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a_pretty_fireTell us about your name.
Grandmother Darla lost her name. Very careless of her. She didn’t remember to keep in her pocket, where the pixies couldn’t pull at it. Tricky little things, playing games with vampires who let the moon fill their heads with nonsense. Drusilla was too sensible for their tricks. She listened to them, letting them in so she could control where they wandered.
She can’t remember if her name has always been Drusilla, though. Her sisters were Anne and Sophie. Good, sensible names, for good, sensible girls. Drusilla doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t fit. Anne-and-Sophie-and-Drusilla. Little Anne and kind Sophie and wicked Drusilla.
Wicked Drusilla.
It was the name Angelus used when she woke up with earth in her hair. She’d been swallowed up by the soil and then the soil had spat out someone new. She didn’t know how to use any other name. She didn’t know how to be anyone else either, not now. Just Drusilla. Her rosary had snapped a long time ago and she didn’t pray for forgiveness anymore. Heaven would be so dull, after all the parties on Earth.
Daddy didn’t want her to change. She learned a wicked princess instead of a saint, snapping the spinning wheels and gobbling up all the handsome princes who came to her rescue. Her hair isn’t even long enough to climb up, but that doesn’t matter. She likes to live near the ground, in case the fairies try to snatch her away from her family. Towers are too troublesome.
(The princesses in the stories never have real names, do they? Cinderella was drawn her ashes and Snow White was a terrible name for a girl with such a coal black tongue. Liar, liar. Pretending to be so good, then scuttling away to steal dear Eve’s apple. Even Little Red Riding Hood had to hide behind her cloak. What would she be, if they took her hood away? Would she disappear, with nothing to name her and make her real?)
Angelus had crafted Drusilla so carefully. Glass and beads and bits of lace. He had to pick her name. The name was the last piece of the jigsaw. You spoiled everything if you didn’t put it down properly. White spaces make the picture fracture, and all his hard work could have been lost to the night, instead of being embraced by it.
His name was a good name, wasn’t it? She could even see his wings, if she tilted her head to the side and allowed her eyes to drift shut. (She’d love a pair of her own as well, but then none of her dresses would fit.) Black feathers, like oil floating on water. He was such a terrible sinner, her Daddy. That was why she loved him so much.
(The Angel beast tries to dye the feathers, or pluck them out entirely. He has enough to fill a mattress, but they still stop him from sleeping. Poor little lamb, losing his name and his purpose in one terrible sweep. She’d fix him if she could, but she can’t give him any happiness. Daddy used to laugh when she brought him blood and bones, but Angel would only weep. Some people are just too hard to please.)
Her Spike picked his own name. A terrible liberty, but she let him get away with it because he was her darling deadly boy. At least he picked a name that was just as darling and just as deadly. She’d wanted ‘Gamaliel‘, to anchor him to her forever. Or ‘Cain‘, because it danced on her tongue. Spike is a sharp name. It tastes of iron, but so does blood. He tastes of blood. Blood and poetry and effulgence.
Oh, she likes that word! Effulgent. Maybe they should find a daughter, and give it to her as a new name. She was sure to laugh when Drusilla explained the joke and the pixies couldn't touch you once you'd forgotten how to be human.
Grandmother Darla lost her name. Very careless of her. She didn’t remember to keep in her pocket, where the pixies couldn’t pull at it. Tricky little things, playing games with vampires who let the moon fill their heads with nonsense. Drusilla was too sensible for their tricks. She listened to them, letting them in so she could control where they wandered.
She can’t remember if her name has always been Drusilla, though. Her sisters were Anne and Sophie. Good, sensible names, for good, sensible girls. Drusilla doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t fit. Anne-and-Sophie-and-Drusilla. Little Anne and kind Sophie and wicked Drusilla.
Wicked Drusilla.
It was the name Angelus used when she woke up with earth in her hair. She’d been swallowed up by the soil and then the soil had spat out someone new. She didn’t know how to use any other name. She didn’t know how to be anyone else either, not now. Just Drusilla. Her rosary had snapped a long time ago and she didn’t pray for forgiveness anymore. Heaven would be so dull, after all the parties on Earth.
Daddy didn’t want her to change. She learned a wicked princess instead of a saint, snapping the spinning wheels and gobbling up all the handsome princes who came to her rescue. Her hair isn’t even long enough to climb up, but that doesn’t matter. She likes to live near the ground, in case the fairies try to snatch her away from her family. Towers are too troublesome.
(The princesses in the stories never have real names, do they? Cinderella was drawn her ashes and Snow White was a terrible name for a girl with such a coal black tongue. Liar, liar. Pretending to be so good, then scuttling away to steal dear Eve’s apple. Even Little Red Riding Hood had to hide behind her cloak. What would she be, if they took her hood away? Would she disappear, with nothing to name her and make her real?)
Angelus had crafted Drusilla so carefully. Glass and beads and bits of lace. He had to pick her name. The name was the last piece of the jigsaw. You spoiled everything if you didn’t put it down properly. White spaces make the picture fracture, and all his hard work could have been lost to the night, instead of being embraced by it.
His name was a good name, wasn’t it? She could even see his wings, if she tilted her head to the side and allowed her eyes to drift shut. (She’d love a pair of her own as well, but then none of her dresses would fit.) Black feathers, like oil floating on water. He was such a terrible sinner, her Daddy. That was why she loved him so much.
(The Angel beast tries to dye the feathers, or pluck them out entirely. He has enough to fill a mattress, but they still stop him from sleeping. Poor little lamb, losing his name and his purpose in one terrible sweep. She’d fix him if she could, but she can’t give him any happiness. Daddy used to laugh when she brought him blood and bones, but Angel would only weep. Some people are just too hard to please.)
Her Spike picked his own name. A terrible liberty, but she let him get away with it because he was her darling deadly boy. At least he picked a name that was just as darling and just as deadly. She’d wanted ‘Gamaliel‘, to anchor him to her forever. Or ‘Cain‘, because it danced on her tongue. Spike is a sharp name. It tastes of iron, but so does blood. He tastes of blood. Blood and poetry and effulgence.
Oh, she likes that word! Effulgent. Maybe they should find a daughter, and give it to her as a new name. She was sure to laugh when Drusilla explained the joke and the pixies couldn't touch you once you'd forgotten how to be human.
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 07:23 pm (UTC)Right.
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Date: 2009-02-22 07:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 09:31 pm (UTC)Clean? But I like the mess!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 01:26 am (UTC)I like mess, but only when I'm pissed off enough.