"Eurydice"
By Monoshiri
A/N: My first Pegasus-centric fanfic. I fooked with his history: please forgive me. This includes an O/C, but it's mostly focused on Pegs and his feelings about life pre- and post-Cynthia, and there's no romance of the Pegasus/Niirjudda variety. You'll see why immediately if you know the references, and later on it will be made jackhammer obvious. ^-^ This is also only in its roughest stages, so any feedback/criticism would be deeply appreciated. *bows*
A Few Brief Notes (on the literary references): (1) Eurydice was the wife of the gifted minstrel Orpheus in Greek mythology, and they were deeply in love. When Eurydice died tragically soon after their marriage, Orpheus was deeply distraught, and he wandered the earth trying to find a way to reunite with his dead beloved. He eventually made his way to the Underworld, where the beauty of his music so entranced Cerberus and the Ferryman of the Styx that he was able to pass by and go among the dead. He sought an audience with Hades himself, and played so beautifully that Persephone, Hades' unwilling bride and Queen of the Underworld, was moved to tears, and pleaded with her husband on Orpheus' behalf to release Eurydice's soul. However, Orpheus' effort failed because he broke the condition Hades placed on him; that is, that he should lead Eurydice out of the Underworld without looking back at her once. Poor Orpheus: he thought he'd made it out too soon, and couldn't wait to look on his wife's face; so Eurydice had to return to the Underworld and Orpheus had to wander alone and in despair until his own death reunited them. (Sound like anybody we know? Poor ole' Pegs.) (2) St. Dunstan and Diana are in reference to some Canuck literature by the name of "Fifth Business", by the fantastic Robertson Davies. The chapter's called that after two characters, one the main character of the story and the "Fifth Business" of the title (dramaturges will get this, but the rest of you should just go read the book, even if you're not Canadian), and the other the woman who unconsciously shapes his life by re-naming him after a traumatic service in the First World War.
Unn--brief notes, huh? Whoopsie-daisy. *cackles* Who's rambling? ^-^
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
CHAPTER ONE: ST. DUNSTAN AND DIANA
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Live for the impossible.
That was always my motto, as a child; when the other boys were playing with toy guns and dreaming of becoming soldiers, or firefighters, or the President of the United States, I was longing for the days of once upon a time and far away. Impossible, indeed, to meet with creatures of myth; to battle dragons and wicked witches, meet unicorns and fairies. I could draw them in my school books at least, but never see them face to face.
I worried my parents a bit back then, I know, but I hope I made them proud, too. They were the closest thing we Americans have to royalty, well- heeled bourgeoisie who had money left over from the old country, and had made enough in the new to have everything they could ever desire. I grew up accustomed to privilege, in fact perhaps would have become a bit spoiled if one of my early tutors hadn't taken an extremely sharp line with me-but more on him later.
My parents desired only the best for me, especially my father. The son of a prominent businessman who had been so obsessed with his work that he'd rarely seen him during his formative years, and who had insisted that his only child have an equal obsession, my father was determined that I should be allowed to indulge in interests outside of making money. My mother liked the idea of my being afforded what, in olden days, was often given grudgingly to sons of wealthy households: to pursue a course in my life as I chose it, without pressure to uphold the family name and heraldry.
Am I starting to sound too wordy? Forgive me: Cynthia used to tease me about-no, not now. Later.
So when I expressed a fascination with art, they let me doodle along for a while, as children will, and then when they felt I was old enough, I began classical instruction. Outside of my usual tutor, Mr. Ducroix (I pronounced it Dyu-croikse, and he had the immense patience to laugh heartily before correcting me), a Mr. Baptist was hired to teach me mathematics and to develop my artistic skills. Ferdinand Baptist was a sharp-tongued, merciless educator when it came to practical things; however, in art he was more willing to allow a pupil to set the pace, and to see and exploit a forte whenever he discovered one, gently and without expectations or hurrying. I have been schooled in visual art by many different people, and yet I can still say that Mr. Baptist was the best of them.
However, there was one thing I did which got on his nerves immeasurably. I would constantly choose fantasy subjects for my classical pictures. Whether it be my mental image of the seduction of Paris by Aphrodite, King Arthur having Excalibur bestowed on him by the Lady of the Lake, a ring of Faeries, or simple some random unicorns or a dragon or three, my delight was in the mythic and the unreal made part of the world I knew. Mr. Baptist tolerated this for a while, then eventually complained about it to me. I threw his own words back in his face - "Paint what captures your mind, Pegasus, your imagination," - and he became deeply annoyed.
I bring this up because the night after that, my parents held a lavish garden party for their wealthier friends from all across the globe. They asked if I wanted to bring anyone: at ten years old, I was feeling insecure and rather rebellious, so I cheerfully told them I wanted to invite Mr. Baptist.
My mother was horrified at first, but after a fair bit of coaxing from my father, she relented, with a look on her face like she had eaten a lemon. She insisted on stuffing me into my most formal suit and combing my thick silver locks herself before the evening began, and she made dark hints to Mr. Baptist that he should refrain from showing any of the guests up for being pretentious (a hobby of his that I found endless entertainment in watching), or his employment might be in jeopardy.
That night, lost among the lanterns and the evening heat and the multitude of well-dressed, well-groomed, beautiful people, I found myself at the centre of the garden near the dessert table, talking to Mr. Baptist as he was the only person there whom I knew. Our conversation turned to my paintings after a while, and he once more expressed his displeasure with my fanciful choice of subjects. I remember the exchange that followed very clearly.
"My dear boy, the subject of your painting is a matter of personal choice, but no artist can draw on myth and fantasy exclusively, without grounding himself in reality as well! Remember what I told you about breaking the rules before you know them? Besides, when your head's up in the air, it's good to have a subject for your art that keeps you on *this* side of reality."
"But, Mr. Baptist - "
"Yes?"
"You said to look for a subject that inspires me to paint, and, well, I haven't found anything like that in, um, real life."
Mr. Baptist made a huffy noise through his teeth. "Hmph! Then you need to get out there and look for one. Start by scanning this very garden party: perhaps you'll find something inspiring around here."
I doubted it, and was going to tell him so, but nearby us a woman in a diamond-encrusted ball gown started going on about the Monet she had just purchased at Southeby's, and I could see by the glint that appeared in Mr. Baptist's eye that he had forgotten my mother's warning. He left his dish of fruit salad and wove through the crowd towards her, effectively abandoning me to my own devices.
I stood by the table feeling silly and out of place for a while, as I still do at most social gatherings such as that. After a while, I also became somewhat bored, so I decided to take my tutor's advice and scan the crowd for possible subjects.
After about ten minutes, I almost gave up. I'd never before seen such a group of unprepossessing people. Vacuous, cold, distant face after face, beautiful (if not naturally then under the surgeon's scalpel), properly adorned, neither under- nor over-dressed, but they were all oh, so unremarkable. I began to wonder if "this side of reality" was really all Mr. Baptist considered it cracked up to be.
Then, by chance, as I was giving the crowd a final once-over just to be able to tell my tutor what I thought of his realistic subjects, I saw her.
Yes, her. You know of whom I speak.
It was the shining cascade of golden hair that caught my eye, but it was her face - a face so full of loving compassion, laughter, vitality, beauty, everything that takes and holds my heart and takes it still now - it was her face that held it. And then our eyes met and I looked into impossible sparkling blue, and I knew then that I had found what was to keep me on this side of reality.
Or had I instead found an angel in human guise?
She looked back at me with a shy zephyr of a smile flitting back and forth across her lips, fidgeting with the hem of her lilac party dress.
"Uh - hello."
"Hello."
We gazed at each other dumbly for a while longer - or rather, I gazed dumbly, she smiled and looked graciously back - before I suddenly got up my courage and blurted out;
"W-what's your name?"
Cliché though it might be, her giggle was like little silver bells.
"I'm Cynthia. Who're you?"
Cynthia.
I would never, I felt at that moment, have to venture back into the world of myth again. I had found all the wonder I needed right here.
Cynthia.
I barely remember introducing myself to her, or how pleased my mother was when Mr. Baptist finally reminded her of my presence at the party and she went to the bottom of the garden to find Cynthia and I sitting on a swing talking. She thought I'd made a new friend.
Cynthia.
Although for many years afterwards she and I would delve into old legends or fairy tales (we had so much in common it was astounding to me; it still is), it was less to me now than Cynthia was. My paintings became more - enchanted, I suppose, is the word - with reality, which held so much more meaning to me now because of her. My imagination became concerned with earthly matters.
Cynthia.
Now that she's gone, I live for the impossible again. Only now, the impossible is not only a desire, it is what I *must* reach-
- if I am ever to see her again -
Cynthia.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Pegasus J. Crawford closed his eyes and re-opened them. The tombstone before him did not go away as he had hoped. Had it only been a month?
"Without you -" he whispered, his fingers tracing the name on the stone, "it seems like so much longer. So much longer-"
He paused and looked across the graveyard at the gathering clouds on the horizon. Was it pathetic fallacy, to assume that the world had emotions? Yes, that was it. The rain would come soon. He turned back to his wife's final resting place.
"I-I hate to leave you, Cynthia, but you do remember, don't you, how Professor Damascus agreed to let me help on the dig in Cairo? I have to go to Oxford University: there's a woman there who's going to help us translate the artefacts we find. She's Senegalese, and apparently very well-versed in ancient Egyptian writings. It could be a major find, very important - "
Pegasus broke off and continued to kneel there silently for some time, his hand resting on the tombstone. It didn't matter any more. None of it mattered any more.
*Why did I ever think this reality could be beautiful?*
He rose and walked away, certainly not for the last time. A single raindrop fell from the sky, an advent of the coming deluge, and landed with a soft *plink* on the granite headstone of Cynthia Crawford.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I'll continue this, I swear. I dun wanna leave poor Pegs feeling all depressive and suicidal. Although everyone knows the inevitable outcome here (i.e PsychoSennenEye!Pegs, Duellist Kingdom etc.), I wanted to show that he has the capability for self-saving, that he isn't just an unfortunate victim of Fate, and that he has some hope for the future. Plus, I wanna lay the groundwork for some post-DK redemption for poor old eyeless Pegsu. ^-^
A/N: My first Pegasus-centric fanfic. I fooked with his history: please forgive me. This includes an O/C, but it's mostly focused on Pegs and his feelings about life pre- and post-Cynthia, and there's no romance of the Pegasus/Niirjudda variety. You'll see why immediately if you know the references, and later on it will be made jackhammer obvious. ^-^ This is also only in its roughest stages, so any feedback/criticism would be deeply appreciated. *bows*
A Few Brief Notes (on the literary references): (1) Eurydice was the wife of the gifted minstrel Orpheus in Greek mythology, and they were deeply in love. When Eurydice died tragically soon after their marriage, Orpheus was deeply distraught, and he wandered the earth trying to find a way to reunite with his dead beloved. He eventually made his way to the Underworld, where the beauty of his music so entranced Cerberus and the Ferryman of the Styx that he was able to pass by and go among the dead. He sought an audience with Hades himself, and played so beautifully that Persephone, Hades' unwilling bride and Queen of the Underworld, was moved to tears, and pleaded with her husband on Orpheus' behalf to release Eurydice's soul. However, Orpheus' effort failed because he broke the condition Hades placed on him; that is, that he should lead Eurydice out of the Underworld without looking back at her once. Poor Orpheus: he thought he'd made it out too soon, and couldn't wait to look on his wife's face; so Eurydice had to return to the Underworld and Orpheus had to wander alone and in despair until his own death reunited them. (Sound like anybody we know? Poor ole' Pegs.) (2) St. Dunstan and Diana are in reference to some Canuck literature by the name of "Fifth Business", by the fantastic Robertson Davies. The chapter's called that after two characters, one the main character of the story and the "Fifth Business" of the title (dramaturges will get this, but the rest of you should just go read the book, even if you're not Canadian), and the other the woman who unconsciously shapes his life by re-naming him after a traumatic service in the First World War.
Unn--brief notes, huh? Whoopsie-daisy. *cackles* Who's rambling? ^-^
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
CHAPTER ONE: ST. DUNSTAN AND DIANA
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Live for the impossible.
That was always my motto, as a child; when the other boys were playing with toy guns and dreaming of becoming soldiers, or firefighters, or the President of the United States, I was longing for the days of once upon a time and far away. Impossible, indeed, to meet with creatures of myth; to battle dragons and wicked witches, meet unicorns and fairies. I could draw them in my school books at least, but never see them face to face.
I worried my parents a bit back then, I know, but I hope I made them proud, too. They were the closest thing we Americans have to royalty, well- heeled bourgeoisie who had money left over from the old country, and had made enough in the new to have everything they could ever desire. I grew up accustomed to privilege, in fact perhaps would have become a bit spoiled if one of my early tutors hadn't taken an extremely sharp line with me-but more on him later.
My parents desired only the best for me, especially my father. The son of a prominent businessman who had been so obsessed with his work that he'd rarely seen him during his formative years, and who had insisted that his only child have an equal obsession, my father was determined that I should be allowed to indulge in interests outside of making money. My mother liked the idea of my being afforded what, in olden days, was often given grudgingly to sons of wealthy households: to pursue a course in my life as I chose it, without pressure to uphold the family name and heraldry.
Am I starting to sound too wordy? Forgive me: Cynthia used to tease me about-no, not now. Later.
So when I expressed a fascination with art, they let me doodle along for a while, as children will, and then when they felt I was old enough, I began classical instruction. Outside of my usual tutor, Mr. Ducroix (I pronounced it Dyu-croikse, and he had the immense patience to laugh heartily before correcting me), a Mr. Baptist was hired to teach me mathematics and to develop my artistic skills. Ferdinand Baptist was a sharp-tongued, merciless educator when it came to practical things; however, in art he was more willing to allow a pupil to set the pace, and to see and exploit a forte whenever he discovered one, gently and without expectations or hurrying. I have been schooled in visual art by many different people, and yet I can still say that Mr. Baptist was the best of them.
However, there was one thing I did which got on his nerves immeasurably. I would constantly choose fantasy subjects for my classical pictures. Whether it be my mental image of the seduction of Paris by Aphrodite, King Arthur having Excalibur bestowed on him by the Lady of the Lake, a ring of Faeries, or simple some random unicorns or a dragon or three, my delight was in the mythic and the unreal made part of the world I knew. Mr. Baptist tolerated this for a while, then eventually complained about it to me. I threw his own words back in his face - "Paint what captures your mind, Pegasus, your imagination," - and he became deeply annoyed.
I bring this up because the night after that, my parents held a lavish garden party for their wealthier friends from all across the globe. They asked if I wanted to bring anyone: at ten years old, I was feeling insecure and rather rebellious, so I cheerfully told them I wanted to invite Mr. Baptist.
My mother was horrified at first, but after a fair bit of coaxing from my father, she relented, with a look on her face like she had eaten a lemon. She insisted on stuffing me into my most formal suit and combing my thick silver locks herself before the evening began, and she made dark hints to Mr. Baptist that he should refrain from showing any of the guests up for being pretentious (a hobby of his that I found endless entertainment in watching), or his employment might be in jeopardy.
That night, lost among the lanterns and the evening heat and the multitude of well-dressed, well-groomed, beautiful people, I found myself at the centre of the garden near the dessert table, talking to Mr. Baptist as he was the only person there whom I knew. Our conversation turned to my paintings after a while, and he once more expressed his displeasure with my fanciful choice of subjects. I remember the exchange that followed very clearly.
"My dear boy, the subject of your painting is a matter of personal choice, but no artist can draw on myth and fantasy exclusively, without grounding himself in reality as well! Remember what I told you about breaking the rules before you know them? Besides, when your head's up in the air, it's good to have a subject for your art that keeps you on *this* side of reality."
"But, Mr. Baptist - "
"Yes?"
"You said to look for a subject that inspires me to paint, and, well, I haven't found anything like that in, um, real life."
Mr. Baptist made a huffy noise through his teeth. "Hmph! Then you need to get out there and look for one. Start by scanning this very garden party: perhaps you'll find something inspiring around here."
I doubted it, and was going to tell him so, but nearby us a woman in a diamond-encrusted ball gown started going on about the Monet she had just purchased at Southeby's, and I could see by the glint that appeared in Mr. Baptist's eye that he had forgotten my mother's warning. He left his dish of fruit salad and wove through the crowd towards her, effectively abandoning me to my own devices.
I stood by the table feeling silly and out of place for a while, as I still do at most social gatherings such as that. After a while, I also became somewhat bored, so I decided to take my tutor's advice and scan the crowd for possible subjects.
After about ten minutes, I almost gave up. I'd never before seen such a group of unprepossessing people. Vacuous, cold, distant face after face, beautiful (if not naturally then under the surgeon's scalpel), properly adorned, neither under- nor over-dressed, but they were all oh, so unremarkable. I began to wonder if "this side of reality" was really all Mr. Baptist considered it cracked up to be.
Then, by chance, as I was giving the crowd a final once-over just to be able to tell my tutor what I thought of his realistic subjects, I saw her.
Yes, her. You know of whom I speak.
It was the shining cascade of golden hair that caught my eye, but it was her face - a face so full of loving compassion, laughter, vitality, beauty, everything that takes and holds my heart and takes it still now - it was her face that held it. And then our eyes met and I looked into impossible sparkling blue, and I knew then that I had found what was to keep me on this side of reality.
Or had I instead found an angel in human guise?
She looked back at me with a shy zephyr of a smile flitting back and forth across her lips, fidgeting with the hem of her lilac party dress.
"Uh - hello."
"Hello."
We gazed at each other dumbly for a while longer - or rather, I gazed dumbly, she smiled and looked graciously back - before I suddenly got up my courage and blurted out;
"W-what's your name?"
Cliché though it might be, her giggle was like little silver bells.
"I'm Cynthia. Who're you?"
Cynthia.
I would never, I felt at that moment, have to venture back into the world of myth again. I had found all the wonder I needed right here.
Cynthia.
I barely remember introducing myself to her, or how pleased my mother was when Mr. Baptist finally reminded her of my presence at the party and she went to the bottom of the garden to find Cynthia and I sitting on a swing talking. She thought I'd made a new friend.
Cynthia.
Although for many years afterwards she and I would delve into old legends or fairy tales (we had so much in common it was astounding to me; it still is), it was less to me now than Cynthia was. My paintings became more - enchanted, I suppose, is the word - with reality, which held so much more meaning to me now because of her. My imagination became concerned with earthly matters.
Cynthia.
Now that she's gone, I live for the impossible again. Only now, the impossible is not only a desire, it is what I *must* reach-
- if I am ever to see her again -
Cynthia.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Pegasus J. Crawford closed his eyes and re-opened them. The tombstone before him did not go away as he had hoped. Had it only been a month?
"Without you -" he whispered, his fingers tracing the name on the stone, "it seems like so much longer. So much longer-"
He paused and looked across the graveyard at the gathering clouds on the horizon. Was it pathetic fallacy, to assume that the world had emotions? Yes, that was it. The rain would come soon. He turned back to his wife's final resting place.
"I-I hate to leave you, Cynthia, but you do remember, don't you, how Professor Damascus agreed to let me help on the dig in Cairo? I have to go to Oxford University: there's a woman there who's going to help us translate the artefacts we find. She's Senegalese, and apparently very well-versed in ancient Egyptian writings. It could be a major find, very important - "
Pegasus broke off and continued to kneel there silently for some time, his hand resting on the tombstone. It didn't matter any more. None of it mattered any more.
*Why did I ever think this reality could be beautiful?*
He rose and walked away, certainly not for the last time. A single raindrop fell from the sky, an advent of the coming deluge, and landed with a soft *plink* on the granite headstone of Cynthia Crawford.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I'll continue this, I swear. I dun wanna leave poor Pegs feeling all depressive and suicidal. Although everyone knows the inevitable outcome here (i.e PsychoSennenEye!Pegs, Duellist Kingdom etc.), I wanted to show that he has the capability for self-saving, that he isn't just an unfortunate victim of Fate, and that he has some hope for the future. Plus, I wanna lay the groundwork for some post-DK redemption for poor old eyeless Pegsu. ^-^