Post by theantichris on Nov 6, 2009 22:13:11 GMT 10
Title: Illusions
Rating (and Warnings): PG, none
Fairytale/Nursery Rhyme adapted: Rapunzel
Word Count: 560
Summary: What Delia misses in prison.
Delia's prison was comfortable enough; Jonathan was not a man to enjoy the appearance of mercy while condemning her to a life worse than execution. Her room was lit by sunlight or candles; she had clothes, food, an enclosed courtyard to take her daily exercise. Books, too, though she'd never been one for reading, nor would she be now, given anything else to fill her days.
What she lacked was illusions. The illusion that someday the king's mercy might overrule his sense of justice (and more: his sense of politics); the illusion that the shining, arrogant boy who had once thought he loved her gave a single thought to the traitor he'd imprisoned. Not that Roger would have been any kinder, in failure or in success, though she'd pretended to herself that a seasoned noble would make a better king than that arrogant boy. She'd admitted that long ago.
Visitors, too, were lacking. Early on, she'd comforted herself with the thought that she'd gambled to better Eldorne's fortunes, that her family would understand, but as days stretched into years with nary a letter, much less a visit - except once, from her nephew, passionate with anger at his crumbled prospects - the comfort faded, weak and threadbare as her ancient gowns.
***
'My lady?' One of her guards, the younger one whose voice still kept the soft vowels of his northern village, laid a tray on the table. The food was plain, but she was hungry for company as much as for food, and she'd noticed that the young corporal's gaze often lingered diffidently on her body, her face, her hair.
There were no mirrors in the tower, save the men's eyes. When she was alone (always, always alone), she touched her cheeks, feeling the lines carving brackets around her mouth, fan-shapes at the corners of her eyes. Her hair, when she brushed it, spilled into her lap now, and she counted grey threads in place of counting the days. At least the dim indoor light was kind, and the men's eyes a kinder mirror than glass; she might be old, but they were miles from any farmstead or village or crossroads inn, and might not see a sweeter morsel for months on end.
Delia frowned; usually they brought her meals in pairs. 'Caron, where's the sergeant?' It always did to remember their names; men liked to feel singled out.
'Had to go back to Corus. Orders.' The corporal blushed as he met her eyes. She'd been young enough to blush once.
She didn't expect him to tell her more, but it was worth a try. Information did a little to fill her empty days. She lowered her lashes, looking away and back in what felt like a ghastly parody of her faded charm, but Caron seemed struck by the gesture.
'The war - orders are, the king needs every man as can be spared.'
War? She'd heard nothing of war.
Caron shifted his stance and looked down. 'Lady... Seems cruel hard, it does, that you can't never go out. To walk or ride, like. 'Tis beautiful country around here.'
It was the first time she'd been alone with a man since the day of Jonathan's coronation. His eyes lingered as if caught in the loops of her hair, and Delia began, carefully unconscious of his gaze, to draw the pins from it. There was no mercy for her, but in the oblivion of the body there were illusions aplenty.
She let down her hair.
Rating (and Warnings): PG, none
Fairytale/Nursery Rhyme adapted: Rapunzel
Word Count: 560
Summary: What Delia misses in prison.
Delia's prison was comfortable enough; Jonathan was not a man to enjoy the appearance of mercy while condemning her to a life worse than execution. Her room was lit by sunlight or candles; she had clothes, food, an enclosed courtyard to take her daily exercise. Books, too, though she'd never been one for reading, nor would she be now, given anything else to fill her days.
What she lacked was illusions. The illusion that someday the king's mercy might overrule his sense of justice (and more: his sense of politics); the illusion that the shining, arrogant boy who had once thought he loved her gave a single thought to the traitor he'd imprisoned. Not that Roger would have been any kinder, in failure or in success, though she'd pretended to herself that a seasoned noble would make a better king than that arrogant boy. She'd admitted that long ago.
Visitors, too, were lacking. Early on, she'd comforted herself with the thought that she'd gambled to better Eldorne's fortunes, that her family would understand, but as days stretched into years with nary a letter, much less a visit - except once, from her nephew, passionate with anger at his crumbled prospects - the comfort faded, weak and threadbare as her ancient gowns.
***
'My lady?' One of her guards, the younger one whose voice still kept the soft vowels of his northern village, laid a tray on the table. The food was plain, but she was hungry for company as much as for food, and she'd noticed that the young corporal's gaze often lingered diffidently on her body, her face, her hair.
There were no mirrors in the tower, save the men's eyes. When she was alone (always, always alone), she touched her cheeks, feeling the lines carving brackets around her mouth, fan-shapes at the corners of her eyes. Her hair, when she brushed it, spilled into her lap now, and she counted grey threads in place of counting the days. At least the dim indoor light was kind, and the men's eyes a kinder mirror than glass; she might be old, but they were miles from any farmstead or village or crossroads inn, and might not see a sweeter morsel for months on end.
Delia frowned; usually they brought her meals in pairs. 'Caron, where's the sergeant?' It always did to remember their names; men liked to feel singled out.
'Had to go back to Corus. Orders.' The corporal blushed as he met her eyes. She'd been young enough to blush once.
She didn't expect him to tell her more, but it was worth a try. Information did a little to fill her empty days. She lowered her lashes, looking away and back in what felt like a ghastly parody of her faded charm, but Caron seemed struck by the gesture.
'The war - orders are, the king needs every man as can be spared.'
War? She'd heard nothing of war.
Caron shifted his stance and looked down. 'Lady... Seems cruel hard, it does, that you can't never go out. To walk or ride, like. 'Tis beautiful country around here.'
It was the first time she'd been alone with a man since the day of Jonathan's coronation. His eyes lingered as if caught in the loops of her hair, and Delia began, carefully unconscious of his gaze, to draw the pins from it. There was no mercy for her, but in the oblivion of the body there were illusions aplenty.
She let down her hair.