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31_days2005-10-11 11:44 pm
alyxbradford.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-10-11 11:44 pm
[11 Oct] [The Scarlet Pimpernel] No Stars Here
Title: No Stars Here
Day/Theme: October 11: I know how furiously your heart is beating
Series: The Scarlet Pimpernel
Characters: Marguerite, Chauvelin, Percy
Rating: PG
Authoress’s Notes: AU, of course, basically just time-warping the French Revolution into the space age, because... the idea and aesthetics of it entertained me. Characterisation is largely bookverse for Margot and Percy, though the more delightful elements of movieverse and musicalverse Chauvelin blend in.
After a lifetime of feigning dizzy spells to get out of awkward or boring situations, Marguerite somewhat surprised herself by having an actual one during Thane Greenwich’s ball. Even more surprising was that she was not, for once, attended by her usual bevy of admirers, and so was left to stagger to the balcony by herself.
Once clear of the heat and crush of the ballroom, Marguerite fell against the cool metal railing, letting her head drop as she regained her breath. Then she raised her eyes to the sky.
’No stars here...’
It seemed an odd thought, to a woman who had seen so many, who had seen the planets around so many. She’d toured the French sector for most of her eighteenth and nineteenth years, had seen most of the Europe quadrant before she turned twenty-one, and yet somehow she felt the lack of stars. Londinium was such a bright planet, so many lights, bathing the entire world in a gentle golden glow. It shimmered so, and was beautiful to behold, but still, Marguerite missed the stars that the planet’s lights drowned out.
She’d voiced that to her husband, once, on one of their rides back to their home on Richmond, Londinium’s luxurious fourth moon. He hadn’t been her husband then, of course; that had been before he’d changed so much, before he’d stopped being the man who had courted her. It had been a night not unlike this one, at a similar ball – they all blent together in the long run, with so few notable exceptions – another palatial estate on Londinium, and she’d remarked to the young swain who had been gazing at her with adoration all evening how she missed the stars. It had been a tender admission; it was not at all fashionable to find fault with Londinium’s design, and Marguerite would not have said so to anyone else. But Perceval Blakeney was different, always had been. His eyes shone such a dazzling blue when his love for her brightened them, and his strength and warmth made it feel safe to admit such a juvenile, such a provincial weakness.
He had smiled, and said he agreed. He said that was why he always went home to Richmond, rather than keeping a house on Londinium.
Marguerite always remembered falling a little more in love with him then.
She sighed heavily, thinking of how much things had changed. If they hadn’t, if he had stayed the same man, if he had been there for her since their wedding, if he hadn’t closed off so completely...
“Looking for an answer?”
All sentimentality shot out of Marguerite’s heart the moment she heard that voice, that steely, unyielding voice. She shivered, pulling her fichu more tightly about her shoulders, straightening but refusing to turn around, even as hard steps edged ever nearer her.
“You won’t find it in the heavens, I assure you.”
He had gotten quite close to her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body despite the chill of the night. Still she did not turn to him, but lifts her chin, hoping that a posture of arrogance would disguise the tremble of her throat. “You’re despicable,” she whispered, her breath soft on the breeze.
Unsurprisingly, he laughed. “I suppose you’ve made your choice, then? Decided to do the right and noble thing?”
“I’ve decided to do the only thing I can,” she replied, ignoring the prick of tears at the back of her eyes. ’You are a lady, Marguerite, but more importantly, you are a woman of class and intelligence. You will not let this man make you weep.’ “You haven’t left me much of an option.” At long last she let her crystalline eyes light on his vulpine face, his dark eyes so placid, such a contrast to the turbulence of her heart. “I can only hope you’ll be satisfied in the knowledge that I will forever hate myself for it.”
“Marguerite,” he half-sighed, raising his hand to her chin, but she would not let him continue before she had said her peace.
“And I,” she went on, “will only be satisfied knowing I’ll hate you even more than I do myself.”
“It didn’t have to be this way, Margot,” Chauvelin said, and despite the dark chocolate of his voice weakening her knees as it ever had, Marguerite’s heart still blazed with purest hatred.
“Yes, Adrian. It did. It really did.”
His features hardened, and he drew away from her. “I will expect something from you before midnight. For your brother’s sake—“ He moved back into the shadows, stepping around the other side of the balcony. “—I suggest you be prompt.”
Only after he disappeared and left her in silence again did Marguerite feel her body shake with the force of holding in a sob. ’I will not, I will not, I will not...’
More footsteps, lighter, heeled. She recognized the lazy pace of them without needing to turn around. “Lud, m’dear, are you quite well? Mlle de Tourney said you’d quite disappeared.”
A heavy sigh broke from her chest, weak and shaking with the threat of tears. “I’m quite well, Percy,” she replied with great effort. “I just needed a bit of air.” She turned and walked by him, back into the ballroom. As she passed, she did not raise her eyes to him, not wanting to have to tolerate inanities of conversation when her heart felt splintered in her chest.
Percy watched her until she disappeared into the crowd, her golden gown no longer visible in the flood of crimson and pale green dresses, and then his pale blue eyes turned up to the starless sky.
Day/Theme: October 11: I know how furiously your heart is beating
Series: The Scarlet Pimpernel
Characters: Marguerite, Chauvelin, Percy
Rating: PG
Authoress’s Notes: AU, of course, basically just time-warping the French Revolution into the space age, because... the idea and aesthetics of it entertained me. Characterisation is largely bookverse for Margot and Percy, though the more delightful elements of movieverse and musicalverse Chauvelin blend in.
After a lifetime of feigning dizzy spells to get out of awkward or boring situations, Marguerite somewhat surprised herself by having an actual one during Thane Greenwich’s ball. Even more surprising was that she was not, for once, attended by her usual bevy of admirers, and so was left to stagger to the balcony by herself.
Once clear of the heat and crush of the ballroom, Marguerite fell against the cool metal railing, letting her head drop as she regained her breath. Then she raised her eyes to the sky.
’No stars here...’
It seemed an odd thought, to a woman who had seen so many, who had seen the planets around so many. She’d toured the French sector for most of her eighteenth and nineteenth years, had seen most of the Europe quadrant before she turned twenty-one, and yet somehow she felt the lack of stars. Londinium was such a bright planet, so many lights, bathing the entire world in a gentle golden glow. It shimmered so, and was beautiful to behold, but still, Marguerite missed the stars that the planet’s lights drowned out.
She’d voiced that to her husband, once, on one of their rides back to their home on Richmond, Londinium’s luxurious fourth moon. He hadn’t been her husband then, of course; that had been before he’d changed so much, before he’d stopped being the man who had courted her. It had been a night not unlike this one, at a similar ball – they all blent together in the long run, with so few notable exceptions – another palatial estate on Londinium, and she’d remarked to the young swain who had been gazing at her with adoration all evening how she missed the stars. It had been a tender admission; it was not at all fashionable to find fault with Londinium’s design, and Marguerite would not have said so to anyone else. But Perceval Blakeney was different, always had been. His eyes shone such a dazzling blue when his love for her brightened them, and his strength and warmth made it feel safe to admit such a juvenile, such a provincial weakness.
He had smiled, and said he agreed. He said that was why he always went home to Richmond, rather than keeping a house on Londinium.
Marguerite always remembered falling a little more in love with him then.
She sighed heavily, thinking of how much things had changed. If they hadn’t, if he had stayed the same man, if he had been there for her since their wedding, if he hadn’t closed off so completely...
“Looking for an answer?”
All sentimentality shot out of Marguerite’s heart the moment she heard that voice, that steely, unyielding voice. She shivered, pulling her fichu more tightly about her shoulders, straightening but refusing to turn around, even as hard steps edged ever nearer her.
“You won’t find it in the heavens, I assure you.”
He had gotten quite close to her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body despite the chill of the night. Still she did not turn to him, but lifts her chin, hoping that a posture of arrogance would disguise the tremble of her throat. “You’re despicable,” she whispered, her breath soft on the breeze.
Unsurprisingly, he laughed. “I suppose you’ve made your choice, then? Decided to do the right and noble thing?”
“I’ve decided to do the only thing I can,” she replied, ignoring the prick of tears at the back of her eyes. ’You are a lady, Marguerite, but more importantly, you are a woman of class and intelligence. You will not let this man make you weep.’ “You haven’t left me much of an option.” At long last she let her crystalline eyes light on his vulpine face, his dark eyes so placid, such a contrast to the turbulence of her heart. “I can only hope you’ll be satisfied in the knowledge that I will forever hate myself for it.”
“Marguerite,” he half-sighed, raising his hand to her chin, but she would not let him continue before she had said her peace.
“And I,” she went on, “will only be satisfied knowing I’ll hate you even more than I do myself.”
“It didn’t have to be this way, Margot,” Chauvelin said, and despite the dark chocolate of his voice weakening her knees as it ever had, Marguerite’s heart still blazed with purest hatred.
“Yes, Adrian. It did. It really did.”
His features hardened, and he drew away from her. “I will expect something from you before midnight. For your brother’s sake—“ He moved back into the shadows, stepping around the other side of the balcony. “—I suggest you be prompt.”
Only after he disappeared and left her in silence again did Marguerite feel her body shake with the force of holding in a sob. ’I will not, I will not, I will not...’
More footsteps, lighter, heeled. She recognized the lazy pace of them without needing to turn around. “Lud, m’dear, are you quite well? Mlle de Tourney said you’d quite disappeared.”
A heavy sigh broke from her chest, weak and shaking with the threat of tears. “I’m quite well, Percy,” she replied with great effort. “I just needed a bit of air.” She turned and walked by him, back into the ballroom. As she passed, she did not raise her eyes to him, not wanting to have to tolerate inanities of conversation when her heart felt splintered in her chest.
Percy watched her until she disappeared into the crowd, her golden gown no longer visible in the flood of crimson and pale green dresses, and then his pale blue eyes turned up to the starless sky.