[original] Salomé
Feb. 20th, 2006 06:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenBased vaguely off of this painting which I saw yesterday at the Met.
A beautiful woman, it was said. Beautiful, still youthful, dated to die in a fortnight. The artist’s apprentice wasn’t sure how to introduce himself, when they walked up the dank steps of the Towers, where they kept her. He held his equipment hard at his ribs and kept his breath. The guards in their armor asked him curiously about the Master and his latest projects. It gave him nary a chance to ask questions of his own.
Just as well, he thought. And what would I ask? ‘How may I speak with her’? ‘What sort of shackles is she most comfortable with?’ ‘How many times didshe stab the Count before she took his head off?’
Really just as well.
The door was a thick one; as black and grey and rusted as the rest of this place. The guards stopped with a rattle, fished around at their belts. They picked out two rings, picked out five copper keys from amongst the clattering mess of them. They were large, clunky, greening very finely. Five keys to five locks, it took a few moments. The door dislodged with a great groan.
“How may I--” began the artist’s apprentice, despite himself.
And then he very nearly gagged, as the rush of air from the woman’s cell hit him.
It was a very strong perfume.
“Ah, Christ. We’ll check in by the hour—“ said the one guard, giving him a shove. The door banged behind him. There came five, quick, successive clicks.
He was locked in a room with a murderess.
“Evenin’,” said a voice, from above. He nearly dropped his book.
They kept their high profile prisoners very well, it seemed. The stairs they’d brought him up were dark and dripping. The room where they’d left him was neither of these things. It lit by three lamps, casting a honey coloured light over the contents of the rooms. Pillows of elaborate embroidering, a bed covered in numerous fancy fabrics, an animal skin lay across the floor, numerous books were scattered about, on top of it. If the air was damp with anything, it was fragrance.
A beautiful place to wait for death.
“A young one, aren’t you? Ah, well. S’posed they’d not have sent for the Master himself.”
The voice came from the direction of the sole window in the cell: a narrow slot in the stones, by which a woman sat down atop a big, black chest. She’d been standing, when she’d spoke to him, and now he saw her fold herself down.
“S’posed s’too much the honour, that.”
His first view of her was this: far more squat than he’d imagined, plump like a noblewoman, her ample rear resting itself atop the ornate decoration of the chest’s lid. She wore a thin, gauzy gown. He could see her knees through it, tucked towards her curved belly. He could see her ankles, white and bare.
He looked up immediately.
“Well I’m from the workshop,” he said, eyes firmly on her face.
“Mm,” said the murderess, looking at him with black eyes. She gave a considering bob of her even blacker hair. It spilled over one shoulder. “S’pose. That’ll do.”
She crossed her ankles and laced her hands together in her lap.
“So then! Come to paint a pretty picture of this face, ‘fore they go and chop it off?”
“…something…of the like,” said the artist’s apprentice, with a nervous nod.
She smiled.
A beautiful woman, it was said. Beautiful, still youthful, dated to die in a fortnight. The artist’s apprentice wasn’t sure how to introduce himself, when they walked up the dank steps of the Towers, where they kept her. He held his equipment hard at his ribs and kept his breath. The guards in their armor asked him curiously about the Master and his latest projects. It gave him nary a chance to ask questions of his own.
Just as well, he thought. And what would I ask? ‘How may I speak with her’? ‘What sort of shackles is she most comfortable with?’ ‘How many times didshe stab the Count before she took his head off?’
Really just as well.
The door was a thick one; as black and grey and rusted as the rest of this place. The guards stopped with a rattle, fished around at their belts. They picked out two rings, picked out five copper keys from amongst the clattering mess of them. They were large, clunky, greening very finely. Five keys to five locks, it took a few moments. The door dislodged with a great groan.
“How may I--” began the artist’s apprentice, despite himself.
And then he very nearly gagged, as the rush of air from the woman’s cell hit him.
It was a very strong perfume.
“Ah, Christ. We’ll check in by the hour—“ said the one guard, giving him a shove. The door banged behind him. There came five, quick, successive clicks.
He was locked in a room with a murderess.
“Evenin’,” said a voice, from above. He nearly dropped his book.
They kept their high profile prisoners very well, it seemed. The stairs they’d brought him up were dark and dripping. The room where they’d left him was neither of these things. It lit by three lamps, casting a honey coloured light over the contents of the rooms. Pillows of elaborate embroidering, a bed covered in numerous fancy fabrics, an animal skin lay across the floor, numerous books were scattered about, on top of it. If the air was damp with anything, it was fragrance.
A beautiful place to wait for death.
“A young one, aren’t you? Ah, well. S’posed they’d not have sent for the Master himself.”
The voice came from the direction of the sole window in the cell: a narrow slot in the stones, by which a woman sat down atop a big, black chest. She’d been standing, when she’d spoke to him, and now he saw her fold herself down.
“S’posed s’too much the honour, that.”
His first view of her was this: far more squat than he’d imagined, plump like a noblewoman, her ample rear resting itself atop the ornate decoration of the chest’s lid. She wore a thin, gauzy gown. He could see her knees through it, tucked towards her curved belly. He could see her ankles, white and bare.
He looked up immediately.
“Well I’m from the workshop,” he said, eyes firmly on her face.
“Mm,” said the murderess, looking at him with black eyes. She gave a considering bob of her even blacker hair. It spilled over one shoulder. “S’pose. That’ll do.”
She crossed her ankles and laced her hands together in her lap.
“So then! Come to paint a pretty picture of this face, ‘fore they go and chop it off?”
“…something…of the like,” said the artist’s apprentice, with a nervous nod.
She smiled.
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Date: 2006-02-20 11:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-20 11:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-21 12:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-21 02:56 am (UTC)