one that stretches suddenly across the whole of the room, larger than all else. “I could tear it from your chest, and replace it with a stone. Shall I do that? You need but ask.”
“…that broken heart is all I have of her.”
The night recedes. Odette waves her hand, lip curled in a sneer. “Transient,” she repeats. “Mortal and transient. The soul shall linger on, and that is mine.”
Announcement of the broken engagement spread over Finito like fire to a bail of straw. It was said that the king was furious, it was said that the Nail Line would demand reprisal. For days, everyone thought there would be a duel.
But, no. The Sword Prince simply left for his estates, the Princess was swiftly engaged to a count, and the king said nothing at all. Business went on as usual. A disappointing conclusion.
Franz returned a day after Fritz.
“I heard,” he said.
Fritz sat in his offices, surrounded by the dogs. It was a sign of the circumstances that for once in their mangy lives, they paid Franz no attention.
“Thought you might have,” murmured Fritz. “Saves you the letter.”
“Saves me several. Thank you,” Franz meant this. He clasped his hand across his chest. “You could do better.”
…which was entirely the wrong thing to say. Fritz got up and walked to the window. “I know,” he said.
“I could arrange better.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“A better family. One less close to His Majesty—we couldn’t have put ourselves in his pocket.”
“And I know that as well.” Fritz looked over his shoulder. Franz bit his tongue, lowered his head, and looked away.
“…yes. Of course.”
Stories end, Jolanka knew. But that didn’t mean the characters ended with them. New receiver of this knowledge, Jolanka stood in the old town square. She could see the new town square past the northern high street. Behind her, the road turned to dirt and lead into the woods. The dirt from that road stayed stuck to her boots. It hadn’t taken long to leave the house in the forest. It had taken longer to get there. The trees were kinder on the way back.
Pity, Jolanka supposed. She started for the higher square, following the mosaics in the cobblestone. The inn lay across from the clock tower. She would go there. She would order a bath, no matter the hour. She would lie there. She would stare at the ceiling. She would wait, and perhaps request (time still be damned) something to eat. She had not indulged that bad habit in years. She had not indulged many things, for many years.
She only made it halfway before the bells began to toll. It rang four times, and each ring shuddered off of the inside of her ribcage. After the fourth, there was silence. Jolanka had stopped. She tried to move again but her feet would not do so. She leaned her arm against the fence and breathed. The ache in her chest would pass. She breathed. It had not vanished with the bell. She breathed. But it would go, she knew. And the certainty of it made it worse, she knew, shoving off the fence hard enough the boards shook. She needed nothing to steady her. She was steady. She would steay steady. The inn was no good, she decided. She headed west, to the fountain. She sat on the edge, willing the disobedience from her legs. She saw her reflection in the water, lit by the moon. The sight was true, rare shock to her.
Her hair had come undone. This would not do. Jolanka swiped at it but lost interest halfway, fingers going limp through the strands. She just let it hang. Her face was white in the moon. Her eyes were two black smears. She had never looked so sloppy. It was though a hand it wiped the proper features from her face and a thick wool scarf had been shoved down her throat. No amount of swallowing could shake it loose. She had an awful headache.
This would pass, too. This, the sticky pain in the ribs, the lungs, it would go. If not with the bells, it would go anyway. It would be foolish to believe otherwise. Footsteps echoed off the cobblestones. Jolanka straightened, at alert.
Only a drunk swaying out of a backstreet. He saw the woman at the fountain, saw her unkempt hair and the blank stare, and in a surprisingly sensible move he walked on as fast as possible.
His shadow was small and squat, though the lights had stretched it. Jolanka watched it go, the sound of his boots echoing till they were gone, gone, gone. She pressed her knuckles to her forehead.
“Foolish,” she rasped. The first thing she’d said in what felt like hours. How could she have ever even… stories ended. She knew. She knew.
“Well then let me end with it,” she said.
But of course, she didn’t.
The ghouls give him a ring of bone and bring him cushions stuffed with the feathers of vultures. They offer him fine cups of spoiled wine and helpings of rotting meat, all dishes embedded with those sickly blue gems. He sends them away with little more than a hollow stare. Queen Odette hears of his refusal and comes personally.
“My dear Oswald,” she purrs. The voice comes not from her lips but from the gaps in her torso. Her dry fingers touch his face. She combs his brittle hair away, but he does not see. “I am trying to be nice. Won’t you take our hospitality? It’s takes so very much to earn.”
Oswald says nothing.
“Hmph. Well, if you have no use for those lips, perhaps I should sew them shut? It will be with rose thorns. It will be quite painful.”
Oswald’s eyes flick up, barely.
Odette moves with a great creak of sinew, resting bony knuckles to bony hips. “Was the living world not to your liking? I am hardly surprised. All things there are fickle and transient. All are fools to believe otherwise. There is only thing that is truly eternal. There is only one thing that would embrace with no care for who you are.”
“I have no interest in this conversation,” says Oswald.
“I can make it so that there is no heart to break.” She leans over him. The dark folds of her gown billow like night. A starless night, one that stretches suddenly across the whole of the room, larger than all else. “I could tear it from your chest, and replace it with a stone. Shall I do that? You need but ask.”
“…that broken heart is all I have of her.”
The night recedes. Odette waves her hand, lip curled in a sneer. “Transient,” she repeats. “Mortal and transient. The soul shall linger on, and that is mine.”
