birds play, try to find their own way; Laertes & Ophelia, PG
Title: birds play, try to find their own way
Fandom: Hamlet
Characters/Pairings: Ophelia & Laertes; Ophelia/Laertes if you read it that way ahem, which I do, because I'm me, AHEM
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: Incest, if you read it that way
Word Count: 850 approx
Summary: “You are too young for such an anxious mind.”
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: First writing in some time; scary. Based on the prompt: Laertes/Ophelia, last light in a darkened house
She is sat on the rug now, dressed in white. She stretches her hands in her lap. The servants have tied her gown with their deft fingers and left her now, her hair in a plait that stretches to the base of her spine and licks her there when it’s wet.
The water of her bath had seemed thicker than usual today, she notes in her head; for once it was holding her back, embracing her with tender and soft fingers. She has learnt that the servants don’t want to hear her when she talks like this, that they talk amongst themselves later when she mentions how the rain has sounded and how the cold has laughed at her. But today she had leant forward and cupped her liquid reflection, enjoying how the mirror shrank in her small hands and then ran through.
The empty fire- long put out, still warming the air next to it- does not talk amongst itself.
“The servants are all atwitter,” Laertes whispers from behind, places his hand on her head while his fingers net in her hair. And while she jumped before, her smile now soothes in recognition, bends to a grin.
“They told me not to wait for you. That it would be late.” She turns to face him. “We must be quiet.”
“As mice.” He twists a strand of blonde in his finger and flicks it back with the rest of her hair. “However, we must discuss the subject of this hushed talk. The servants are frenzied, sister. ”
“Mm?” Her gown twists around her ankles- too big, far too big- but she will insist on wearing her mother’s gown, they explain to her father when he asks and he goes quiet. No one has yet told her to take them off. She cocks her chin. “They always seem to be, Laertes. Besides--” she faces him, “I thought gossip was reserved for hags and children.”
“But today,” he sits next to her, his hand moving to the carpet, the candle he hooked his finger into trying ever so defiantly to stay alight in the shared breath between their faces, “the topic of interest intrigues me.” His mouth stretches and he licks over his teeth before setting down the candle somewhere in front of them.
“Mm.” she repeats, and this time there’s a laugh in it.
“Mm. Not a week away this time and my fair sister is seen strolling the grounds with the Prince Of Denmark-“
“She is?”
“So whispers say.”
“They are, almost religiously, never wrong.” She bends her legs towards her stomach. Her face is still as it rests on his again. “And the whispers’ thoughts?”
“Agreeable. Mostly.”
She sighs, relieved.
Her face falls. “And your thoughts?”
“Not important.”
She rolls her eyes. “Brother, that does not sound like you.” Now her whole body is turned towards him and his mannish frame- still new to her hands- closes in on her. One hand on each arm, she is but an inch away and her face is sweeter still at this angle, her nails press into his arms through his shirt. “I am asking, Laertes.”
He sighs, “Have you spoke with father?”
“Away.” She presses harder still, purple grooves in the morning. She shakes her head, “But your thoughts. I am asking for my brother to speak. Through his mouth, not through his father’s.”
He glances down, at the space between them, barely visible in these shadows they sit in. “He treats you well, Ophelia? He speaks to you as you would like to be spoken to?”
“He writes me letters.” She grins, and his sister is of eight years again; his sister of eight years and loving someone else like she once loved him. “Poetry. He tells me-He tells me that he enjoys my company, my thoughts.” She props his chin to look him in the eyes. “I swear it is almost sincere,” she laughs.
He smiles. “You do, at least, enjoy your betrothed.”
“I hear,” she says, picking at his stubbled cheek, “that you have also been known to enjoy yours.” He laughs, shaking his head, and catches her wrist while she flattens her palm against his face. “I do worry about you, brother.”
“You are too young for such an anxious mind.”
“You are too quick-tempered for me not to be anxious.” She scratches over his cheek with her square and clean nails, “And I worry about the distance between us, and how the French will change your love for me, Laertes.”
“But not how your prince will change yours for me?”
“No.” she whispers, and her breath blows his eyes shut.
“Then you are braver than me, Lovely Ophelia.” His thumb finds a tear on her cheek. “To bed now, sister. The lark is almost singing.” He presses his lips to her forehead. “Sleep well.”
Her hand is on his cheek as he keeps his mouth at her temple. “With your return, yes.”
He leaves and the candle has gone out now.
Fandom: Hamlet
Characters/Pairings: Ophelia & Laertes; Ophelia/Laertes if you read it that way ahem, which I do, because I'm me, AHEM
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: Incest, if you read it that way
Word Count: 850 approx
Summary: “You are too young for such an anxious mind.”
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: First writing in some time; scary. Based on the prompt: Laertes/Ophelia, last light in a darkened house
She is sat on the rug now, dressed in white. She stretches her hands in her lap. The servants have tied her gown with their deft fingers and left her now, her hair in a plait that stretches to the base of her spine and licks her there when it’s wet.
The water of her bath had seemed thicker than usual today, she notes in her head; for once it was holding her back, embracing her with tender and soft fingers. She has learnt that the servants don’t want to hear her when she talks like this, that they talk amongst themselves later when she mentions how the rain has sounded and how the cold has laughed at her. But today she had leant forward and cupped her liquid reflection, enjoying how the mirror shrank in her small hands and then ran through.
The empty fire- long put out, still warming the air next to it- does not talk amongst itself.
“The servants are all atwitter,” Laertes whispers from behind, places his hand on her head while his fingers net in her hair. And while she jumped before, her smile now soothes in recognition, bends to a grin.
“They told me not to wait for you. That it would be late.” She turns to face him. “We must be quiet.”
“As mice.” He twists a strand of blonde in his finger and flicks it back with the rest of her hair. “However, we must discuss the subject of this hushed talk. The servants are frenzied, sister. ”
“Mm?” Her gown twists around her ankles- too big, far too big- but she will insist on wearing her mother’s gown, they explain to her father when he asks and he goes quiet. No one has yet told her to take them off. She cocks her chin. “They always seem to be, Laertes. Besides--” she faces him, “I thought gossip was reserved for hags and children.”
“But today,” he sits next to her, his hand moving to the carpet, the candle he hooked his finger into trying ever so defiantly to stay alight in the shared breath between their faces, “the topic of interest intrigues me.” His mouth stretches and he licks over his teeth before setting down the candle somewhere in front of them.
“Mm.” she repeats, and this time there’s a laugh in it.
“Mm. Not a week away this time and my fair sister is seen strolling the grounds with the Prince Of Denmark-“
“She is?”
“So whispers say.”
“They are, almost religiously, never wrong.” She bends her legs towards her stomach. Her face is still as it rests on his again. “And the whispers’ thoughts?”
“Agreeable. Mostly.”
She sighs, relieved.
Her face falls. “And your thoughts?”
“Not important.”
She rolls her eyes. “Brother, that does not sound like you.” Now her whole body is turned towards him and his mannish frame- still new to her hands- closes in on her. One hand on each arm, she is but an inch away and her face is sweeter still at this angle, her nails press into his arms through his shirt. “I am asking, Laertes.”
He sighs, “Have you spoke with father?”
“Away.” She presses harder still, purple grooves in the morning. She shakes her head, “But your thoughts. I am asking for my brother to speak. Through his mouth, not through his father’s.”
He glances down, at the space between them, barely visible in these shadows they sit in. “He treats you well, Ophelia? He speaks to you as you would like to be spoken to?”
“He writes me letters.” She grins, and his sister is of eight years again; his sister of eight years and loving someone else like she once loved him. “Poetry. He tells me-He tells me that he enjoys my company, my thoughts.” She props his chin to look him in the eyes. “I swear it is almost sincere,” she laughs.
He smiles. “You do, at least, enjoy your betrothed.”
“I hear,” she says, picking at his stubbled cheek, “that you have also been known to enjoy yours.” He laughs, shaking his head, and catches her wrist while she flattens her palm against his face. “I do worry about you, brother.”
“You are too young for such an anxious mind.”
“You are too quick-tempered for me not to be anxious.” She scratches over his cheek with her square and clean nails, “And I worry about the distance between us, and how the French will change your love for me, Laertes.”
“But not how your prince will change yours for me?”
“No.” she whispers, and her breath blows his eyes shut.
“Then you are braver than me, Lovely Ophelia.” His thumb finds a tear on her cheek. “To bed now, sister. The lark is almost singing.” He presses his lips to her forehead. “Sleep well.”
Her hand is on his cheek as he keeps his mouth at her temple. “With your return, yes.”
He leaves and the candle has gone out now.