original fic snippet, pass on by
Sep. 30th, 2010 11:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardJocasta dresses like she's arming for war.
She's awake before Julian is, for once, sitting in front of a little hand mirror and arranging her newly-dyed hair, so that it falls in crimson snakes across her shoulders and down her back. In the dim sunlight of early morning, it's even brighter than he'd thought the night before, two shades darker than his own short-clipped ginger curls. He doesn't think he's seen Jocasta's natural hair color since she was fourteen; it's always been either dyed or cut short and covered with a wig, according to whatever the current fashion is.
He sits up to watch her. She's wearing blue today, what he assumes is the latest fashion from Florianople, with opals in her ears and her wrists and neck. It brings out the blue in her eyes. If she hadn't painted her face, it would bring out the blue in her bruises. She leans down to fasten her sandals, tying the laces tightly, and then sits back, hands folded in her lap as she inspects the picture she presents.
"You look lovely," Julian says.
"Thank you," she says, automatic, but doesn't move.
He gets out of bed to go to her, a shabby match for her in his soldier's tunic as he kneels down on the battered wooden floorboards. She looks down at him. Her face is swollen, the paint not doing much to cover the beating she got, and the white of her left eye is stained scarlet from a burst blood vessel.
"Are you --"
"I'm fine," she says, fierce like their mother is fierce, on the last day before she'd put her gladiatrix's sword aside for good, limping through the villa like an injured lioness.
Julian kisses her hands. "If you don't want to go out --"
"I do," she snaps. "I'm fine! There's nothing wrong with me, I'm not sick, or -- there's nothing wrong with me." She lifts her chin. "I'm a Hilaria."
"You are," he agrees, and kisses the crooked little finger on her left hand, where the lid of a spice chest had slammed down on it when she was ten.
She takes a deep breath. "You should get dressed," she says. "You're going to make me look bad if you go out looking like that."
"You could never look bad," Julian tells her, watching for her blush, and smiles when he sees it, her little half-smile as she tosses her head, disarranging her curls.
"You're a flatterer."
"Well," he says, "I have to get all the girls somehow, since you take all of Papa's money for clothes, leaving nothing for me --"
"You wouldn't know what to do with fashion if it bit you on the nose!" Jocasta says.
"If it will make you feel better, you can dress me when we get home," Julian allows, and sees her smile. "But you're not dying my hair!" he adds hastily.
"Spoil my fun," she pouts.
He stands up and kisses her nose, seeing her smile up at him. "Don't worry," he says softly. "I'll take care of you."
She adjusts one of her bracelets. "I know," she says, her voice suddenly small. "Now, get dressed."
She's awake before Julian is, for once, sitting in front of a little hand mirror and arranging her newly-dyed hair, so that it falls in crimson snakes across her shoulders and down her back. In the dim sunlight of early morning, it's even brighter than he'd thought the night before, two shades darker than his own short-clipped ginger curls. He doesn't think he's seen Jocasta's natural hair color since she was fourteen; it's always been either dyed or cut short and covered with a wig, according to whatever the current fashion is.
He sits up to watch her. She's wearing blue today, what he assumes is the latest fashion from Florianople, with opals in her ears and her wrists and neck. It brings out the blue in her eyes. If she hadn't painted her face, it would bring out the blue in her bruises. She leans down to fasten her sandals, tying the laces tightly, and then sits back, hands folded in her lap as she inspects the picture she presents.
"You look lovely," Julian says.
"Thank you," she says, automatic, but doesn't move.
He gets out of bed to go to her, a shabby match for her in his soldier's tunic as he kneels down on the battered wooden floorboards. She looks down at him. Her face is swollen, the paint not doing much to cover the beating she got, and the white of her left eye is stained scarlet from a burst blood vessel.
"Are you --"
"I'm fine," she says, fierce like their mother is fierce, on the last day before she'd put her gladiatrix's sword aside for good, limping through the villa like an injured lioness.
Julian kisses her hands. "If you don't want to go out --"
"I do," she snaps. "I'm fine! There's nothing wrong with me, I'm not sick, or -- there's nothing wrong with me." She lifts her chin. "I'm a Hilaria."
"You are," he agrees, and kisses the crooked little finger on her left hand, where the lid of a spice chest had slammed down on it when she was ten.
She takes a deep breath. "You should get dressed," she says. "You're going to make me look bad if you go out looking like that."
"You could never look bad," Julian tells her, watching for her blush, and smiles when he sees it, her little half-smile as she tosses her head, disarranging her curls.
"You're a flatterer."
"Well," he says, "I have to get all the girls somehow, since you take all of Papa's money for clothes, leaving nothing for me --"
"You wouldn't know what to do with fashion if it bit you on the nose!" Jocasta says.
"If it will make you feel better, you can dress me when we get home," Julian allows, and sees her smile. "But you're not dying my hair!" he adds hastily.
"Spoil my fun," she pouts.
He stands up and kisses her nose, seeing her smile up at him. "Don't worry," he says softly. "I'll take care of you."
She adjusts one of her bracelets. "I know," she says, her voice suddenly small. "Now, get dressed."
Across the border, in Mittelhof
Date: 2010-09-30 09:06 pm (UTC)She wore dark colours for her mother's funeral, tossed jewellery into the tomb. Most people buy special jewellery for the purpose, but Gisela threw her favourite earrings, the ones her Mama bought her when her bleeding started.
Those were days for black and mourning. Today is a day for celebration, and she has cloth of gold, bought from a trader who came to charm the High King's daughter with royal purples. "For a wedding?" he had suggested, looking at the women who surrounded her, and Gisela put her hand against her belly, soon to spread, and said: "I doubt it."
Her mother said that she would look beautiful, that it would make her glow, and Gisela thinks of her as she is pinned into place, with pierced and embossed boots, and a gold diadem in her long dark hair.
She looks well, in the mirror her cousin Ingerithe holds up, but when she moves, her limp spoils the illusion.
It ever has, since she was five years old, and her father's lover pushed her down the stairs. The physicians said that she'd never walk again, but her uncle said that she would, and made her relearn it, first with a cane, then on her own. So she can walk, and she can ride, but she cannot run, nor fight on her feet.
When she was twelve, the last time she tried, her father watched as her leg gave way, and she fell to the floor, and afterwards said, idly, "Penthesilea fought well, with a sword."
Penthesilea tried to kill her, and Gisela turned her face away, and has not tried again. Maybe she would have been better. Maybe he would have loved her children more, if she had not been banished for her crime, for the Lady knows that he does not love her, whatever his protestations.
No man could love his crippled daughter, and compare her to the woman who made her so, to the boy she bore just before her banishment, the boy who tempted her to treason.
Her face is painted, and she limps out, chin raised proudly, to meet her people.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-30 10:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-10-01 03:01 am (UTC)Needless to say, they have some unresolved personal issues.