[FICATHON] Thou Cam'st On Earth To Make the Earth My Hell, for the_alchemist
Title: Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell.
Author: casablancagirl
Play: Richard III
Recipient: the_alchemist
Pairings: None. Well, there's a slight hint of Oedipus-complex!Richard, but no actual pairings. And there’s a mention of Richard/Anne, but that’s…only in passing, and it’s canon, anyway. Characters include Richard, his mother, his brothers, and sundry others.
Warnings: Odd mother-obsession.
Summary: Richard loves Richard. And possibly his mother.
Mother - he never called her Mother, never, would never dare, for fear of the words which might issue from her mouth (such a scornful mouth, just a paper-cut in her face) - words like toad and deformity - she would not be his mother, just mother to his brothers - Edward and George and sulky Edmund, they were her children. In the nursery he broke their toys, their wooden horses, and put spiders in their beds - and was rewarded only by the sight of her embraces and tender caresses to his weeping brothers, who would dampen her shoulder with tears and cries of "Richard, Richard did it," and she would throw the broken horse at his misformed feet without a word except for toad, ungrateful toad but was it his fault if he never had a horse of his own to play with. Perhaps it was - perhaps it was - had he not pinched George during supper last week, he would have had one then - or the week before, if he had not kicked Edward while they were playing in the library (only it was Edward who had drawn on that book, not Richard, and George who had stolen his bread roll at supper, but his complaints, feeble complaints were met with blank glances and contemptuous words ungrateful toad). Oh, perhaps if he hadn't tripped Edmund up and torn his jacket (his little brother Edmund, his little whining brother), perhaps then, perhaps then he would have been given a wooden horse, like his brothers. (Only he was not like his brothers, his brothers were not deformed, he was not like his brothers.)
She hit him once when George had called him unspeakable names (oh, children are cruel) but he had only done what Edward would have done in the same position (and almost broken George's nose, there was blood all over the soft dining room carpet, splashed into roses on the cream rug, and George was crying and making eloquent speeches about the cruelty of his brother, and then she hit him on the face without saying a word, and embraced her darling George. (And how really was that better, how was that better than he hitting George? But she did it without saying a word, even of reproach, and not a tear sprang to his eye. He would not be like George.)
The straight unforgiving mouth never once softened into a smile for him, no, those lips seemed made only for scorn, because he was deformed, was a toad, fit for no one but himself ("No one could love you", Edmund, sulky dissatisfied Edmund, told him once, when they were no longer quite children). George moved around with affected elegance, was somehow more elegant it seemed to Richard in his company almost emphasised for his benefit - this is what you'll never be, Richard, you'll never move gracefully through society, people will shun you, just as your mother shuns you, you should never have been born, Richard. And she smiled for George, smiled for his elegance (a cool smile perhaps, befitting a duchess, but the thinly creased folds round her pale grey eyes spoke of warmth, just a little). She smiled at Edward's liveliness, his good health, his vitality, which Richard would never possess - you toad, I should have strangled you at birth - and she turned only blank eyes of disgust on Richard, as if his twisted spine were his own fault, and he limped only to spite her. (And on occasion, when he felt more grieved than usual, when George's witterings and speeches had incensed him more, he exaggerated his limp, came crashing down on one leg, causing flames of pure agony which shot straight up into his heart, hoping to anger her perhaps, hoping for her pity, for her - no, no, no, definitely not, why would he want that? He needed nothing from anybody, nothing - wanted nothing, gave nothing - Richard loves Richard, Richard loves Richard -
On his birthday he learnt to expect nothing from her, only a crumpled twist of emotion on her face when she looked at him, which was something, even loathing, hatred was something, preferable to indifference, preferable to her not caring, and if love were not possible (but no, he refuses to want love) he could take satisfaction in causing her to feel in some way, some small way, and he made incremental efforts to increase the feeling on her face, to make the mouth crease more, to send a point more of light glittering into her eyes (and maybe, maybe, when the disgust and hatred of her son reached a tipping point, the coin would flip over, and then, despite what he was, despite his deformed body and his mind which was slowly warping out of shape - but he would not think It, would not dare to think it.)
On his brothers' birthdays, she always had a special embrace for each of them, particularly young delicate Edmund, whom she pressed to her as warmly as ever she was warm, and they would have a special present (a wooden top for George one year, which Richard accidentally threw out of the window when George refused to let him play with it) and perhaps a slice of fruit-cake, rich and sweet and crumbling (it made Richard almost sick to see it ungrateful toad, deformed toad but how he wanted some, sweet and sickening greedy animal)
When Edmund died, she wept, how she wept, and sobbed, and cursed (or so Richard heard from George, who had comforted his mother, of course Richard could never have such a task, would never be able to comfort, would not be permitted to try) and Richard shed not a tear for his brother (he had never liked Edmund) but instead thought to himself that there was one less brother for her love to be shared between, perhaps now he'd merit a portion, perhaps now he could have a sliver of the cake. But it was sliced too thin, and it crumbled to dust before reaching his lips, and still she looked on him coldly and her eyes were blank and indifferent.
He wooed Anne desperately almost, spinning speeches of love and death around her skilfully deformed spider, no one could love you, you toad and she with her dark eyes drained of tears and her bloodless lips tinted with scorn she accepted him, as deformed as he was, and he wanted to go to his mother then, and say to her, and say "She can love me, she can love me, and I killed her husband, I can be loved" - but he said nothing. When George was gone, when George was dead (what a relief not to have to hear him wittering on any more) then she might turn to Richard, with the spare love, the second hand love (and he'd turn it down, of course, he didn't need her love) and then perhaps -
Oh, she wept for George, she wept, and she wept for Edward (what joy it was that they were both dead, and her heart was undivided, it was free, surely she couldn't deny him a piece of it now) but when he came in through that clean and polished door, he saw her, he saw his mother crying, overflowing with anger and grief and he felt -
He called her Mother, on his knees he called her Mother, and begged for her blessing (afterwards, afterwards he'd mutter to himself that he didn't mean it, he didn't want it, he didn't care for it, he didn't care for her, and he certainly wasn't begging) and she barely looked at him as she blessed him (but what a blessing, what a meagre few words she scattered on him after years of wanting, a few droplets of rain on a withered dried up plant coming too late). The tears flowed for her dead sons, but she couldn't afford a prayer for her Richard living. (And he forgot completely that George had died at his command, forgot it, un-knew it, and knew only that she cared less for him than ever, and he shrugged it off and carried on, and the acid collected in his heart).
He couldn't quite understand it - he didn't enjoy having the princes slaughtered - took no pleasure in having a crown on his head - only a dull ache in his stomach and his own insistence that he was king, was glad to be king, was happy, he was king, the children were dead (his own nephews, dead, Edward's children, dead, and Buckingham had deserted him) and perhaps now his - perhaps now she would respect him, perhaps, perhaps she would bless him. Perhaps she would love him. His mind crushed the thought before he finished thinking it.
O she that might have intercepted thee by strangling thee in her accursed womb from all the slaughters wretch that thou hast done thou toad thou toad where is thy brother Clarence where is kind Hastings art thou my son I have stayed for you in torment and agony thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell a grievous burden was thy birth to me I shall never speak to thee again take with thee my most grievous curse bloody thou art bloody will be thy end
To think he had thought there was a vestige of mother's love in her, of course there wasn't, there never was, there never had been, from the beginning she had loathed him, a toad, a monster, he had hurt her from the beginning, she hated him, she cursed him, and - how he loved her.
As she left, coldly and calmly, eyes dimmed to blank disgust, Richard shattered inside, and the splinters ripped his flesh to shreds. She would never weep for him when he died, would never have wept for him, whatever he had done, if he had been a saint she would have shed no tears for him, because he was twisted, deformed. Broken. He half-heartedly tried to persuade Elizabeth into giving him her daughter (poor Edward's daughter, dead Edward, his little niece). He didn't want a wife (he never had wanted a wife, and Anne was dead). He wanted a mother. He had fragmented thoughts of ordering his mother's murder, having her slaughtered (as George was slaughtered, as the children were killed) having the life crushed from her who gave life to him, having her body deformed in death as his had been in life, having her unyielding mouth ripped out of shape (and then would she love him?) and he would look upon her corpse with cool disgust as she would have looked on his body, as she looked on him all her life, and he wouldn't shed a tear -
only he would. And he couldn't have borne the humiliation, of seeing them, seeing them all, gazing at him with contempt and tears glistening in his eyes and his mother dead but no she would never die. Not her.
Ghosts and dreams and accusations and (will you cry when I die, mother, will you cry when I die?) insomnia and he never cared about them at all, not George (poor simple Clarence) not those children (bastard princes) but he loved someone once, and she'll never be a ghost, but she haunts him more than the rest (Richard loves Richard, that is, I love I) and he knows he will not live to see another night and she will not weep. she will not shed a tear when he dies.
No one will.
Mother. Mother.
Author: casablancagirl
Play: Richard III
Recipient: the_alchemist
Pairings: None. Well, there's a slight hint of Oedipus-complex!Richard, but no actual pairings. And there’s a mention of Richard/Anne, but that’s…only in passing, and it’s canon, anyway. Characters include Richard, his mother, his brothers, and sundry others.
Warnings: Odd mother-obsession.
Summary: Richard loves Richard. And possibly his mother.
Mother - he never called her Mother, never, would never dare, for fear of the words which might issue from her mouth (such a scornful mouth, just a paper-cut in her face) - words like toad and deformity - she would not be his mother, just mother to his brothers - Edward and George and sulky Edmund, they were her children. In the nursery he broke their toys, their wooden horses, and put spiders in their beds - and was rewarded only by the sight of her embraces and tender caresses to his weeping brothers, who would dampen her shoulder with tears and cries of "Richard, Richard did it," and she would throw the broken horse at his misformed feet without a word except for toad, ungrateful toad but was it his fault if he never had a horse of his own to play with. Perhaps it was - perhaps it was - had he not pinched George during supper last week, he would have had one then - or the week before, if he had not kicked Edward while they were playing in the library (only it was Edward who had drawn on that book, not Richard, and George who had stolen his bread roll at supper, but his complaints, feeble complaints were met with blank glances and contemptuous words ungrateful toad). Oh, perhaps if he hadn't tripped Edmund up and torn his jacket (his little brother Edmund, his little whining brother), perhaps then, perhaps then he would have been given a wooden horse, like his brothers. (Only he was not like his brothers, his brothers were not deformed, he was not like his brothers.)
She hit him once when George had called him unspeakable names (oh, children are cruel) but he had only done what Edward would have done in the same position (and almost broken George's nose, there was blood all over the soft dining room carpet, splashed into roses on the cream rug, and George was crying and making eloquent speeches about the cruelty of his brother, and then she hit him on the face without saying a word, and embraced her darling George. (And how really was that better, how was that better than he hitting George? But she did it without saying a word, even of reproach, and not a tear sprang to his eye. He would not be like George.)
The straight unforgiving mouth never once softened into a smile for him, no, those lips seemed made only for scorn, because he was deformed, was a toad, fit for no one but himself ("No one could love you", Edmund, sulky dissatisfied Edmund, told him once, when they were no longer quite children). George moved around with affected elegance, was somehow more elegant it seemed to Richard in his company almost emphasised for his benefit - this is what you'll never be, Richard, you'll never move gracefully through society, people will shun you, just as your mother shuns you, you should never have been born, Richard. And she smiled for George, smiled for his elegance (a cool smile perhaps, befitting a duchess, but the thinly creased folds round her pale grey eyes spoke of warmth, just a little). She smiled at Edward's liveliness, his good health, his vitality, which Richard would never possess - you toad, I should have strangled you at birth - and she turned only blank eyes of disgust on Richard, as if his twisted spine were his own fault, and he limped only to spite her. (And on occasion, when he felt more grieved than usual, when George's witterings and speeches had incensed him more, he exaggerated his limp, came crashing down on one leg, causing flames of pure agony which shot straight up into his heart, hoping to anger her perhaps, hoping for her pity, for her - no, no, no, definitely not, why would he want that? He needed nothing from anybody, nothing - wanted nothing, gave nothing - Richard loves Richard, Richard loves Richard -
On his birthday he learnt to expect nothing from her, only a crumpled twist of emotion on her face when she looked at him, which was something, even loathing, hatred was something, preferable to indifference, preferable to her not caring, and if love were not possible (but no, he refuses to want love) he could take satisfaction in causing her to feel in some way, some small way, and he made incremental efforts to increase the feeling on her face, to make the mouth crease more, to send a point more of light glittering into her eyes (and maybe, maybe, when the disgust and hatred of her son reached a tipping point, the coin would flip over, and then, despite what he was, despite his deformed body and his mind which was slowly warping out of shape - but he would not think It, would not dare to think it.)
On his brothers' birthdays, she always had a special embrace for each of them, particularly young delicate Edmund, whom she pressed to her as warmly as ever she was warm, and they would have a special present (a wooden top for George one year, which Richard accidentally threw out of the window when George refused to let him play with it) and perhaps a slice of fruit-cake, rich and sweet and crumbling (it made Richard almost sick to see it ungrateful toad, deformed toad but how he wanted some, sweet and sickening greedy animal)
When Edmund died, she wept, how she wept, and sobbed, and cursed (or so Richard heard from George, who had comforted his mother, of course Richard could never have such a task, would never be able to comfort, would not be permitted to try) and Richard shed not a tear for his brother (he had never liked Edmund) but instead thought to himself that there was one less brother for her love to be shared between, perhaps now he'd merit a portion, perhaps now he could have a sliver of the cake. But it was sliced too thin, and it crumbled to dust before reaching his lips, and still she looked on him coldly and her eyes were blank and indifferent.
He wooed Anne desperately almost, spinning speeches of love and death around her skilfully deformed spider, no one could love you, you toad and she with her dark eyes drained of tears and her bloodless lips tinted with scorn she accepted him, as deformed as he was, and he wanted to go to his mother then, and say to her, and say "She can love me, she can love me, and I killed her husband, I can be loved" - but he said nothing. When George was gone, when George was dead (what a relief not to have to hear him wittering on any more) then she might turn to Richard, with the spare love, the second hand love (and he'd turn it down, of course, he didn't need her love) and then perhaps -
Oh, she wept for George, she wept, and she wept for Edward (what joy it was that they were both dead, and her heart was undivided, it was free, surely she couldn't deny him a piece of it now) but when he came in through that clean and polished door, he saw her, he saw his mother crying, overflowing with anger and grief and he felt -
He called her Mother, on his knees he called her Mother, and begged for her blessing (afterwards, afterwards he'd mutter to himself that he didn't mean it, he didn't want it, he didn't care for it, he didn't care for her, and he certainly wasn't begging) and she barely looked at him as she blessed him (but what a blessing, what a meagre few words she scattered on him after years of wanting, a few droplets of rain on a withered dried up plant coming too late). The tears flowed for her dead sons, but she couldn't afford a prayer for her Richard living. (And he forgot completely that George had died at his command, forgot it, un-knew it, and knew only that she cared less for him than ever, and he shrugged it off and carried on, and the acid collected in his heart).
He couldn't quite understand it - he didn't enjoy having the princes slaughtered - took no pleasure in having a crown on his head - only a dull ache in his stomach and his own insistence that he was king, was glad to be king, was happy, he was king, the children were dead (his own nephews, dead, Edward's children, dead, and Buckingham had deserted him) and perhaps now his - perhaps now she would respect him, perhaps, perhaps she would bless him. Perhaps she would love him. His mind crushed the thought before he finished thinking it.
O she that might have intercepted thee by strangling thee in her accursed womb from all the slaughters wretch that thou hast done thou toad thou toad where is thy brother Clarence where is kind Hastings art thou my son I have stayed for you in torment and agony thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell a grievous burden was thy birth to me I shall never speak to thee again take with thee my most grievous curse bloody thou art bloody will be thy end
To think he had thought there was a vestige of mother's love in her, of course there wasn't, there never was, there never had been, from the beginning she had loathed him, a toad, a monster, he had hurt her from the beginning, she hated him, she cursed him, and - how he loved her.
As she left, coldly and calmly, eyes dimmed to blank disgust, Richard shattered inside, and the splinters ripped his flesh to shreds. She would never weep for him when he died, would never have wept for him, whatever he had done, if he had been a saint she would have shed no tears for him, because he was twisted, deformed. Broken. He half-heartedly tried to persuade Elizabeth into giving him her daughter (poor Edward's daughter, dead Edward, his little niece). He didn't want a wife (he never had wanted a wife, and Anne was dead). He wanted a mother. He had fragmented thoughts of ordering his mother's murder, having her slaughtered (as George was slaughtered, as the children were killed) having the life crushed from her who gave life to him, having her body deformed in death as his had been in life, having her unyielding mouth ripped out of shape (and then would she love him?) and he would look upon her corpse with cool disgust as she would have looked on his body, as she looked on him all her life, and he wouldn't shed a tear -
only he would. And he couldn't have borne the humiliation, of seeing them, seeing them all, gazing at him with contempt and tears glistening in his eyes and his mother dead but no she would never die. Not her.
Ghosts and dreams and accusations and (will you cry when I die, mother, will you cry when I die?) insomnia and he never cared about them at all, not George (poor simple Clarence) not those children (bastard princes) but he loved someone once, and she'll never be a ghost, but she haunts him more than the rest (Richard loves Richard, that is, I love I) and he knows he will not live to see another night and she will not weep. she will not shed a tear when he dies.
No one will.
Mother. Mother.