Title: Firelight
Fandom: The Scarlet Pimpernel (novel)
Pairing: Marguerite/Suzanne
Rating: PG-15
Disclaimers: Not mine.
Notes: noverin-ghost, told'ja I was gonna write Scarlet Pimpernel fic. Wholly random and spur-of-the-moment.

Firelight

1

It was at the doors of the convent where she first saw her, laughing as her brother affectionately touched her cheek, ruffling his messy locks, kissing her parents good-bye. The other girls fawned over Armand St. Just who just grinned sheepishly and made them adore him even more. Though he was charming in his own right, Suzanne reserved her brightest smile for Marguerite.

The thrill that raced up her spine confused her then.

2

There were nights, staying up past bedtime, talking in the moonlight that filtered through the clear glass windows, whispering secrets, giggling and caressing and holding each other until they fell asleep; countless days, strolling through the gardens hand in hand, lying on the grass and watching lazy clouds drift by, picking flowers when they were allowed to, braiding them into their hair. Margot's had gotten much longer, darker shades of auburn cascading past her shoulders, fiery and beautiful like Mother's evening gowns, shimmering reddish-gold in the warm yellow sunlight, like the flickering tongue of fire on the candle they would light by her bedside every night. Many times, she would fall asleep, just gazing at the fire, imagining Margot laughing in the sun, orange-red leaves raining around her when autumn came. The dark that used to be so terrifying, shrouded in mysterious horrors of ghostly beasts, no longer scared her like before. She'd thought, at that first moment, that Margot was pretty.

That was only because she had no other word to describe beauty at such a young age.

3

She kissed her for the first time under the boughs of a tree, tucked into a corner of the convent garden where nobody could see them. It was snowing then, little flakes of white threaded into Margot's hair like pearls, and she'd leaned forward to brush a bit away, not really knowing why, just knowing she wanted to. Margot had looked down at her—much taller now, more beautiful—smiling softly, almost shyly, and she'd tiptoed a little bit to touch her lips to that smile without thinking. It felt right.

The kiss had been quick, nothing more than the pressing of cold lips together, but she'd felt so warm inside, so very warm like that spot in front of the hearth in Father's study where she'd curl up in a quilt on cold winter nights, staring into the fire—the fire which was almost the same color as Margot's hair. She'd turned away, stepping back, a blush coloring her cheeks, meaning to apologize when Margot touched her cheek, urging her to look into her eyes, and she did.

She knew love, or at least a little about it; knew kisses from the ones she would brush against Father's clean-shaven cheek, the ones Mother would give her every night before tucking her into bed.

Margot showed her a different kind of love.

4

They never did have their own rooms in the convent, so when they were finally allowed to go home, she was delighted. They met everyday, spending hours upon hours together in Margot's room, or in hers. It did not really matter, just as long as they were together. Kisses were more frequent now, lasting longer, leaving her heated, almost burning. She wanted more, so much more, but did not know exactly what she wanted. Margot was stunning now, almost a woman, delicate curves and pale skin encased in a beautiful evening gown. She could not stop staring, could not stop the sudden stab of jealousy every time Margot caught the eye of another, every time one of the young lads showered her with eager grins and flattering words, but Margot always smiled demurely, eyes sweeping the room as if searching for something.

Their eyes met and Margot smiled fully. She returned the smile, knowing Margot had eyes for no one else.

5

Soft. Her skin was so soft, like the finely-spun silk of Mother's nightgowns only… much softer, smooth underneath her fingertips, gleaming almost silver in the moonlight. She smelled like autumn, crisp and clean, wholly intoxicating. Fiery hair, pale red in the faint lighting, stained snow-white bedcovers, bold against smooth cloth, thick and lush against skin.

Her breath is quick, irregular against the skin of her cheek, eyes dark and unfocused, staring into eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, brimming with love.

Margot, the other whispered as she kissed delicate lips, nipping slightly, slipping fingers into velvet heat, thrusting gently, swallowing strangled gasps, soft whimpers, whispered pleas. Pale skin, muscles stretched taut, spine arching, stilling and then trembling in the aftermath, basking in warmth, in love and forever.

My Margot.

6

Margot's fingers, trailing down her shoulders, gently pushing away layers of clothing; those same fingers caressing her cheek, touching her lips, threading through her hair, brushing against skin slick with sweat, against straining nipples, slipping into moist heat, thrusting slow and gentle, hard and fast, causing her to cry out in earnest, panting and exhausted, falling asleep blissfully sated. A ring would grace one of those fingers in a month; a ring that would not come from her.

She was marrying him; one she did not love, but could learn to, and leaving one she knew she loved with all her heart, loved her back just as fierce. The firelight flickered in the dim of the room, red and orange and yellow like Margot's hair in the summer sun. The heat from the hearth would not warm her.

-end-

12.07.07, edited 12.09.07