Fic: The Right Sort (of Nothing) [Yuletide - Fairytales - G]
Title: The Right Sort (of Nothing)
Author Name: Lferion
Fandom: Fairy Tales (trad) (The Twelve Dancing Princesses)
Characters|Pairing: Original
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: Public domain, no need to disclaim.
Summary: Sometimes not doing something is the right thing to do.
Warnings: None.
Written for: Yuletide
Author Notes: Thanks and chocolate to Whetherwoman and Galerian_Ash for beta-ing with swift brilliance.
Robin McKinley's retelling of this tale in The Door in the Hedge surely had an influence on me in writing this. As did Georgette Heyer, it turns out.
Written as a Yuletide 2007 yuletide treat for Cyn, upload #1488.
*** *** *** *** ***
Liesl was so tired of dancing. Anmaryse - vapid creature - still loved it, and Teretha, never one for men or the social obligations of a princess' position, approached each evening with the same resignation and fixed smile as she had from the beginning of this nightmare. The others, well, none of them had much choice, herself included, did they? Either in being born princesses or being cursed to dance. Smile and dance at night, smile and nod during the day.
Once upon a time, Liesl had enjoyed dancing, and flirting and giggling with her sisters about the boys and the clothes and the manners and the carefully sanitized gossip that was allowed to reach their ears. There was no conversation at all in the terrible elegance of the Palace of Night. No flirting or laughter or even bright glances to share with the cold and beautiful man (was he a man? Were any of them men? With no sly closeness or even a hint of, well, interest to mar the faultless drape of close-cut Unmentionables?) who met her on the shore, rowed her to the palace and danced with her with precise and passionless grace. The clothes, of course, were exquisite, the jewels matchless and the music so perfect as to be soulless. Changeless, heartless and colder than deepest winter under all the gleaming surfaces. Over the endless progression of nights all enjoyment had fled, leaving only compulsion.
The sherbet-cups formally offered after every third dance gave them unflagging lightness of foot and a dreamy alertness that had come to last hours past their return to their own palace. Little Charis (not really little any more, but still and always the youngest) could hardly keep herself to the sedate and measured pace demanded of their days, always with a skip in her step and a bounce to her irrepressible curls. But however sustaining the sherbet was to the body, it did nothing for the spirit. Even though her feet danced, Charis' smile drooped. Sophronia Elaine, the eldest of them, was beginning to look positively grim.
Being tired didn't make Liesl sad, or grim, or withdrawn, it made her annoyed. Annoyed enough to start really thinking. Annoyed enough to start pushing back.
*** *** ***
"My dears, not to raise hope, but there is a, well, I hardly know what to call him, as by birth he certainly is not gentle, but he wears the uniform of the King's Own Rifle Corps, which must count for something, and he is most definitely a man, so 'gentleman' I suppose I must call him, come to stand your father the King's challenge to discover the means whereby this most dreadful unpleasantness may be stopped."
All twelve of the princesses were gathered in the lilac salon, enjoying the hour between the last of the music lessons for the younger ones and the lighting of the lamps, signaling the need to go up to dress for dinner. It had been a grey and lowering day, so none of them had felt like walking in the gardens. The rather breathless arrival of Nanny Forbes had caused all but Thyrelle to look up from needlework and books to listen, and as she spoke all the busy fingers stilled. It had been months since the last daring unfortunate had attempted the challenge.
"Is he young?"
"Is he handsome?"
"Oh, Nana, tell us all about him!"
Liesl watched as the younger girls jumped up and clustered around Nanny Forbes. Teretha sighed and returned to her note-taking from the tome on the table before her. Sophy looked down at the white-work in her lap, and for just a moment the expression on her face was the saddest thing Liesl had ever seen. She dropped her own handkerchief in to her workbasket and flew to comfort her.
"Hope, Sophy-love." She kept her voice quiet under the chatter of the others. "Maybe not being the kind of gentleman that Nana approves of means he will have more brains than most. Or something." She held Sophy close for long moment. It was too disturbing to think of Sophy despairing. "We'll think of something."
*** *** ***
The soldier was a well-enough looking man, for all that Nanny Forbes so disapproved of him. He was rather older than the general run of princely and lordly hopefuls, and there was character in his face that had been sadly lacking in all too many of the others. What he wore had obviously been provided him by the palace snyders and tailors: a coat of mulberry velvet picked out in blue satin that while of military cut and color, was certainly not uniform.It was far above the touch of a serving officer-from-the-ranks, as his worn face and plain speech proclaimed him.
It was a definite point in his favor that he did not allow the grandeur of the hall and formality of manners oppress him. His manner was polite and simple to all. Liesl thought that was rather refreshing. He greeted each of the princesses with a smile and a little bob of the head as they were introduced, and somehow managed to say something that put a twinkle in old Great-Aunt Sophressa's eye and earned him the approbation of a tap on his wrist with her fan. He seemed almost uncomfortable and at the same time shyly pleased with the richness of his dress, sitting with caution. He attended to Aunt Gethyra's chair and was meticulous with the spread of his napkin; yet his fingers returned to appreciate the texture of the linen at his wrists, the nap of his coat-sleeve.
When had she last really paid attention to one of the Challengers? Or was this one only different because she was thinking differently?
Liesl watched with an increasingly sinking feeling as Sophy spoke to him over the course of the formal dinner. Sophy obviously liked him. She smiled at him - a real smile, not the polished, meaningless politeness of her 'Eldest Princess' smile. Oh, Sophy. I said to have hope, not to get attached. It will only hurt more if he fails. Because they always do fail. We make sure of that.
And why is it that we contrive towards that failure?
Suddenly the taste on her tongue was not that of the ordinary, earthy food or the fine local wine, but the cold sweetness of the sherbet, the hippocras of the drugged wine they gave the eager, valiant, doomed men who sought to free them. That potion was nothing Teretha had found in one of her books, or that Eliet cozened out of the herb-ladies and gardeners. That potion was nothing of Liesl's desire, or that of any of her sisters. Why then did they make it, give it, stand and watch while the unknowing man drank it and fell into a stupor?
It would be too much to hope that they could fail in the making and the giving, but perhaps they could - or she could, if nothing else - not watch? As if by changing the smallest part of the ritual the whole might have a different result? Liesl knew that this was magical thinking of the most ineffective kind, even delusional, but what else did she have to try? The practical, the worldly, the rational had never aided them in this. It certainly couldn't hurt to try.
The memory of the sadness and hope in Sophy's eyes stayed with Liesl all evening, as did the persistent irritation at the thought of being manipulated - tricked - into aiding the curse. Pulling one over on the grownups had no doubt seemed a lovely game when they had all been no more than children, but they were not children any more. Had not been for some years now, not even Charis.
*** *** ***
And so it was that even though the compulsion to the dance moved Liesl's feet, drew her inexorably to her part in pouring the heady, dark wine into the tall goblet, her will served to turn her eyes from watching the soldier drink. She was determined that this time what happened would not be with her participation in mind or heart or spirit, however the spell directed her outward actions.
Sophy was already more than a little in love. If Liesl turned Sophy away before either of them could see what effect the wine might have, then who knew what that effect would really be?
As she followed Sophy through the trapdoor and down the long stone stair, for the first time in ages her feet were light with hope.
*** *** ***
The Twelve Princesses born to Their Royal Majesties of Talanth, Dorgen VII and Eliane Annthet, in their order of birth:
Sophressa Eliane, Eliesa Ellyra, called Liesl, Annthet Ardora, Carielle, Jehannet, Teretha Michaea, the twins Gloriet and Eliet, Tessefer, Anmaryse, Sesselle and Charis Keletha.
From the Rolls of Royal Lineage, volume XXVI.
Author Name: Lferion
Fandom: Fairy Tales (trad) (The Twelve Dancing Princesses)
Characters|Pairing: Original
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: Public domain, no need to disclaim.
Summary: Sometimes not doing something is the right thing to do.
Warnings: None.
Written for: Yuletide
Author Notes: Thanks and chocolate to Whetherwoman and Galerian_Ash for beta-ing with swift brilliance.
Robin McKinley's retelling of this tale in The Door in the Hedge surely had an influence on me in writing this. As did Georgette Heyer, it turns out.
Written as a Yuletide 2007 yuletide treat for Cyn, upload #1488.
*** *** *** *** ***
Liesl was so tired of dancing. Anmaryse - vapid creature - still loved it, and Teretha, never one for men or the social obligations of a princess' position, approached each evening with the same resignation and fixed smile as she had from the beginning of this nightmare. The others, well, none of them had much choice, herself included, did they? Either in being born princesses or being cursed to dance. Smile and dance at night, smile and nod during the day.
Once upon a time, Liesl had enjoyed dancing, and flirting and giggling with her sisters about the boys and the clothes and the manners and the carefully sanitized gossip that was allowed to reach their ears. There was no conversation at all in the terrible elegance of the Palace of Night. No flirting or laughter or even bright glances to share with the cold and beautiful man (was he a man? Were any of them men? With no sly closeness or even a hint of, well, interest to mar the faultless drape of close-cut Unmentionables?) who met her on the shore, rowed her to the palace and danced with her with precise and passionless grace. The clothes, of course, were exquisite, the jewels matchless and the music so perfect as to be soulless. Changeless, heartless and colder than deepest winter under all the gleaming surfaces. Over the endless progression of nights all enjoyment had fled, leaving only compulsion.
The sherbet-cups formally offered after every third dance gave them unflagging lightness of foot and a dreamy alertness that had come to last hours past their return to their own palace. Little Charis (not really little any more, but still and always the youngest) could hardly keep herself to the sedate and measured pace demanded of their days, always with a skip in her step and a bounce to her irrepressible curls. But however sustaining the sherbet was to the body, it did nothing for the spirit. Even though her feet danced, Charis' smile drooped. Sophronia Elaine, the eldest of them, was beginning to look positively grim.
Being tired didn't make Liesl sad, or grim, or withdrawn, it made her annoyed. Annoyed enough to start really thinking. Annoyed enough to start pushing back.
*** *** ***
"My dears, not to raise hope, but there is a, well, I hardly know what to call him, as by birth he certainly is not gentle, but he wears the uniform of the King's Own Rifle Corps, which must count for something, and he is most definitely a man, so 'gentleman' I suppose I must call him, come to stand your father the King's challenge to discover the means whereby this most dreadful unpleasantness may be stopped."
All twelve of the princesses were gathered in the lilac salon, enjoying the hour between the last of the music lessons for the younger ones and the lighting of the lamps, signaling the need to go up to dress for dinner. It had been a grey and lowering day, so none of them had felt like walking in the gardens. The rather breathless arrival of Nanny Forbes had caused all but Thyrelle to look up from needlework and books to listen, and as she spoke all the busy fingers stilled. It had been months since the last daring unfortunate had attempted the challenge.
"Is he young?"
"Is he handsome?"
"Oh, Nana, tell us all about him!"
Liesl watched as the younger girls jumped up and clustered around Nanny Forbes. Teretha sighed and returned to her note-taking from the tome on the table before her. Sophy looked down at the white-work in her lap, and for just a moment the expression on her face was the saddest thing Liesl had ever seen. She dropped her own handkerchief in to her workbasket and flew to comfort her.
"Hope, Sophy-love." She kept her voice quiet under the chatter of the others. "Maybe not being the kind of gentleman that Nana approves of means he will have more brains than most. Or something." She held Sophy close for long moment. It was too disturbing to think of Sophy despairing. "We'll think of something."
*** *** ***
The soldier was a well-enough looking man, for all that Nanny Forbes so disapproved of him. He was rather older than the general run of princely and lordly hopefuls, and there was character in his face that had been sadly lacking in all too many of the others. What he wore had obviously been provided him by the palace snyders and tailors: a coat of mulberry velvet picked out in blue satin that while of military cut and color, was certainly not uniform.It was far above the touch of a serving officer-from-the-ranks, as his worn face and plain speech proclaimed him.
It was a definite point in his favor that he did not allow the grandeur of the hall and formality of manners oppress him. His manner was polite and simple to all. Liesl thought that was rather refreshing. He greeted each of the princesses with a smile and a little bob of the head as they were introduced, and somehow managed to say something that put a twinkle in old Great-Aunt Sophressa's eye and earned him the approbation of a tap on his wrist with her fan. He seemed almost uncomfortable and at the same time shyly pleased with the richness of his dress, sitting with caution. He attended to Aunt Gethyra's chair and was meticulous with the spread of his napkin; yet his fingers returned to appreciate the texture of the linen at his wrists, the nap of his coat-sleeve.
When had she last really paid attention to one of the Challengers? Or was this one only different because she was thinking differently?
Liesl watched with an increasingly sinking feeling as Sophy spoke to him over the course of the formal dinner. Sophy obviously liked him. She smiled at him - a real smile, not the polished, meaningless politeness of her 'Eldest Princess' smile. Oh, Sophy. I said to have hope, not to get attached. It will only hurt more if he fails. Because they always do fail. We make sure of that.
And why is it that we contrive towards that failure?
Suddenly the taste on her tongue was not that of the ordinary, earthy food or the fine local wine, but the cold sweetness of the sherbet, the hippocras of the drugged wine they gave the eager, valiant, doomed men who sought to free them. That potion was nothing Teretha had found in one of her books, or that Eliet cozened out of the herb-ladies and gardeners. That potion was nothing of Liesl's desire, or that of any of her sisters. Why then did they make it, give it, stand and watch while the unknowing man drank it and fell into a stupor?
It would be too much to hope that they could fail in the making and the giving, but perhaps they could - or she could, if nothing else - not watch? As if by changing the smallest part of the ritual the whole might have a different result? Liesl knew that this was magical thinking of the most ineffective kind, even delusional, but what else did she have to try? The practical, the worldly, the rational had never aided them in this. It certainly couldn't hurt to try.
The memory of the sadness and hope in Sophy's eyes stayed with Liesl all evening, as did the persistent irritation at the thought of being manipulated - tricked - into aiding the curse. Pulling one over on the grownups had no doubt seemed a lovely game when they had all been no more than children, but they were not children any more. Had not been for some years now, not even Charis.
*** *** ***
And so it was that even though the compulsion to the dance moved Liesl's feet, drew her inexorably to her part in pouring the heady, dark wine into the tall goblet, her will served to turn her eyes from watching the soldier drink. She was determined that this time what happened would not be with her participation in mind or heart or spirit, however the spell directed her outward actions.
Sophy was already more than a little in love. If Liesl turned Sophy away before either of them could see what effect the wine might have, then who knew what that effect would really be?
As she followed Sophy through the trapdoor and down the long stone stair, for the first time in ages her feet were light with hope.
*** *** ***
The Twelve Princesses born to Their Royal Majesties of Talanth, Dorgen VII and Eliane Annthet, in their order of birth:
Sophressa Eliane, Eliesa Ellyra, called Liesl, Annthet Ardora, Carielle, Jehannet, Teretha Michaea, the twins Gloriet and Eliet, Tessefer, Anmaryse, Sesselle and Charis Keletha.
From the Rolls of Royal Lineage, volume XXVI.