[FICATHON] Cause and Most Accurs'd Effect, for casablancagirl
Title: Cause and Most Accursed Effect
Author: elviaprose
Play: Richard III
Recipient: casablancagirl
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Richard/Anne
Rating: PG
Summary: He often woke in the night, though the memory of his dreams eluded him. Last night, though, he did not wake because he had not slept, listening instead to the muffled chiming of the hour until morning came. Last night was the last that he was Gloucester, tonight the first that he was King Richard.
He often woke in the night, though the memory of his dreams eluded him. Last night, though, he did not wake because he had not slept, listening instead to the muffled chiming of the hour until morning came. Last night was the last that he was Gloucester, tonight the first that he was King Richard. And just as duke had become king, this night would in turn become a last night.
A last night. They always called the night so, by convention, but the title was now better deserved than usual-at least for his lady Anne, it was. He considered telling Buckingham, after he had captured him and before he had cut his head off, that he was a fool to think that becoming the Earl of Hereford would matter for anything, a fool if he thought that tonight and last night were anything but the same sleepless hours called differently. He turned over, his right hand clenching until his palm throbbed against the cutting nails. He almost wanted to tell Buckingham, to hear him condemn his words as lies and falsehoods. But Buckingham would not be of any help, even in that. No, he could already see the mocking smile. He remembered that day in the practice yard, all worn stone and packed earth. A scattering of straw and no place to rest except the staircase- if one could attribute such a label to three broken down steps that led nowhere. He remembered watching Buckingham as he stretched one leg in front of him and began to tug loose the bindings of his armor.
Buckingham ran his hand through hair stringy with sweat and glanced at Richard.
"I've not thy skill, my lord." His voice was as blanched of emotion as his face was flushed. He was right, of course--no different with Buckingham than with anyone else. But Buckingham was the only one willing these days. Richard clattered onto the step above him, dulled sword in his hands.
"I'll put to thee a question, if it shall not trouble my lord?"
"Speak it, my lord of Buckingham,"
"I have some time thought why 'tis thou took the Lady Anne to wife, and still I have come to nothing. Had I thy ambitions to the crown, I should myself have had the young Elizabeth."
And then there was that look from Buckingham, and Richard had known, whatever he said, that Buckingham would always believe that Richard had married Anne just as his brother Edward-- just as poor besotted Edward---had married his queen.
He turned over and looked at Anne where she lay beside him, hunched in sleep and wrapped all in white. On his request, Anne's servant girl had removed every red garment she owned.
The time had come to be rid of Anne and marry young Elizabeth, and not because Buckingham had put the thought into his head. He did not need Buckingham. No matter if he was clever. No matter if Buckingham helped him win the crown-he needed Buckingham as Caesar needed Marcus Antonius-which was to say not at all. And had he not always known that he would not keep Anne long?
They were two bundles of wool and fur, buried half in snow and half in garments donned to keep the snow from their skin.
"Dickon, the snow's too deep fallen, and cold, cold, cold." She kicked into a high drift, almost falling as she pushed forward to stand beside Richard. "And I cannot walk but like some cripple."
"Like thy Dickon." He bit his lip and turned away.
"Richard--"
His held breath steamed out white as he struck at her. Cloth wrapped around Richard's hand and Anne's shoulders muffled the blow, but there were tears on her face as he drew away.
Warwick strode towards them, still clad for the indoors. "Richard, why weeps my Anne? Thou hast ten and two years, Richard-enough! She weeps for thy fist's harm, and no more will thou see Anne this fortnight and neither play at sword with George."
"My lord, 'twas your daughter wounded me, and now she weeps for shame-God in heaven strike me down if I speak false."
"Thou dost deny that I have witnessed. From my window's view, I spied thee."
Tears formed in Richard's eyes. "See, for as nature gifts me, so she lends to your fair daughter. Had you seen in truth, you should know how looked she lame and laggard at our play. How then can my lord Warwick trust his eyes and say 'I know sweet Anne from villainous Richard'?"
Anne was standing again, her tears dried. Warwick opened his mouth, then shook his head. "Indeed, I have business to tend and ne'er time enough for the quarrels of children. Richard, 'tis my word thou will be punished and will not change. Now, get thee both inside again."
Before any servants of Middleham could arrive to help them out of their cloaks, Richard was pushing back Anne's hood, his fingers brushing against her hair.
"Tell me thou dost repent thy words, and I'll forgive thee," He pressed his lips to her cheek.
"Nay, tell me thou art sorry for thy blows, and I'll forgive thee. And thou hast not yet thanked me for speaking not against thee to my father."
He knelt, wincing at the sharp meeting of stone and knee. "Indeed, my sweetest love. I humbly beg thy pardon. These days we are apart shall be centuries, these centuries torture to my poor heart that loves thee."
"Oh, Richard! Thou playest the lord so well!"
He had hidden his smile in a clump of her cloak as she rushed forward to hug him.
Richard turned and turned again on their bed, and then reached out a hand to touch Anne's hair, spread on the pillow. Her eyes flicked open as he wrapped his arms around her.
"Richard?"
He closed his eyes and said nothing, letting the bells ring out the fourth hour of the night uninterrupted.
Author: elviaprose
Play: Richard III
Recipient: casablancagirl
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Richard/Anne
Rating: PG
Summary: He often woke in the night, though the memory of his dreams eluded him. Last night, though, he did not wake because he had not slept, listening instead to the muffled chiming of the hour until morning came. Last night was the last that he was Gloucester, tonight the first that he was King Richard.
He often woke in the night, though the memory of his dreams eluded him. Last night, though, he did not wake because he had not slept, listening instead to the muffled chiming of the hour until morning came. Last night was the last that he was Gloucester, tonight the first that he was King Richard. And just as duke had become king, this night would in turn become a last night.
A last night. They always called the night so, by convention, but the title was now better deserved than usual-at least for his lady Anne, it was. He considered telling Buckingham, after he had captured him and before he had cut his head off, that he was a fool to think that becoming the Earl of Hereford would matter for anything, a fool if he thought that tonight and last night were anything but the same sleepless hours called differently. He turned over, his right hand clenching until his palm throbbed against the cutting nails. He almost wanted to tell Buckingham, to hear him condemn his words as lies and falsehoods. But Buckingham would not be of any help, even in that. No, he could already see the mocking smile. He remembered that day in the practice yard, all worn stone and packed earth. A scattering of straw and no place to rest except the staircase- if one could attribute such a label to three broken down steps that led nowhere. He remembered watching Buckingham as he stretched one leg in front of him and began to tug loose the bindings of his armor.
Buckingham ran his hand through hair stringy with sweat and glanced at Richard.
"I've not thy skill, my lord." His voice was as blanched of emotion as his face was flushed. He was right, of course--no different with Buckingham than with anyone else. But Buckingham was the only one willing these days. Richard clattered onto the step above him, dulled sword in his hands.
"I'll put to thee a question, if it shall not trouble my lord?"
"Speak it, my lord of Buckingham,"
"I have some time thought why 'tis thou took the Lady Anne to wife, and still I have come to nothing. Had I thy ambitions to the crown, I should myself have had the young Elizabeth."
And then there was that look from Buckingham, and Richard had known, whatever he said, that Buckingham would always believe that Richard had married Anne just as his brother Edward-- just as poor besotted Edward---had married his queen.
He turned over and looked at Anne where she lay beside him, hunched in sleep and wrapped all in white. On his request, Anne's servant girl had removed every red garment she owned.
The time had come to be rid of Anne and marry young Elizabeth, and not because Buckingham had put the thought into his head. He did not need Buckingham. No matter if he was clever. No matter if Buckingham helped him win the crown-he needed Buckingham as Caesar needed Marcus Antonius-which was to say not at all. And had he not always known that he would not keep Anne long?
They were two bundles of wool and fur, buried half in snow and half in garments donned to keep the snow from their skin.
"Dickon, the snow's too deep fallen, and cold, cold, cold." She kicked into a high drift, almost falling as she pushed forward to stand beside Richard. "And I cannot walk but like some cripple."
"Like thy Dickon." He bit his lip and turned away.
"Richard--"
His held breath steamed out white as he struck at her. Cloth wrapped around Richard's hand and Anne's shoulders muffled the blow, but there were tears on her face as he drew away.
Warwick strode towards them, still clad for the indoors. "Richard, why weeps my Anne? Thou hast ten and two years, Richard-enough! She weeps for thy fist's harm, and no more will thou see Anne this fortnight and neither play at sword with George."
"My lord, 'twas your daughter wounded me, and now she weeps for shame-God in heaven strike me down if I speak false."
"Thou dost deny that I have witnessed. From my window's view, I spied thee."
Tears formed in Richard's eyes. "See, for as nature gifts me, so she lends to your fair daughter. Had you seen in truth, you should know how looked she lame and laggard at our play. How then can my lord Warwick trust his eyes and say 'I know sweet Anne from villainous Richard'?"
Anne was standing again, her tears dried. Warwick opened his mouth, then shook his head. "Indeed, I have business to tend and ne'er time enough for the quarrels of children. Richard, 'tis my word thou will be punished and will not change. Now, get thee both inside again."
Before any servants of Middleham could arrive to help them out of their cloaks, Richard was pushing back Anne's hood, his fingers brushing against her hair.
"Tell me thou dost repent thy words, and I'll forgive thee," He pressed his lips to her cheek.
"Nay, tell me thou art sorry for thy blows, and I'll forgive thee. And thou hast not yet thanked me for speaking not against thee to my father."
He knelt, wincing at the sharp meeting of stone and knee. "Indeed, my sweetest love. I humbly beg thy pardon. These days we are apart shall be centuries, these centuries torture to my poor heart that loves thee."
"Oh, Richard! Thou playest the lord so well!"
He had hidden his smile in a clump of her cloak as she rushed forward to hug him.
Richard turned and turned again on their bed, and then reached out a hand to touch Anne's hair, spread on the pillow. Her eyes flicked open as he wrapped his arms around her.
"Richard?"
He closed his eyes and said nothing, letting the bells ring out the fourth hour of the night uninterrupted.