If she be made of white and red
*~*~*
Humans were so delightfully ugly, weren't they? Grell tried his best not to smile, but it was oh so hard to keep up the facade of the bumbling butler. This ugly shell with a pasty pale face like the ladies who painted themselves with egg whites and powder. Long ratty black hair yanked back into a tight ponytail. This tight, clumsy body swathed in black instead of crimson almost made Grell sick, but he kept it up. It was a small price to pay for all the fun he was having.
He made his way down the streets at a leisurely pace, one hand gripped the black umbrella to ward off the weather and the other held onto a bag containing wares from a boutique. All around him Londoners bustled to and fro, busy with their lives; unaware of the Reapers who walked amidst them and measured how much time they had left.
Dandies with their expensive clothing, spending their inheritance with reckless abandon. Young ladies leashed tightly by protective parents scouting potential partners for their daughters. Street urchins for whom the world was their unforgiving playground. Harlots who sold themselves to scrape by a meager existence. Nothing followed natural order anymore, not when Britain was gripped in the era of Decadence.
Grell's favorite group were the women choked by their own vanity. He adored them and their drive to achieve a level of beauty unattainable naturally. Turning a corner, Grell paused in an alleyway to peek into a window. There she was, his pretty little Queen. A corset cinched painfully tight to create an hourglass figure. Painted delicate blue veins using watercolor on her decolletage. Shadow for her eyelids, made from powder and lead. Sparkle for her eyes made of deadly nightshade. A thimbleful of arsenic to wash her skin pale and flush her cheeks with mild fever. Artiface so beautiful because it was so macabre, so against the will of Nature.
How it made Grell's heart swell. He longed to dress her in liquid red ribbons to compliment her sickened white skin and dazed eyes. He longed to spill her blood and paint that ugly purple gown a bright red. Blowing her a kiss unseen, he slipped away back to the abode of his Madam.
Shaking the snow from his umbrella, Grell then hung up his mantle before he made his way up the stairs to where he knew she would be. The sitting room of course, curled up by the fire whilst swathed in a thick fur pelt. The pair loved the rain, but the Madam detested the snow. It forced her to stay inside, her fragile body unable to cope with the sharp drop in temperature.
She was daydreaming, eyes half-mast and glazed as though she too sparkled them with deadly nightshade. Lost in her memories, perhaps fonder ones for her brows were uncreased by sorrow at present. Grell sat in front of the chaise, laying his head on her lap as he admired her beauty.
Could a woman more beautiful than her exist? Even the painted Queen he spied on could not compare to this one Angelina Durless. The widowed Baroness Barnett with her defiance of society both abhored and admired in tandem. The other aristocrats were horrified that she had cut her hair- no woman cut her hair! Hair was part of a woman's modesty and was only ever cut if illness called for it. She wore the newest fashion straight from Paris and dared to show her figure more than other ladies. Those other ladies both shunned her and secretly wished they were as brave as her. A woman of intelligence and a woman of the innermost social circle.
Yet her soul was far more tortured than her fleshy cage. It bore more wounds than her heart, for her soul was twisted in agony and guilt. Every death marked her soul further and her conscience struggled to be heard. It wrestled with her and begged her to listen to it, to remember her morals and values. But the need for blood was stronger. The need to act as Justice silenced any feeble attempts made by her conscience because no one seemed to punish these women. Angelina would be their punishment. She made them pay the ultimate price for their heinous crime.
And thusly she was the epitome of broken beauty and Grell would allow himself to play her game if only to be close to this disgustingly beautiful creature.
"Where did you slip off to?" Voice laced with sleep, the owner yet to resurface from her dreaming. Clumsily her fingers tangled in his red hair and the Reaper caught those fine digits and brought them to his lips to kiss.
"Everywhere and nowhere." He answered cryptically with his trademark grin. She gave a soft laugh as she reached to drape a corner of the pelt across his back.
"All this white...makes me sad." Angelina sighed, eyes watching the snow that flittered down. "I want the rain, not the snow."
"Spring rains will come soon, Madam." Grell reassured her. "The clinic will be busy with new mothers to be and disgusting women who abuse their God-given gift. We will bleed them and paint London's streets with fervor unseen in History's pages."
His words closed her eyes and spread a smile on her lips. He crawled up onto the chaise, and pulled her into his arms. She was a fragile thing indeed; a body broken and scarred and a soul even moreso. That was why he loved her. Reaching for the bag, he withdrew a small jar and a brush.
"What trinket have you bought me this time?" Angelina asked, as her eyes briefly shone with childlike curiosity.
"Something worthy of defying society." Grell replied, unscewing the jar before he dipped the brush into the viscuous liquid. Gently he grasped her chin with one hand, as the other slowly dragged the brush across her lips.
A lipstain as red as fresh blood; a brilliant hue as if drawn from the veins of a maiden. His breath hitched in his throat, the brush clattering to the floor.
"I give thee my heart." The Reaper whispered, stroking her cheek with gloved fingers. "Madam Red."
The smile she gave rendered him weak and he knew now, yes he believed it rightfully true: They would craft the Fate of other women themselves and they would answer to no other Reaper. She was worthy to defy the will of the Gods.
*~*~*
Inspired by the added scene in Episode5, where Grell paints Mary Jane Kelly's lips red.
Quotes taken from 'Love's Labour's Lost'
Thank you for reading!
Humans were so delightfully ugly, weren't they? Grell tried his best not to smile, but it was oh so hard to keep up the facade of the bumbling butler. This ugly shell with a pasty pale face like the ladies who painted themselves with egg whites and powder. Long ratty black hair yanked back into a tight ponytail. This tight, clumsy body swathed in black instead of crimson almost made Grell sick, but he kept it up. It was a small price to pay for all the fun he was having.
He made his way down the streets at a leisurely pace, one hand gripped the black umbrella to ward off the weather and the other held onto a bag containing wares from a boutique. All around him Londoners bustled to and fro, busy with their lives; unaware of the Reapers who walked amidst them and measured how much time they had left.
Dandies with their expensive clothing, spending their inheritance with reckless abandon. Young ladies leashed tightly by protective parents scouting potential partners for their daughters. Street urchins for whom the world was their unforgiving playground. Harlots who sold themselves to scrape by a meager existence. Nothing followed natural order anymore, not when Britain was gripped in the era of Decadence.
Grell's favorite group were the women choked by their own vanity. He adored them and their drive to achieve a level of beauty unattainable naturally. Turning a corner, Grell paused in an alleyway to peek into a window. There she was, his pretty little Queen. A corset cinched painfully tight to create an hourglass figure. Painted delicate blue veins using watercolor on her decolletage. Shadow for her eyelids, made from powder and lead. Sparkle for her eyes made of deadly nightshade. A thimbleful of arsenic to wash her skin pale and flush her cheeks with mild fever. Artiface so beautiful because it was so macabre, so against the will of Nature.
How it made Grell's heart swell. He longed to dress her in liquid red ribbons to compliment her sickened white skin and dazed eyes. He longed to spill her blood and paint that ugly purple gown a bright red. Blowing her a kiss unseen, he slipped away back to the abode of his Madam.
Shaking the snow from his umbrella, Grell then hung up his mantle before he made his way up the stairs to where he knew she would be. The sitting room of course, curled up by the fire whilst swathed in a thick fur pelt. The pair loved the rain, but the Madam detested the snow. It forced her to stay inside, her fragile body unable to cope with the sharp drop in temperature.
She was daydreaming, eyes half-mast and glazed as though she too sparkled them with deadly nightshade. Lost in her memories, perhaps fonder ones for her brows were uncreased by sorrow at present. Grell sat in front of the chaise, laying his head on her lap as he admired her beauty.
Could a woman more beautiful than her exist? Even the painted Queen he spied on could not compare to this one Angelina Durless. The widowed Baroness Barnett with her defiance of society both abhored and admired in tandem. The other aristocrats were horrified that she had cut her hair- no woman cut her hair! Hair was part of a woman's modesty and was only ever cut if illness called for it. She wore the newest fashion straight from Paris and dared to show her figure more than other ladies. Those other ladies both shunned her and secretly wished they were as brave as her. A woman of intelligence and a woman of the innermost social circle.
Yet her soul was far more tortured than her fleshy cage. It bore more wounds than her heart, for her soul was twisted in agony and guilt. Every death marked her soul further and her conscience struggled to be heard. It wrestled with her and begged her to listen to it, to remember her morals and values. But the need for blood was stronger. The need to act as Justice silenced any feeble attempts made by her conscience because no one seemed to punish these women. Angelina would be their punishment. She made them pay the ultimate price for their heinous crime.
And thusly she was the epitome of broken beauty and Grell would allow himself to play her game if only to be close to this disgustingly beautiful creature.
"Where did you slip off to?" Voice laced with sleep, the owner yet to resurface from her dreaming. Clumsily her fingers tangled in his red hair and the Reaper caught those fine digits and brought them to his lips to kiss.
"Everywhere and nowhere." He answered cryptically with his trademark grin. She gave a soft laugh as she reached to drape a corner of the pelt across his back.
"All this white...makes me sad." Angelina sighed, eyes watching the snow that flittered down. "I want the rain, not the snow."
"Spring rains will come soon, Madam." Grell reassured her. "The clinic will be busy with new mothers to be and disgusting women who abuse their God-given gift. We will bleed them and paint London's streets with fervor unseen in History's pages."
His words closed her eyes and spread a smile on her lips. He crawled up onto the chaise, and pulled her into his arms. She was a fragile thing indeed; a body broken and scarred and a soul even moreso. That was why he loved her. Reaching for the bag, he withdrew a small jar and a brush.
"What trinket have you bought me this time?" Angelina asked, as her eyes briefly shone with childlike curiosity.
"Something worthy of defying society." Grell replied, unscewing the jar before he dipped the brush into the viscuous liquid. Gently he grasped her chin with one hand, as the other slowly dragged the brush across her lips.
A lipstain as red as fresh blood; a brilliant hue as if drawn from the veins of a maiden. His breath hitched in his throat, the brush clattering to the floor.
"I give thee my heart." The Reaper whispered, stroking her cheek with gloved fingers. "Madam Red."
The smile she gave rendered him weak and he knew now, yes he believed it rightfully true: They would craft the Fate of other women themselves and they would answer to no other Reaper. She was worthy to defy the will of the Gods.
*~*~*
Inspired by the added scene in Episode5, where Grell paints Mary Jane Kelly's lips red.
Quotes taken from 'Love's Labour's Lost'
Thank you for reading!