User:Fish/Danae in Medieval Fantasy: Difference between revisions
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She is standing near a low structure made of oaken post-and-lintel construction, with tall, wide doors. Just inside the structure — which must be a stable, she decides — the floor comes strewn with hay, and large, dark shapes of horses can be seen within. Outside the stable is a large, elegant carriage made of polished black wood and fitted with brass hardware. A coat of arms with a dragon rampant adorns the carriage door, and a handsome young groom tends one of the two horses, brushing its coat thoroughly. The weather is decidedly English: chilly, humid, and overcast. A low fog huddles around the stables, obscuring everything beyond a hundred yards. Beyond the stable itself is a high stone wall, which vanishes into the fog as a castle-shaped silhouette. Behind Danaë the fog creeps into an evenly spaced cluster of trees, a forest or possibly an orchard. | She is standing near a low structure made of oaken post-and-lintel construction, with tall, wide doors. Just inside the structure — which must be a stable, she decides — the floor comes strewn with hay, and large, dark shapes of horses can be seen within. Outside the stable is a large, elegant carriage made of polished black wood and fitted with brass hardware. A coat of arms with a dragon rampant adorns the carriage door, and a handsome young groom tends one of the two horses, brushing its coat thoroughly. The weather is decidedly English: chilly, humid, and overcast. A low fog huddles around the stables, obscuring everything beyond a hundred yards. Beyond the stable itself is a high stone wall, which vanishes into the fog as a castle-shaped silhouette. Behind Danaë the fog creeps into an evenly spaced cluster of trees, a forest or possibly an orchard. | ||
Danaë herself is wearing a heavy violet shawl of a velvety material, something obviously designed more for warmth and fashion than for outdoor durability, over a flowing ankle-length gown. She inspects herself briefly, wondering who she might be. Whoever she is, Danaë has fine kid gloves on both hands, up to the elbow, an expensive jeweled bracelet on each wrist, and — she runs her gloved fingertips across her middle — yes, a tight-fitting corset. | Danaë herself is wearing a heavy violet shawl of a velvety material, something obviously designed more for warmth and fashion than for outdoor durability, over a flowing ankle-length gown of pale goldenrod. She inspects herself briefly, wondering who she might be. Whoever she is, Danaë has fine kid gloves on both hands, up to the elbow, an expensive jeweled bracelet on each wrist, and — she runs her gloved fingertips across her middle — yes, a tight-fitting corset. | ||
The groom approaches her. He is a handsome-looking youth, in a fresh but crude way, a rough-hewn lad with tousled hair. In his demeanor and in his voice there is a healthy respect and fear. “The carriage is ready to take you to the wedding, my Lady,” he says falteringly. “Shall I inform the Captain of the Guard?” | The groom approaches her. He is a handsome-looking youth, in a fresh but crude way, a rough-hewn lad with tousled hair. In his demeanor and in his voice there is a healthy respect and fear. “The carriage is ready to take you to the wedding, my Lady,” he says falteringly. “Shall I inform the Captain of the Guard?” | ||
Your Lady? Danaë muses to herself. So I’m in the nobility, maybe even royalty. The word wedding was not lost on her, either: this was, after all, a Romance story, and weddings figured prominently in many of them. | ''Your Lady?'' Danaë muses to herself. ''So I’m in the nobility, maybe even royalty.'' The word ''wedding'' was not lost on her, either: this was, after all, a Romance story, and weddings figured prominently in many of them. | ||
“Uh, yes, please do,” she tells the groom uncertainly. “We mustn’t be late.” | “Uh, yes, please do,” she tells the groom uncertainly. “We mustn’t be late.” | ||
“R-right away, Lady Tourmaline,” the groom stammers, and starts toward the castle-shaped silhouette in the fog. As he leaves, he attempts to unobtrusively make himself more presentable by brushing away the hay that clings to his smock. | |||
The groom vanishes into the mist and, moments later, a new figure emerges. It is a woman, exquisitely dressed in a silky gown of red brocade. Her hair is pulled back into a wave of ringlets that fall down one shoulder, and like Danaë, she wears a heavy shawl to ward off the chill. | The groom vanishes into the mist and, moments later, a new figure emerges. It is a woman, exquisitely dressed in a silky gown of red brocade. Her hair is pulled back into a wave of ringlets that fall down one shoulder, and like Danaë, she wears a heavy shawl to ward off the chill. | ||
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The woman nods. She looks entirely unlike her friend India, but the woman has a certain carriage and composure that reminds Danaë hauntingly of her. It is something about the very direct, bold way that India makes eye contact, the way she speaks in a loud voice and states her mind. Although India is now a lustrous black instead of a glowing auburn, and her complexion now milky pale, it is unquestionably still she. | The woman nods. She looks entirely unlike her friend India, but the woman has a certain carriage and composure that reminds Danaë hauntingly of her. It is something about the very direct, bold way that India makes eye contact, the way she speaks in a loud voice and states her mind. Although India is now a lustrous black instead of a glowing auburn, and her complexion now milky pale, it is unquestionably still she. | ||
“Lady, eh?” India asks, looking over Danaë’s dress. “Me too. Lady Damask, I think the page said. Turn around, let me see you.” | |||
Danaë does so. “Have you seen the others?” | Danaë does so. “Have you seen the others?” | ||
| Line 51: | Line 51: | ||
“Wait and see,” India suggests with a grin, and gestures at Danaë. “If the bride can’t make it to the wedding, maybe the groom will marry the maid of honor.” | “Wait and see,” India suggests with a grin, and gestures at Danaë. “If the bride can’t make it to the wedding, maybe the groom will marry the maid of honor.” | ||
“Somehow I don’t see that happening,” a male voice drawls. The two women turn to see the | “Somehow I don’t see that happening,” a male voice drawls. The two women turn to see the prince: tall, imposing, dusky skin, and eyes to get lost in. He isn’t so broad-shouldered as the hard-working groom, but he radiates a comfortable, healthy power that comes from eating well and exercising properly. His richly made tunic of cobalt blue is adorned with the figure of a golden dragon. | ||
“No, I don’t think I’d want to marry either one of you two girls,” the | “No, I don’t think I’d want to marry either one of you two ''girls'',” the prince says, slightly emphasizing the word slightly. “So don’t get your hopes up about this Romance. I have a feeling that it isn’t going to end well for you.” | ||
“Angus?” Danaë asks, ashen-faced. | “Angus?” Danaë asks, ashen-faced. | ||
Prince | The Prince shakes his head. “No, I’m not Angus. He’s still up in the castle, getting his wedding dress on.” He gives the girls an oily smirk. “I’m Ashleigh, who else?” | ||
“You’re going to marry Angus?” India demands. | |||
::'''{{smcap|[[User:Fish/ | Prince Ashleigh pauses just a moment to assemble his next sentence. “Yes, of course,” he says smoothly. “The two of us will become one. Our kingdoms will be united under one rule. Don’t you agree that all Romances should have a happy ending?” | ||
::'''{{smcap|[[User:Fish/ | |||
With that, he turns and strides through the fog toward the carriage. India nudges Danaë and gestures at the mossy turf in the prince’s wake. | |||
Ashleigh’s footprints in the turf are gently steaming. | |||
{{Separator|j}} | |||
“A demon?” Angus asks, and her pretty new face turns downward into a puzzled frown. “Are you sure?” | |||
“A demon or a devil, or something,” India insists. “His footprints were steaming.” | |||
“And he just seems... ''evil'',” Danaë puts in. | |||
“Maybe you just don’t ''like'' Ashleigh,” Angus says reasonably, and turns to the mirror to check her hair. Danaë obediently holds the candelabra higher at her gesture. “You’re seeing these things because you ''want'' to see them, because you don’t like her. Him.” | |||
The three girls are in the royal bedchambers, helping Angus to dress in a complicated sky-blue gown suitable for the bride-to-be of a distant prince. The actual wedding gown would be brought along in a chest, of course, and Angus would wear it only for the ceremony; but as befitting a princess, she has to arrive in a certain grand style. Angus is now seated before a vanity mirror with an elaborately scrolled oak frame, examining her brand-new face critically. If Danaë hadn’t known better, she might have believed Angus was really a girl — but then, Dreams had funny ways of changing your behavior, she knew. | |||
“It isn’t that,” Danaë says, rather lamely. “His footprints were steaming.” | |||
“Everything is steaming,” Angus points out. “That’s what happens when everything is damp, and begins to warm up.” | |||
Behind the back of the princess, India makes urgent gestures at Danaë, encouraging her to speak up. Danaë begins, “Angus, I...” | |||
“Danaë, darling,” Angus says, sweeping to her feet and turning on her, “it’s only a Dream. This isn’t a real wedding, and Ashleigh isn’t a real Prince. I’m not even a woman,” she goes on, placing a silk-gloved hand demurely to her throat, “although right now I’ll admit it’s a bit hard to keep that firmly in mind.” | |||
Despite the physical changes they had all gone through, there is something inarguably Angus-like about the princess, something of the Scottish lilt remaining in her speech, something of the old defiance and straight-backed, stiff-necked posture reflected in her new, slender frame. It is difficult to think of Angus now as a man, however, and Danaë realizes with a certain despair that she, playing the part of Lady Tourmaline, can never marry the princess. | |||
''What kind of a Romance is this, anyway?'' Danaë thinks to herself disgustedly. | |||
“So even if it means I marry Ashleigh,” Angus is saying, “I believe I’ll just play along with the story. How else are we going to get to see how it ends?” She grins wickedly and pinches Danaë’s rib cage with her gloved fingers. “Maybe we’ll get married in the next one.” | |||
“Maybe,” Danaë agrees faintly, and India rolls her eyes, mouthing the word coward. | |||
Angus sees the hesitation in Danaë’s expression and her look softens. With a certain intuitive feminine diplomacy, she murmurs, “This isn’t really what you had in mind when I suggested a romantic Dream, is it? I’ll be honest, I hadn’t expected this either. But it’s just a story, a game, right? Maybe the game is just a fairy tale, the Prince and Princess get married. And maybe the story is, The Princess Gets Rescued From The Evil Prince.” Angus smiles gently. “I’m not sure which Dream we’re in, I really don’t. But I’m going to play along with the wedding idea for now. If you think that isn’t the Dream we’re supposed to be in, well, you play whatever part you like.” | |||
“Whatever part I like?” she echoes. “But I’m Lady Tourmaline. I’m the maid of honor. That’s my part—” | |||
“Whichever part you like,” Angus repeats, more firmly. She glances up and down Danaë’s golden gown, still smiling faintly. “It might help if you were a knight in shining armor, but I suppose you’ll just have to improvise.” | |||
{{Separator|j}} | |||
“I could call the police,” Danaë says helplessly. “Or a guard, maybe? Call ''somebody''. There has to be someone I could tell about the prince, and they’ll find out he’s a Demon or something...” | |||
“Investigate a visiting dignitary?” India muses. She considers it. “That’s a bit tricky, wouldn’t you say? I mean, what if we’re wrong? Right before a wedding, you can’t just lock up the groom, can you? Especially if he’s a prince.” | |||
“It would stop the wedding.” | |||
“It sure would,” India agrees, “even if we’re wrong. That’s the trouble. We need something more subtle.” | |||
The two friends were on a wide, stone balcony near the outer wall. The morning fog was lifting and they could now see nearly across the inner courtyard. Somewhere below in the depths of the castle, the prince and his bride received the blessings from a number of well-wishers who wanted to see the couple-to-be on their way. Soon, the black carriage would depart. | |||
“The trouble is,” India continues, “we’re not royalty. We’re just Ladies, not Princesses, we can’t have Ashleigh arrested, not on just ''footprints''.” She taps her chin with one finger. “Although there might be somebody who does have the power to look into this.” | |||
“Who?” | |||
“Well, if Angus is a princess in this Dream,” India says, a smile playing at her lips, “presumably somewhere there’s a king.” | |||
“Maybe we just shouldn’t interfere,” Danaë says miserably. “We might mess up the whole thing, and Angus would hate me.” | |||
“Grow a backbone, girl,” India mutters, disgusted. | |||
::'''{{smcap|[[User:Fish/Danae_goes_to_the_King|Danaë goes to the king with her suspicions about Ashleigh, the Prince of Fiorham.]]}}''' | |||
::'''{{smcap|[[User:Fish/Danae_goes_to_the_Wedding|Danaë says nothing, and accompanies the couple-to-be in the carriage.]]}}''' | |||
</DIV> | </DIV> | ||
[[Category:Dreams Incorporated]] [[Category:Fish]] {{DEFAULTSORT: Danaë in Medieval Fantasy}} | [[Category:Dreams Incorporated]] [[Category:Fish]] {{DEFAULTSORT: Danaë in Medieval Fantasy}} | ||
Latest revision as of 03:18, 22 December 2007
 | This story is a work in progress. |
{{#ifeq:User|Help||}}
{{#if:|}}| [[Image:{{{icon}}}|30px|center|Icon]] | Note: This page descends from a branching story called Dreams Incorporated. Follow the link to start at the beginning. |
Maids of Honor (Medieval Fantasy)
Danaë makes her selection, hesitantly, under India's watchful eye. As soon as she presses her fingertip on the screen she feels a wave crash over her, an almost physical sensation, and her consciousness dissolves away. Her mind erodes in great swaths as the Dreams computer drops her conscious sensation to a mere trickle. Her mind receded into a mere fog, a scattering of droplets without focus.
It may have been many minutes later — or in the accelerated Dream-time it may only have been nanoseconds — when Danaë feels her mind returning, refilling, as a flood of awareness cascades into her. She is peripherally aware, at first, of the sweet rotting scent of hay and the dry, pervading scent of rust, of a dampness in the air, and the distant rumble of falling water. Somewhere nearby, a horse nickers. Then, in a sudden wave, the world seems to flow smoothly into place.
She is standing near a low structure made of oaken post-and-lintel construction, with tall, wide doors. Just inside the structure — which must be a stable, she decides — the floor comes strewn with hay, and large, dark shapes of horses can be seen within. Outside the stable is a large, elegant carriage made of polished black wood and fitted with brass hardware. A coat of arms with a dragon rampant adorns the carriage door, and a handsome young groom tends one of the two horses, brushing its coat thoroughly. The weather is decidedly English: chilly, humid, and overcast. A low fog huddles around the stables, obscuring everything beyond a hundred yards. Beyond the stable itself is a high stone wall, which vanishes into the fog as a castle-shaped silhouette. Behind Danaë the fog creeps into an evenly spaced cluster of trees, a forest or possibly an orchard.
Danaë herself is wearing a heavy violet shawl of a velvety material, something obviously designed more for warmth and fashion than for outdoor durability, over a flowing ankle-length gown of pale goldenrod. She inspects herself briefly, wondering who she might be. Whoever she is, Danaë has fine kid gloves on both hands, up to the elbow, an expensive jeweled bracelet on each wrist, and — she runs her gloved fingertips across her middle — yes, a tight-fitting corset.
The groom approaches her. He is a handsome-looking youth, in a fresh but crude way, a rough-hewn lad with tousled hair. In his demeanor and in his voice there is a healthy respect and fear. “The carriage is ready to take you to the wedding, my Lady,” he says falteringly. “Shall I inform the Captain of the Guard?”
Your Lady? Danaë muses to herself. So I’m in the nobility, maybe even royalty. The word wedding was not lost on her, either: this was, after all, a Romance story, and weddings figured prominently in many of them.
“Uh, yes, please do,” she tells the groom uncertainly. “We mustn’t be late.”
“R-right away, Lady Tourmaline,” the groom stammers, and starts toward the castle-shaped silhouette in the fog. As he leaves, he attempts to unobtrusively make himself more presentable by brushing away the hay that clings to his smock.
The groom vanishes into the mist and, moments later, a new figure emerges. It is a woman, exquisitely dressed in a silky gown of red brocade. Her hair is pulled back into a wave of ringlets that fall down one shoulder, and like Danaë, she wears a heavy shawl to ward off the chill.
“Danaë?” the newcomer asks. “Is that you? Damn, you look good.”
“Yes,” Danaë replies. “I think I’m a princess or something. Are you India?”
The woman nods. She looks entirely unlike her friend India, but the woman has a certain carriage and composure that reminds Danaë hauntingly of her. It is something about the very direct, bold way that India makes eye contact, the way she speaks in a loud voice and states her mind. Although India is now a lustrous black instead of a glowing auburn, and her complexion now milky pale, it is unquestionably still she.
“Lady, eh?” India asks, looking over Danaë’s dress. “Me too. Lady Damask, I think the page said. Turn around, let me see you.”
Danaë does so. “Have you seen the others?”
India shakes her head. “Not yet. They’re getting ready to leave for the wedding, so I’m told.”
“You heard about that?” Danaë says, smiling shyly. “Angus really picked an excellent Romance, didn’t he? I’m going to get to marry him!”
India’s new face turns quickly from admiration into disapproval. “That’s not what I heard. Look, don’t get your hopes up here, but you’re not the princess in this story.”
“I’m not?” Danaë asks. This time she does reach up for the nonexistent purple lock in her hair.
“No,” India says flatly, “you aren’t. And from what I can tell, you’re not the one who’s going to marry the Prince of Fiorham, either.”
Danaë felt the color drain from her face. “Ashleigh? She’s in here, too. You think it’s her?”
India scowls. “Probably. She must have been there with Angus as he picked out three Dreams to suggest to us. She might have arranged to make herself be the lucky bride who marries the handsome prince.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wait and see,” India suggests with a grin, and gestures at Danaë. “If the bride can’t make it to the wedding, maybe the groom will marry the maid of honor.”
“Somehow I don’t see that happening,” a male voice drawls. The two women turn to see the prince: tall, imposing, dusky skin, and eyes to get lost in. He isn’t so broad-shouldered as the hard-working groom, but he radiates a comfortable, healthy power that comes from eating well and exercising properly. His richly made tunic of cobalt blue is adorned with the figure of a golden dragon.
“No, I don’t think I’d want to marry either one of you two girls,” the prince says, slightly emphasizing the word slightly. “So don’t get your hopes up about this Romance. I have a feeling that it isn’t going to end well for you.”
“Angus?” Danaë asks, ashen-faced.
The Prince shakes his head. “No, I’m not Angus. He’s still up in the castle, getting his wedding dress on.” He gives the girls an oily smirk. “I’m Ashleigh, who else?”
“You’re going to marry Angus?” India demands.
Prince Ashleigh pauses just a moment to assemble his next sentence. “Yes, of course,” he says smoothly. “The two of us will become one. Our kingdoms will be united under one rule. Don’t you agree that all Romances should have a happy ending?”
With that, he turns and strides through the fog toward the carriage. India nudges Danaë and gestures at the mossy turf in the prince’s wake.
Ashleigh’s footprints in the turf are gently steaming.
{{#if:j|{{#if:|
{{{2}}} 
}}
“A demon?” Angus asks, and her pretty new face turns downward into a puzzled frown. “Are you sure?”
“A demon or a devil, or something,” India insists. “His footprints were steaming.”
“And he just seems... evil,” Danaë puts in.
“Maybe you just don’t like Ashleigh,” Angus says reasonably, and turns to the mirror to check her hair. Danaë obediently holds the candelabra higher at her gesture. “You’re seeing these things because you want to see them, because you don’t like her. Him.”
The three girls are in the royal bedchambers, helping Angus to dress in a complicated sky-blue gown suitable for the bride-to-be of a distant prince. The actual wedding gown would be brought along in a chest, of course, and Angus would wear it only for the ceremony; but as befitting a princess, she has to arrive in a certain grand style. Angus is now seated before a vanity mirror with an elaborately scrolled oak frame, examining her brand-new face critically. If Danaë hadn’t known better, she might have believed Angus was really a girl — but then, Dreams had funny ways of changing your behavior, she knew.
“It isn’t that,” Danaë says, rather lamely. “His footprints were steaming.”
“Everything is steaming,” Angus points out. “That’s what happens when everything is damp, and begins to warm up.”
Behind the back of the princess, India makes urgent gestures at Danaë, encouraging her to speak up. Danaë begins, “Angus, I...”
“Danaë, darling,” Angus says, sweeping to her feet and turning on her, “it’s only a Dream. This isn’t a real wedding, and Ashleigh isn’t a real Prince. I’m not even a woman,” she goes on, placing a silk-gloved hand demurely to her throat, “although right now I’ll admit it’s a bit hard to keep that firmly in mind.”
Despite the physical changes they had all gone through, there is something inarguably Angus-like about the princess, something of the Scottish lilt remaining in her speech, something of the old defiance and straight-backed, stiff-necked posture reflected in her new, slender frame. It is difficult to think of Angus now as a man, however, and Danaë realizes with a certain despair that she, playing the part of Lady Tourmaline, can never marry the princess.
What kind of a Romance is this, anyway? Danaë thinks to herself disgustedly.
“So even if it means I marry Ashleigh,” Angus is saying, “I believe I’ll just play along with the story. How else are we going to get to see how it ends?” She grins wickedly and pinches Danaë’s rib cage with her gloved fingers. “Maybe we’ll get married in the next one.”
“Maybe,” Danaë agrees faintly, and India rolls her eyes, mouthing the word coward.
Angus sees the hesitation in Danaë’s expression and her look softens. With a certain intuitive feminine diplomacy, she murmurs, “This isn’t really what you had in mind when I suggested a romantic Dream, is it? I’ll be honest, I hadn’t expected this either. But it’s just a story, a game, right? Maybe the game is just a fairy tale, the Prince and Princess get married. And maybe the story is, The Princess Gets Rescued From The Evil Prince.” Angus smiles gently. “I’m not sure which Dream we’re in, I really don’t. But I’m going to play along with the wedding idea for now. If you think that isn’t the Dream we’re supposed to be in, well, you play whatever part you like.”
“Whatever part I like?” she echoes. “But I’m Lady Tourmaline. I’m the maid of honor. That’s my part—”
“Whichever part you like,” Angus repeats, more firmly. She glances up and down Danaë’s golden gown, still smiling faintly. “It might help if you were a knight in shining armor, but I suppose you’ll just have to improvise.”
{{#if:j|{{#if:| {{{2}}} }}
“I could call the police,” Danaë says helplessly. “Or a guard, maybe? Call somebody. There has to be someone I could tell about the prince, and they’ll find out he’s a Demon or something...”
“Investigate a visiting dignitary?” India muses. She considers it. “That’s a bit tricky, wouldn’t you say? I mean, what if we’re wrong? Right before a wedding, you can’t just lock up the groom, can you? Especially if he’s a prince.”
“It would stop the wedding.”
“It sure would,” India agrees, “even if we’re wrong. That’s the trouble. We need something more subtle.”
The two friends were on a wide, stone balcony near the outer wall. The morning fog was lifting and they could now see nearly across the inner courtyard. Somewhere below in the depths of the castle, the prince and his bride received the blessings from a number of well-wishers who wanted to see the couple-to-be on their way. Soon, the black carriage would depart.
“The trouble is,” India continues, “we’re not royalty. We’re just Ladies, not Princesses, we can’t have Ashleigh arrested, not on just footprints.” She taps her chin with one finger. “Although there might be somebody who does have the power to look into this.”
“Who?”
“Well, if Angus is a princess in this Dream,” India says, a smile playing at her lips, “presumably somewhere there’s a king.”
“Maybe we just shouldn’t interfere,” Danaë says miserably. “We might mess up the whole thing, and Angus would hate me.”
“Grow a backbone, girl,” India mutters, disgusted.