152: Fic - The Dream
Title: The Dream
Author: dipenates
Rating: R
Word Count: ~540
Prompt: The Dream of the Rood (Unknown Author, 10th century) Prose translation by E.T. Donaldson. Electronic Old English text by Mary Rambaran-Olm
Characters/Pairing (if any): Drusilla and Angelus
Summary: He visits her at her convent.
Warning: Angelus torments Drusilla. Intimations of violence, torment and general unpleasantness. Religious (specifically Catholic) imagery.
Hwæt, ic swefna cyst secgan wylle, hwæt mē gemætte to midre nihte.
Listen, I will speak of the best of dreams, of what I dreamed at midnight.
She would never have said Compline was her favourite hour, because to have a favourite hour was probably a sin, even if novice mistress Sister Teresa of the Holy Face hadn’t said it was. Yet.
But there was something about it that was even stiller than the others; made things stop squirming inside her like rabbits. Made her insides feel as deep and cool as the Thames, without even the stink of Cheapside.
She could feel the cloud of grace in the chapel, as strong as scent. Could see it flickering in the candles lighting the Sisters’ faces, like little wax dolls lined up in rows. She could feel it in her own stomach, as clean and as starchy as handkerchiefs on washday. (Sister Teresa of the Holy Face said that she shouldn’t say ‘stomach’, not when she was Novice Sister Gabriel.)
It was after Compline that things were bad. After the last notes of Nunc Dimittis had been chopped like scissors through golden thread. Although it wasn’t golden, the plainchant. Not glimmering like Bach.
But then the Silence came down like a veil, heavy as cloth and things moved behind it and in it.
And then he was there in her cell. Beautiful and terrible as Lucifer.
*
Bifode ic þā mē se beorn ymbclypte. Ne dorste ic hwæðre būgan tō eorðan, feallan tō foldan scēatum, ac ic sceolde fæste standan.
I trembled when the warrior embraced me, yet I dared not bow to earth, fall to the ground’s surface; but I must stand fast.
Daddy had died quietly and Mummy had screamed, but his face hadn’t smiled until he’d broken Milly and Mary like dolls.
Mary wasn’t that Mary. Not Theotókos, like Sister Teresa of the Holy Face said. Just plain Mary, little Mary. Contrary with her arms pulled off.
It wasn’t allowed to be in another Sister’s cell. It said so in the Rule.
It wasn’t allowed to dance with the ghost of a terrible, alabaster angel.
*
Geseah ic þæt fūse bēacen wendan wædum ond blēom; hwīlum hit wæs mid wætan bestēmed, beswyled mid swātes gange, hwīlum mid since gegyrwed.
I saw that bright beacon change in clothing and colour: now it was wet with moisture, drenched with flowing of blood, now adorned with treasure.
They weren’t allowed to see themselves in the bath. Calico cloaks they soaped, while Sister Teresa of the Holy Face walked up and down between them.
She could see her legs now, though, thin and pale. He’d taken off her habit like a dressmaker handling ancient silks, but he wasn’t so careful with her.
Cold hands. Cold everything.
They danced his macabre dance, and she tried to follow the outline he traced with his tendons and muscles. And then there was blood on her, sticky as jam.
*
Wēop eal gesceaft, cwīðdon cyninges fyll. Crīst wæs on rōde.
All creation wept, bewailed the King’s fall; Christ was on the Cross.
The ice shelf in her stomach cracked and slipped, and the little man on the wooden cross couldn’t make it stop.
Author: dipenates
Rating: R
Word Count: ~540
Prompt: The Dream of the Rood (Unknown Author, 10th century) Prose translation by E.T. Donaldson. Electronic Old English text by Mary Rambaran-Olm
Characters/Pairing (if any): Drusilla and Angelus
Summary: He visits her at her convent.
Warning: Angelus torments Drusilla. Intimations of violence, torment and general unpleasantness. Religious (specifically Catholic) imagery.
Hwæt, ic swefna cyst secgan wylle, hwæt mē gemætte to midre nihte.
Listen, I will speak of the best of dreams, of what I dreamed at midnight.
She would never have said Compline was her favourite hour, because to have a favourite hour was probably a sin, even if novice mistress Sister Teresa of the Holy Face hadn’t said it was. Yet.
But there was something about it that was even stiller than the others; made things stop squirming inside her like rabbits. Made her insides feel as deep and cool as the Thames, without even the stink of Cheapside.
She could feel the cloud of grace in the chapel, as strong as scent. Could see it flickering in the candles lighting the Sisters’ faces, like little wax dolls lined up in rows. She could feel it in her own stomach, as clean and as starchy as handkerchiefs on washday. (Sister Teresa of the Holy Face said that she shouldn’t say ‘stomach’, not when she was Novice Sister Gabriel.)
It was after Compline that things were bad. After the last notes of Nunc Dimittis had been chopped like scissors through golden thread. Although it wasn’t golden, the plainchant. Not glimmering like Bach.
But then the Silence came down like a veil, heavy as cloth and things moved behind it and in it.
And then he was there in her cell. Beautiful and terrible as Lucifer.
*
Bifode ic þā mē se beorn ymbclypte. Ne dorste ic hwæðre būgan tō eorðan, feallan tō foldan scēatum, ac ic sceolde fæste standan.
I trembled when the warrior embraced me, yet I dared not bow to earth, fall to the ground’s surface; but I must stand fast.
Daddy had died quietly and Mummy had screamed, but his face hadn’t smiled until he’d broken Milly and Mary like dolls.
Mary wasn’t that Mary. Not Theotókos, like Sister Teresa of the Holy Face said. Just plain Mary, little Mary. Contrary with her arms pulled off.
It wasn’t allowed to be in another Sister’s cell. It said so in the Rule.
It wasn’t allowed to dance with the ghost of a terrible, alabaster angel.
*
Geseah ic þæt fūse bēacen wendan wædum ond blēom; hwīlum hit wæs mid wætan bestēmed, beswyled mid swātes gange, hwīlum mid since gegyrwed.
I saw that bright beacon change in clothing and colour: now it was wet with moisture, drenched with flowing of blood, now adorned with treasure.
They weren’t allowed to see themselves in the bath. Calico cloaks they soaped, while Sister Teresa of the Holy Face walked up and down between them.
She could see her legs now, though, thin and pale. He’d taken off her habit like a dressmaker handling ancient silks, but he wasn’t so careful with her.
Cold hands. Cold everything.
They danced his macabre dance, and she tried to follow the outline he traced with his tendons and muscles. And then there was blood on her, sticky as jam.
*
Wēop eal gesceaft, cwīðdon cyninges fyll. Crīst wæs on rōde.
All creation wept, bewailed the King’s fall; Christ was on the Cross.
The ice shelf in her stomach cracked and slipped, and the little man on the wooden cross couldn’t make it stop.