Fic.
Title: Three Sisters
Characters: Take your pic. I know who they're supposed to be...
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own them and I'll put them back when I'm done.
Author's Note: In keeping with my gothic-y mindset. Could be any fandom, really. Let me know what you think, please!
There were three sisters, once upon a time. They lived in a special house, growing up, apart from those unworthy to see them, where they were treated like queens.
The oldest, maddest of the three sisters wore a dress of palest lace. She sat at her vanity, illumined by the light of a single candle, and wound her hair into an intricate coil, high on the back of her head. She reached for a velvet jewel box, withdrew an intricately woven collar of dark red gems, laid them on her elegant white throat.
“They say the woman who owned these jewels bathed in the blood of virgins,” the jeweler had told her.
The oldest, maddest sister had smiled, and purchased them.
The middle sister was as unlike her elder sister as day from night, although one would not have guessed from looking at them. Her hair was as dark as midnight, her eyes pale as agates. She had the sense to leave while she still could, and took her escape with a young man from the southern seaports. Before, she had attended social functions, seemingly docile, seemingly obedient, but her agate eyes snapping with intelligence, burning you to your very core.
“I cannot promise much,” her love had said. “Just a small house, and a garden, and a library of books. Not the riches you are used to.”
She had smiled at that, and followed him.
The youngest sister was the loveliest of the three, although she did not enjoy her beauty. She was a doll, forever dressed up and held, presented for the inspection and adulation of others. She was the obedient one, pretty, praised, petted. She knew what was expected of her. She knew when to keep her mouth shut and smile. Knew when to wear the mask. Save once, when they tried to take her greatest treasure from her, when she had to ask a man to make the choice to live or die. She looked into his face, and she pleaded.
“Will you do this thing for me?”
He held her gaze, and took her hands.
Three sisters. The oldest, maddest, sings softly to herself as she dances alone in a locked room. The moonlight shines on her white arms; the sea pounds outside her window. The middle sister works in her rose garden and pushes her little daughter on the swing, laughing as the sun shines down upon them. The youngest finds power she never thought she had, as the candles illumine her face, and shine on the collar of ruby gems adorning her pale throat.
And you, sister?
Fin.
Characters: Take your pic. I know who they're supposed to be...
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own them and I'll put them back when I'm done.
Author's Note: In keeping with my gothic-y mindset. Could be any fandom, really. Let me know what you think, please!
There were three sisters, once upon a time. They lived in a special house, growing up, apart from those unworthy to see them, where they were treated like queens.
The oldest, maddest of the three sisters wore a dress of palest lace. She sat at her vanity, illumined by the light of a single candle, and wound her hair into an intricate coil, high on the back of her head. She reached for a velvet jewel box, withdrew an intricately woven collar of dark red gems, laid them on her elegant white throat.
“They say the woman who owned these jewels bathed in the blood of virgins,” the jeweler had told her.
The oldest, maddest sister had smiled, and purchased them.
The middle sister was as unlike her elder sister as day from night, although one would not have guessed from looking at them. Her hair was as dark as midnight, her eyes pale as agates. She had the sense to leave while she still could, and took her escape with a young man from the southern seaports. Before, she had attended social functions, seemingly docile, seemingly obedient, but her agate eyes snapping with intelligence, burning you to your very core.
“I cannot promise much,” her love had said. “Just a small house, and a garden, and a library of books. Not the riches you are used to.”
She had smiled at that, and followed him.
The youngest sister was the loveliest of the three, although she did not enjoy her beauty. She was a doll, forever dressed up and held, presented for the inspection and adulation of others. She was the obedient one, pretty, praised, petted. She knew what was expected of her. She knew when to keep her mouth shut and smile. Knew when to wear the mask. Save once, when they tried to take her greatest treasure from her, when she had to ask a man to make the choice to live or die. She looked into his face, and she pleaded.
“Will you do this thing for me?”
He held her gaze, and took her hands.
Three sisters. The oldest, maddest, sings softly to herself as she dances alone in a locked room. The moonlight shines on her white arms; the sea pounds outside her window. The middle sister works in her rose garden and pushes her little daughter on the swing, laughing as the sun shines down upon them. The youngest finds power she never thought she had, as the candles illumine her face, and shine on the collar of ruby gems adorning her pale throat.
And you, sister?
Fin.