Yes I do agree I should be writing that 50s!AU and my Zombie!AU and my LesMis!AU but I would first like to bring something to your attention:
I am a piece of shit. Very sorry about that.
I have a plot bunny and I really have to get it out I'm awful I know please don't kill me.
I did some research into 17th Century French Court (yes yes I have been watching Reign and yes I may have marathoned the entire first season in two days whatever), and so I'll be referring to rules and regulations from what I've found. Feel free to correct me!
Summary:
Wendy Darling, newly-appointed ladies' maid arrives at French Court with no titles, but plenty of money - and the instruction to find herself a husband. With all the eligible gentlemen milling about the castle, it is surely no difficult feat.
Of course, the matter quickly becomes entangled with Court Politics when the bastard son of the King Malcolm, Peter, takes an interest in her.
(reminder: this is not historically correct, and doesn't follow any Reign plotlines, not really)
how quickly the glamour fades
"You must be brave," Lady Lillian - Lily, as she is nicknamed - instructs, and Wendy's hands still at their task of fastening her gown.
A laughable affair, this dress. Far too... slinky, for her tastes, but the young girl supposes it is not her own preferences that she now accommodates. It is that of the French Couriers, and any single, titled gentleman she can find.
"And here I was thinking my only duty was to recite poetry and find a husband," she muses, smiling softly at her Lady.
"Wendy." Lillian chastises, a small, concerned frown gracing the smooth sweep of her brow. "Things are very different in England. The people are infinitely more... upfront. Here, nothing is done without an ulterior motive. Nothing."
"My Lady -"
"You'll learn the politics of it soon enough, but first you must be brave. Demure, yes, and a bel esprit, as that infernal book you have says, but brave."
Wendy takes her Lady's hand in both of her little ones, stroking her thumb over the back of her palm. She ignores the slight against her beloved Laws of Courtly Love. It is a gesture that calms them both; one that they have repeated many times over the years. They smile at each other fondly, remembering a time before any of this - before titles, before Queendom was bestowed upon young Lily. "My dear friend," she begins formally, and ignores her Lady's eye-rolling, "you underestimate me. I think you shall find I know a few things about French Court."
Lady Lillian's tentative smile disappears. "You know nothing," she whispers. "Wendy, do not take offense, but you are naïve. As my ladies' maid, it might not have mattered - but we are in France. Your innocence will be devoured, it will be spat out, and you will die if you do not act with caution. Do you understand me?"
She removes her hands from her friends', as her grip has become far too tight to be comfortable. She thinks of settling her fingers on her hips and becoming upset; perhaps scolding her, but then she reminds herself of her place - her station - and presses her mouth closed. "Yes, my Lady."
Lily sighs. "I'm sorry," she ventures. "But you are my closest friend - a sister in all but blood. I worry, that's all."
Wendy kisses her Lady's cheek fondly. "And you are mine. You will be a good Queen, Lily. A just and kind one, whose subjects love her, if your care of me is anything to go by. But," she continues pointedly, "you must trust me to be somewhat competent. I know some things of political intrigue."
"What I asked you, before we came here... it will be dangerous." the Queen's eyes are fearful in a way she has never seen; it does not bode well in her lungs.
"You want to be protected. You want to be powerful. I am a rich girl with no titles," Wendy reminds her friend, "learning which words to use, and how to use them, was taught to me in tandem with prayers."
The ball thrown to celebrate Queen Lillian's return to French Court is nothing short of magnificent.
Of course, this could be because Wendy is rather used to the drab affairs in England, full of stiff upper-lipped gentlemen, none of whom could bring themselves to even look at her, much less ask for her hand. Perhaps everything looks somewhat grey and stony when one is being sniffed at.
A servant - a boy, perhaps her age, hair thick and dark and wavy - offers her a goblet of wine.
"Oh," she says gratefully, for her throat is parched, "thank you, sir."
The boy raises an eyebrow, but keeps his gaze lowered. "I'm no sir, milady. Just a servant."
Perhaps once, Wendy would have choked on her drink, and spluttered out another oh, but Lily's words ring around in her head. Learn the politics. She might be naïve, but she knows enough about Court to wager that having friends in low places is just as useful as having them in high. Being familiar with the gossipy kitchen girls back in England never failed to ensure that Wendy was on the receiving end of the juiciest tidbits - ones she seldom had cause to share, but the price others paid to keep it that way was often high. As it is, she merely takes a sip of wine, and smiles.
"Yes, of course. And I'm a Lady's Maid who has no titles. Not milady, really." she teases, and catches a glimmer of a smile as the boy moves to leave.
"'s a term of courtesy, milady." he offers a short bow, but not before she has caught his shirt-sleeve.
"And your name, sir?"
For the first time in their short encounter, he raises his eyes to meet hers. They are dark, but not unkind. A child-like sort of sweetness shines in their depths, a soft playful sheen. "Baelfire," he says, and then he is gone.
He's quick, she muses. This will be useful - she needs quick. She needs friends, particularly ones that she can trust to get a job done right. A boy who can easily slip down darkened corridors to whisper in the right ears, who can get to the right places, is exactly what she needs.
Wendy lets out a small sigh. The party truly is wonderful; golden tapestries hang from the walls, candlelight illuminating them in a glow so bright it almost seems ethereal. Servants with plates of the most fashionable food and drink move freely, the silver of the platters catching in the butter-yellow light. High windows of stained glass - just like in a Church - are cut into the stone walls, depicting the fleur-de-lis in full bloom. The music is soft and lilting, just merry enough for dancing, but not so much so that it is forced. Lords and Ladies mill about, chatting and gossiping and flirting - my, Wendy has never seen such splendour. Gowns in every shade of jewel adorn each woman's figure; deep tones of ruby, garnet, amethyst, topaz, all glimmering like the precious stones they mimick. The French truly are indulgent.
She smoothes down her own dress. It clings to her form in a way that makes her feel naked, even if the neckline is modest. Lily had gifted it to her upon her arrival, declaring Wendy's own dresses far too stuffy for French Court. The ensemble is beautiful, of course - a dark, forest-green material in leafy patterns, draped over transparent mesh, the gown seeks to tempt without revealing, to show suggestions of her figure without causing scandal.
From the looks she is receiving as she surveys the crowd, it is working.
She sees a few faces that she knows; not personally, of course, but from descriptions. Men she should know, women she should be wary of, potential allies. The King Malcolm, his new wife's dainty hand tucked into the crook of his elbow offers charming courtesies to a gaggle of Ladies surrounding him. The leader of these women, a petite blonde thing in a pale green dress perhaps even slinkier than her own, emits a laugh not unlike the tinkling of bells, and Malcolm appears charmed. He is a tall, reedy man with a permanent half-smile fixed to his thin lips. A weak sort of beard clings to his sunken cheeks, and the single thing she can see about his eyes is that they are deep-set and small. The only beautiful thing about him is the crown atop his thick, brown waves of hair.
Wendy decides that the oil paintings of his - supposed - likeness she has seen are not to be trusted.
"Enjoying yourself, dear?"
She turns to face Queen Lillian, whose dress is the colour of blood, and adorned with ivory lace. It is an extravagance to rival even the most titled woman in the room; upon closer inspection, Wendy realises that rubies are stitched into the fabric, matching the ones sparkling at her throat and ears.
She drops a quick curtsy before her friend can wave it away, and smiles. "My Lady," she greets. "I'm having a lovely time, thank you. The servants are very friendly."
Lily doesn't miss her meaning, and stretches her grin wider. "Lovely. Come," she grasps her hand, "dance with me."
They weave through various party-goers, skirts swaying round their ankles. The song playing is a traditional Flamenco, obviously in honor of Lily's arrival, and Wendy steels herself for the brisk steps. She drops her goblet on the serving platter of a passing servant, laughing as Lily urges her to hurry. The two girls press their palms together once they reach the middle of the dance floor; arms up and stiff, leaving the body free to twist and turn at will. The to-be Queen of France leads, of course, surging forward with purpose. Wendy points her left foot and pulls her leg back to accommodate Lily's, allowing herself to be bent backwards at the waist. Her friend tightens her grip on her hands, threading their fingers together, and Wendy tilts her head back to catch a glimpse of the gathering crowd, using her left leg to support her.
This dance is a mere custom in Spain, a bit of fun, but here the slow passion of the steps is clearly quite shocking. It is meant to symbolise the process of courting between two lovers; the bridled passion, the tempered fire between them is conveyed through the tension of each movement. In France, apparently, such things are not spoken of. Nor are they portrayed through interpretive dance by two girls.
However. Nobody wants to be the one to insult the leader of such a powerful nation as Spain. Soon, they are not the only pair that finds themselves twirling under the golden glow of the tapestries.
"I met my future husband just this afternoon," Lily says quietly, using the palm of her hand to guide the movement of Wendy's arm. The movement is graceful, like water flowing.
"Do you like him? Is he as pretty as the portraits?" she replies. She turns, swiftly - a testimony to the fire of Spanish women - and pushes back, performing a pretty pirouette in the process.
Lily laughs gaily. "Oh, Wendy, he is simply beautiful. Tall, dark... rugged."
"Everything you like, then."
Her friend eyes her up and down. "I am glad I chose that dress for you. Finally, your appearance matches your wicked tongue."
"I hope Prince Killian is kinder than you, my Lady. Otherwise you might have actually met your match!"
They come to a stop at the end of their dance, hands still linked.
"Are you thirsty?" Lily asks. "I'll fetch us some wine, if you like."
"Please -"
"Ah," says a voice from behind them, "it appears my duty is about to be fulfilled for me."
The two girls turn at once, and the owner of said voice reveals himself to them in the form of a tall boy. His skin is the pale shade belonging singularly to those of high station, his clothes finely woven. Elfin features creased in a cunning grin were set evenly upon his face, which was very pleasing indeed. There was something cold about him, though. Something in the cut of his bones that seemed false, cruel.
"Sir Pan," Queen Lillian says graciously, "I hope you're enjoying yourself."
Her tone is pleasant, but the way her fingers tighten around Wendy's tells a different story.
Sir Pan - whoever he is - inclines his head. "A lovely ball for a lovely woman. I'm afraid I don't know your friend -"
His gaze on her is chilling. She takes her hand from Lily's to perform a low curtsy. "Wendy Darling, My Lord. It is good to meet you." She darts a glance at him from under her hair, looking him in the eye.
"Darling," he murmurs, and it is as if he is tasting the word, rolling it round in his mouth like a sweet. He stands arrogantly, appraising her form with a lazy grin. "Well-met."
Lily plucks the goblets from his hands, smiling her diplomat smile. "Thank you, Sir Pan. Truly."
As disturbing as this man is, he seems to be able to take a hint quite well, for he drags his eyes from Wendy's throat, smiles, and makes himself scarce.
She watches the way he seems to melt into the crowd with a dry mouth.
Lily takes her elbow, dumping the goblets on a nearby table, and whisks her off into a darkened corner. Once there, she whirls to face her. "You must promise me," the Queen orders, "you must promise me you will be careful of that man."
"I - I do not understand -"
"That is the King's bastard. Peter Pan is his name, and he is a snake, do you hear me? A snake."
"Lily - the King has a bastard? By who?"
"She's dead now. Although she might as well have been el diablo for the creature that spawned from her," Lily hisses, reaching up to pat a few of Wendy's curls.
A ruse; her hair was fine.
"What do you mean?" she asks, worriedly. "Has he done anything to you?"
Her friend takes a breath through her nose, lets it out. "No. But there are stories - he knows everything about everyone at Court. There are boys that he controls, ones that roam the passageways of this castle, and they whisper to him. Nobody can prove it, but food goes missing from the kitchens and there are crumbs found within those secret places, like marking a trail."
"So he knows things? Is that such a crime?" Wendy gently takes Lily's hand and removes it from her hair, turning to face the party-goers once more. "Enough of this," she pleads, "we're looking suspicious. If you fear this Sir Pan as a rival, you forget that we'll soon have birds whispering in our ears as well. Give me time, my Lady."
"Be careful, Wendy." Queen Lillian commands, her tone full of authority. "He may look like a boy, but he is puñetero demonio."
As soon as Wendy sets foot in the kitchens, there is a scramble to be the first to greet her. She supposes that a Lady's Maid of the exotic new Queen is somewhat exciting for servants who have never set foot outside of France.
"Evenin, milady," a hard-faced but pretty woman says, bobbing up and down in a graceless curtsy.
"Good evening, miss." she spots Baelfire staring at her from the corner, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "I've come to convey my Lady Lillian's sincerest thanks for your service at the ball."
The servants surrounding her look pleased. "Thank you, milady. Was a pleasure," calls a tall, broad man from the back of the crowd. "'s a mighty fine ball, to be sure."
"Indeed it was!" she smiles. Then, to the woman who addressed her first, "I'm afraid that my being here isn't purely for the pleasure of it. I have a request."
"Anythin, milady," the woman guides her over to one of the big wooden tables. "What would you like done for you?"
"It's rather a sensitive topic, so subtlety is one thing that I require." Wendy says in hushed tones, smoothing the skirt of her dress. She had changed out of her slinky green gown for the trip down here, favouring a cream-coloured night-shift with a red dressing-gown over the top, for modesty's sake.
"'Course," the woman agrees, "not a word o' this'll be breathed outside these four walls. Us girls have to stick together, I find."
"Wise words," she remarks.
"Thank you, milady. Now," the pretty blonde smiles kindly, "is it right of me to think you'll be wantin moon-tea?"
Wendy feigns surprise, her mouth dropping open. "How -?"
"Milady, this ain't uncommon. Prince Killian is a very handsome lad, and Queen Lillian is a very pretty lass. 'S natural. No shame in it." the shrug she gives at the end of this is so kind, so non-judging, that Wendy decides then and there she rather likes this young woman.
"What is your name, miss?"
"Emma Swann, milady. Pleased to meet you."
"And I you. A very astute observation on your part, Miss Swann."
Emma's eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "Just Emma, milady."
"Then you shall call me Wendy. No milady this, milady that." she requests, clasping her hands together. "And - for the sake of subtlety - I have already selected a servant to deliver the items to my rooms. From there, I can pass it on to my Lady. Only you and," she peers over Emma's shoulder, to where the boy in question still stands, "Baelfire will know of this."
If the young woman is at all surprised by her choice, she does not show it. Instead, she simply nods, and asks if Wendy would like some warm milk and honey to take back to her chambers.
"I'm not sure how they do things in Spain, but I should think most young ladies are in bed before midnight."
Wendy suppresses a jolt of surprise, turning to face Sir Pan. "I'm from England, sir."
The corner of his mouth twitches in wry fashion. He clasps his hands behind his back and saunters closer, stopping mere paces away. "Definitely in bed before midnight, then. The British are scoundrels."
"I think that's rather subjective, don't you?" she says, flashing a bright, false smile as she steps back. "One man's definition of a gentleman is another's heathen, and all that."
He tilts his head. "What are you suggesting, my Lady?"
"Absolutely nothing, sir. Only providing some perspective."
Be brave. Be polite, be demure, be brave. Wendy tries not to tremble under his gaze, which is cold and dark, possessing a glimmer of mockery. It should serve to humanise him; instead, he only seems more reptilian.
Sir Pan chews on her words for a moment, then turns sharply. Offering her his elbow, he says, "let me walk you to your rooms."
She'd like to refuse - the last thing she wants is this conniving man with the charming smile knowing where she sleeps. Yet, she supposes that he is the King's bastard, and if Lily says he knows everything, then it's likely he's already aware of the location of her rooms.
Wendy slips her hand into the crook of his arm, bringing the other one to rest on his forearm. "Of course, sir." They begin to walk, their pace brisk.
He sighs, and his breath ruffles her hair. "Come now, my Lady. I'm only a bastard son. Peter is perfectly fine."
She chooses not to erupt into oh no, sirs, as she suspects this is exactly what he'd like. So. He is egotistical, for certain; it is in the way he walks as much as it is in the way he fishes for compliments. "I suppose you're right, Peter." she muses, and watches his mouth twist momentarily in distaste.
She feels muscles tense under her hands. Pressing her lips together in a small smile she can't quite repress, she draws closer to him to gauge his reaction.
He looks down at her, frowning slightly. "What happened to your other gown? The green one?" he asks, abruptly.
"I changed for bed."
"Why were you out, then?"
Wendy chirps a pretty laugh, fluttering her lashes becomingly. She has no wish for the title of his wife, but being charming is no bad thing. "Are you always this probing, Peter?"
"Only to enchanting Ladies such as yourself, of course," he smirks, "my probing is rather selective."
"Quite a small range you have, then."
His laugh is too loud for the midnight hours, and echoes around the empty hallway. It is a mischevious thing; merriment in its purest form, bells for sprites and nymphs to be in awe of. He is truly beautiful, Wendy notices; his head tilted back, a handsome smile about his lips. The line of his neck and jaw is a perfect column of smooth, pale skin that her fingers itch to touch. She presses her mouth closed and looks away. She is in the snake's arms - focus is imperative.
"Your tongue is almost sharp as mine, my Lady," he says, slowing to a halt as they reach her door. She notes that he needed no direction, as expected. "I should like to hear from it more often."
"Almost?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
He presses the fingers of his left hand to her shoulder - innocent, almost friendly, yet the heat of his skin seeps into her bones and sends a sinful shiver down her spine. "Your sense of fashion is sharper, I think. That dress," his tone drops to something salacious, dripping with honey, "was delicious."
A tentative knock at her chamber doors the following morning makes her look up from the novel she reads - an Italian work on the subject of Court rules. She places it strategically over some letters, smoothes down her skirt, and turns the key in the lock. It scrapes satisfyingly as it goes; an old, sturdy thing, clearly. It lends her comfort to know she is hidden behind such a solid structure.
She opens the doors to find Baelfire standing there, clutching at a porcelain jar from which a faintly herbal scent can be detected.
"Baelfire," she greets the boy, "come in, please."
He fidgets. "I'm due back at the kitchens, milady -"
"Nonsense," she says brightly, "Emma assured me you have Saturday mornings off. I understand you want your free time, but I won't be long."
"I -" he sighs. "Alright."
Wendy locks the door again after he steps past her, sliding the key back into the bodice of her dress. He watches this with wide eyes, uncomfortably.
"What do you know of the boys Sir Pan uses to collect information?" she asks abruptly, taking the jar from his hands.
"I -" he pales. "Nothin, milady."
His throat works. Wendy is unimpressed with his skills at deceit. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He clamps his mouth shut, and she backtracks. His eyes are downcast, but his hands fidget nervously.
"You're not in trouble, Baelfire. It is for my Lady's safety," she implores, gently brushing her fingers over his shoulder, "I must know."
The boy heaves a sigh. "It's best you don't, milady. They're a dangerous bunch."
"So they do exist."
"They're prob'ly tryin to catch a word now, milady. 'S good o' you to keep your voice down."
Wendy's heart thunders in her chest. "There are passages around my rooms?"
Baelfire quirks his lips in a kind, albeit still-nervous, smile. "There's passages everywhere in this castle."
She takes a deep breath, pressing her hands over her bodice. She clasps them together at her waist, repeats the laws of decorum she learned at her mother's feet. A measure to regain control in any situation, she has always been taught, is good posture. She straightens her back. "Do you know any of them?"
He shakes his head quickly. "Only the boys know 'em, truly. Anyone else'd get lost, 'n starve. Or worse," he adds, and meets her eyes.
His are big and dark, thick hair flopping into them. There is a true kindness there, a care for her well-being that seems unmotivated by any sort of personal gain. Perhaps it is too soon to tell, but she thinks she could have a real friend in this boy.
"I have asked Emma to allow you to deliver moon-tea to my doors once a week, yet I'm afraid it is under false pretenses." Wendy walks to her desk, taking the topmost letter from under her novel. "Can you read?"
"I learned my letters when I was little, milady." Baelfire replies, his brow furrowed.
Wordlessly, she hands the scrap of parchment to him. She watches as his eyes scan the words:
Come to my rooms on a Saturday morning, with moon-tea so as not to arouse suspicion, she has written, and tell me any information you think is worthy of note. Gossip, rumour, anything. Nod if you understand.
The boy crumples the letter in his fist, and nods.
"This is to be our communication," she murmurs, taking it from him, "but keep your letters safe, and encoded. I will burn them after reading."
"Code?" he asks, as she tosses the balled-up note into the blazing hearth at the head of her room. The flames devour it, making the paper curl in on itself in black and gold, drifting on the wave of heat as it dissapates. "I - I don't know any -"
"Keywords, Baelfire. I," she leans forward, whispering, "am bird. Queen Lillian is tiger. King Malcolm is sir. If - for example - I was to form a deadly plot against my Lady, you would write bird flies to take the tiger's stripes, or something to that effect."
"And if Sir Pan were to ask his boys to keep an eye on you, I'd write snake watches bird."
Wendy smiles, glad at the boy's quick wit. "Perfect. You may go."
Baelfire performs an awkward bow as she slides the key into the lock, opening the doors. Before stepping out, though, he looks at her - and his expression is wary. "Why me, milady?"
She takes his hand in hers, squeezing it comfortingly. "I see a friend in you. I see intelligence, strength, and kindness that I can trust."
He stutters a moment, before settling on a timid, "thank you, milady."
"Not at all. You should call me Wendy, Baelfire. Please," she adds, when he looks unconvinced.
He nods reluctantly. "Alright. And," he says, just as he is closing the door, "Wendy?"
"Yes?"
Baelfire wets his lips before continuing, watching her with sad, gentle eyes. "Snake watches bird," he whispers, and then the door is shut and she is alone with her thoughts.