Fight Like A Girl
Chapter 7
The Madness of Ophelia - Part I
AN: OK, so I split this one in two 'cuz it's kinda long (well, longer than my usual at any rate), and, well, I can't get it all done today. But better to get something out than nothing, I figure. So yeah, enjoy. Now for some foreshadowing in quote form (ten points if you guess what's up with Ophelia.it's actually probably not that hard.but I'm going to pretend that this will come out of nowhere despite the vaguely Hamlet-related foreshadowing I've been dropping oh-so-cleverly):
~~~
"Ha, ha? Are you honest? . Are you fair?" - Hamlet in Hamlet 3.1 (lines 105- 6 in my book) ridiculously obscure foreshadowing. Twenty points if you get the relation of this quote to what's up with Ophelia. You know, besides the fact Hamlet's talking to Ophelia in the quote.
~~~
Ophelia and I cleaved together like friends from a fairy tale, making the reigning two of the Cloisters into a reigning three. We would sit together at meal times, share elaborate jokes that only we two - or if we were with Cybil, we three - could laugh at, and would sit in each other's rooms telling secrets. Well, I didn't divulge any true secrets. I didn't tell her about my secret ambitions, or the way I missed David so much it felt like an empty hole in my chest (which is what some people now suggest I have instead of a heart), or anything truly important at all. I would tell her that I missed my parents, or my nursemaid, or 'secret' stories about my mischief as a child. She revealed to me the truth of her impending poverty - which I knew already, of course. I smiled and tried to be as encouraging as possible and told her time and time again that true nobility was not measured in coins but in gentile breeding and refined behavior - two things that she excelled at.
Though I doted upon her and our friendship outwardly, inwardly I was disgusted by her. Her constant prattle about bloodlines bordered on obsession - what did I care if twenty generations back she shared an ancestor with the Conté? Did she honestly think that made her a member of the royal family? Not to mention that the way she treated people disgusted me. It wasn't just that she turned up her nose at people - that was so common it hardly merits mention. She went out of her way to find a weak girl, a girl who was somewhat ugly, somewhat poor, somewhat different - and prey upon her, harp upon her, till the poor wretch's spirit was broken. She did this with a mixture of malice and desperation. If the group was busy tearing to shreds another girl, they would be distracted from her, and she could ward off the inevitable - the time when the group she had always led would turn on her, and destroy her just as she had used it to destroyed others.
As she grew poorer she grew more malicious and spiteful, and she worried late into the night. She counted coins, bemoaned her foolish father for being unfit to provide for her, and traced her bloodlines compulsively. She began to look sallow and weary. She leaned on me increasingly. The other girls began to whisper among themselves, and Ophelia, rank with paranoia, knew that every whisper was about her, and she threw herself into zealous battle with these whisperers. So anxious was she that she forgot the weapons she had always made use of - her sharp tongue, her ready wit, her malicious mocking smile. She made wild, unrefined accusations, and announced that none of them deserved to even be in her presence, as she was a refined noblewoman and they were nothing but jumped up merchants and sluts.
Popular opinion did not grow in her favor.
One day she came back from a "shopping" excursion - which I knew were really family meetings at her Uncle's dilapidated home on the subject of how to scrape together enough coins to last out the season in the vain hope that an exceedingly bountiful harvest would save them in the fall - with her eyes bright from anger, her cheeks red in an unappealing contrast to the paleness of the rest of her face, her gait and appearance having the air of a madwoman. She ranted and raved to the whole sitting room that she was a true noblewoman, that the Elsinores went back to the Book of Gold, and that no whore's brat was to even speak to her without going through the proper channels. She shrieked that none of them had any right to even speak to her, to even look at her, that we should all avert our eyes from her face, should curtsy as to a monarch, and most definitely should not whisper about her. She then stormed out of the room, leaving behind her an uneasy silence. I thought she had surely gone mad.
I looked over to Cybil, whose expression was thoughtful, and not at all filled with the alarm that would be expected from the madness of a friend. She took up her embroidery once more, and raised her eyebrows at some of the girls as if to say 'yes? Weren't you doing something other than engaging in gossip?' She looked the utter picture of refinement, especially when contrasted with Ophelia's outburst. Cybil always was opportunistic. Even I could never beat her on that count.
Ophelia had reached her nadir on that day. She raged and ranted for two weeks after that, although never to such an extent, never so publically. She actually gnashed her teeth and tore her hair - actions which I had thought reserved to melodramatic stories. She then began to disappear nearly every day for hours at a time. No one knew where she went, and she was quite ingenuous at discovering ways to evade the watchful eyes of the Mithran priestesses. This secret was kept as secret as the priestesses could keep it. They did not want it common knowledge that young ladies could elude them so easily. The Mithran Cloisters were supposed to be a safe place for young nobility, and they could not have that reputation compromised. Cybil and myself were the only girls to know about Ophelia's mad escapes, and we did not tell a soul. We were both playing our cards close to our chests. The other girls thought Ophelia was ill, and no doubt had speculations about her mental health, but had no idea of the extent of her madness.
This period had its own turning point. One day she returned from a lengthy disappearance sopping wet, her gown clinging to her and stained red with blood. She was shaking for the cold, but she was laughing - not for hysteria as I had thought at first, but for joy. Her eyes glinted with a rare light, and she seemed happier than I had ever seen her before. She claimed she'd gone swimming, and that the blood came from a cut on her hand, which she readily produced and waved about in front of our faces like it was a badge of honor. The priestesses bundled her into bed, their faces drawn with fear - not for her, I maintain that to this day, but of the dishonor that would be done to their institution should Ophelia truly hurt herself on these adventures of hers.
Her excursions got more wild. She snuck back, hair undone, dress rumpled, telling tales of exploring the forests or more obscure paths. The priestesses proved an utter failure at stopping her, and they did not tell anyone, still hoping that they could stop her on their own and avoid censure.
One night I crept into her room. The priestesses saw me, I have no doubt - I was not gifted with sneaking about as Ophelia was - but they let me go. They were desperately hoping Cybil or myself could bring her back to her old, cruel, brutal, refined, proper self. She was climbing in her window as I entered. Her hair was undone, flying wildly in her face. Her eyes gleamed in a manner that I can only describe as crazed, repetitious though I may be. She grinned wider than I have ever seen someone grin before. At that moment I grew tired of being cautious, of waiting for the mystery to be revealed, of allowing my status to hinge on so mysterious a variable as she. I seized her by the arm, pushed her into her armchair, and in harsh whispers demanded that she tell me where she had been, what she was thinking.
"I was walking through the meadows, and there was a beautiful sky, and I picked flowers - look! Here, I have some violets for you, my faithful friend. Violets mean faithfulness, you know. I thought fennel for flattery, for you do flatter me so, Delia dear, but violets are far more beautiful you know. What should I give Cybil? More violets?"
She pushed a bouquet of violets into my hands and stood. She began to giggle, and hummed a silly tune under her breath, a tune I'd heard common milkmaids sing in the springtime. My irritation grew. She would not hide behind simpleness, I would not let her.
"Ophelia!" I cried, "Are you mad? What sort of way is this to act? Is this befitting a member of the family of Elsinore? Do you think any member of the family of Conté would act like this?"
"Oh, what do I care for the family of Elsinore, or the family of Conté? I've found something far better than any name or bloodline," she laughed.
I was stuck dumb for a moment. Was this the same girl who could name her every kinsmen, from the highest Duke to the lowest lord? What was more important to her than her ancestry?
I gathered my wits and I asked her. "What? What is more important than your family name?"
And she told me. I had to sit down, and fight back the urge to faint with surprise and laugh with glee. She was a fool, and now I had her.
~~~
Last AN (I should put it either at the beginning or the end, not both, but whatever): I guess this is kind of a cliffhanger, and I'm sorry for that, but I'll get the next bit out as soon as I can. There Ophelia's strange actions will be explained, and I hope that you don't find it too cliché or anything. Thank you to everyone who reviews, and please keep it coming, I appreciate it a lot. And leave your guesses about what Ophelia's been up to and what she's going to do. I wonder if I've laid the Hamlet- hints as well as I hoped.or maybe made it too obvious, who knows. At any rate, do review, and thanks very much for reading this far.
AN: OK, so I split this one in two 'cuz it's kinda long (well, longer than my usual at any rate), and, well, I can't get it all done today. But better to get something out than nothing, I figure. So yeah, enjoy. Now for some foreshadowing in quote form (ten points if you guess what's up with Ophelia.it's actually probably not that hard.but I'm going to pretend that this will come out of nowhere despite the vaguely Hamlet-related foreshadowing I've been dropping oh-so-cleverly):
~~~
"Ha, ha? Are you honest? . Are you fair?" - Hamlet in Hamlet 3.1 (lines 105- 6 in my book) ridiculously obscure foreshadowing. Twenty points if you get the relation of this quote to what's up with Ophelia. You know, besides the fact Hamlet's talking to Ophelia in the quote.
~~~
Ophelia and I cleaved together like friends from a fairy tale, making the reigning two of the Cloisters into a reigning three. We would sit together at meal times, share elaborate jokes that only we two - or if we were with Cybil, we three - could laugh at, and would sit in each other's rooms telling secrets. Well, I didn't divulge any true secrets. I didn't tell her about my secret ambitions, or the way I missed David so much it felt like an empty hole in my chest (which is what some people now suggest I have instead of a heart), or anything truly important at all. I would tell her that I missed my parents, or my nursemaid, or 'secret' stories about my mischief as a child. She revealed to me the truth of her impending poverty - which I knew already, of course. I smiled and tried to be as encouraging as possible and told her time and time again that true nobility was not measured in coins but in gentile breeding and refined behavior - two things that she excelled at.
Though I doted upon her and our friendship outwardly, inwardly I was disgusted by her. Her constant prattle about bloodlines bordered on obsession - what did I care if twenty generations back she shared an ancestor with the Conté? Did she honestly think that made her a member of the royal family? Not to mention that the way she treated people disgusted me. It wasn't just that she turned up her nose at people - that was so common it hardly merits mention. She went out of her way to find a weak girl, a girl who was somewhat ugly, somewhat poor, somewhat different - and prey upon her, harp upon her, till the poor wretch's spirit was broken. She did this with a mixture of malice and desperation. If the group was busy tearing to shreds another girl, they would be distracted from her, and she could ward off the inevitable - the time when the group she had always led would turn on her, and destroy her just as she had used it to destroyed others.
As she grew poorer she grew more malicious and spiteful, and she worried late into the night. She counted coins, bemoaned her foolish father for being unfit to provide for her, and traced her bloodlines compulsively. She began to look sallow and weary. She leaned on me increasingly. The other girls began to whisper among themselves, and Ophelia, rank with paranoia, knew that every whisper was about her, and she threw herself into zealous battle with these whisperers. So anxious was she that she forgot the weapons she had always made use of - her sharp tongue, her ready wit, her malicious mocking smile. She made wild, unrefined accusations, and announced that none of them deserved to even be in her presence, as she was a refined noblewoman and they were nothing but jumped up merchants and sluts.
Popular opinion did not grow in her favor.
One day she came back from a "shopping" excursion - which I knew were really family meetings at her Uncle's dilapidated home on the subject of how to scrape together enough coins to last out the season in the vain hope that an exceedingly bountiful harvest would save them in the fall - with her eyes bright from anger, her cheeks red in an unappealing contrast to the paleness of the rest of her face, her gait and appearance having the air of a madwoman. She ranted and raved to the whole sitting room that she was a true noblewoman, that the Elsinores went back to the Book of Gold, and that no whore's brat was to even speak to her without going through the proper channels. She shrieked that none of them had any right to even speak to her, to even look at her, that we should all avert our eyes from her face, should curtsy as to a monarch, and most definitely should not whisper about her. She then stormed out of the room, leaving behind her an uneasy silence. I thought she had surely gone mad.
I looked over to Cybil, whose expression was thoughtful, and not at all filled with the alarm that would be expected from the madness of a friend. She took up her embroidery once more, and raised her eyebrows at some of the girls as if to say 'yes? Weren't you doing something other than engaging in gossip?' She looked the utter picture of refinement, especially when contrasted with Ophelia's outburst. Cybil always was opportunistic. Even I could never beat her on that count.
Ophelia had reached her nadir on that day. She raged and ranted for two weeks after that, although never to such an extent, never so publically. She actually gnashed her teeth and tore her hair - actions which I had thought reserved to melodramatic stories. She then began to disappear nearly every day for hours at a time. No one knew where she went, and she was quite ingenuous at discovering ways to evade the watchful eyes of the Mithran priestesses. This secret was kept as secret as the priestesses could keep it. They did not want it common knowledge that young ladies could elude them so easily. The Mithran Cloisters were supposed to be a safe place for young nobility, and they could not have that reputation compromised. Cybil and myself were the only girls to know about Ophelia's mad escapes, and we did not tell a soul. We were both playing our cards close to our chests. The other girls thought Ophelia was ill, and no doubt had speculations about her mental health, but had no idea of the extent of her madness.
This period had its own turning point. One day she returned from a lengthy disappearance sopping wet, her gown clinging to her and stained red with blood. She was shaking for the cold, but she was laughing - not for hysteria as I had thought at first, but for joy. Her eyes glinted with a rare light, and she seemed happier than I had ever seen her before. She claimed she'd gone swimming, and that the blood came from a cut on her hand, which she readily produced and waved about in front of our faces like it was a badge of honor. The priestesses bundled her into bed, their faces drawn with fear - not for her, I maintain that to this day, but of the dishonor that would be done to their institution should Ophelia truly hurt herself on these adventures of hers.
Her excursions got more wild. She snuck back, hair undone, dress rumpled, telling tales of exploring the forests or more obscure paths. The priestesses proved an utter failure at stopping her, and they did not tell anyone, still hoping that they could stop her on their own and avoid censure.
One night I crept into her room. The priestesses saw me, I have no doubt - I was not gifted with sneaking about as Ophelia was - but they let me go. They were desperately hoping Cybil or myself could bring her back to her old, cruel, brutal, refined, proper self. She was climbing in her window as I entered. Her hair was undone, flying wildly in her face. Her eyes gleamed in a manner that I can only describe as crazed, repetitious though I may be. She grinned wider than I have ever seen someone grin before. At that moment I grew tired of being cautious, of waiting for the mystery to be revealed, of allowing my status to hinge on so mysterious a variable as she. I seized her by the arm, pushed her into her armchair, and in harsh whispers demanded that she tell me where she had been, what she was thinking.
"I was walking through the meadows, and there was a beautiful sky, and I picked flowers - look! Here, I have some violets for you, my faithful friend. Violets mean faithfulness, you know. I thought fennel for flattery, for you do flatter me so, Delia dear, but violets are far more beautiful you know. What should I give Cybil? More violets?"
She pushed a bouquet of violets into my hands and stood. She began to giggle, and hummed a silly tune under her breath, a tune I'd heard common milkmaids sing in the springtime. My irritation grew. She would not hide behind simpleness, I would not let her.
"Ophelia!" I cried, "Are you mad? What sort of way is this to act? Is this befitting a member of the family of Elsinore? Do you think any member of the family of Conté would act like this?"
"Oh, what do I care for the family of Elsinore, or the family of Conté? I've found something far better than any name or bloodline," she laughed.
I was stuck dumb for a moment. Was this the same girl who could name her every kinsmen, from the highest Duke to the lowest lord? What was more important to her than her ancestry?
I gathered my wits and I asked her. "What? What is more important than your family name?"
And she told me. I had to sit down, and fight back the urge to faint with surprise and laugh with glee. She was a fool, and now I had her.
~~~
Last AN (I should put it either at the beginning or the end, not both, but whatever): I guess this is kind of a cliffhanger, and I'm sorry for that, but I'll get the next bit out as soon as I can. There Ophelia's strange actions will be explained, and I hope that you don't find it too cliché or anything. Thank you to everyone who reviews, and please keep it coming, I appreciate it a lot. And leave your guesses about what Ophelia's been up to and what she's going to do. I wonder if I've laid the Hamlet- hints as well as I hoped.or maybe made it too obvious, who knows. At any rate, do review, and thanks very much for reading this far.