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Dec. 21st, 2009 04:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impersonaMAKING THIS TOOK ROUGHLY A HALF-ZILLION REPLAYS OF THE NUTCRACKER BUT HERE IT IS. There's more I'd like to do with it, especially since I find it incredibly bare on description (which tends to happen when I COMPLETE ALL OF THE DIALOGUE FIRST), but whatev.
Series: Kingdom (Regency AU. Because I already hit two of the other AUs so why the hell not)
Characters: Abagail, Deon, rest of the family
A/N: Just a quick run-through of the situation here, because this fic is even more wildly out of context than the others. Deon's family in the Regency AU is actually a servant family in the service of the old, insane Lord Barrett, though in practice they were treated as slaves. When the Lord died, the servant family kept his death a secret. They fear losing the only home they've ever had, so Deon decides to masquerade as one of the Lord's sons, and secure marriage to a noble woman to help establish legitimacy and keep the estate. Also, the siblings by order of age are Abagail, Grace, Deon, Sara, Teresa.
Abagail was the first daughter of the servant family, but tended to be the first in other regards as well. She had been the first to truly indulge in themasterless Barrett estate, deciding that she would sleep upon a guest mattress rather than the pallet she and her siblings had known their whole lives.
When she was not struck dead by the trespass, Deon and Sara followed suit, claiming each a room for themselves (a fortune beyond their previous imagining). Grace and Teresa cautiously followed, but cautious or not, they inevitably would follow their siblings in all things. Their mother and father refused for a week longer, until Grace had been able to persuade them with her delicate words.
The servant family made no use of the inner or west wings, as if they still feared the ghost of the tyrant. A foolish fear, they knew. They all had watched their father bury the dead master in the rear courtyard. But still, they had taken up residence in the unused east wing, and Lord Barrett's stogy old study had become a family room of sorts. Many of the rooms seemed too cold, too hard, too much like the Master himself, but this one had a sense of inviting to it. The walls of the study, thick with books, and the grand sooty fireplace saw warmth and banter perhaps for the first time since the Lord's true son had died.
And on this afternoon, Abagail, with help, rolled the rugs off the study floor and pushed the furniture towards the fireplace and walls. With candlelight and the last shreds of evening sun to guide by, she led once more, now trying to bully her brother through dance steps.
"Sister, I will not learn this waltz if I am never to lead it."
"I will tell you when you are fit to lead it," she replied, only blithely regarding the scowl upon his lips. "A fool's feet do not make for good dancing."
"We are not concerned with good dancing, only the basics of it," Deon argued. "Most women content themselves in being led, even if by a fool."
Abagail tipped her chin up and shook her dark, curled hair. "I am not like most women, dear brother."
He laughed. "Now I would never disagree that. There is no woman in this land like you, Abagail." He bullied back, but Abagail kept true, forcing the dance to turn short of anendtable. "And I imagine the men like you are drunk at the docks at this hour."
Her eyes darkened. "At what meaning does that intend?"
"He means to say that you are boarish," Teresa chirped, for the dancers had passed close to the small piano again. She had precious little knowledge of how to play, and for waltz, only knew the bones of theDiabelli Variations. But the youngest of the siblings stuck to her tune determinedly, adding her own musical flourishes upon the grand turns and sweeps. Or stomps and harsh swinging, as the brother and sister still fought through the dance.
"Hrmph. Speaking of boars. Mother, did you hear?" Abagail called, towards the circle of seamstresses at the Master's desk. "Deon will have no steed for his adventure. All of the horses have refused him."
He snapped his attention towards their mother, as well, who stitched coats and breeches with Sara and Grace. "That's not true-"
"It is true, Mother," Sara piped in, as she brushed clean one of the mended coats. "I went with him to the stables earlier today. I tried to coax the animals, but not even the ass would heed him."
Abagail laughed. "Seeing its reflection made it uneasy, I imagine."
"Hmph." Deon turned his nose up, pointed his chin away. "It could not be helped. Those beasts have always disliked me."
"Because you teased and tormented them for years," Abagail replied. "Should they respect you merely because you have a coin to your pocket now?"
Sara put down her work, and grasped her mother's forearm. "She has a point. If he cannot handle an animal, how could he handle himself?" she implored. "Mother, please. I should go with him, as ahandservant. I am seventeen, and boyish looking yet."
"I would wish for more faith in my abilities, rather than for a servant," Deon muttered.
"You would not be a handservant to him," Abagail said. "That would be a waste of your talent and dignity in so many ways, little sister." Still, the eldest smiled at the thought. "Yet, perhaps she should accompany him. I would even propose a race. Who might catch a noble first, Deon or Sara?"
"We are not sending out Sara," their mother said. Her words were weary, but they would be the last words on the subject. Sara stared at their mother, though wide-eyed entreaties had not worked since they were babes. She let go of her grasp upon their mother then, andgrumped back to her work.
"Then brother, what will you do about a steed?" Grace asked in her soft, sweet tones, her eyes intently upon her stitchwork. "Nobles do not walk across England."
"I will travel as a trader's son upon a ship until I reach London," he announced. Deon tried to seize control of the dance again, rushing Abagail through the waltz's next pattern. "I only have to start lying when I arrive there."
"And lie you will," Grace murmured, sweetly still.
"Only when I must, sister," Deon promised. He still fought with Abagail, his heavy steps against her fleeting movements across the study floor. "Then I will lie with all of the earnestness I possess."
"And you will lie to your ladies endlessly as well, but that is no craft unknown to you," Abagail said. She finally won, and reigned Deon in at a proper dancing tempo. "Deon, I am in the mood for an amusing tale. Tell us, how does the Prince of the Tavern Wenches propose to win a woman of actual class?"
"What secret is there to tell? Wench or lady, the only true difference between women is the quality of their skirts." Through some accident, surely, Abagail's knee then crashed against his. Deon winced, then cleared his throat. "Our mother being the saintly exception, her skirts being made of Mary's veils."
Their mother continued her darning as if she had not heard, only the barest smile tugged at her lips.
"Oh naive brother," Abagail said, and pat him upon his shoulder. "We are working so hard to make you appear somewhat civil, only for you to woo your bride as a lech would."
"Again, you hold no faith in me. I will find a way," he said. And in a way, his confidence did lend him a certain handsomeness, and made his claims seem absolutely plausible. "Though, if through some unlikely misfortune, my personality and quality dancing does not appeal, then wine loosens a woman's heart, among other things."
Abagail threw her head back and laughed and laughed. It gave Deon a chance to abduct the dance, but she did not care. "Brother is well-named!" she declared. "If wine and revelry is truly what wins the love of the gentry, perhaps he will come back to us as King."
"Perhaps I will find a Russian princess," he said, dryly. "Then I may not come back at all."
The room itself shuttered then with a discordant crash of notes, and all looked over to the piano. There, Teresa had stopped her playing. She stood up from her seat, and stared at him from over the piano. "You jest, right brother?"
The waltz stopped. Deon set his hands at his waist and grinned. "Of course. Russia is much too cold for me."
"No, about coming back. You will come back, you must." Teresa's fists were balled and pressed upon the topside of the piano.
"Peace, Teresa. He meant it lightly," Abagail said, stepping forward, her hand raised and a gentle smile upon her face.
For it was not only Teresa's young, fierce gaze now upon him, but the questioning stares of Grace and Sara, and of their mother. "Please, brother. You wouldn't have more fun with the nobles, and forget about us? Because you have gone on short travels before, and I thought you might not return then, I feared that you would not, but this will be for so much longer-"
"No, sister..." Deon started. He looked to Abagail, though she could do no more to help him, and actually faltered for words. "I would not. I-"
"He won't," their father interrupted. The old Spaniard stood up from his stool before the fire He spoke roughly for his accent and his years, yet his words remained loud and certain through the large room. "He won't because he has accepted what is at stake here."
"Father..." Abagail said. She put her hand over her brother's shoulder. But Deon's expression bore no ease now, not for her comfort or their father's intervention.
"If he fails in securing legitimacy, then this deceit will be discovered. Your brother and I would be taken to jail, and you would not see us again." He grasped the back of an armchair to keep himself steady. "I would accept that punishment, and I have made certain that Deon understands it as well. But I do not wish to think what would happen to you."
"To us?" Abagail took a step toward the fire. "But you are the one in danger of jail. It would kill you. Father-"
"There is no protecting you if we are gone, and I will not have my daughters be slaves once more." He pressed his fingers to his forehead, his hands trembling. "Or worse. I would not have you taking up that work for the rest of your lives."
The room was still and quiet, and all eyes dropped towards the floor. They all had silence, time and awareness enough for their sins already committed, of sins that yet had to be carried out. When it became too much, their mother made an excuse of a finger torn by the shears, and Teresa and Sara helped take her away. Their father looked after her and sighed, and turned his back to them again, for he had logs and thoughts to turn over in the fire. The elder three siblings spent a few moments passing, and took themselves to the other side of the study, where their words might not disturb him.
"So we are not to prostitute ourselves, but Deon shall," Abagail whispered, beyond their father's hearing. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked, shook her head. "Oh poor brother. I hope she is not too ugly."
"Or old." Grace whispered, upon his other arm. She tapped the side of her head. "Or plagued by demons."
"Of the three options, I would gladly take the last," Deon said. He grinned to each of them then, giving his sisters leave to smile as well. "Nobles are so boring. One entranced by demons would be wonderful sport."
"And I would not blame your lady for it. Demons may be more entrancing than you yet, if you still waltz in the same manner that you throw around bales of hay." She grabbed him by the hand and the waist and pulled him back towards the bare floor. "Come, little brother, our practice is not yet done."
He pushed away her hands, trying to reverse the hold. "Ridiculous. We have no music."
"Gracie will sing it." Abagail smiled sweetly to her sister. "Dear Gracie, if you would? I imagine your voice would soothe Father's nerves too."
Grace folded and set her sewing upon the table. "I could try," she said.
"Then I could accept it." Deon successfully grabbed Abagail's waist then, though they both still fought for the first lead steps. Despite this, he chuckled. "How sweet to be caught between an angel's melody and a boar's dance."
"That is the proper spirit. On with us then, Prince of Swine."
guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh fallen so far behind on EVERYTHING thanks to work killing the tar out of me. Going to try to get one or two little fics for the other prompts done tonight if I can :<
Series: Kingdom (Regency AU. Because I already hit two of the other AUs so why the hell not)
Characters: Abagail, Deon, rest of the family
A/N: Just a quick run-through of the situation here, because this fic is even more wildly out of context than the others. Deon's family in the Regency AU is actually a servant family in the service of the old, insane Lord Barrett, though in practice they were treated as slaves. When the Lord died, the servant family kept his death a secret. They fear losing the only home they've ever had, so Deon decides to masquerade as one of the Lord's sons, and secure marriage to a noble woman to help establish legitimacy and keep the estate. Also, the siblings by order of age are Abagail, Grace, Deon, Sara, Teresa.
Abagail was the first daughter of the servant family, but tended to be the first in other regards as well. She had been the first to truly indulge in themasterless Barrett estate, deciding that she would sleep upon a guest mattress rather than the pallet she and her siblings had known their whole lives.
When she was not struck dead by the trespass, Deon and Sara followed suit, claiming each a room for themselves (a fortune beyond their previous imagining). Grace and Teresa cautiously followed, but cautious or not, they inevitably would follow their siblings in all things. Their mother and father refused for a week longer, until Grace had been able to persuade them with her delicate words.
The servant family made no use of the inner or west wings, as if they still feared the ghost of the tyrant. A foolish fear, they knew. They all had watched their father bury the dead master in the rear courtyard. But still, they had taken up residence in the unused east wing, and Lord Barrett's stogy old study had become a family room of sorts. Many of the rooms seemed too cold, too hard, too much like the Master himself, but this one had a sense of inviting to it. The walls of the study, thick with books, and the grand sooty fireplace saw warmth and banter perhaps for the first time since the Lord's true son had died.
And on this afternoon, Abagail, with help, rolled the rugs off the study floor and pushed the furniture towards the fireplace and walls. With candlelight and the last shreds of evening sun to guide by, she led once more, now trying to bully her brother through dance steps.
"Sister, I will not learn this waltz if I am never to lead it."
"I will tell you when you are fit to lead it," she replied, only blithely regarding the scowl upon his lips. "A fool's feet do not make for good dancing."
"We are not concerned with good dancing, only the basics of it," Deon argued. "Most women content themselves in being led, even if by a fool."
Abagail tipped her chin up and shook her dark, curled hair. "I am not like most women, dear brother."
He laughed. "Now I would never disagree that. There is no woman in this land like you, Abagail." He bullied back, but Abagail kept true, forcing the dance to turn short of anendtable. "And I imagine the men like you are drunk at the docks at this hour."
Her eyes darkened. "At what meaning does that intend?"
"He means to say that you are boarish," Teresa chirped, for the dancers had passed close to the small piano again. She had precious little knowledge of how to play, and for waltz, only knew the bones of theDiabelli Variations. But the youngest of the siblings stuck to her tune determinedly, adding her own musical flourishes upon the grand turns and sweeps. Or stomps and harsh swinging, as the brother and sister still fought through the dance.
"Hrmph. Speaking of boars. Mother, did you hear?" Abagail called, towards the circle of seamstresses at the Master's desk. "Deon will have no steed for his adventure. All of the horses have refused him."
He snapped his attention towards their mother, as well, who stitched coats and breeches with Sara and Grace. "That's not true-"
"It is true, Mother," Sara piped in, as she brushed clean one of the mended coats. "I went with him to the stables earlier today. I tried to coax the animals, but not even the ass would heed him."
Abagail laughed. "Seeing its reflection made it uneasy, I imagine."
"Hmph." Deon turned his nose up, pointed his chin away. "It could not be helped. Those beasts have always disliked me."
"Because you teased and tormented them for years," Abagail replied. "Should they respect you merely because you have a coin to your pocket now?"
Sara put down her work, and grasped her mother's forearm. "She has a point. If he cannot handle an animal, how could he handle himself?" she implored. "Mother, please. I should go with him, as ahandservant. I am seventeen, and boyish looking yet."
"I would wish for more faith in my abilities, rather than for a servant," Deon muttered.
"You would not be a handservant to him," Abagail said. "That would be a waste of your talent and dignity in so many ways, little sister." Still, the eldest smiled at the thought. "Yet, perhaps she should accompany him. I would even propose a race. Who might catch a noble first, Deon or Sara?"
"We are not sending out Sara," their mother said. Her words were weary, but they would be the last words on the subject. Sara stared at their mother, though wide-eyed entreaties had not worked since they were babes. She let go of her grasp upon their mother then, andgrumped back to her work.
"Then brother, what will you do about a steed?" Grace asked in her soft, sweet tones, her eyes intently upon her stitchwork. "Nobles do not walk across England."
"I will travel as a trader's son upon a ship until I reach London," he announced. Deon tried to seize control of the dance again, rushing Abagail through the waltz's next pattern. "I only have to start lying when I arrive there."
"And lie you will," Grace murmured, sweetly still.
"Only when I must, sister," Deon promised. He still fought with Abagail, his heavy steps against her fleeting movements across the study floor. "Then I will lie with all of the earnestness I possess."
"And you will lie to your ladies endlessly as well, but that is no craft unknown to you," Abagail said. She finally won, and reigned Deon in at a proper dancing tempo. "Deon, I am in the mood for an amusing tale. Tell us, how does the Prince of the Tavern Wenches propose to win a woman of actual class?"
"What secret is there to tell? Wench or lady, the only true difference between women is the quality of their skirts." Through some accident, surely, Abagail's knee then crashed against his. Deon winced, then cleared his throat. "Our mother being the saintly exception, her skirts being made of Mary's veils."
Their mother continued her darning as if she had not heard, only the barest smile tugged at her lips.
"Oh naive brother," Abagail said, and pat him upon his shoulder. "We are working so hard to make you appear somewhat civil, only for you to woo your bride as a lech would."
"Again, you hold no faith in me. I will find a way," he said. And in a way, his confidence did lend him a certain handsomeness, and made his claims seem absolutely plausible. "Though, if through some unlikely misfortune, my personality and quality dancing does not appeal, then wine loosens a woman's heart, among other things."
Abagail threw her head back and laughed and laughed. It gave Deon a chance to abduct the dance, but she did not care. "Brother is well-named!" she declared. "If wine and revelry is truly what wins the love of the gentry, perhaps he will come back to us as King."
"Perhaps I will find a Russian princess," he said, dryly. "Then I may not come back at all."
The room itself shuttered then with a discordant crash of notes, and all looked over to the piano. There, Teresa had stopped her playing. She stood up from her seat, and stared at him from over the piano. "You jest, right brother?"
The waltz stopped. Deon set his hands at his waist and grinned. "Of course. Russia is much too cold for me."
"No, about coming back. You will come back, you must." Teresa's fists were balled and pressed upon the topside of the piano.
"Peace, Teresa. He meant it lightly," Abagail said, stepping forward, her hand raised and a gentle smile upon her face.
For it was not only Teresa's young, fierce gaze now upon him, but the questioning stares of Grace and Sara, and of their mother. "Please, brother. You wouldn't have more fun with the nobles, and forget about us? Because you have gone on short travels before, and I thought you might not return then, I feared that you would not, but this will be for so much longer-"
"No, sister..." Deon started. He looked to Abagail, though she could do no more to help him, and actually faltered for words. "I would not. I-"
"He won't," their father interrupted. The old Spaniard stood up from his stool before the fire He spoke roughly for his accent and his years, yet his words remained loud and certain through the large room. "He won't because he has accepted what is at stake here."
"Father..." Abagail said. She put her hand over her brother's shoulder. But Deon's expression bore no ease now, not for her comfort or their father's intervention.
"If he fails in securing legitimacy, then this deceit will be discovered. Your brother and I would be taken to jail, and you would not see us again." He grasped the back of an armchair to keep himself steady. "I would accept that punishment, and I have made certain that Deon understands it as well. But I do not wish to think what would happen to you."
"To us?" Abagail took a step toward the fire. "But you are the one in danger of jail. It would kill you. Father-"
"There is no protecting you if we are gone, and I will not have my daughters be slaves once more." He pressed his fingers to his forehead, his hands trembling. "Or worse. I would not have you taking up that work for the rest of your lives."
The room was still and quiet, and all eyes dropped towards the floor. They all had silence, time and awareness enough for their sins already committed, of sins that yet had to be carried out. When it became too much, their mother made an excuse of a finger torn by the shears, and Teresa and Sara helped take her away. Their father looked after her and sighed, and turned his back to them again, for he had logs and thoughts to turn over in the fire. The elder three siblings spent a few moments passing, and took themselves to the other side of the study, where their words might not disturb him.
"So we are not to prostitute ourselves, but Deon shall," Abagail whispered, beyond their father's hearing. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked, shook her head. "Oh poor brother. I hope she is not too ugly."
"Or old." Grace whispered, upon his other arm. She tapped the side of her head. "Or plagued by demons."
"Of the three options, I would gladly take the last," Deon said. He grinned to each of them then, giving his sisters leave to smile as well. "Nobles are so boring. One entranced by demons would be wonderful sport."
"And I would not blame your lady for it. Demons may be more entrancing than you yet, if you still waltz in the same manner that you throw around bales of hay." She grabbed him by the hand and the waist and pulled him back towards the bare floor. "Come, little brother, our practice is not yet done."
He pushed away her hands, trying to reverse the hold. "Ridiculous. We have no music."
"Gracie will sing it." Abagail smiled sweetly to her sister. "Dear Gracie, if you would? I imagine your voice would soothe Father's nerves too."
Grace folded and set her sewing upon the table. "I could try," she said.
"Then I could accept it." Deon successfully grabbed Abagail's waist then, though they both still fought for the first lead steps. Despite this, he chuckled. "How sweet to be caught between an angel's melody and a boar's dance."
"That is the proper spirit. On with us then, Prince of Swine."
guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh fallen so far behind on EVERYTHING thanks to work killing the tar out of me. Going to try to get one or two little fics for the other prompts done tonight if I can :<
no subject
Date: 2009-12-23 02:49 am (UTC)First off, hats off to working with a style and scenario that is not something you're used to. It takes nerve. There are some kinks here and there that could use smoothing - in words and flow - but this really serves as a well-done little character piece. It's short but you so clearly captured the various personalities of the participants. They aren't just names; they are people in their own right with their own opinions. There is also humor and love but, below, there is also a growing unease about what is on the horizon, something very true and real to their situation.
I approve!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-23 04:40 pm (UTC)bastardsholiday shoppers grind you down!