![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seasonal_sd March 2009
Mar. 6th, 2009 11:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_pretty_fireFairy Tales
Every story needs a knight. They have witches too, sometimes, but Drusilla has always liked the knights best of all. The witches never get to carry shining swords or ride horses. They only have broomsticks, and they don’t stay up in the sky without the stories to hold them there.
(Drusilla knows. She tried to fly, once, when she was a little girl. She ripped her petticoat and bloodied her knees, and Mama was ever so cross. Drusilla didn’t understand why pretending to be a witch was worse than having wicked witch pictures in her head. She was sure that the pictures were just as loud as the games in the garden, and the neighbours had good ears beneath their sensible white bonnets. At least she didn’t have green skin or boils on her nose. She’d checked in the mirror every morning, before the glass stopped speaking to her. She didn’t have to look after that, because vampires were always better than witches in the books. They had castles, even if Daddy told her that she’d never be able to turn into a bat.)
The princesses don’t get to carry swords either, but the knights do all the chopping for them. They chop the monsters up into little bits and the princesses get to wade through the blood in their pretty dresses. White and red are her favourite colours, and they make such a lovely mess when they’re mixed together.
Picking a champion had been easier than she’d expected. She’d found him glittering in the shadows, just waiting for someone to give him a sword and paint a new mark on his shield.
She painted the mark on his chest as well, during their first night together. It would always be there, even if he wasn’t. She didn’t believe the pixies yet – they were always jealous when she found new friends, the silly little things, thinking she’d forget all about them – but Drusilla was a careful girl. You couldn’t escape from the tower if you didn’t grow your hair first.
***
“Tell me a story, my Spike.”
He was a good storyteller, her boy. It was the poet inside him. The soul had escaped, fluttering away into the breeze, but the words still remained. Rhyming words, skipping words, dancing off the tongue and into Drusilla’s head, making her shiver and snap happily.
“What sort of story, pet?” he asked, tracing a finger up her bare arm as she curled up against his chest. It was a good bed, this bed. She swam in a sea of white silk and velveteen pillows, which was strange. The bed was supposed to be the boat, not the ocean, allowing them to weather out any adventures that came their way.
(The rude little woman hadn’t wanted to let them have in. She hadn’t wanted to let them in her house, either, but her mind – sharp as razors, it was, but soft enough to squeeze – hadn’t been able to hold back Drusilla. She slipped in, stealing the invite and snapping her throat before she woke up. Spike had laughed. He liked it when she glittered like that.)
“A fairy story,” she suggested, clapping her hands together. A strange name for stories that didn’t usually contain fairies, but they were vain things. Pinned their name to everything. She knew Spike wouldn’t be fooled.
“What sort of fairy story, ducks? Witches and wizards or princesses and knights?”
Drusilla laughed, tilting her head to snap playfully at his nose. He growled in return, grinning in a way that made her heart wish it could beat, and she almost forgot about the stories altogether. The ones they wrote were terribly exciting, even if they didn’t have magic spinning wheels or casts of hundreds.
“They always have princesses in,” she murmured, “Otherwise the heroes would have nobody to rescue.”
“They don’t always need rescuing,” he pointed out, “You’re a proper little princess, you are, but you take care of yourself.”
She smiled at that, though she wasn’t sure how truthful he was being. Her Spike didn’t lie to her, but he sometimes twisted words to make her smile, or to make her feel better. That was the poet again. He just wouldn’t leave words alone, even when they were perfectly tidy little words that didn’t need to be fixed. Hammering them together like a blacksmith trying to make horseshoes out of silver instead of iron.
“If I did need rescuing, would you do it? Would you find me?”
“I’d follow you to the end of the world, my love,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. She wriggled a little, then nestled closer. Not because she wanted to escape, oh no, but because her Spike made nice noises when she squirmed like that.
“Good.”
“Not planning a trip to the end of the world just yet, are you?” he asked, “I was thinking about taking you to France first. All those pretty French girls. What d'you think?”
“Paris?” Drusilla asked, eyes wide as she tipped her head up and studied him.
“Anywhere you like. We can stroll along the Seine and drink fine wine.”
“And fine people,” she said with a giggle, kissing him.
Before she knew what was happening, he was pinning her to the mattress, still smirking. Drusilla squirmed again and Spike made one of her favourite noises as he raised her wrists above her head.
This was never in the stories, but Drusilla suspected that Mama and … not Daddy, but the man that had been there before him … had taken the best parts out of the books. Good little girls weren’t allowed to read about that while they were growing up, but they were allowed to read about the wicked monsters in the Bible? It didn’t make sense to Drusilla. It didn’t matter, either. She had her white knight, splashed with red, and they were going to rewrite the universe.
The stars had told her so.
Every story needs a knight. They have witches too, sometimes, but Drusilla has always liked the knights best of all. The witches never get to carry shining swords or ride horses. They only have broomsticks, and they don’t stay up in the sky without the stories to hold them there.
(Drusilla knows. She tried to fly, once, when she was a little girl. She ripped her petticoat and bloodied her knees, and Mama was ever so cross. Drusilla didn’t understand why pretending to be a witch was worse than having wicked witch pictures in her head. She was sure that the pictures were just as loud as the games in the garden, and the neighbours had good ears beneath their sensible white bonnets. At least she didn’t have green skin or boils on her nose. She’d checked in the mirror every morning, before the glass stopped speaking to her. She didn’t have to look after that, because vampires were always better than witches in the books. They had castles, even if Daddy told her that she’d never be able to turn into a bat.)
The princesses don’t get to carry swords either, but the knights do all the chopping for them. They chop the monsters up into little bits and the princesses get to wade through the blood in their pretty dresses. White and red are her favourite colours, and they make such a lovely mess when they’re mixed together.
Picking a champion had been easier than she’d expected. She’d found him glittering in the shadows, just waiting for someone to give him a sword and paint a new mark on his shield.
She painted the mark on his chest as well, during their first night together. It would always be there, even if he wasn’t. She didn’t believe the pixies yet – they were always jealous when she found new friends, the silly little things, thinking she’d forget all about them – but Drusilla was a careful girl. You couldn’t escape from the tower if you didn’t grow your hair first.
***
“Tell me a story, my Spike.”
He was a good storyteller, her boy. It was the poet inside him. The soul had escaped, fluttering away into the breeze, but the words still remained. Rhyming words, skipping words, dancing off the tongue and into Drusilla’s head, making her shiver and snap happily.
“What sort of story, pet?” he asked, tracing a finger up her bare arm as she curled up against his chest. It was a good bed, this bed. She swam in a sea of white silk and velveteen pillows, which was strange. The bed was supposed to be the boat, not the ocean, allowing them to weather out any adventures that came their way.
(The rude little woman hadn’t wanted to let them have in. She hadn’t wanted to let them in her house, either, but her mind – sharp as razors, it was, but soft enough to squeeze – hadn’t been able to hold back Drusilla. She slipped in, stealing the invite and snapping her throat before she woke up. Spike had laughed. He liked it when she glittered like that.)
“A fairy story,” she suggested, clapping her hands together. A strange name for stories that didn’t usually contain fairies, but they were vain things. Pinned their name to everything. She knew Spike wouldn’t be fooled.
“What sort of fairy story, ducks? Witches and wizards or princesses and knights?”
Drusilla laughed, tilting her head to snap playfully at his nose. He growled in return, grinning in a way that made her heart wish it could beat, and she almost forgot about the stories altogether. The ones they wrote were terribly exciting, even if they didn’t have magic spinning wheels or casts of hundreds.
“They always have princesses in,” she murmured, “Otherwise the heroes would have nobody to rescue.”
“They don’t always need rescuing,” he pointed out, “You’re a proper little princess, you are, but you take care of yourself.”
She smiled at that, though she wasn’t sure how truthful he was being. Her Spike didn’t lie to her, but he sometimes twisted words to make her smile, or to make her feel better. That was the poet again. He just wouldn’t leave words alone, even when they were perfectly tidy little words that didn’t need to be fixed. Hammering them together like a blacksmith trying to make horseshoes out of silver instead of iron.
“If I did need rescuing, would you do it? Would you find me?”
“I’d follow you to the end of the world, my love,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. She wriggled a little, then nestled closer. Not because she wanted to escape, oh no, but because her Spike made nice noises when she squirmed like that.
“Good.”
“Not planning a trip to the end of the world just yet, are you?” he asked, “I was thinking about taking you to France first. All those pretty French girls. What d'you think?”
“Paris?” Drusilla asked, eyes wide as she tipped her head up and studied him.
“Anywhere you like. We can stroll along the Seine and drink fine wine.”
“And fine people,” she said with a giggle, kissing him.
Before she knew what was happening, he was pinning her to the mattress, still smirking. Drusilla squirmed again and Spike made one of her favourite noises as he raised her wrists above her head.
This was never in the stories, but Drusilla suspected that Mama and … not Daddy, but the man that had been there before him … had taken the best parts out of the books. Good little girls weren’t allowed to read about that while they were growing up, but they were allowed to read about the wicked monsters in the Bible? It didn’t make sense to Drusilla. It didn’t matter, either. She had her white knight, splashed with red, and they were going to rewrite the universe.
The stars had told her so.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-03-06 03:26 pm (UTC)OOC
Date: 2009-03-06 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-06 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-06 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-07 12:54 am (UTC)This was never in the stories...
I love the Dru you've caught here. Her childlike interest in stories (pot: black), and her knowledge that she is in one, along with her willingness to skip to the good stuff, make her just right.
Another lovely entry!
no subject
Date: 2009-03-07 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-07 08:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-07 10:48 pm (UTC)It can be hard to write something like this for Dru without it, yes, taking over or getting a bit too tangled. I'm glad it worked.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 03:07 pm (UTC)My little heart about broke with all the little touches - the white bonnets on the neighbors and the future as yet unwritten... jealous pixies!
*sniffle*
no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 06:53 pm (UTC)