[drabbles] for the_alchemist (not really a drabble at all, just a short fic)
I am still doing the ten-drabble/ficlet meme. Just very slowly.
Title: Fatal to Posterity
Fandom: Shakespeare Richard III (also Richard II, but mostly Richard III)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shakespeare, various Richards
Rating: very soft PG-13
Word Count: 783
Warnings: Richard III being Richard III; some salty language; snarky references to bestiality; gross anachronism; implicit Tudor historiography.
Summary: Richard not-yet-III gets a cryptic visitor. Wackiness ensues.
Notes: For the_alchemist, who asked for Richard II/Richard III. This ended up not being at all slashy; gileonnen has covered that ground absolutely masterfully, so I went a different direction and made this mostly silly. Title is from Drayton's England's Heroicall Epistles (1597 text):
O let this name of Richard never die,
Yet still be fatal to posterity,
And let a Richard from our line arise
To be the scourge of many families,
And let the crown be fatal that he bears,
And wet with sad lamenting mothers' tears.
George was dead now.
Richard had to applaud the men he'd hired for their sense of ingenuity -- the malmsey-butt thing was a masterstroke of dramatic irony. He had always told George that drink would be the death of him.
He was contemplating the most effective way to break the news to his brother when he received an unexpected and indeed completely unannounced visitor.
The man who came through the door was tall and slender and really rather disgustingly beautiful. Richard hated pretty people. It wasn't even for the obvious reason with him being deformed and everything, although that didn't help. No, most of them were just pricks.
There was something oddly familiar about this one, too -- Richard could have sworn he had seen him before. He assumed that was on Ned's account. Sure, Ned tended to prefer women, but he wasn't above fucking the occasional pretty boy. Or aging widow. Or moderately attractive sheep. Basically the only requirement Ned seemed to have was that the other person have a pulse, and Richard assumed he was willing to make exceptions.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered. "I assume you're looking for my brother. He's actually at Westminster. I don't know who it is Edward's got managing these things, but he's clearly doing a terrible job."
"I'm not here for Edward," Mr. Disgustingly Pretty said. "I'm here to see you, Richard of Gloucester."
"Well," Richard said, "I'm not taking petitions, I'm not interested in fucking other men, and I've got a perfectly serviceable staff of henchmen, clergymen, and prophets already, so you'd best take whatever services you have elsewhere. I hear the King of Scots is hiring."
"The crown is broken, Richard," the strange man said, without further preamble, and then Richard decided it was probably necessary to pay attention to him after all, because strange men who came into your study unannounced to make cryptic remarks usually had things to say that either would do you good to listen to them or required you to have them killed, and more often than not both of those things turned out to be the case, if Richard knew anything about history, which he certainly did. He really wished he could remember just where he had seen this man before.
"Look," Richard said, "if you're some leftover House of Lancaster partisan, I don't have time for this. We dealt with you people years ago. It's over. Go the hell away."
"I assure you," said Mr. Disgustingly Pretty -- who was even disgustingly pretty when frowning, what the fuck -- "I am no friend of the House of Lancaster."
"Well, then," Richard said. "What do you want from me?"
"I suppose it would just confuse you to say vengeance," the man said, "so I'll just say -- exactly what you're doing now."
"What?"
"You've taken care of George already. Edward will die of his illness, of course. You know that. It's a pity about the children, but sometimes these things can't be helped. It's the way it is, when royal houses need scourging."
The presumption was infuriating, even though everything this incredibly creepy man had just said was entirely true.
"Scourging," Richard said, trying not to look too interested.
"The sins of the house of Lancaster have fallen heavily upon them," said the other man. "When everyone is dead, you can start over. It will never be the same, of course. It can't be. But it will be clean. Cleaner, anyway. For a while."
"What about me?" Richard said, feeling suddenly cold.
The man looked at him balefully, and shrugged.
"How do you know anything?" said Richard. "Who the hell are you anyway?"
"Go to the Abbey," the man said, smiling again in a way that made even Richard uneasy. "Look for me in the chapel of the Confessor." And then he left, and Richard shook his head, rolled his eyes, and poured himself a bowl of wine. Clearly he hadn't been drinking enough.
But in spite of himself Richard couldn't get the creepy man and his creepy words out of his mind.
It's the way it is, when royal houses need scourging.
And so it was that a few days later Richard found himself in Westminster Abbey, at the shrine of Edward the Confessor, surrounded by dead kings and queens. He paced back and forth, waiting for the strange man, wondering what on earth he was to look for, when it occurred to him to actually look at his surroundings, and it was then that he saw, in gilt bronze, the features of the man who had spoken to him.
It was the tomb of the last King Richard.
And at that moment the monks in the abbey crossed themselves for fear. The laughter coming from the direction of the Confessor's shrine -- surely it must have been the devil.
Title: Fatal to Posterity
Fandom: Shakespeare Richard III (also Richard II, but mostly Richard III)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shakespeare, various Richards
Rating: very soft PG-13
Word Count: 783
Warnings: Richard III being Richard III; some salty language; snarky references to bestiality; gross anachronism; implicit Tudor historiography.
Summary: Richard not-yet-III gets a cryptic visitor. Wackiness ensues.
Notes: For the_alchemist, who asked for Richard II/Richard III. This ended up not being at all slashy; gileonnen has covered that ground absolutely masterfully, so I went a different direction and made this mostly silly. Title is from Drayton's England's Heroicall Epistles (1597 text):
O let this name of Richard never die,
Yet still be fatal to posterity,
And let a Richard from our line arise
To be the scourge of many families,
And let the crown be fatal that he bears,
And wet with sad lamenting mothers' tears.
George was dead now.
Richard had to applaud the men he'd hired for their sense of ingenuity -- the malmsey-butt thing was a masterstroke of dramatic irony. He had always told George that drink would be the death of him.
He was contemplating the most effective way to break the news to his brother when he received an unexpected and indeed completely unannounced visitor.
The man who came through the door was tall and slender and really rather disgustingly beautiful. Richard hated pretty people. It wasn't even for the obvious reason with him being deformed and everything, although that didn't help. No, most of them were just pricks.
There was something oddly familiar about this one, too -- Richard could have sworn he had seen him before. He assumed that was on Ned's account. Sure, Ned tended to prefer women, but he wasn't above fucking the occasional pretty boy. Or aging widow. Or moderately attractive sheep. Basically the only requirement Ned seemed to have was that the other person have a pulse, and Richard assumed he was willing to make exceptions.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered. "I assume you're looking for my brother. He's actually at Westminster. I don't know who it is Edward's got managing these things, but he's clearly doing a terrible job."
"I'm not here for Edward," Mr. Disgustingly Pretty said. "I'm here to see you, Richard of Gloucester."
"Well," Richard said, "I'm not taking petitions, I'm not interested in fucking other men, and I've got a perfectly serviceable staff of henchmen, clergymen, and prophets already, so you'd best take whatever services you have elsewhere. I hear the King of Scots is hiring."
"The crown is broken, Richard," the strange man said, without further preamble, and then Richard decided it was probably necessary to pay attention to him after all, because strange men who came into your study unannounced to make cryptic remarks usually had things to say that either would do you good to listen to them or required you to have them killed, and more often than not both of those things turned out to be the case, if Richard knew anything about history, which he certainly did. He really wished he could remember just where he had seen this man before.
"Look," Richard said, "if you're some leftover House of Lancaster partisan, I don't have time for this. We dealt with you people years ago. It's over. Go the hell away."
"I assure you," said Mr. Disgustingly Pretty -- who was even disgustingly pretty when frowning, what the fuck -- "I am no friend of the House of Lancaster."
"Well, then," Richard said. "What do you want from me?"
"I suppose it would just confuse you to say vengeance," the man said, "so I'll just say -- exactly what you're doing now."
"What?"
"You've taken care of George already. Edward will die of his illness, of course. You know that. It's a pity about the children, but sometimes these things can't be helped. It's the way it is, when royal houses need scourging."
The presumption was infuriating, even though everything this incredibly creepy man had just said was entirely true.
"Scourging," Richard said, trying not to look too interested.
"The sins of the house of Lancaster have fallen heavily upon them," said the other man. "When everyone is dead, you can start over. It will never be the same, of course. It can't be. But it will be clean. Cleaner, anyway. For a while."
"What about me?" Richard said, feeling suddenly cold.
The man looked at him balefully, and shrugged.
"How do you know anything?" said Richard. "Who the hell are you anyway?"
"Go to the Abbey," the man said, smiling again in a way that made even Richard uneasy. "Look for me in the chapel of the Confessor." And then he left, and Richard shook his head, rolled his eyes, and poured himself a bowl of wine. Clearly he hadn't been drinking enough.
But in spite of himself Richard couldn't get the creepy man and his creepy words out of his mind.
It's the way it is, when royal houses need scourging.
And so it was that a few days later Richard found himself in Westminster Abbey, at the shrine of Edward the Confessor, surrounded by dead kings and queens. He paced back and forth, waiting for the strange man, wondering what on earth he was to look for, when it occurred to him to actually look at his surroundings, and it was then that he saw, in gilt bronze, the features of the man who had spoken to him.
It was the tomb of the last King Richard.
And at that moment the monks in the abbey crossed themselves for fear. The laughter coming from the direction of the Confessor's shrine -- surely it must have been the devil.