Banished
By: mistress_steerpike
An AU "Gormenghast" fic
Summary: Movieverse. Steerpike delays his hostile takeover of "Gormenghast" to bide some time, he takes the lifeless body of Lady Fuchsia with him to the outlands of Gormenghast to give her a proper burial, and ends up learning more about the cruelty of the kingdom, and the fate of his birth mother. Beginning of the story is just minutes after Fuchsia's death.
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: "Gormenghast" and all it's subjects belongs to the estate of Mervyn Peake, a few supporting characters belong to me. I am making no money off of this.
Steerpike was damned near exhausted. Every muscle, every joint, and every nerve ending in his body screamed for rest, and he wanted to oblige so very badly. Somehow, he found his way into a room that was serving as a hospital ward for the wounded. 'They have to be victims from circumstances regarding the flood,' he thought to himself, 'I certainly didn't leave anyone wounded.' He regarded the last bit of his thought with pride.
Indeed, Steerpike hadn't left any wounded up to this moment in time. Anyone he aimed for, he hit, and that blow was final. Except that damned poet, he refused to die.
The unmistakable footstep patterns of Dr. Prunesquallor prompted Steerpike to find refuge underneath the closest hospital bed. Disciplined as ever, he managed to halt his breathing entirely, as the good Doctor stopped right next to the bed he was hiding under. Was that the sound of grief?
Steerpike had spent so much time causing it over the past seventeen years that it was the most distinguishable sound he could pick out on a person. Prunesquallor was DEFINITELY experiencing it, and Steerpike figured it had to do with whomever he was setting onto the bed.
"My dear, dear child," Prunesquallor muttered, before he turned and exited the hospital, most likely to collect more wounded or dead.
Cautiously, Steerpike slid out from under the bed in a snakelike motion. The room was empty except for him and the ailing or dead. The ailing was all under a heavy sleeping draught, oblivious to the things happening around them.
Rising to his feet, he looked dispassionately at the figure on the bed. She was still soaked, her nightgown clinging to her stiff as a board figure, and her dark hair plastered against her white forehead, and cheeks. He almost loved her again.
The sight of a nurse's garb hanging in a wardrobe across the room diverted his attentions. There was his escape. Nurses wore face-concealing veils to protect from disease, and very heavy, form-hiding robes. He would be unrecognizable, completely unrecognizable.
Prunesquallor arrived with several soldiers pushing about carts of drowning victims. Most of them were small children.
Little fools, Steerpike mused as he walked into clear view of Prunesquallor.
"Finally! I thought all the nurses had fled by now. No matter. I want you to take the body of her ladyship to higher ground to prepare for burial after this flood lets up, can you do this, my dear?" Inquired Prunesquallor, his affinity for long-winded confusing speech gone completely. He was a wreck, Steerpike thought with satisfaction.
Steerpike nodded.
"Take one of the boats, there's a few outside this room, be prepared to return to help the wounded to a safer place as well. And please be on your guard tonight!" He was gone once again, going out the door on the furthest north point of the room.
Steerpike had every intention on leaving Fuchsia's dead body as it was. He hoped the rain would work extra hard to bury her, and the damned wounded in it's icy depths. He had given her a chance. She shunned him. And yet...
He was in the boat he had stolen from Lord Titus earlier, rowing away frantically. None of the search party he encountered gave him any trouble, due to his uniform, and the delicate cargo he was carrying along with him.
He had an idea where the designated "higher ground" was, and he was going in the complete opposite direction.
He despised whoever survived his wrath long enough to get to safety, and he would be damned if he was going to let that fat, feline obsessed duchess bury her so-called "daughter". That old bitch hardly knew the still, dark form lying on the floor of his canoe, and the hypocritical little lordship was no better. Fuchsia practically belonged to Steerpike, and if anyone was going to bury one of his belongings, it was going to be him. It seemed fitting that someone who understood her would be the one who eulogized her and put her to rest.
He needed to go into hiding to bide his time. This battle wasn't over by a long shot.
By the time the boat hit the makeshift shore of who-knows-where, Steerpike's arms felt ready to fall off. Still, he mustered the strength to gather Fuchsia up into his arms, and away he staggered, seeking out shelter.
He appeared to have discovered a large wilderness of towering trees, and other outdoor creations. There was no path to be found, as he made his way into the forest, he was going purely on instinct.
His instinct brought him to what appeared to be a small homey cottage, with a smoking chimney. Going against his better judgment, he knocked furiously on the door.
After a few moments, a small, pleasant looking woman answered it. She was smiling inquisitively until her eyes rested on what Steerpike was carrying.
"Is she dead, nurse?" The woman inquired in a sweet alto tone of voice.
Steerpike used a free hand to remove the hat and veil. The woman suppressed a gasp.
"Yes, and I beg sanctuary from the flood, and sanctuary from the kingdom of Gormenghast!"
"I think you'd better come in then," the woman replied. Rebellion flared in her eyes, and Steerpike knew he had an ally.
End of Prologue
By: mistress_steerpike
An AU "Gormenghast" fic
Summary: Movieverse. Steerpike delays his hostile takeover of "Gormenghast" to bide some time, he takes the lifeless body of Lady Fuchsia with him to the outlands of Gormenghast to give her a proper burial, and ends up learning more about the cruelty of the kingdom, and the fate of his birth mother. Beginning of the story is just minutes after Fuchsia's death.
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: "Gormenghast" and all it's subjects belongs to the estate of Mervyn Peake, a few supporting characters belong to me. I am making no money off of this.
Steerpike was damned near exhausted. Every muscle, every joint, and every nerve ending in his body screamed for rest, and he wanted to oblige so very badly. Somehow, he found his way into a room that was serving as a hospital ward for the wounded. 'They have to be victims from circumstances regarding the flood,' he thought to himself, 'I certainly didn't leave anyone wounded.' He regarded the last bit of his thought with pride.
Indeed, Steerpike hadn't left any wounded up to this moment in time. Anyone he aimed for, he hit, and that blow was final. Except that damned poet, he refused to die.
The unmistakable footstep patterns of Dr. Prunesquallor prompted Steerpike to find refuge underneath the closest hospital bed. Disciplined as ever, he managed to halt his breathing entirely, as the good Doctor stopped right next to the bed he was hiding under. Was that the sound of grief?
Steerpike had spent so much time causing it over the past seventeen years that it was the most distinguishable sound he could pick out on a person. Prunesquallor was DEFINITELY experiencing it, and Steerpike figured it had to do with whomever he was setting onto the bed.
"My dear, dear child," Prunesquallor muttered, before he turned and exited the hospital, most likely to collect more wounded or dead.
Cautiously, Steerpike slid out from under the bed in a snakelike motion. The room was empty except for him and the ailing or dead. The ailing was all under a heavy sleeping draught, oblivious to the things happening around them.
Rising to his feet, he looked dispassionately at the figure on the bed. She was still soaked, her nightgown clinging to her stiff as a board figure, and her dark hair plastered against her white forehead, and cheeks. He almost loved her again.
The sight of a nurse's garb hanging in a wardrobe across the room diverted his attentions. There was his escape. Nurses wore face-concealing veils to protect from disease, and very heavy, form-hiding robes. He would be unrecognizable, completely unrecognizable.
Prunesquallor arrived with several soldiers pushing about carts of drowning victims. Most of them were small children.
Little fools, Steerpike mused as he walked into clear view of Prunesquallor.
"Finally! I thought all the nurses had fled by now. No matter. I want you to take the body of her ladyship to higher ground to prepare for burial after this flood lets up, can you do this, my dear?" Inquired Prunesquallor, his affinity for long-winded confusing speech gone completely. He was a wreck, Steerpike thought with satisfaction.
Steerpike nodded.
"Take one of the boats, there's a few outside this room, be prepared to return to help the wounded to a safer place as well. And please be on your guard tonight!" He was gone once again, going out the door on the furthest north point of the room.
Steerpike had every intention on leaving Fuchsia's dead body as it was. He hoped the rain would work extra hard to bury her, and the damned wounded in it's icy depths. He had given her a chance. She shunned him. And yet...
He was in the boat he had stolen from Lord Titus earlier, rowing away frantically. None of the search party he encountered gave him any trouble, due to his uniform, and the delicate cargo he was carrying along with him.
He had an idea where the designated "higher ground" was, and he was going in the complete opposite direction.
He despised whoever survived his wrath long enough to get to safety, and he would be damned if he was going to let that fat, feline obsessed duchess bury her so-called "daughter". That old bitch hardly knew the still, dark form lying on the floor of his canoe, and the hypocritical little lordship was no better. Fuchsia practically belonged to Steerpike, and if anyone was going to bury one of his belongings, it was going to be him. It seemed fitting that someone who understood her would be the one who eulogized her and put her to rest.
He needed to go into hiding to bide his time. This battle wasn't over by a long shot.
By the time the boat hit the makeshift shore of who-knows-where, Steerpike's arms felt ready to fall off. Still, he mustered the strength to gather Fuchsia up into his arms, and away he staggered, seeking out shelter.
He appeared to have discovered a large wilderness of towering trees, and other outdoor creations. There was no path to be found, as he made his way into the forest, he was going purely on instinct.
His instinct brought him to what appeared to be a small homey cottage, with a smoking chimney. Going against his better judgment, he knocked furiously on the door.
After a few moments, a small, pleasant looking woman answered it. She was smiling inquisitively until her eyes rested on what Steerpike was carrying.
"Is she dead, nurse?" The woman inquired in a sweet alto tone of voice.
Steerpike used a free hand to remove the hat and veil. The woman suppressed a gasp.
"Yes, and I beg sanctuary from the flood, and sanctuary from the kingdom of Gormenghast!"
"I think you'd better come in then," the woman replied. Rebellion flared in her eyes, and Steerpike knew he had an ally.
End of Prologue