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femslashficlets2015-07-08 01:23 pm
ilthit) wrote in femslashficlets2015-07-08 01:23 pm
#014 - Part Imperfect - A Vignette (Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell)
Title: Past Imperfect - A Vignette
Fandom: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell
Pairing: Lady Pole (Emma Wintertowne)/Flora Greysteel
Rating: PG
Prompt: #014 - Xena episode titles (Past Imperfect)
Word Count: 900
Summer in Venice is a remarkable sight, where decay goes hand in hand with the most fascinating architectural beauty, and the stench of filth with the intoxicating scent of brilliant flowers, sweet perfumes, and fresh baking bread. Winter in Venice is remarkable in other ways. Canals that will in a few months flood and distress all classes of the city's residents are now awash with floats of broken, translucent ice. Heavy, wet snow batters the windows like limp palms slapping the glass, one after another.
On that particular dark January afternoon there was a cheerful fire burning in the hearth in Emma Wintertowne's library, but it only contrived to create a small island of warmth. At the corners of the room the chill lurked, ready to overtake any of the three ladies by the fireside should they venture to place a foot upon the cold stone floor or fetch a book from any of the four tall book-cases set around the room. They were all consequently wrapped in heavy shawls.
The subject had turned to Lord Byron's latest placement in the Palazzo Osio and rumours that he may be writing something remarkable. "I dare say his Lordship is always rumoured to do so," remarked Emma, who had as little pity for Byron as for any other male.
Miss Flora Greysteel shared a look with Mrs Arabella Strange. The two had frequently been subjected to Emma's opinions regarding their past lovers, who, being men, were full of sin and with nary a good feature between them other than to be slightly less offensive than some others of their sex. Goodness in men was all comparative to Emma - Strange was less of a villain than Gilbert Norrell, and Byron may have been preferred to Sir Walter Pole, Emma's own husband, whose company she steadfastly refused.
"I find that the fame surrounding any author or person of eminence is quite unrelated to their abilities," said Arabella. "One very much praised might have mediocre skill, so far as any-one can tell when not influenced by others' opinions. On the other hand someone barely known can possess a remarkable way of enlivening an experience through words or the painter's art - do you not find it so? Not half the people who have heard of Byron have heard of Joanna Baillie, despite the continuing popularity of magical themes."
Flora shot Bell a warning glance. Men and magic were Emma's favourite two subjects to rail against. "And yet great fame can be married to skill, too. Have you yet finished Mrs Shelley's work?"
Arabella shivered and drew her cloak closer around her. "I don't think I ever shall. Why conjure up such horrors? A man raised to life through technology, when it can be done through magic with no less horrid consequences? Oh - I do beg your pardon, Emma."
"I wish you would not coddle me so," said Emma, who had been growing more irate by the moment. "There is more to life than men and magic and the resurrection of the dead, but by all means, speak on those if you find them so diverting."
After that, conversation soon dwindled. Arabella made her excuses - she was woefully behind her correspondence - leaving her friend and companion alone with Emma Wintertowne.
"Perhaps something by Miss Seward?" said Flora after she was gone.
"I'm not in the mood for poems of lost love," said Emma with a sigh and reached a hand out to Flora, who raised it up to her own cheek and kissed the palm.
"I am never going mean as much to you as she does, am I?" asked Flora.
Emma smiled, her eyes and thumb caressing Flora's youthful face, which was very pretty, shining with that curious intensity that comes from desiring what one should not.
"Perhaps I was never abducted by a fairy, but I am not afraid of resurrections or horrified by unknown lands - you know that. I love you all the better for your bravery, for all you've gone through. I am not afraid."
"My darling," said Emma, laughing, "that is one of your chief flaws." But she was too fond of Flora to point out the distinction between bravery in the face of the unknown, and courage called upon when the threat was all too familiar. Instead, she opened her arms, and Flora skipped from her seat across to Emma's. The two snuggled together quite comfortably on the plush arm-chair.
"Shall I recite to you some of my own work?" asked Flora. Emma nodded, and Flora began:
"Marble-cast and ivy-framed stands she: Venetian,
A dream of sand, wave-born, wind-torn, alone;
Oh! I long to join her dream, wild and Dionysian
To grasp her hand. Our voices together in song..."
Emma very much wished her friend had not been attempting an iambic pentameter. It mattered little, for Flora was pretty and kind, and to Emma, goodness meant a great deal more than talent. She kissed Flora's white neck and heard her gasp. She ran her fingers over Flora's ankle, allowing her to continue struggling stanza after stanza as Emma contrived to be as much of a distraction as possible.
It is curious to notice how very much warmth is a question of proximity and exercise. The chill seemed to retreat out of the edges of the room even as the final log in the fireplace collapsed. The candles flickered and went out.
Fandom: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell
Pairing: Lady Pole (Emma Wintertowne)/Flora Greysteel
Rating: PG
Prompt: #014 - Xena episode titles (Past Imperfect)
Word Count: 900
Summer in Venice is a remarkable sight, where decay goes hand in hand with the most fascinating architectural beauty, and the stench of filth with the intoxicating scent of brilliant flowers, sweet perfumes, and fresh baking bread. Winter in Venice is remarkable in other ways. Canals that will in a few months flood and distress all classes of the city's residents are now awash with floats of broken, translucent ice. Heavy, wet snow batters the windows like limp palms slapping the glass, one after another.
On that particular dark January afternoon there was a cheerful fire burning in the hearth in Emma Wintertowne's library, but it only contrived to create a small island of warmth. At the corners of the room the chill lurked, ready to overtake any of the three ladies by the fireside should they venture to place a foot upon the cold stone floor or fetch a book from any of the four tall book-cases set around the room. They were all consequently wrapped in heavy shawls.
The subject had turned to Lord Byron's latest placement in the Palazzo Osio and rumours that he may be writing something remarkable. "I dare say his Lordship is always rumoured to do so," remarked Emma, who had as little pity for Byron as for any other male.
Miss Flora Greysteel shared a look with Mrs Arabella Strange. The two had frequently been subjected to Emma's opinions regarding their past lovers, who, being men, were full of sin and with nary a good feature between them other than to be slightly less offensive than some others of their sex. Goodness in men was all comparative to Emma - Strange was less of a villain than Gilbert Norrell, and Byron may have been preferred to Sir Walter Pole, Emma's own husband, whose company she steadfastly refused.
"I find that the fame surrounding any author or person of eminence is quite unrelated to their abilities," said Arabella. "One very much praised might have mediocre skill, so far as any-one can tell when not influenced by others' opinions. On the other hand someone barely known can possess a remarkable way of enlivening an experience through words or the painter's art - do you not find it so? Not half the people who have heard of Byron have heard of Joanna Baillie, despite the continuing popularity of magical themes."
Flora shot Bell a warning glance. Men and magic were Emma's favourite two subjects to rail against. "And yet great fame can be married to skill, too. Have you yet finished Mrs Shelley's work?"
Arabella shivered and drew her cloak closer around her. "I don't think I ever shall. Why conjure up such horrors? A man raised to life through technology, when it can be done through magic with no less horrid consequences? Oh - I do beg your pardon, Emma."
"I wish you would not coddle me so," said Emma, who had been growing more irate by the moment. "There is more to life than men and magic and the resurrection of the dead, but by all means, speak on those if you find them so diverting."
After that, conversation soon dwindled. Arabella made her excuses - she was woefully behind her correspondence - leaving her friend and companion alone with Emma Wintertowne.
"Perhaps something by Miss Seward?" said Flora after she was gone.
"I'm not in the mood for poems of lost love," said Emma with a sigh and reached a hand out to Flora, who raised it up to her own cheek and kissed the palm.
"I am never going mean as much to you as she does, am I?" asked Flora.
Emma smiled, her eyes and thumb caressing Flora's youthful face, which was very pretty, shining with that curious intensity that comes from desiring what one should not.
"Perhaps I was never abducted by a fairy, but I am not afraid of resurrections or horrified by unknown lands - you know that. I love you all the better for your bravery, for all you've gone through. I am not afraid."
"My darling," said Emma, laughing, "that is one of your chief flaws." But she was too fond of Flora to point out the distinction between bravery in the face of the unknown, and courage called upon when the threat was all too familiar. Instead, she opened her arms, and Flora skipped from her seat across to Emma's. The two snuggled together quite comfortably on the plush arm-chair.
"Shall I recite to you some of my own work?" asked Flora. Emma nodded, and Flora began:
"Marble-cast and ivy-framed stands she: Venetian,
A dream of sand, wave-born, wind-torn, alone;
Oh! I long to join her dream, wild and Dionysian
To grasp her hand. Our voices together in song..."
Emma very much wished her friend had not been attempting an iambic pentameter. It mattered little, for Flora was pretty and kind, and to Emma, goodness meant a great deal more than talent. She kissed Flora's white neck and heard her gasp. She ran her fingers over Flora's ankle, allowing her to continue struggling stanza after stanza as Emma contrived to be as much of a distraction as possible.
It is curious to notice how very much warmth is a question of proximity and exercise. The chill seemed to retreat out of the edges of the room even as the final log in the fireplace collapsed. The candles flickered and went out.
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Hey, my last was in [checks] ...2013, so you'd be ahead in the game even if this weren't the beacon in the darkness that it is :P
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