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doyleUm. This is a weird one, and definitely not the fluffy Romana/Jackie I set out to write, and which steadfastly refused to be slashy.
Title: murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
Author: Doyle
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Reinette/Rose/Romana. Kind of. Mention of Reinette/Ten.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
calapine for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dw_femslash ficathon. Spoilers for The Girl in the Fireplace. Vaguely mucks about with a concept from the New Adventures.
Summary: In which Reinette does not dream of angels.
Bernis found her standing by the fireplace and looking quite dejected. She said nothing.
“Indeed, Madam,” he said, “you look like a dreaming lamb!”
“It’s a wolf that has made the lamb dream,” she answered.
- from Pompadour, by Jacques Levon (trans. Claire Eliane Engel)
It is reasonable, she supposes, that with nothing else to occupy it save her body’s slow running down, her mind has begun to play tricks. She finds herself slipping in and out of dreams that seem more real than life could possibly be – surely the sky at Choisy was never so blue, or the air so sweet; surely she was never so young and so sure of her heart that she kissed an angel to prove him flesh and blood.
And always, in her dreams, the tick of a clock she can never find. Waking, she tries to ask if the clock on the mantel has been repaired but the words won’t come, crushed by the weight that sits on her chest.
She is dying. She wishes she could laugh. The servant-women would think it was because she is dying in the palace after all, against all etiquette, with not a drop of royal blood in her body but the King’s blessing to overrule those who would see her removed. She hasn’t the breath to tell them that she is smiling because it is the end, and he is coming.
**
“I am resigned,” she says, falling into step with the other woman’s languid stroll, “that until we meet again he must only send emissaries, even in my dreams; but it is my dream, and I must request you wear something more… appropriate.”
Mlle Rose runs her hands over her hips, frowning at her strange, tight men’s clothes as if she has never before considered them of note. “Oh, do I have to?”
Reinette – she has not been Reinette since childhood, except to the Doctor, but this is a dream of a long ago summer and that is who she is here – holds firm, tapping her lightly on the shoulder with her folded fan. “In your own dreams, you may wear what you please,” she says, and if she was awake she would wonder where the waking Rose is now, whose life she and the Doctor are flitting through, bored children racing to the story’s end.
Endings, she thinks. They are walking in the forest at Senart, and it is strange that an ending should be here, before anything had begun. She has not yet married, not met the King, not birthed and lost her children, though they dart ahead of her on the path, her son mewling for his mother, her daughter merely drifting in a grey dress, listless and sad-eyed.
“Where’s the other one?” Rose asks, elegant in a white dress that she holds above the ground.
“The other?”
“Dark hair. Strange smile.”
“He died,” Reinette says. “Before he was born. Nameless and unbaptised.” And yet there he is, that unearthly combination of her eyes, his father’s smile; she holds her chin high and tucks her arm through her companion’s. “The past bores me,” she says. “The past has always bored me. How dreadful that the lack of a future compels me to exist only here.”
She does not look back. Behind them, the forest and its ghosts are silent.
**
In her time she has loved men and angels, and here at that time's end she cannot say if any were worth the trouble.
It does not surprise her, then, that when she dreams of love it is of lips she never thought of kissing, softness and warmth under her mouth and her fingers
Flower petals on the bed. Rose’s fingers tangled in her hair, not quite hard enough to hurt.
Perhaps this is sin, but she thinks she has forgotten what that means.
**
The Yew Tree Ball. She was Diana and before the King took her hand she danced with a man who only appeared to be in costume, and who insisted the dark eye-glasses he wore would serve just as well as any of the other gentlemen’s masks.
She watches herself waltz among the crowd of clockwork dancers, arms tight around an invisible partner. “Look, it’s her,” Rose says, nudging her towards a woman in a red dress, a mask like a cracked clock-face. “Didn’t know you knew her.”
“I saw her once,” she says, dream-logic allowing her to see the woman and the mask and the mask and the woman all at once. “In another’s mind, as she disappeared behind a closing door.”
“Well,” Rose sighs, “suppose she was there before either of us.”
**
The house is dark, and it is snowing, and in the window-seat she rests her chin against her knees and thinks about the nightmares of monsters, and wonders whether one can die of love.
“Must we stay here?” Romana does not care for snow.
It is peaceful and she would like to stay a while, but she is accustomed to capitulating to the desires of queens.
**
Long ago when creation was young, Romana says, three sisters were born, if born is the right word. Woven. Brought into being.
(Reinette has never heard this story. She has known it all her life.)
The eldest was Time, and she was most beautiful, and best-beloved of the universe.
(Rose giggles into Reinette’s shoulder. If I may be allowed to finish? Romana asks. Ladies, Reinette murmurs, amused at her sudden role as mediator. Blessed are the peacemakers, though she cannot remember what they shall find, or why it matters. Please tell us the rest.)
Her youngest sister was the sociable one of the family. Eventually, everyone danced with her at least once. Often only once.
(Death on a pale horse, Reinette begins to say, but it comes out as, Death in sheep’s clothing. Rose bites her knuckle and grins.)
And what about the middle sister? Reinette asks. What about Pain?
Oh, Romana says, no-one ever asks about her.
**
The old fortune-teller says she will be the beloved of a very great King. Dizzy from the incense, Jeanne-Antoinette nods. Later, her mother’s laughter: little queen, she says. My Reinette.
**
The real world, if such a thing can be said to exist:
“Hush, Madame,” one of her women whispers, clumsy fingers worrying at the counterpane; “the King has sent for a priest.”
**
“The question is,” one of them asks, “do we really know whose dream this is?”
And it is very dark now, and Reinette is alone; and above her nothing but the sky and the stars, close enough to touch.
Title: murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
Author: Doyle
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Reinette/Rose/Romana. Kind of. Mention of Reinette/Ten.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: for
calapine for the dw_femslash ficathon. Spoilers for The Girl in the Fireplace. Vaguely mucks about with a concept from the New Adventures.Summary: In which Reinette does not dream of angels.
Bernis found her standing by the fireplace and looking quite dejected. She said nothing.
“Indeed, Madam,” he said, “you look like a dreaming lamb!”
“It’s a wolf that has made the lamb dream,” she answered.
- from Pompadour, by Jacques Levon (trans. Claire Eliane Engel)
It is reasonable, she supposes, that with nothing else to occupy it save her body’s slow running down, her mind has begun to play tricks. She finds herself slipping in and out of dreams that seem more real than life could possibly be – surely the sky at Choisy was never so blue, or the air so sweet; surely she was never so young and so sure of her heart that she kissed an angel to prove him flesh and blood.
And always, in her dreams, the tick of a clock she can never find. Waking, she tries to ask if the clock on the mantel has been repaired but the words won’t come, crushed by the weight that sits on her chest.
She is dying. She wishes she could laugh. The servant-women would think it was because she is dying in the palace after all, against all etiquette, with not a drop of royal blood in her body but the King’s blessing to overrule those who would see her removed. She hasn’t the breath to tell them that she is smiling because it is the end, and he is coming.
**
“I am resigned,” she says, falling into step with the other woman’s languid stroll, “that until we meet again he must only send emissaries, even in my dreams; but it is my dream, and I must request you wear something more… appropriate.”
Mlle Rose runs her hands over her hips, frowning at her strange, tight men’s clothes as if she has never before considered them of note. “Oh, do I have to?”
Reinette – she has not been Reinette since childhood, except to the Doctor, but this is a dream of a long ago summer and that is who she is here – holds firm, tapping her lightly on the shoulder with her folded fan. “In your own dreams, you may wear what you please,” she says, and if she was awake she would wonder where the waking Rose is now, whose life she and the Doctor are flitting through, bored children racing to the story’s end.
Endings, she thinks. They are walking in the forest at Senart, and it is strange that an ending should be here, before anything had begun. She has not yet married, not met the King, not birthed and lost her children, though they dart ahead of her on the path, her son mewling for his mother, her daughter merely drifting in a grey dress, listless and sad-eyed.
“Where’s the other one?” Rose asks, elegant in a white dress that she holds above the ground.
“The other?”
“Dark hair. Strange smile.”
“He died,” Reinette says. “Before he was born. Nameless and unbaptised.” And yet there he is, that unearthly combination of her eyes, his father’s smile; she holds her chin high and tucks her arm through her companion’s. “The past bores me,” she says. “The past has always bored me. How dreadful that the lack of a future compels me to exist only here.”
She does not look back. Behind them, the forest and its ghosts are silent.
**
In her time she has loved men and angels, and here at that time's end she cannot say if any were worth the trouble.
It does not surprise her, then, that when she dreams of love it is of lips she never thought of kissing, softness and warmth under her mouth and her fingers
Flower petals on the bed. Rose’s fingers tangled in her hair, not quite hard enough to hurt.
Perhaps this is sin, but she thinks she has forgotten what that means.
**
The Yew Tree Ball. She was Diana and before the King took her hand she danced with a man who only appeared to be in costume, and who insisted the dark eye-glasses he wore would serve just as well as any of the other gentlemen’s masks.
She watches herself waltz among the crowd of clockwork dancers, arms tight around an invisible partner. “Look, it’s her,” Rose says, nudging her towards a woman in a red dress, a mask like a cracked clock-face. “Didn’t know you knew her.”
“I saw her once,” she says, dream-logic allowing her to see the woman and the mask and the mask and the woman all at once. “In another’s mind, as she disappeared behind a closing door.”
“Well,” Rose sighs, “suppose she was there before either of us.”
**
The house is dark, and it is snowing, and in the window-seat she rests her chin against her knees and thinks about the nightmares of monsters, and wonders whether one can die of love.
“Must we stay here?” Romana does not care for snow.
It is peaceful and she would like to stay a while, but she is accustomed to capitulating to the desires of queens.
**
Long ago when creation was young, Romana says, three sisters were born, if born is the right word. Woven. Brought into being.
(Reinette has never heard this story. She has known it all her life.)
The eldest was Time, and she was most beautiful, and best-beloved of the universe.
(Rose giggles into Reinette’s shoulder. If I may be allowed to finish? Romana asks. Ladies, Reinette murmurs, amused at her sudden role as mediator. Blessed are the peacemakers, though she cannot remember what they shall find, or why it matters. Please tell us the rest.)
Her youngest sister was the sociable one of the family. Eventually, everyone danced with her at least once. Often only once.
(Death on a pale horse, Reinette begins to say, but it comes out as, Death in sheep’s clothing. Rose bites her knuckle and grins.)
And what about the middle sister? Reinette asks. What about Pain?
Oh, Romana says, no-one ever asks about her.
**
The old fortune-teller says she will be the beloved of a very great King. Dizzy from the incense, Jeanne-Antoinette nods. Later, her mother’s laughter: little queen, she says. My Reinette.
**
The real world, if such a thing can be said to exist:
“Hush, Madame,” one of her women whispers, clumsy fingers worrying at the counterpane; “the King has sent for a priest.”
**
“The question is,” one of them asks, “do we really know whose dream this is?”
And it is very dark now, and Reinette is alone; and above her nothing but the sky and the stars, close enough to touch.
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no subject
on 2006-06-21 02:50 am (UTC)