Intercomm
Title: Reflection
Author: secretchord
Word Count: 1062
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Isabella, some mention of Isabella/Thornton
Spoilers/Warnings: S3, mention of domestic violence
Summary: Isabella through the years
Disclaimer: I don't own RH or anything related to it. So there.
She unwound her hair before the mirror, and in the glass was a vision of youth, dark and fair, in cream silk, cheeks dusted with the palest of pinks. Candlelight played with shadows at the edges of her room. Night was stillness, and the sound of her brush moving through her hair.
Spring was nearly past - the birds of that season no longer sang, as they had at her wedding. That ceremony had been small and simple. Her brother, the only other Gisborne left, had stood at the back of the church long enough to witness the ceremony, long enough to kiss her in congratulation, long enough to let his hand linger in hers until her husband pushed her into the sunlight of her new life and had forbidden her to look behind.
She had never been a very obedient girl.
The chill of autumn was setting in. The cold brightened her eyes. She would not yearn for a fire this year. She had furs and blankets now, enough fireplaces to warm half the village. But she had found that regret could be colder than all the winters she had spent with no shelter but her brother's arms.
She pulled her brush through her hair. Her brother would often sit at her side and smooth a hand through her hair, a comfort as much to him as to herself, and she would make him promise wonderful things, and he would always swear to them, swear upon their mother's grave that it would all come true.
She missed him. She could almost hate him. He was alone somewhere now, separated from his only blood, probably working himself to the bone as he always had to resurrect their abandoned name, perhaps cold, perhaps wondering how his sister got on with her wealth and husband and estate.
Well.
Her brush was a silver boat in the river of her dark hair. She steered it through again, over and over, wondering what had happened to those promises her foolish brother had made.
***
Her fourth child lost in the womb. She was no longer torn between relief and aching sadness. There was no longer even any guilt at hoping the child would die. There was only her pale winter days, and her husband's bitter hands, and her slow anger at this misery she had been set up in. Money only bought so much distraction. She pitied her brother for ever thinking it could have saved them.
***
The purple has faded to yellow and brown as her bruises healed. She spent hours every day carefully putting on a mask of health. He usually remembered to make his blows on parts of her body that would be unexposed, but every now and then his hunger for her pain overcame him, and he struck mercilessly, thoughtlessly. She almost preferred it. It was somehow better to see the looks on other people's faces when they noticed her marks, for it assured her she was not alone in her nightmare.
Some nights, it felt like she was the only person on the earth, and her husband the only companion, a black monster always at her side, teeth bared, eyes hard and glittering like the diamonds he put round her neck.
Her hands trembled now. Even in the quiet of midmorning, when she was by herself in her rooms, they shook. At nineteen she had been rendered ancient under her husband's care. If she looked closely in the mirror, she would sometimes see gray hairs shimmering in the folds of black.
Black and gray, and purple and yellow and brown, the shades particular to a broken woman.
***
The power was at her fingertips, but the thought of reaching out for it terrified her. The thought of what her husband would do if he found her - it made her skin crawl and her breath freeze in her chest. But she couldn't stop now. Revenge was too near.
She had wrapped herself in gold and green. Her dress was rich. Her jewelry more so. No one could mistake her for a peasant, for a nobody girl too poor to pity. She'd had done with that years ago.
Despite her ornaments, her brother recognized her instantly. And he was angry with her for ruining the world he had set up for himself, the fantasy where he had done at least one good and honorable thing. Angry that she was not the sweet, adoring girl he had tried to protect.
And she was angry with him for causing her ruination all those years ago, with a bride price agreed upon, and a church, and a hand that had lingered but had still let go.
***
His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue that she had almost forgotten. Black hair, some shimmers of gray, that proud Gisborne nose. She laughed at him, scorned him. He bit back like an animal.
It was a knife in her heart, because when she looked at him, she was looking at herself, and she knew his suffering was the other half of hers. Separated, they had each found their own hell in which to burn.
***
His death was not swift. He had to time to find her eyes, and deliver some strange look of forgiveness that made her ache, that made her rage at him, at all the forks in the road that had separated them and taken from them what was natural and good. All the decisions that had been taken out of their hands. All the choices they'd made.
All the injustice.
She would burn the world down around her before she let it break her again.
***
In the dark, she imagined herself again in front of her mirror, brushing her hair, warmed by the fire, unhappy but not uncomfortable, a girl not yet aware of the path of broken glass she would soon travel. She imagined that this time her brother was with her in her apartments, impressed by her silks, fascinated by the gleam of her silver brush.
“Are you well, Isabella?” he would ask.
“No,” she would reply.
“Was I wrong to want this for you?”
“No.”
“Do you hate me for what I did?”
The darkness closed in around her. Her breath stilled.
“No,” she wished, wished, wished she could have said.
Author: secretchord
Word Count: 1062
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Isabella, some mention of Isabella/Thornton
Spoilers/Warnings: S3, mention of domestic violence
Summary: Isabella through the years
Disclaimer: I don't own RH or anything related to it. So there.
She unwound her hair before the mirror, and in the glass was a vision of youth, dark and fair, in cream silk, cheeks dusted with the palest of pinks. Candlelight played with shadows at the edges of her room. Night was stillness, and the sound of her brush moving through her hair.
Spring was nearly past - the birds of that season no longer sang, as they had at her wedding. That ceremony had been small and simple. Her brother, the only other Gisborne left, had stood at the back of the church long enough to witness the ceremony, long enough to kiss her in congratulation, long enough to let his hand linger in hers until her husband pushed her into the sunlight of her new life and had forbidden her to look behind.
She had never been a very obedient girl.
The chill of autumn was setting in. The cold brightened her eyes. She would not yearn for a fire this year. She had furs and blankets now, enough fireplaces to warm half the village. But she had found that regret could be colder than all the winters she had spent with no shelter but her brother's arms.
She pulled her brush through her hair. Her brother would often sit at her side and smooth a hand through her hair, a comfort as much to him as to herself, and she would make him promise wonderful things, and he would always swear to them, swear upon their mother's grave that it would all come true.
She missed him. She could almost hate him. He was alone somewhere now, separated from his only blood, probably working himself to the bone as he always had to resurrect their abandoned name, perhaps cold, perhaps wondering how his sister got on with her wealth and husband and estate.
Well.
Her brush was a silver boat in the river of her dark hair. She steered it through again, over and over, wondering what had happened to those promises her foolish brother had made.
***
Her fourth child lost in the womb. She was no longer torn between relief and aching sadness. There was no longer even any guilt at hoping the child would die. There was only her pale winter days, and her husband's bitter hands, and her slow anger at this misery she had been set up in. Money only bought so much distraction. She pitied her brother for ever thinking it could have saved them.
***
The purple has faded to yellow and brown as her bruises healed. She spent hours every day carefully putting on a mask of health. He usually remembered to make his blows on parts of her body that would be unexposed, but every now and then his hunger for her pain overcame him, and he struck mercilessly, thoughtlessly. She almost preferred it. It was somehow better to see the looks on other people's faces when they noticed her marks, for it assured her she was not alone in her nightmare.
Some nights, it felt like she was the only person on the earth, and her husband the only companion, a black monster always at her side, teeth bared, eyes hard and glittering like the diamonds he put round her neck.
Her hands trembled now. Even in the quiet of midmorning, when she was by herself in her rooms, they shook. At nineteen she had been rendered ancient under her husband's care. If she looked closely in the mirror, she would sometimes see gray hairs shimmering in the folds of black.
Black and gray, and purple and yellow and brown, the shades particular to a broken woman.
***
The power was at her fingertips, but the thought of reaching out for it terrified her. The thought of what her husband would do if he found her - it made her skin crawl and her breath freeze in her chest. But she couldn't stop now. Revenge was too near.
She had wrapped herself in gold and green. Her dress was rich. Her jewelry more so. No one could mistake her for a peasant, for a nobody girl too poor to pity. She'd had done with that years ago.
Despite her ornaments, her brother recognized her instantly. And he was angry with her for ruining the world he had set up for himself, the fantasy where he had done at least one good and honorable thing. Angry that she was not the sweet, adoring girl he had tried to protect.
And she was angry with him for causing her ruination all those years ago, with a bride price agreed upon, and a church, and a hand that had lingered but had still let go.
***
His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue that she had almost forgotten. Black hair, some shimmers of gray, that proud Gisborne nose. She laughed at him, scorned him. He bit back like an animal.
It was a knife in her heart, because when she looked at him, she was looking at herself, and she knew his suffering was the other half of hers. Separated, they had each found their own hell in which to burn.
***
His death was not swift. He had to time to find her eyes, and deliver some strange look of forgiveness that made her ache, that made her rage at him, at all the forks in the road that had separated them and taken from them what was natural and good. All the decisions that had been taken out of their hands. All the choices they'd made.
All the injustice.
She would burn the world down around her before she let it break her again.
***
In the dark, she imagined herself again in front of her mirror, brushing her hair, warmed by the fire, unhappy but not uncomfortable, a girl not yet aware of the path of broken glass she would soon travel. She imagined that this time her brother was with her in her apartments, impressed by her silks, fascinated by the gleam of her silver brush.
“Are you well, Isabella?” he would ask.
“No,” she would reply.
“Was I wrong to want this for you?”
“No.”
“Do you hate me for what I did?”
The darkness closed in around her. Her breath stilled.
“No,” she wished, wished, wished she could have said.