Watchmen Kink Meme 3. Weeeeeeee.
Rules of the meme:
1. Anonymously post a pairing and prompt you would like to see written. Since this is a kink meme, there is supposted to be a kink involved, but normal well-written prompts should work just as well.
2. Anonymous will respond to your post and write it for you! Art and such is also acceptable/awesome. Multiple people may respond to ( Read more... )
Southford is just as riotous as Byron remembers, and even with everything that's happened and all the years that have gone by and all the evil this place has brought him, it's like being taken into his mother's arms. Right now he could take William's hand and lead him him four miles north and show him the spot where he was born. He doubts the house is still standing, and feels a pang for the high lacquered gate and the small peach orchard, both almost certainly burned to the ground.
"All right." Daniel rubs a hand across his face. "We'll find somewhere to put up, and I'll go see a man about an Unofficial Supplication. While I'm gone, stick to Asmoleda like a Devil's Caltrop." He looks at Laurel, and she nods. He shifts his gaze to Byron. "Kicking Horse, I trust you to look after yourself. Don't make me look like an ass."
"Daniel?" Asmoleda sounds uncertain, as well she might, given Daniel's temper lately. "If you're willing to trust the Longfire Clan, they would probably lodge us."
"Marginally safer than an inn." Ghost Rat murmurs. He sneezes again. "Same cast of characters every day."
Daniel thinks it over. The Longfires are pretty typical northern nobility, but there is a degree of honor that they've hung onto long after the other clans have become the backstabbing welter of decadence they are now. They hold poison in utter contempt, along with the killing of wives, concubines, and children, and most importantly, they broke their backs trying to prevent the fall of Hyperborea. The Old Alliance goes deep.
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<33333333333333 have some adoration.
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http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff298/waywardmortal/ghostratcostumes.jpg
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Anywho, I like them! I get what you're going for between the notes and my own costume knowledge. Hehehe Dan looks so bitty and adorable there.
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The servant girls bathe, perfume, and utterly spoil them, cooing over Asmoleda's white hair (only the old women know the truth, and they're sworn to secrecy about what is and isn't natural) and Laurel's perfect neck, telling them that they are lovely, even if they do have big feet. Asmoleda seems perfectly used to the tiny alternative, and Laurel wonders if she's faking. Laurel sure as hell is. Just watching them walk across a room is fascinating, the movement a lovely, crippled dance. Their tiny slippers, like something a doll or a child could wear are made of jewel-colored silks. Each pair is a work of art, embroidered with summer rain clouds, forget-me-nots, bluish northern peaches, dragons of all shades and descriptions both rampant and sleeping, chickadees, raindrops, willows, and a thousand other things, all nature-themed and each with its own nuanced meaning. The sole/soul pun in what they Southtongue pleases them, for obvious reasons.
Laurel has some idea what some of them mean. The peach is both refined and lascivious, a balance attained by any truly desirable woman. The chickadee is open-hearted and bold, cheerful in all weathers and still delicate. Many of the dragons are clan totems, but she can only guess at the caribou antler designs, and the little flowers whose names she doesn't know, like the ones that sprang up around the lodge she and Ghost Rat had shared. They're lounging on low couches, hands held out to have the fingernails lacquered, a procedure indispensable to a woman of any status here. Only the lowest of the low don't even try. The women of Longfire all wear red lacquer, down to four-year-old girls. Black is the default, but each clan has its choice. For large gatherings, designs are painted on as well, since there are only so many colors. Now, though, it's just smooth coat of bright, blood red. It's lurid and beautiful, and makes Asmoleda look ethereal and lethal.
Looking at her own hands, Laurel isn't sure it suits her, but what she really wants to ask about is Madame Longfire's shoes. She's not certain how to bring it up, but Asmoleda seems to sense the desire and kindly brings it up for her, complimenting her prettily on them (it's no kind lie, they're flawless red, with fearsome black dragons) and asks to hear their tale yet again.
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"Ah, but my friend doesn't, ma'am. And you know I never tire of it."
She chuckles, and tells them about her mother-in-law, who had despised her son's first bride. She had been jealous and sulky, and had been careful to show her contempt at every possible occasion. She had given low-value bridegifts, had refused to let her wear red lacquer, and made her daughter-in-law wait on her hand and foot, never satisfied with anything. She hadn't softened even upon the girl's pregnancy, certain that it would be a girl and par for the course. It had been the all-important son, even now grown up and studying in Aigyptos, but he had been weak and sickly, and had nearly killed his mother making his way into the world. Madame Longfire had lain sick and weak, held together inside with cantrips, potion, and prayer, for six weeks. She could hardly move, and only sat up to feed her son, her milk coming down well in spite of everything.
She might have died, lying quietly in the dark, far from all her sisters and the friends of her childhood, her husband away in Hyperborea, if she hadn't heard her mother-in-law viciously scolding her son for his crying. Somehow she had lurched to her feet, hair unbound and nails chipped, and had staggered out. She had snatched up her son with one arm and slapped the old woman with the other, hard enough to knock her down. No one had expected her to be allowed to live after this. At the very least, she should have been cast out, or sent home in disgrace, to likely be executed by her father. Her mother-in-law had just looked at her, though. Surrounded by the eunuchs, she sat with her breast hanging out of her shift, not caring, feeding her son her back straight, and her eyes hard, her unbound hair enclosing them both. Her mother-in-law had waved the guards off, and helped her back to bed.
After that there was more and better food, more attentive nursing, and visits from her sisters, financed from the clan coffers. She had recovered rapidly, and as a gift upon her first outing in the garden, she had received the shoes. Now she gracefully extends one venerable leg, and Laurel can see that there's an egg between the dragon's feet, protected by a scaly tail, flaring wings, raised claws, and the savagely snarling mouth.
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I love how you don't shy away from the nasty stuff, but oh, I will have to read some HS AU fluff every time after I read about the willow feet, it's a personal nightmare of mine since I read about it as a little girl. The farming families don't do it, but middle class and above do, aspiring classes too, as men would demand even the poor girls they have brought as concubines to be virgins with small feet. What long and national horror, that would break in infanthood the bond between mother and daughter by compelling the woman to obey her husband and secure future marriage by mangling her daughter!
I sympathized with the character of Walter because my mother doesn't love me either, or she's not protective of me as much as Face...she had my ears pierced when I was eight, because she heard that it'll make girls settle down (I was very boyish)...I know, I just know, if it was a hundred years ago, she would have broken my feet...and THAT, is why, a hundred years ago, I would rather live in the more baser barbaric west than the east...the cruelty is less sophisicated, easier to escape...I couldn't very well go boying with a pair of broken feet as easily as I could by unhooking my corset now could I?
It's just, such a nightmarish obsession for me, those poor women, after the communists took over, they banned it at last, but they actually were often cruel to the women with tiny feet, even though it was not their fault. When I was a tween, I imagined what it'll be like to have no good use of my feet, and I practiced crawling quickly across the floor. The idea of being rendered helpless terrified me.
...but I've been meaning to ask, why do you call it willow feet? I think of hooves...is it because, when shoed, the feet somewhat resemble a leaf?
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I went with willow in this fic because of the latitude I've put the north country at. I live in Alaska, and their biome is a bit based on mine, and lotuses don't grow here, so they couldn't be lotus feet. But willow leaves, at the least the scrub willows that grow around here, are long and pointy, with a rounded base, just like the ideal broken foot. Ugh.
I did a drawing, once. 'The Most Beautiful Woman In The World'. She had bound feet, was circumcised, had a corseted wasp waist, had those Bangladesh rings on her neck, her skull made all pointy like the Incas did, and she had pierced ears stretched out to a huge hipster gauge. She was sitting on a pedestal.
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"No." His other pair of chaps is piled into his lap, a bone needle flickering in and out of the soft leather. One of Laurel's shirts is draped over the arm of his chair.
"It's fucking phenomenal. The bribe I laid down could buy the third Longfire daughter." He pauses. "Well, with a few personal favors and a lot of a gifts thrown in, and only because of my own political important. But still." He groans. "It's not enough, Ghost Rat. I want to break into their temple right now and make them give us our commission."
"Daniel."
"Yes?"
"That would be incredibly fucking stupid. Are you hungry?"
He bursts out laughing. "Yes. Yes, I am."
And he is hungry. Half-starved, and he realizes for how much more than food when the servant girl comes in. She's beautiful, in the sleek, dark way that's as common as mud up here and makes every street a wonder. She's plump like a little dove, with the same soft black eyes, and Daniel knows her gold-tinted skin would put silk to shame. He doesn't guess that Ghost Rat has ever touched much silk, but he's watching her too, and when Daniel asks her name she blushes and covers her face with her hands, a country girl gestured made ludicrous and beautiful by lacquered fingernails. Ghost has been fascinated by the custom since their arrival, and takes this opportunity for a close inspection, taking her hand with the gentleness that makes wild animals trust him with their young without complaint. She starts, but doesn't really jump, watching Ghost Rat test slick lacquer with this pointed little fingertips.
"Your name?" Daniel murmurs again.
"Peach Blossom." She says, risking a glance at Daniel's face, where she sees something that calms her, even if she is just a girl alone with guests. He smiles and offers her a stoneberry from his plate. It's a sign to let her know that she has a choice. She looks from him to Ghost Rat, unsure, then sees that there's a tiny leaf attached to the stem, which means that she's welcome to bring a friend. She returns his smile, and sways out of the room on tiny feet.
Really, Daniel would have torn the leaf off, but he has the feeling that if he shared a woman with Ghost Rat he'd end up doing something stupid. He explains the situation, graciously agreeing to take the friend even if she's repulsive (which he's sure she won't be) amused to see Ghost Rat fidget a little after making such a pest of himself. They devour the fragrant dishes before Peach Blossom returns, with impeccable timing and a companion in tow. She's gone one better than a friend and brought a cousin. Her name is Cora, an example of the other main type of northern female name. Her eyes are a clear, limpid grey that makes him think of Byron. She's closer to actually being fat than her cousin, but not too close, and Daniel certainly doesn't think himself the loser in their agreement.
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The beds are covered by rich, brocade canopies. They could have each had a room of their own, but Daniel had known without being asked that Ghost Rat feels safer if they share. Now he's glad of it, listening to the rustling and cooing from across the room. It does his heart (and other parts of him) good to hear how Ghost Rat is getting on. A moment of awed silence makes him sure that Peach Blossom has let down her hair and that Ghost Rat is drowning himself in its inky fall. Cora's hair is light for a northerner, the rich, clear brown of certain honeys, and Daniel indulges in his own moment of adoration, wondering all over again just what they use to keep it so soft. He forgets to ask Cora as she pulls him down, and as they move together he listens for Ghost Rat, hearing raspy little sobs and low, rusty purring over Peach Blossom's soft cries. She sounds... Daniel isn't even sure, but he definitely wants to find out firsthand what Ghost Rat is doing.
He's attentive and considerate as always (one of his own cousins has told him that a good lover is a gentleman by definition) but Cora can apparently still tell, because she teases him about it afterward, too quietly for the others to hear. "You like him very much, don't you?" Her tone is actually very gentle, but her smile is so knowing that he hides his burning face between her breasts.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Not to your detriment." She kisses the top of his head, the gesture almost maternal. "You make love very nicely."
Ghost Rat, feeling drugged with contentment and wild rose perfume, blinks to hear Daniel burst out laughing.
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YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE, DANIEL.
("ment emphases" xD )
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hmmmm
:D
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It also helps that the city is gearing up to welcome spring, and the balconies provide a panoramic view of the square, where something is always happening. This view is all Asmoleda gets. Another assassin has been discovered and neatly garroted by one of the eunuchs, so it seems prudent for her to remain inside. The others are freer to explore. Byron is cautious, but as an old plainsman he attracts no particular attention. As an experienced operative, he actively deflects what little he does. William wears a borrowed Longfire uniform, and is just another eunuch. They're quite common here. The city offers greater opportunity and more prestige, so more are made here, and many come here from the surrounding tundra. They walk arm in arm along the streets of Bryon's childhood, magically heated to keep them clear of snow, beautiful winter flowers growing along the edges.
The others explore the compound and its surroundings as they see fit. Ghost Rat elects mainly to prowl the halls, fascinated by everything. He goes everywhere with the thoughtless liberty of a cat, and no one says a word against it. The kitchen staff are frightened of him at first, but as he stands out of the way and watches with attentive mildness, they get used to him and start feeding him little tidbits as if he really is a pet. Many of the cooks are old women who think he's too thin, reminded of sons absent or never born and charmed by his dumb gratitude. There are also little girls of about eight or nine in training and doing light work, and they shared their occasional treats of barley sugar with him as though he's another child. In his turn, he bestows little trinkets. Not enough to spoil them, just pretty, worthless bits of glass and cord. Pendants mostly, that don't get in the way of the work. He's obviously a sensible savage.
The eunuchs guarding the women's quarters eye him warily, but only because he has only the vaguest idea of decorum and they may have to defend the household's honor against his accidental depredations, such as peeking around the door as if the place was just another set of rooms. Not that the barbarian princess is any better, going around with her hair undone and her veil half-off. Still, he proves instrumental in the capture of Madame Longfire's pet monkey on the second day, and that alone makes him worth his weight in gold.
Daniel does his best not to mope, but the dawning of the fourth day is an enormous relief. However long it takes from here (he's not deluded enough to think one consultation will do it) he'll at least be getting started today. He rolls out of bed and pulls on the long robes and trousers everyone wears here, blinking sleep from his eyes as he pulls on his own boots. He always feels ridiculous in slippers, and even northerners admit that the combination isn't unbecoming. He nearly jumps out of his skin to look up and see Ghost Rat watch him, already dressed and masked. He's holding a neat cloth bundle, and as Daniel restarts his heart and goes over to him, he's hit with the faint scent of fresh rye cakes.
"We can eat on the way." Ghost Rat says, as if there's no doubt whatsoever that he will be accompanying Daniel.
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He smiles. "Yeah, we can." It's an unseasonably warm day, and they walk along side by side, each with a stack of six of the crisp little cakes. There's a slice of half-melted sharp Akontet cheese on top of each stack, with peach syrup on the one beneath it, and so on. For the duration of their walk to the temple, it really is good to be alive. But now he has to think about his errand again. For once in his life he manages royal dignity, arriving with a straight face with no crumbs or stickiness anywhere. Ghost Rat walks a step behind like a bodyguard. Not that it would do any good, but Daniel appreciates his attention to form.
The Temple of the Most Sacred Teachers of the Cestial Lore is imposing, in an ascetic kind of way. It's all clean lines and high ceilings, and hums with that lovely cold magic they use. The most beautiful mathematics that ever decapitated a man. Under better circumstances, Daniel would want to hang around and study it, but now he just marches into the Lord High Instructor's audience chamber, and at a gesture from one ancient spidery hand, he takes the seat provided. Ghost Rat seems to understand the power dynamics and remains standing, hands neatly folded in front of him.
Talking in the north can be like paddling upriver, and Daniel is exhausted by the end of the interview. He spends hours speaking in flowery allusions and keeping his temper. Ghost Rat does the same, expressionless as a millpond. The old man says seven trials of his devotion will be needed, and Daniel is only expecting to be able to haggle him down to five, the next lowest mystic number, but he manages to drop it down to three. He's not sure if it's his own sob story or something in Ghost Rat's eyes, but finally, the ordeals are set for another three days hence. Daniel bows deeply, and Ghost Rat copies the movement. The air is filled with the sickly scent of stoneberry tea, and Daniel is glad to get out. For more than one reason, and he makes Ghost Rat guard the mouth of an alley so he can take a massive and grateful piss against the wall. It's actually faintly green from five cups of the fucking tea, and Ghost Rat snorts in quiet amusement when he remarks upon the fact.
"Couldn't refuse?"
"Couldn't refuse."
"God help these people." Ghost Rat says with a shrug, and leads the way back.
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