I Aim To Be Your Eyes
Fandoms: Twelfth Night, Hamlet
Characters: Viola, Hamlet, Claudius (mentioned), Gertrude (mentioned
Warnings: Horror, Surreal, Doppelgangers
Word Count: 1260
Summary: Viola holds, as 'twere, a mirror up to nature, and enters a castle sealed tight as a tomb
From a prompt generated by
thisbluespirit : "Viola + Hamlet - doppelganger & stranded/survival scenario"
Lost on the high seas and sent down the wrong leg of the Trousers of Time, Viola never ends up in the funhouse mirrors of Illyria. She has no reason to recall the stories her father has told her of that country where nothing is but what is not. As she approaches the castle of Elsinore in her guise of a page she has no way of knowing that the reflections hidden behind its rough-hewn battlements are shadows of motion glinting off polished marble, and two-way mirrors that give all hallways the sterile glare and dim horror of an interrogation cell.
The front entrance is clearly only intended for the use of visiting dignitaries and the imposing expanse of wood unnerves her. Telling herself that it is only because she would not wish to inconvenience the doubtless dozens of people it would take to operate it, she moves around to the side, where she finds a door meant for daily use: more extravagant than those used by servants, but less overwhelming than the first. But actually, “daily use” may be pushing it, because this whole lonely place feels like somewhere whose inhabitants rarely leave it, and which hardly ever receives visitors. It is sealed up tight. Still, Viola knocks; her circumstances do not afford her many options.
Logically speaking it will take time for anyone to hear her knocking, time to find the people in charge so they can determine what is to be done, and time to walk down the long lonesome corridors and stately stairways. Even knowing all this, and familiar as she is with the inner workings of household management, Viola seems to wait several eternities in the time before the portal creaks open. The haunted wind blows through her bones, threatening to unseat the hat covering her hair, and then a young man all in black, limbs almost too long for his body, is sprawled against the door frame.
“Knock, knock,” he grouses. “Who’s there in the name of Beelzebub?”
She allows the ghost of a smile to flit onto her face. Here’s someone who knows his classics. “No indeed, I come in the other devil’s name,” she answers as she sweeps into her courtliest bow. “The name’s Cesario, sir. I am of noble birth, though my state was low even before we all fell on hard luck. I seek a place in this house, be it as courtier, stablehand, or manservant. If there be no room for me here, I pray that you will direct me to the next place I may offer up my services.”
Still bent forward, she can see the youth narrow his eyes and purse his lips, clearly unsure what to make of her - or him, as he understands Cesario to be. Caught in the grip of such a gaze, Cesario’s soul reformulates itself and he waits for his judgment. However he is in no way prepared for what he hears.
“Cesario, Cesario… stand up, boy, you look like a fool. Now why do you seem familiar.” The man freezes. “Haven’t we met before?”
“We can’t have,” Cesario says immediately. He dare not believe that his twin could have survived that wreck. “I am a stranger to this country, not three hours on its shores.” To hope is often far more painful than to sink into despair.
The grin turns manic. “Well that’s it, then! Nothing to worry about. Welcome hither to prison.”
*
As they enter the Great Entrance together, the swirling banisters and clustered shadows immediately draw the eye to a pair of portraits above the stairs. At least, Cesario is pretty sure there’s two of them, but the frame dividing them could have been painted there as an infuriating trompe l’oeil. Or a mirror could be duplicating a single image, that’s how alike the two men are.
The young man notices him looking. “My father, my uncle,” he says without indicating which is which. It might not matter. “But only one woman, he adds, lip curling in distaste. “Gertrude - the queen my mother.”
Cesario had barely noticed the pale timid-looking woman centered between the brothers. The men steal the show and this Gertrude practically blends into the wallpaper. And he sees for the first time that the walls of wherever they all sat for their portrait have the same grey-brown pattern of wilting flowers as the landing’s wall. He could almost imagine one of those figures stepping from its frame.
So that he doesn’t need to imagine that anymore, he asks, “If she’s the queen, does that make you the prince?”
He laughs mirthlessly, dryer than November leaves. “You would think so, right?” At his tone Cesario turns to see him hugging his long arms to himself, trying to hold in his secret hurts. “I am Prince Hamlet, if in name only. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are the rankest deceivers, and I am unlikely to see any of the inheritance that is due me.” Hamlet smiles again, all melancholy dissipated as quickly as it descended. “But that’s all one; let’s continue with our tour.”
*
He adapts to the pronouns easily enough, out of necessity and because they’ve never made much difference to him. But Cesario still feels like a mask after all this time, and one he can’t simply tie on and forget about, but a persona he must always hold up in front of his real image. At least he no longer jumps at the sound of the name, certain it means someone has uncovered his secret. Even then, his flightiness could hardly give him away, not at a court that has everyone startling at their own shadows, imagined or missing or doubled. Some trade favors for tenders; others with veiled lids seek departed fathers in the dust, or in their mind’s eye. Cesario’s smooth cheek and the holes in his story go unnoticed.
One morning, still almost too dark to deserve the name, Cesario the Mask wakes up first. He lies their staring at the hairline crack on the ceiling as he prepares his skin for the first chill of these northern mornings, and his mind for borrowed robes by which everyone knows him. It takes less time than usual for him to gather the courage to throw off the comforter, and much longer to understand that there is no secret to be hidden away in shame or defiance, because Viola is gone.
How long has Cesario been himself, holding onto the image within him of a little girl trying to fill her brother’s shoes? Long enough for that image to climb out of a mirror somewhere and start living a life of her own? It’s not paranoia talking here; that sort of thing is not unheard of. But if Cesario were to meet this now-distant Viola, he doesn’t know if he’d embrace her in thanks for what her departure has taught him about himself, or turn from her for fear of what she might still reveal.
Is Cesario merely the blank space between a brother and a sister? Or was Viola a phantom from the very beginning, a girl who pretended to exist because so many people insisted that she did? She and her femininity crept into his mind; he and his swagger burst out of her head. These cannot both be true, but neither feels like a lie.
Lie or not, Cesario feels himself to exist, and he intends to go on doing so no matter how many mirrors he has to smash to earn his place. This was originally posted at https://ernest.dreamwidth.org/12612.html. There are
comments there.
Characters: Viola, Hamlet, Claudius (mentioned), Gertrude (mentioned
Warnings: Horror, Surreal, Doppelgangers
Word Count: 1260
Summary: Viola holds, as 'twere, a mirror up to nature, and enters a castle sealed tight as a tomb
From a prompt generated by
thisbluespirit : "Viola + Hamlet - doppelganger & stranded/survival scenario"
Lost on the high seas and sent down the wrong leg of the Trousers of Time, Viola never ends up in the funhouse mirrors of Illyria. She has no reason to recall the stories her father has told her of that country where nothing is but what is not. As she approaches the castle of Elsinore in her guise of a page she has no way of knowing that the reflections hidden behind its rough-hewn battlements are shadows of motion glinting off polished marble, and two-way mirrors that give all hallways the sterile glare and dim horror of an interrogation cell.
The front entrance is clearly only intended for the use of visiting dignitaries and the imposing expanse of wood unnerves her. Telling herself that it is only because she would not wish to inconvenience the doubtless dozens of people it would take to operate it, she moves around to the side, where she finds a door meant for daily use: more extravagant than those used by servants, but less overwhelming than the first. But actually, “daily use” may be pushing it, because this whole lonely place feels like somewhere whose inhabitants rarely leave it, and which hardly ever receives visitors. It is sealed up tight. Still, Viola knocks; her circumstances do not afford her many options.
Logically speaking it will take time for anyone to hear her knocking, time to find the people in charge so they can determine what is to be done, and time to walk down the long lonesome corridors and stately stairways. Even knowing all this, and familiar as she is with the inner workings of household management, Viola seems to wait several eternities in the time before the portal creaks open. The haunted wind blows through her bones, threatening to unseat the hat covering her hair, and then a young man all in black, limbs almost too long for his body, is sprawled against the door frame.
“Knock, knock,” he grouses. “Who’s there in the name of Beelzebub?”
She allows the ghost of a smile to flit onto her face. Here’s someone who knows his classics. “No indeed, I come in the other devil’s name,” she answers as she sweeps into her courtliest bow. “The name’s Cesario, sir. I am of noble birth, though my state was low even before we all fell on hard luck. I seek a place in this house, be it as courtier, stablehand, or manservant. If there be no room for me here, I pray that you will direct me to the next place I may offer up my services.”
Still bent forward, she can see the youth narrow his eyes and purse his lips, clearly unsure what to make of her - or him, as he understands Cesario to be. Caught in the grip of such a gaze, Cesario’s soul reformulates itself and he waits for his judgment. However he is in no way prepared for what he hears.
“Cesario, Cesario… stand up, boy, you look like a fool. Now why do you seem familiar.” The man freezes. “Haven’t we met before?”
“We can’t have,” Cesario says immediately. He dare not believe that his twin could have survived that wreck. “I am a stranger to this country, not three hours on its shores.” To hope is often far more painful than to sink into despair.
The grin turns manic. “Well that’s it, then! Nothing to worry about. Welcome hither to prison.”
*
As they enter the Great Entrance together, the swirling banisters and clustered shadows immediately draw the eye to a pair of portraits above the stairs. At least, Cesario is pretty sure there’s two of them, but the frame dividing them could have been painted there as an infuriating trompe l’oeil. Or a mirror could be duplicating a single image, that’s how alike the two men are.
The young man notices him looking. “My father, my uncle,” he says without indicating which is which. It might not matter. “But only one woman, he adds, lip curling in distaste. “Gertrude - the queen my mother.”
Cesario had barely noticed the pale timid-looking woman centered between the brothers. The men steal the show and this Gertrude practically blends into the wallpaper. And he sees for the first time that the walls of wherever they all sat for their portrait have the same grey-brown pattern of wilting flowers as the landing’s wall. He could almost imagine one of those figures stepping from its frame.
So that he doesn’t need to imagine that anymore, he asks, “If she’s the queen, does that make you the prince?”
He laughs mirthlessly, dryer than November leaves. “You would think so, right?” At his tone Cesario turns to see him hugging his long arms to himself, trying to hold in his secret hurts. “I am Prince Hamlet, if in name only. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are the rankest deceivers, and I am unlikely to see any of the inheritance that is due me.” Hamlet smiles again, all melancholy dissipated as quickly as it descended. “But that’s all one; let’s continue with our tour.”
*
He adapts to the pronouns easily enough, out of necessity and because they’ve never made much difference to him. But Cesario still feels like a mask after all this time, and one he can’t simply tie on and forget about, but a persona he must always hold up in front of his real image. At least he no longer jumps at the sound of the name, certain it means someone has uncovered his secret. Even then, his flightiness could hardly give him away, not at a court that has everyone startling at their own shadows, imagined or missing or doubled. Some trade favors for tenders; others with veiled lids seek departed fathers in the dust, or in their mind’s eye. Cesario’s smooth cheek and the holes in his story go unnoticed.
One morning, still almost too dark to deserve the name, Cesario the Mask wakes up first. He lies their staring at the hairline crack on the ceiling as he prepares his skin for the first chill of these northern mornings, and his mind for borrowed robes by which everyone knows him. It takes less time than usual for him to gather the courage to throw off the comforter, and much longer to understand that there is no secret to be hidden away in shame or defiance, because Viola is gone.
How long has Cesario been himself, holding onto the image within him of a little girl trying to fill her brother’s shoes? Long enough for that image to climb out of a mirror somewhere and start living a life of her own? It’s not paranoia talking here; that sort of thing is not unheard of. But if Cesario were to meet this now-distant Viola, he doesn’t know if he’d embrace her in thanks for what her departure has taught him about himself, or turn from her for fear of what she might still reveal.
Is Cesario merely the blank space between a brother and a sister? Or was Viola a phantom from the very beginning, a girl who pretended to exist because so many people insisted that she did? She and her femininity crept into his mind; he and his swagger burst out of her head. These cannot both be true, but neither feels like a lie.
Lie or not, Cesario feels himself to exist, and he intends to go on doing so no matter how many mirrors he has to smash to earn his place. This was originally posted at https://ernest.dreamwidth.org/12612.html. There are
comments there.