Andrew Lloyd Webber drabbles: Joseph
This, I suppose, is my version of 'songfic' (which I generally detest). I just received an Andrew Lloyd Webber songbook, and fell in love with An Unexpected Song. There's a well-known fanfic by this name, which has reached epic proportions by now -- a P&P-based modern -- and the song is a sort of underlying theme to the story, although not made irritatingly obvious as in songfics. Anyway, as I was playing it, I decided to set a challenge for myself -- write a drabble (well . . . something like a drabble), one for each of my fandoms (Tolkien/JA), for each song in the book, taking either the story or the words of the song as an inspiration. So here is the first set, those taken from the "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat." (It's harder than it looks, by the way. Getting "Potiphar" into Middle-earth had me stumped for a good half-hour.)
Any Dream Will Do
---
The night of her betrothal, Lothíriel dreamed again of Númenor. It was not Atalantë, the Fallen, but a brighter, greener Westernesse, in the days of its glory before the waning of the Kings. She walked a hill, heard a man and a woman quarrelling in an angry blend of Sindarin and Adûnaic. She turned and saw a child, a lovely girl with wings of black hair and bright grey-green eyes, weeping into her pillow.
“Lady Ancalimë,” a maid said, walking through her, “you must sleep, you do not want your father to remember you with swollen eyes and teary cheeks, do you?”
There was a flash of light, the colours faded into darkness, and Lothíriel was left alone. Already the light dimmed and the dream too; she lay in the strange Rohirren bed and thought,
What have I done?
(139 words)
---
“Just like that?--we simply say, ‘we shall go to Europe,’ and go?”
“Yes, now that the war is over. Paris, Rome, Vienna -- have you never dreamed of seeing any of them in person?”
Elizabeth laughed giddily. “Oh, yes, but how do I choose?”
He simply smiled, and neatly signed a letter to his steward. “Close your eyes and point your finger at a map,” he said pragmatically. “Any dream will do.”
(72 words)
------
Close Every Door
---
Aegnor knew he was to die. All the windows were barred, the light shut out, the day darkened; he could see nothing else. The least of the descendants of Finwë, he knew his unimportance as none of the other Noldor ever would.
I shall escape this place, the endless battles, I shall enjoy the peace of Valinor --
Whywhywhy?
No longer will I be bound by my fate, bound to those who slew my kin, I was a fool to come --
If I had not, I would never have seen, never known my Andreth --
Andreth --
Where was she now? Had she wed one of her own race, perhaps? Borne him children?
Do they release those in Mandos who hate figments of their own imaginations? Aegnor laughed, and sang, and did not care when finally he was pierced by orc-arrows --
I shall remain alone to the end, remembering the morning in the hills of Dorthonion
(152 words)
---
Jane Bingley sat very still, staring out her window. They would not let her out, they were keeping her imprisoned in this room where she had last held her son.
We were going to call him Bennet, for Papa, she thought dully. She had never dreamed that she might lose one, not after carrying him -- him, she would scream the next time someone called her child it -- for so long. Not after her mother and uncle each had five children who lived to plague them, that was what Uncle Gardiner said.
Jane longed to hold a child to her, whether her own or not, she felt so alone, the world hidden from her, the windows barred, the light shut out --
She heard a wail.
I’m imagining things now.
“Jane?” The door unbolted; she drew a long shuddering breath, staring at the sister she had not seen for months.
“The baby, I heard a baby.”
“Lydia brought her daughter.” Neither mentioned their niece’s healthy size for a child born only eight months after her parents’ marriage.
“Let me hold her. Please. Ask Lydia . . . she won’t mind.”
Five minutes later, she was rocking little Betsey Wickham in her arms, humming a lullaby and weeping silently.
(203 words)
------
Potiphar
She laughed, not as a lady of Gondor would, but with her head flung back, her long golden hair rippling.
“Piles of gold, and pearls? Do not mock me.”
He could only laugh in return, even as he tried to make her understand. “We are mariners, Vidumavi, we sail the far shores and bring these things back.”
She blinked. “But - whatever for? What do you do with them?”
“Turn them into rings, and bracelets, and coins,” said Valacar, “and sometimes, just let them run through our fingers and enjoy our own wealth.”
“Jewellery I understand,” she said, throwing a faintly envious glance at the collar at his throat.
“I will have a necklace made for you,” he replied impulsively, “tell me what you want and it will be done.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “Valacar . . . I want . . .”
That was enough for him. He took an eager step towards her, seized her small hand in his. “Vidumavi. All of the wealth of Númenor would not be enough, it could never make me happy, unless . . .”
Her fingers tightened on his. They were strong. “Yes?”
“Unless- ” how could he be nervous?- “unless, when I return to Gondor, you are at my side, as my wife.”
He was astonished when she flung her arms about him, laughing and weeping, and kissed him fervently.
Perhaps it was a Northern custom.
(226 words)
---
. . . I know I am not to gossip, but Elizabeth asked what I thought of our cousin’s wife. I can only say, please come home, and send for me as soon as you do; and I have enclosed this sketch. I do not think Mary or Richard - especially Richard - would appreciate the comparison, so you must not show anyone except Elizabeth, and then burn it. She is really very terrible, I think I dislike her very much.
Give Elizabeth and the children my best wishes.
Your loving sister,
Georgiana Darcy
For a moment, both Darcys were silent, staring at the wicked little sketch. Then Elizabeth (who did not appreciate their cousin’s attempts to flirt with her husband) laughed until her chest ached and tears rolled down her cheeks. Darcy gasped, then covered his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
It was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a modest approximation of Egyptian garb, and indeed the title, written in an incongruously neat, delicate hand, was Potiphar’s Wife; but the face was that of their newest cousin, Mary Fitzwilliam née Crawford.
“I don’t know what Richard was thinking,” Darcy said more soberly, after he had thrown it in the fire.
“He was thinking of her pretty face and figure,” Elizabeth replied, “not to mention her twenty thousand pounds.”
(214 words)
Any Dream Will Do
---
The night of her betrothal, Lothíriel dreamed again of Númenor. It was not Atalantë, the Fallen, but a brighter, greener Westernesse, in the days of its glory before the waning of the Kings. She walked a hill, heard a man and a woman quarrelling in an angry blend of Sindarin and Adûnaic. She turned and saw a child, a lovely girl with wings of black hair and bright grey-green eyes, weeping into her pillow.
“Lady Ancalimë,” a maid said, walking through her, “you must sleep, you do not want your father to remember you with swollen eyes and teary cheeks, do you?”
There was a flash of light, the colours faded into darkness, and Lothíriel was left alone. Already the light dimmed and the dream too; she lay in the strange Rohirren bed and thought,
What have I done?
(139 words)
---
“Just like that?--we simply say, ‘we shall go to Europe,’ and go?”
“Yes, now that the war is over. Paris, Rome, Vienna -- have you never dreamed of seeing any of them in person?”
Elizabeth laughed giddily. “Oh, yes, but how do I choose?”
He simply smiled, and neatly signed a letter to his steward. “Close your eyes and point your finger at a map,” he said pragmatically. “Any dream will do.”
(72 words)
------
Close Every Door
---
Aegnor knew he was to die. All the windows were barred, the light shut out, the day darkened; he could see nothing else. The least of the descendants of Finwë, he knew his unimportance as none of the other Noldor ever would.
I shall escape this place, the endless battles, I shall enjoy the peace of Valinor --
Whywhywhy?
No longer will I be bound by my fate, bound to those who slew my kin, I was a fool to come --
If I had not, I would never have seen, never known my Andreth --
Andreth --
Where was she now? Had she wed one of her own race, perhaps? Borne him children?
Do they release those in Mandos who hate figments of their own imaginations? Aegnor laughed, and sang, and did not care when finally he was pierced by orc-arrows --
I shall remain alone to the end, remembering the morning in the hills of Dorthonion
(152 words)
---
Jane Bingley sat very still, staring out her window. They would not let her out, they were keeping her imprisoned in this room where she had last held her son.
We were going to call him Bennet, for Papa, she thought dully. She had never dreamed that she might lose one, not after carrying him -- him, she would scream the next time someone called her child it -- for so long. Not after her mother and uncle each had five children who lived to plague them, that was what Uncle Gardiner said.
Jane longed to hold a child to her, whether her own or not, she felt so alone, the world hidden from her, the windows barred, the light shut out --
She heard a wail.
I’m imagining things now.
“Jane?” The door unbolted; she drew a long shuddering breath, staring at the sister she had not seen for months.
“The baby, I heard a baby.”
“Lydia brought her daughter.” Neither mentioned their niece’s healthy size for a child born only eight months after her parents’ marriage.
“Let me hold her. Please. Ask Lydia . . . she won’t mind.”
Five minutes later, she was rocking little Betsey Wickham in her arms, humming a lullaby and weeping silently.
(203 words)
------
Potiphar
She laughed, not as a lady of Gondor would, but with her head flung back, her long golden hair rippling.
“Piles of gold, and pearls? Do not mock me.”
He could only laugh in return, even as he tried to make her understand. “We are mariners, Vidumavi, we sail the far shores and bring these things back.”
She blinked. “But - whatever for? What do you do with them?”
“Turn them into rings, and bracelets, and coins,” said Valacar, “and sometimes, just let them run through our fingers and enjoy our own wealth.”
“Jewellery I understand,” she said, throwing a faintly envious glance at the collar at his throat.
“I will have a necklace made for you,” he replied impulsively, “tell me what you want and it will be done.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “Valacar . . . I want . . .”
That was enough for him. He took an eager step towards her, seized her small hand in his. “Vidumavi. All of the wealth of Númenor would not be enough, it could never make me happy, unless . . .”
Her fingers tightened on his. They were strong. “Yes?”
“Unless- ” how could he be nervous?- “unless, when I return to Gondor, you are at my side, as my wife.”
He was astonished when she flung her arms about him, laughing and weeping, and kissed him fervently.
Perhaps it was a Northern custom.
(226 words)
---
. . . I know I am not to gossip, but Elizabeth asked what I thought of our cousin’s wife. I can only say, please come home, and send for me as soon as you do; and I have enclosed this sketch. I do not think Mary or Richard - especially Richard - would appreciate the comparison, so you must not show anyone except Elizabeth, and then burn it. She is really very terrible, I think I dislike her very much.
Give Elizabeth and the children my best wishes.
Your loving sister,
Georgiana Darcy
For a moment, both Darcys were silent, staring at the wicked little sketch. Then Elizabeth (who did not appreciate their cousin’s attempts to flirt with her husband) laughed until her chest ached and tears rolled down her cheeks. Darcy gasped, then covered his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
It was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a modest approximation of Egyptian garb, and indeed the title, written in an incongruously neat, delicate hand, was Potiphar’s Wife; but the face was that of their newest cousin, Mary Fitzwilliam née Crawford.
“I don’t know what Richard was thinking,” Darcy said more soberly, after he had thrown it in the fire.
“He was thinking of her pretty face and figure,” Elizabeth replied, “not to mention her twenty thousand pounds.”
(214 words)