Poetry
Title: Poetry
Author: greeneyespurple
Rating: G
Characters: Lord Cutler Beckett, Mercer, Lady Prudence Beckett
Summary: Prudence performs a little play
Disclaimer: Lord Beckett & Mercer belong to Disney, Prudence to me, Othello to Shakespeare
Author's Note: Written in the Sunday chat over at cutler_beckett
36. Poetry (either writing or reading)
Cutler had to smile when he saw Prudence and Mercer walk into the ballroom. There was nobody else, just the three of them - Prudence in a big puffy yellow dress and Mercer dressed in ‘old’ clothing of Cutler to make him look more of a gentleman (or at least he thought that was Prudence’s intention). He would never admit it, but Cutler loved the little plays Prudence performed for him. She wasn’t the best actress for her dramatisation was a natural habit. Mercer’s dialect and rather melodic voice disappeared into a monotonous mumble. It was actually rather amusing to watch and that was the one reason it turned into a weekly procedure. The other reason was that the applause at the end was the only motivation that had worked to get Prudence to go on with her reading. Truth was, Prudence couldn’t read when they got married some years ago.
It never was a full play, just snippets from plays or novels Prudence found on her desk that Cutler picked out for her after each play. He crossed his legs and waved to them signifying to start.
Dropping to her knees, Prudence’s arms snaked around Mercer’s legs and she gave Cutler a little glance from the corner of her eye:
“O good Iago, what shall I do to win my Lord again?”
Cutler’s face froze. Mercer frowned - Shakespeare?
“Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him.”
Prudence pushed Mercer away from herself and sat back on her feet, folding her hands as if to pray. Mercer shook his head and reached out for Prudence - she looked away.
“If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed,
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did.
And ever will-”
Cutler stood up from his chair now. His face turning into a porcelain mask, his eyes turned glass. The perfect doll - hidden anger. Prudence reached out to him, just a few steps closer, my love. His eye twitched, the doll maker had made a mistake. Doesn’t he know dolls don’t cry?
“Though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement-love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my… love.”
Prudence voice grew bitter, harsh even. She was back on her knees again, holding her arms up like the Sovereign Lord. Falling down on them as Cutler passed them, standing at the stairway - he stopped.
“ I cannot say "whore":
It does abhor me now I speak the word;
To do the act that might the addition earn
Not the world's mass of vanity could make me.”
This was the reason he should have never educated her. Useless vows. Walking up the stairs, he thought he heard Mercer’s singing voice again:
“I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humour:
The business of the state does him offence,
And he does chide with you.”
The stairs never seemed to end, his breath grew shorter, his arms hurt. He heard Desdemona cry after him… wait… wait…
Stumbling backwards, a hand at his heart, Cutler fell down the steps and felt something cold at his neck. Desdemona and Iago dancing around him, calling him but Cutler couldn’t help but laugh and mumble:
„I kiss'd thee ere… ere… ere… ere” never the whore