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tamingthemuseTitle: The Feast of Saint Agatha
Fandom: N/A (original)
Prompt: Flummox
Warnings: None
Rating: PG? I guess?
Word Count: 1 146
Summary: There are always those strong enough to free themselves, but what of the rest?
5 February.
Two days ago, in celebration of my impending marriage to the Comte de Lys, Father procured for me a new handmaid. She is, however, a Jewess—yet another reminder of the depths to which our family has fallen in the wake of these harsh years, and of Lissa’s scandal (for which I still cannot, even after all this time, forgive her. Even though I am nearly eighteen, and very near past marrying age, I have only just found a match! Had she not done as she had, I might have been able to snare a prince.). She slept last night on a pallet in the corner of my chambers, and I feared she might try to speak with the Devil whilst I slept.
The Jewess did not try to converse with Satan during that first night, though I was still glad that I had taken the crucifix from the wall to my bed, so that I might be protected from her curses. She cried out in the night, though, and I originally thought her calls might have been of frustration. She did not make another noise, though, and when I ventured towards her pallet, cross held out in front of me, she was motionless and silent. I ventured closer, and saw her face contorted in anguish. If she speaks with the Devil, I wondered, can she still have nightmares?
In the morning, I asked her in passing what she had dreamt of. She averted her eyes, staring at the floor, and replied, “I don’t dream, madame, I only remember—now, what would you like me to fetch for your breakfast?”
She was hiding something, I knew it. I would force it from her sooner or later.
The day passed in relative peace—I received two letters, one from de Lys, which described in great detail the new hunting-dogs he had procured the previous week, and one from Lissa, congratulating me on my betrothal. The first I set on my bedside table, as I supposed was proper, and the second I tucked into the tiny cedarwood box which contains all of Lissa’s letters to me. In all of them, she sounds so happy in her marriage to Roland, even if he is little more than a brigand and they must travel from sunup until sundown if they hope to have enough coin to feed and shelter themselves for the night. I cannot forgive her, perhaps, but I still envy her lighthearted happiness. Were I not duty-bound to do elsewise, and salvage our family’s reputation (if such a thing were possible!), I would run off into the hills and find a tinker of my own.
I had to hide Lissa’s letter from father, though, since he still hopes to find her and force her into a convent. He nearly found it, too: I had retreated to my usual spot in the garden to read through the letter, and he came up the path very nearly before I realised it. I slid Lissa’s letter in-between de Lys’ accounts of his dogs’ antics, though, and I pretended to be exceedingly fascinated by a description of a particularly fascinating butterfly chase.
After he had passed, though, the Jewess looked at me strangely, and simply shook her head when I asked what I had done.
That night, she cried out again in her sleep more forcefully than the night prior, and, roused from my sleep, I rose from my bed and crossed to her pallet. She lay with her eyes closed, the same horror-struck expression as last night marring her face. She cried out again, something indistinguishable, and I prodded her roughly with the butt of the crucifix, gripping it like a sword.
“Wake up, heathen,” I hissed at her, and she started and sat up abruptly. Before she could do anything more, I went on. “I’ll not hold with you communing with the devil in my chambers, and if I—“
“I was not communing with the devil,” she said quietly, “I was having a nightmare.”
I snorted. “After having seen the fires of hell, I doubt you can—“
“Don’t be silly, girl. I can commune with the Devil as well as you—which is to say, not at all. And I have nightmares just as you do.” In the moonlight, I could see her steely gaze, and it frightened me. Devil or no, this was the type of woman who would cheerfully flay me alive if the need arose.
My fear was pushed aside by my curiosity, though—I wondered what she dreamt of, or at least where she might have learned such a convincing show of human-ness. Another glance at her hard eyes hinted that the latter question would be unwelcome, though, so I instead asked the former.
“In my nightmares,” she said, “your soldiers steal my children away, pervert their minds to the message of your false prophet, and leave my babes to lie their way through their lives.”
I goggled at her, shocked that she would not consider it a blessing to be given the message of Christ—but before I could say a word, she had gone on.
“Thank goodness,” she continued, “that such a thing will never happen.” And she seemed supremely content.
Unsure what she meant, I asked, “And why is that?”
Her eyes flashing both strong and sad in the moonlight, she said, “I cut their throats as they slept, and thus they will never have known misery, as I have. Only happiness is enough for them.”
“Pardon?” I asked, though I had heard her clearly. I simply could not comprehend that she might have killed their own flesh and blood.
“I said, you’d best get to bed, milady,” she told me demurely, taking my elbow in her hand and gently leading me to bed. “Your betrothed shan’t want you if you’ve the face of a sleepless hag.” Her voice sounded strong and even, but I fancied I caught the gleam of a teardrop as she spread the coverlet over me.
The Jewess did not cry out again, but I could not sleep. First Lissa, and then, it seemed, the Jewess, had been made happy in their own ways, even if they would never again be able to show their faces to their families. And what was I? I could hardly be called happy. I was engaged to a man who cared more for his dogs than he could ever care for me, and I was staring a life of duty, and, perhaps (if I was very, very lucky), the occasional relaxation square in the face, walking into it blindly for no good reason.
Perhaps it would not be wrong, but I could not rid myself of the overlying impression that it would not be right, either.
And yet what else was there to do?
Fandom: N/A (original)
Prompt: Flummox
Warnings: None
Rating: PG? I guess?
Word Count: 1 146
Summary: There are always those strong enough to free themselves, but what of the rest?
5 February.
Two days ago, in celebration of my impending marriage to the Comte de Lys, Father procured for me a new handmaid. She is, however, a Jewess—yet another reminder of the depths to which our family has fallen in the wake of these harsh years, and of Lissa’s scandal (for which I still cannot, even after all this time, forgive her. Even though I am nearly eighteen, and very near past marrying age, I have only just found a match! Had she not done as she had, I might have been able to snare a prince.). She slept last night on a pallet in the corner of my chambers, and I feared she might try to speak with the Devil whilst I slept.
The Jewess did not try to converse with Satan during that first night, though I was still glad that I had taken the crucifix from the wall to my bed, so that I might be protected from her curses. She cried out in the night, though, and I originally thought her calls might have been of frustration. She did not make another noise, though, and when I ventured towards her pallet, cross held out in front of me, she was motionless and silent. I ventured closer, and saw her face contorted in anguish. If she speaks with the Devil, I wondered, can she still have nightmares?
In the morning, I asked her in passing what she had dreamt of. She averted her eyes, staring at the floor, and replied, “I don’t dream, madame, I only remember—now, what would you like me to fetch for your breakfast?”
She was hiding something, I knew it. I would force it from her sooner or later.
The day passed in relative peace—I received two letters, one from de Lys, which described in great detail the new hunting-dogs he had procured the previous week, and one from Lissa, congratulating me on my betrothal. The first I set on my bedside table, as I supposed was proper, and the second I tucked into the tiny cedarwood box which contains all of Lissa’s letters to me. In all of them, she sounds so happy in her marriage to Roland, even if he is little more than a brigand and they must travel from sunup until sundown if they hope to have enough coin to feed and shelter themselves for the night. I cannot forgive her, perhaps, but I still envy her lighthearted happiness. Were I not duty-bound to do elsewise, and salvage our family’s reputation (if such a thing were possible!), I would run off into the hills and find a tinker of my own.
I had to hide Lissa’s letter from father, though, since he still hopes to find her and force her into a convent. He nearly found it, too: I had retreated to my usual spot in the garden to read through the letter, and he came up the path very nearly before I realised it. I slid Lissa’s letter in-between de Lys’ accounts of his dogs’ antics, though, and I pretended to be exceedingly fascinated by a description of a particularly fascinating butterfly chase.
After he had passed, though, the Jewess looked at me strangely, and simply shook her head when I asked what I had done.
That night, she cried out again in her sleep more forcefully than the night prior, and, roused from my sleep, I rose from my bed and crossed to her pallet. She lay with her eyes closed, the same horror-struck expression as last night marring her face. She cried out again, something indistinguishable, and I prodded her roughly with the butt of the crucifix, gripping it like a sword.
“Wake up, heathen,” I hissed at her, and she started and sat up abruptly. Before she could do anything more, I went on. “I’ll not hold with you communing with the devil in my chambers, and if I—“
“I was not communing with the devil,” she said quietly, “I was having a nightmare.”
I snorted. “After having seen the fires of hell, I doubt you can—“
“Don’t be silly, girl. I can commune with the Devil as well as you—which is to say, not at all. And I have nightmares just as you do.” In the moonlight, I could see her steely gaze, and it frightened me. Devil or no, this was the type of woman who would cheerfully flay me alive if the need arose.
My fear was pushed aside by my curiosity, though—I wondered what she dreamt of, or at least where she might have learned such a convincing show of human-ness. Another glance at her hard eyes hinted that the latter question would be unwelcome, though, so I instead asked the former.
“In my nightmares,” she said, “your soldiers steal my children away, pervert their minds to the message of your false prophet, and leave my babes to lie their way through their lives.”
I goggled at her, shocked that she would not consider it a blessing to be given the message of Christ—but before I could say a word, she had gone on.
“Thank goodness,” she continued, “that such a thing will never happen.” And she seemed supremely content.
Unsure what she meant, I asked, “And why is that?”
Her eyes flashing both strong and sad in the moonlight, she said, “I cut their throats as they slept, and thus they will never have known misery, as I have. Only happiness is enough for them.”
“Pardon?” I asked, though I had heard her clearly. I simply could not comprehend that she might have killed their own flesh and blood.
“I said, you’d best get to bed, milady,” she told me demurely, taking my elbow in her hand and gently leading me to bed. “Your betrothed shan’t want you if you’ve the face of a sleepless hag.” Her voice sounded strong and even, but I fancied I caught the gleam of a teardrop as she spread the coverlet over me.
The Jewess did not cry out again, but I could not sleep. First Lissa, and then, it seemed, the Jewess, had been made happy in their own ways, even if they would never again be able to show their faces to their families. And what was I? I could hardly be called happy. I was engaged to a man who cared more for his dogs than he could ever care for me, and I was staring a life of duty, and, perhaps (if I was very, very lucky), the occasional relaxation square in the face, walking into it blindly for no good reason.
Perhaps it would not be wrong, but I could not rid myself of the overlying impression that it would not be right, either.
And yet what else was there to do?
