Remix Fic: Like Frost Unto Dew (The Circadian Remix)
Well, the Remix authors have been revealed, and so I can post mine now. (sullensiren remixed mine, by the way. I don't know her stuff--I'll have to check it out.)
I chose something that's a little out there. A few years back Sophia Jirafe (sophia_helix) wrote Passing of a Winter Love, a piece based on Disney's animated Beauty and the Beast. It's a fascinating look at Belle after the end of the movie.
I added a few points of view to the story, and attempted to really streamline some of the main elements that Sophia had in the story. I think it works. You probably need to read both stories, but if you read mine first, I'd love to know if it makes sense without knowing hers.
dawn
Marie clucks to herself as she picks up the master's breeches from where they had been crumpled like an old rag across the fine foreign wool rug.
"Still a man, he is," she says under her breath.
"What was that, ma'am?"
Marie straightens a little too quickly for her old bones, and she has to clutch at her back as she turns toward that wavering voice. She isn't used to the new girl's presence. The master had insisted on finding someone to ease her burdens now that there was a lady of the castle; right gentleman he's turned out to be, even if he can't remember to pick up his trousers.
"Nothing important, dearie," Marie says. Whatever is the child's name? "Why don't you throw open the shutters, let the day in. It's too nice a day for it to be dark and dreary inside."
Nicolette, that's it. She's a good girl, though still uncertain of her place in the bustling household. Time will cure that. Marie examines the master's breeches in the new brightness that fills the room. At least the girl is prompt about her work.
"Yes, that's better," Marie mutters. Her needle and scissors had been busy the first few months after the master returned to himself, repairing old favorites he had all but demolished and creating new ones. He has learned his manners though, and now when she turns her hand to tailoring it's usually to create a gown for the lady. Always at the master's behest, however. The lady is a strange one, though Marie would never say it out loud.
She hangs the breeches in the mahogany wardrobe, her hands stilling for a moment across its lustrous door. Her reflection wavers like cream in a cup of tea, but it's very much her own face. She shuts the door on the silks inside, and turns sharply to Nicolette. The child jumps like a cat caught with the milk.
"Now where were we, child?"
A bit of dusting, a dab of sweeping, a quick straightening of the bedclothes, and the bedchamber is right as rain. Marie keeps an eye on the girl, but Nicolette is a quick study.
"Just like my own self," she says approvingly. "Now girly, I could tell you stories from back in the day, back when the master was just a speck in his mother's eye. Back before all the trouble started, I suppose."
She ushers the child out into the hall and down the grand staircase, imparting wisdom as she tidies her home. Marie has always loved this castle, though it has never been so grand and welcoming a place as it has since the master's lady broke the spell. The gleam of the chandelier above matches the lightness in her soul; the vibrant tapestries on the walls match the warmth in her heart. Marie has never felt so happy and sure, and for that she will forgive the lady any number of oddities.
She sweeps on through the main corridor, Nicolette a quiet shadow behind her. Such a mousy girl, that one. Maybe Lumiere would be better at coaxing her out of her shell, but Marie feels like that would be feeding a spider to the wolves. Perhaps she'll give Nicolette a little longer.
"Have you heard the latest about Cogsworth? Such a dear, even if he is a blowhard. Why I was telling Mrs. Potts the other day..." Marie trails off as she realizes the lady herself is in the library.
"Hello, Madame," she greets with a curtsy that's only awkward because of her knees. "Whyever are you cooped up in this gloomy place on such a fine day?"
The lady smiles at her, though it's a small, wan thing. It's a smile to match the lady's pale face and delicate features, but it's not the glowing warmth that used to shine from her. Marie clears her throat, and pretends that she hasn't seen that smile far too often lately.
"I'm enjoying myself, Marie. Isn't that enough?"
Marie starts to nod, then clucks her tongue instead. "You should save that for the winter, my lady, when there's naught else to do. Be off with you, go get some fresh air and sunshine."
The lady sighs, and smiles that wan smile again. "All right," she agrees, setting her book aside. She floats out of the room like a lily on the river, her voice trailing behind her. "I do wish you would call me Belle, though."
Marie huffs to herself, then catches Nicolette watching her with wide eyes. "Now don't go getting a head full of nonsense," she warns. "Always treat the master and the lady as they deserve, understand my dear?"
Nicolette nods, and Marie turns back to her dusting. Books seem to create dust the way boys create dirt, and there are an awful lot of books in this room.
midday
"There you go, Master. I believe Cook has outdone herself today. Something with fresh dill, by my nose."
Denys holds up a hand, cutting off Cogsworth before he can get on a roll. "Yes, thank you. I'm sure it's wonderful."
He turns back toward the window as his butler settles the tray on the corner of his desk. Mounds of paperwork cover most of its surface, tallies from the farms and accounts from the town. He's been working his way through them for months, but they only seem to grow.
"Will you be needing anything else, Master? I could send for the lady if you would like some company, perhaps?"
Denys shakes his head. He can see Belle below, feeding the birds in the gardens. They dine together every night; there is no reason to pull her away from the day. Behind him, Cogsworth clears his throat.
"Very well, sir. Monsieur Lebrun is due shortly; shall I send him up after you are done eating?"
A nod and a wave is enough to send Cogsworth on his way for once, and finally he is alone. He has spent so much of his life in exile that it seems ridiculous that he should crave the quiet moments. Perhaps he wouldn't value them so much if he wasn't so aware of others. If only he could retreat to the comfortable self-absorption of his youth, but that option was no longer open to him.
He steps away from the deep stone ledge, pushes some papers around so he can fit his meal in front of him. His stomach turns a little as he realizes the cook has prepared some kind of fish, most likely caught from his own forest stream. At least it's not venison. He takes a bite, forcing it down, then another. Denys wouldn't dream of sending it back, not when Cook has put so much effort into it. It really is good, piquantly spiced with something that's most definitely not dill.
As he washes the last of it down with a hearty measure of burgundy, he tells himself that it's only the foreign spice that turns his stomach. Most certainly it's not the phantom blood lingering on his palate. Especially since his tongue seeks out the traces between his teeth, testing reality against memory. No, it's just a bit of strange spice.
Denys settles against the window again. Belle has wandered to the edge of the gardens, where the forest creeps up close. He misses the days when they wandered the grounds together, but it seems those days are in their past. He no longer knows how to reach her, and his helpful servants are no longer helpful. He cannot please her with gowns or jewels, cannot entertain her with banquets or balls. There is something that lurks in her beautiful brown eyes whenever he tries to touch her. He had thought that had gentled everything about himself, but perhaps his empathy is still lacking.
A knock on the door and Cogsworth ushers in his guest. The cobbler has run afoul of some hard times, and Denys aims to see him back on his feet. He frowns a little as he tries to remember the town gossip from his last visit; wasn't Lebrun's boy just recovering from a fever? Perhaps a few extra coins would not go amiss.
Denys turns from Belle and the warm summer air. He tells himself that the smell of deep forest damp is only in his imagination.
dusk
Daylight draws back, dark flows forth. Pack awaits the hunting time, the running time.
He stands guard on the border of the forbidden.
The scent is strong now, though never as strong as it was. Then, when the big one ruled this territory. Now, the big one hides like a whimpering pup, defeated by the pack. He wishes to take this territory, but the leader does not allow it. The leader is not as strong as he once was, though. The leader has been cowed by the big one.
He paces under the tree-shadow, following the curve of the forbidden zone. Yes, the scent of the strong one is there, but it is only a reflection carried by the she. That scent makes him drool with the memory of horse-beast on his tongue, and the feel of the fur of the big one catching in his teeth. It makes his blood burn with fire, knowing that the big one's mate is alone and vulnerable. The big one is no threat.
No, the big one no longer ranges in his own territory, nor does he invade the pack land. There was a time that this was not so but the memory is hazy. He knows that the big one once hunted pack deer and pack rabbit, and that alone would be enough. The big one is a threat to pack for more than one reason.
He hears the leader call as the light rises in the sky. The hunt will start soon, so he turns back from his patrol.
There will be a time to make his move later.
midnight
She has been in bed for hours by the time he enters, though it was only a few moments ago that she abandoned her book to snuggle deeper into the warmth of the covers. She watches him silently, debating whether to feign sleep when he joins her. His pale hair shines like the moon in the candlelight, and as he removes his tunic his pale skin almost looks golden brown. Almost.
Her husband. Somehow Belle never thought about this day, this reality, even though it is the only thing she ever dreamed of. She has found her prince, and he is everything in every story ever written. Her eyes are drawn to his narrow waist and the strong muscles of his back that glide and bunch as he moves. He is a perfect specimen, a perfect prince, a perfect ruler of his land and people. Perfect.
He drapes his breeches across the back of the blue brocade chair, not noticing that they slip to the floor in his hurry to reach the bed. It is always this way, as if his duty and pleasure compel his feet across the floor. Denys slips between the fine linen sheets, and his body against her own is a shock of cold against the warm night air.
His hand hovers above her face, never quite touching. He is so very careful of his precious wife. Belle offers a smile, hoping that it satisfies whatever it is he looks for.
"Belle," he murmurs, "my beautiful Belle."
She is always his beautiful Belle, his precious ornament draped across his arm like a jewel in a crown. She raises her eyes to the dark canopy as his hands ghost down her body, still chill and distant. Nothing like the warmth that held her and protected her in the winter long past. Nothing about him is familiar except his blue eyes, and even the fire there that once warmed her heart has faded. Now, as he takes her with slow, not unpleasant motions, she wraps her hands around soft bare arms and buries her face in a neck that smells of ink and cooking fires.
It is not until the end, when his motions speed and his muscles clench, and his throat opens up in a roar that is a pale imitation of the past, that her heart quickens in the memory of her first love. She smells evergreens and musk.
Belle strokes a soothing hand down her husband's back, then shifts to the side to allow his slumber. Denys is a good king, a perfect prince, but she does not know him. This is not the man she fell in love with, and she is not the perfect princess he needs. Belle isn't sure what she wants, but she knows one thing.
She misses her beast.
I chose something that's a little out there. A few years back Sophia Jirafe (sophia_helix) wrote Passing of a Winter Love, a piece based on Disney's animated Beauty and the Beast. It's a fascinating look at Belle after the end of the movie.
I added a few points of view to the story, and attempted to really streamline some of the main elements that Sophia had in the story. I think it works. You probably need to read both stories, but if you read mine first, I'd love to know if it makes sense without knowing hers.
dawn
Marie clucks to herself as she picks up the master's breeches from where they had been crumpled like an old rag across the fine foreign wool rug.
"Still a man, he is," she says under her breath.
"What was that, ma'am?"
Marie straightens a little too quickly for her old bones, and she has to clutch at her back as she turns toward that wavering voice. She isn't used to the new girl's presence. The master had insisted on finding someone to ease her burdens now that there was a lady of the castle; right gentleman he's turned out to be, even if he can't remember to pick up his trousers.
"Nothing important, dearie," Marie says. Whatever is the child's name? "Why don't you throw open the shutters, let the day in. It's too nice a day for it to be dark and dreary inside."
Nicolette, that's it. She's a good girl, though still uncertain of her place in the bustling household. Time will cure that. Marie examines the master's breeches in the new brightness that fills the room. At least the girl is prompt about her work.
"Yes, that's better," Marie mutters. Her needle and scissors had been busy the first few months after the master returned to himself, repairing old favorites he had all but demolished and creating new ones. He has learned his manners though, and now when she turns her hand to tailoring it's usually to create a gown for the lady. Always at the master's behest, however. The lady is a strange one, though Marie would never say it out loud.
She hangs the breeches in the mahogany wardrobe, her hands stilling for a moment across its lustrous door. Her reflection wavers like cream in a cup of tea, but it's very much her own face. She shuts the door on the silks inside, and turns sharply to Nicolette. The child jumps like a cat caught with the milk.
"Now where were we, child?"
A bit of dusting, a dab of sweeping, a quick straightening of the bedclothes, and the bedchamber is right as rain. Marie keeps an eye on the girl, but Nicolette is a quick study.
"Just like my own self," she says approvingly. "Now girly, I could tell you stories from back in the day, back when the master was just a speck in his mother's eye. Back before all the trouble started, I suppose."
She ushers the child out into the hall and down the grand staircase, imparting wisdom as she tidies her home. Marie has always loved this castle, though it has never been so grand and welcoming a place as it has since the master's lady broke the spell. The gleam of the chandelier above matches the lightness in her soul; the vibrant tapestries on the walls match the warmth in her heart. Marie has never felt so happy and sure, and for that she will forgive the lady any number of oddities.
She sweeps on through the main corridor, Nicolette a quiet shadow behind her. Such a mousy girl, that one. Maybe Lumiere would be better at coaxing her out of her shell, but Marie feels like that would be feeding a spider to the wolves. Perhaps she'll give Nicolette a little longer.
"Have you heard the latest about Cogsworth? Such a dear, even if he is a blowhard. Why I was telling Mrs. Potts the other day..." Marie trails off as she realizes the lady herself is in the library.
"Hello, Madame," she greets with a curtsy that's only awkward because of her knees. "Whyever are you cooped up in this gloomy place on such a fine day?"
The lady smiles at her, though it's a small, wan thing. It's a smile to match the lady's pale face and delicate features, but it's not the glowing warmth that used to shine from her. Marie clears her throat, and pretends that she hasn't seen that smile far too often lately.
"I'm enjoying myself, Marie. Isn't that enough?"
Marie starts to nod, then clucks her tongue instead. "You should save that for the winter, my lady, when there's naught else to do. Be off with you, go get some fresh air and sunshine."
The lady sighs, and smiles that wan smile again. "All right," she agrees, setting her book aside. She floats out of the room like a lily on the river, her voice trailing behind her. "I do wish you would call me Belle, though."
Marie huffs to herself, then catches Nicolette watching her with wide eyes. "Now don't go getting a head full of nonsense," she warns. "Always treat the master and the lady as they deserve, understand my dear?"
Nicolette nods, and Marie turns back to her dusting. Books seem to create dust the way boys create dirt, and there are an awful lot of books in this room.
midday
"There you go, Master. I believe Cook has outdone herself today. Something with fresh dill, by my nose."
Denys holds up a hand, cutting off Cogsworth before he can get on a roll. "Yes, thank you. I'm sure it's wonderful."
He turns back toward the window as his butler settles the tray on the corner of his desk. Mounds of paperwork cover most of its surface, tallies from the farms and accounts from the town. He's been working his way through them for months, but they only seem to grow.
"Will you be needing anything else, Master? I could send for the lady if you would like some company, perhaps?"
Denys shakes his head. He can see Belle below, feeding the birds in the gardens. They dine together every night; there is no reason to pull her away from the day. Behind him, Cogsworth clears his throat.
"Very well, sir. Monsieur Lebrun is due shortly; shall I send him up after you are done eating?"
A nod and a wave is enough to send Cogsworth on his way for once, and finally he is alone. He has spent so much of his life in exile that it seems ridiculous that he should crave the quiet moments. Perhaps he wouldn't value them so much if he wasn't so aware of others. If only he could retreat to the comfortable self-absorption of his youth, but that option was no longer open to him.
He steps away from the deep stone ledge, pushes some papers around so he can fit his meal in front of him. His stomach turns a little as he realizes the cook has prepared some kind of fish, most likely caught from his own forest stream. At least it's not venison. He takes a bite, forcing it down, then another. Denys wouldn't dream of sending it back, not when Cook has put so much effort into it. It really is good, piquantly spiced with something that's most definitely not dill.
As he washes the last of it down with a hearty measure of burgundy, he tells himself that it's only the foreign spice that turns his stomach. Most certainly it's not the phantom blood lingering on his palate. Especially since his tongue seeks out the traces between his teeth, testing reality against memory. No, it's just a bit of strange spice.
Denys settles against the window again. Belle has wandered to the edge of the gardens, where the forest creeps up close. He misses the days when they wandered the grounds together, but it seems those days are in their past. He no longer knows how to reach her, and his helpful servants are no longer helpful. He cannot please her with gowns or jewels, cannot entertain her with banquets or balls. There is something that lurks in her beautiful brown eyes whenever he tries to touch her. He had thought that had gentled everything about himself, but perhaps his empathy is still lacking.
A knock on the door and Cogsworth ushers in his guest. The cobbler has run afoul of some hard times, and Denys aims to see him back on his feet. He frowns a little as he tries to remember the town gossip from his last visit; wasn't Lebrun's boy just recovering from a fever? Perhaps a few extra coins would not go amiss.
Denys turns from Belle and the warm summer air. He tells himself that the smell of deep forest damp is only in his imagination.
dusk
Daylight draws back, dark flows forth. Pack awaits the hunting time, the running time.
He stands guard on the border of the forbidden.
The scent is strong now, though never as strong as it was. Then, when the big one ruled this territory. Now, the big one hides like a whimpering pup, defeated by the pack. He wishes to take this territory, but the leader does not allow it. The leader is not as strong as he once was, though. The leader has been cowed by the big one.
He paces under the tree-shadow, following the curve of the forbidden zone. Yes, the scent of the strong one is there, but it is only a reflection carried by the she. That scent makes him drool with the memory of horse-beast on his tongue, and the feel of the fur of the big one catching in his teeth. It makes his blood burn with fire, knowing that the big one's mate is alone and vulnerable. The big one is no threat.
No, the big one no longer ranges in his own territory, nor does he invade the pack land. There was a time that this was not so but the memory is hazy. He knows that the big one once hunted pack deer and pack rabbit, and that alone would be enough. The big one is a threat to pack for more than one reason.
He hears the leader call as the light rises in the sky. The hunt will start soon, so he turns back from his patrol.
There will be a time to make his move later.
midnight
She has been in bed for hours by the time he enters, though it was only a few moments ago that she abandoned her book to snuggle deeper into the warmth of the covers. She watches him silently, debating whether to feign sleep when he joins her. His pale hair shines like the moon in the candlelight, and as he removes his tunic his pale skin almost looks golden brown. Almost.
Her husband. Somehow Belle never thought about this day, this reality, even though it is the only thing she ever dreamed of. She has found her prince, and he is everything in every story ever written. Her eyes are drawn to his narrow waist and the strong muscles of his back that glide and bunch as he moves. He is a perfect specimen, a perfect prince, a perfect ruler of his land and people. Perfect.
He drapes his breeches across the back of the blue brocade chair, not noticing that they slip to the floor in his hurry to reach the bed. It is always this way, as if his duty and pleasure compel his feet across the floor. Denys slips between the fine linen sheets, and his body against her own is a shock of cold against the warm night air.
His hand hovers above her face, never quite touching. He is so very careful of his precious wife. Belle offers a smile, hoping that it satisfies whatever it is he looks for.
"Belle," he murmurs, "my beautiful Belle."
She is always his beautiful Belle, his precious ornament draped across his arm like a jewel in a crown. She raises her eyes to the dark canopy as his hands ghost down her body, still chill and distant. Nothing like the warmth that held her and protected her in the winter long past. Nothing about him is familiar except his blue eyes, and even the fire there that once warmed her heart has faded. Now, as he takes her with slow, not unpleasant motions, she wraps her hands around soft bare arms and buries her face in a neck that smells of ink and cooking fires.
It is not until the end, when his motions speed and his muscles clench, and his throat opens up in a roar that is a pale imitation of the past, that her heart quickens in the memory of her first love. She smells evergreens and musk.
Belle strokes a soothing hand down her husband's back, then shifts to the side to allow his slumber. Denys is a good king, a perfect prince, but she does not know him. This is not the man she fell in love with, and she is not the perfect princess he needs. Belle isn't sure what she wants, but she knows one thing.
She misses her beast.