[Round 6] dreams of pearls and gold
fic: dreams of pearls and gold
fandom: vampire diaris
characters: original Petrova doppleganger + family; Katherine
rating: gen
word count: 700
recipient: for upupa_epops who wanted a Petrova doppelganger we don't know from canon, husband, spying Katherine, but no Originals
setting: appx 1960's Argentina (idk I just got it in my head that a non-European doppelganger would be interesting; and the idea of Katherine being around during Eva Peron's heyday was too much fun to let go of)
She is ten when the woman in red first comes to her door, seeking directions. She remembers the pretty lady staring at her like she had seen a ghost. She remembers thinking, I hope I look like her someday.
Her name is Belén Álvarez and she lives in a small, inconsequential village. Her life is as normal as one might expect, the middle child in a household of seven children, neither a natural leader nor an easy scapegoat. She has just as many friends as is normal, she is just about as smart as she could be. For a short time, between the ages of about fifteen and seventeen, she idolized Evita and dreamed of a life on stage, of blonde hair, of a fur-lined coat, of passion in her words and her fists that she could raise up to the sky. At eighteen, she got pregnant and stopped dreaming about anything but surviving in a way that didn’t make her feel like she was scraping the bottom of a very small barrel, of her husband living to a late age, unlike her father, of her daughter having bigger dreams than even her.
She kept her hair short, her husband liked to brush his hands against her bare neck as she worked in the kitchen, he sang to her softly under his breath. She liked to wrap a handkerchief around her brow to keep her hair out of her eyes, her friends sighed and plucked at her short hair, their husbands preferred long hair, they wore it in long braids that twisted around their heads and out of the way. She tossed her short curls and laughed with her brown eyes but said nothing. He called her mi morena and they danced in the moonlight in their small garden, his work-rough hands holding her work-rough hands, his soft lips soft on her soft lips.
She is twenty-five when the woman in red comes to her door a second time, her pale face and wide eyes a mirror of a sort and this time Belén is the one who stares at the ghost in the doorway, not the other way around. She remembers thinking, Please - I am not ready. Not yet. Just a little more time.
She tanned in the sun, wore short sleeves and always forgot her hat. There were freckles that trickled over her nose and shoulders. Her daughter laughed and scolded, as most teenage girls do. Her sons smiled shyly at her, the way their father did, and did nothing to change her. She was their whole world, this daughter and these sons. They were her whole world, this daughter and these sons. She wanted nothing more. Her daughter dreamed of big cities and ballrooms and glittering cocktails; her sons dreamed of quiet wives and large houses and loud children. Her daughter was allowed to dream, they dreamed together sometimes, of pearls and wine and diamonds. Her daughter would say, and you will live there, you have to come with me and Belén would hug her daughter tight and pretend that tears weren’t springing to her eyes. She never made promises she couldn’t keep.
She cut her hair even shorter after her husband’s funeral and her friends sighed and said thank goodness it’s the style now. She looked at her reflection and tried to find the ghost of a girl in her dark face and wrinkled cheeks and graying hair. She wore her husband’s shirts, tied them in knots on her waist, and kneaded at the dirt in her garden and fed her children and her grandchildren and sang along to the radio and wore a red handkerchief in her hair but never a hat.
She is fifty-four when the girl in red comes a third time. There is nothing recognizable about them anymore, which is probably why it is time. She holds the door out with one hand and offers a cup of coffee with a clear voice. The girl presses her hand against her cheek and sheds a single tear.
She was buried under the same tree as her husband, her sons silent and tall looking down at her, her daughter bright and beautiful and wearing a fur coat.
In the distance, a ghost didn’t cry, but mourned in her own way. As she had mourned a hundred times before.
fandom: vampire diaris
characters: original Petrova doppleganger + family; Katherine
rating: gen
word count: 700
recipient: for upupa_epops who wanted a Petrova doppelganger we don't know from canon, husband, spying Katherine, but no Originals
setting: appx 1960's Argentina (idk I just got it in my head that a non-European doppelganger would be interesting; and the idea of Katherine being around during Eva Peron's heyday was too much fun to let go of)
She is ten when the woman in red first comes to her door, seeking directions. She remembers the pretty lady staring at her like she had seen a ghost. She remembers thinking, I hope I look like her someday.
Her name is Belén Álvarez and she lives in a small, inconsequential village. Her life is as normal as one might expect, the middle child in a household of seven children, neither a natural leader nor an easy scapegoat. She has just as many friends as is normal, she is just about as smart as she could be. For a short time, between the ages of about fifteen and seventeen, she idolized Evita and dreamed of a life on stage, of blonde hair, of a fur-lined coat, of passion in her words and her fists that she could raise up to the sky. At eighteen, she got pregnant and stopped dreaming about anything but surviving in a way that didn’t make her feel like she was scraping the bottom of a very small barrel, of her husband living to a late age, unlike her father, of her daughter having bigger dreams than even her.
She kept her hair short, her husband liked to brush his hands against her bare neck as she worked in the kitchen, he sang to her softly under his breath. She liked to wrap a handkerchief around her brow to keep her hair out of her eyes, her friends sighed and plucked at her short hair, their husbands preferred long hair, they wore it in long braids that twisted around their heads and out of the way. She tossed her short curls and laughed with her brown eyes but said nothing. He called her mi morena and they danced in the moonlight in their small garden, his work-rough hands holding her work-rough hands, his soft lips soft on her soft lips.
She is twenty-five when the woman in red comes to her door a second time, her pale face and wide eyes a mirror of a sort and this time Belén is the one who stares at the ghost in the doorway, not the other way around. She remembers thinking, Please - I am not ready. Not yet. Just a little more time.
She tanned in the sun, wore short sleeves and always forgot her hat. There were freckles that trickled over her nose and shoulders. Her daughter laughed and scolded, as most teenage girls do. Her sons smiled shyly at her, the way their father did, and did nothing to change her. She was their whole world, this daughter and these sons. They were her whole world, this daughter and these sons. She wanted nothing more. Her daughter dreamed of big cities and ballrooms and glittering cocktails; her sons dreamed of quiet wives and large houses and loud children. Her daughter was allowed to dream, they dreamed together sometimes, of pearls and wine and diamonds. Her daughter would say, and you will live there, you have to come with me and Belén would hug her daughter tight and pretend that tears weren’t springing to her eyes. She never made promises she couldn’t keep.
She cut her hair even shorter after her husband’s funeral and her friends sighed and said thank goodness it’s the style now. She looked at her reflection and tried to find the ghost of a girl in her dark face and wrinkled cheeks and graying hair. She wore her husband’s shirts, tied them in knots on her waist, and kneaded at the dirt in her garden and fed her children and her grandchildren and sang along to the radio and wore a red handkerchief in her hair but never a hat.
She is fifty-four when the girl in red comes a third time. There is nothing recognizable about them anymore, which is probably why it is time. She holds the door out with one hand and offers a cup of coffee with a clear voice. The girl presses her hand against her cheek and sheds a single tear.
She was buried under the same tree as her husband, her sons silent and tall looking down at her, her daughter bright and beautiful and wearing a fur coat.
In the distance, a ghost didn’t cry, but mourned in her own way. As she had mourned a hundred times before.